Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  “Your condition” must be diabetes.

  “Dress appropriately, of course. When your chores consist of chopping wood or other such duties that will count toward your exercise quota. Otherwise, you are expected to be active on your own. You may explore the property as you wish, but you will be expected to be inside before the sun falls behind the mountains. Do you agree?”

  “Why?”

  “Do you agree, Olivah?”

  “Yes. I’m just wondering…why can’t I stay out later?”

  Grandmother lets a few moments of silence be his answer. “We will eat our meals together. You are expected to have proper manners. Also, there will be no electronic devices in the house.”

  “At all?”

  “Correct. I expect you to honor that rule while you are outside.”

  “Mother, he reads books with his iPad. They’re called ebooks.”

  “There is a library in town. I believe they have books you can borrow. Do you agree to this, Olivah?”

  He desperately wanted to say no. More than that, he wanted her to stop saying his name like it was something fancy to eat. Instead, he nodded. Anything else would make it harder on his mom. If he needed to work as an indentured servant to make this work, then he’d wax the car and paint the fence.

  “You will also start referring to your mom as ‘mother’.”

  “Now, wait a second, Mother.”

  “I see nothing wrong with cultivating manners into this impressionable young man.”

  “I’ve always called you ‘mother’, but to Oliver, I’m ‘mom’. Don’t interfere with our relationship.”

  “Your relationship is living under my roof. What you do outside this house is your business.”

  Mom pushes away from the table and stands, replacing the chair beneath the table before rinsing her cup in the sink. This is the person Oliver knows, the one that showed up at his school to argue, or refused to leave dealerships when they wouldn’t agree to her offer. Not the one that drove up to the front door.

  She offers a smile but doesn’t agree.

  “You may go wherever you wish,” Grandmother continues. “However, if you find a door is locked, it is locked for a purpose.”

  Grandmother goes to the sink to rinse her cup, wipes the counter, and carefully folds the dishtowel. She stops at the doorway and says, before exiting, “Lunch will be served at noon. Have a pleasant morning.”

  Oliver pushes his plate away. His appetite has been murdered. He holds the list in both hands, the paper quivering. It has nothing to do with blood sugar.

  His mom rubs his shoulders. “Let your mother take you shopping.”

  Despite covering their mouths, their laughter echoes down the hall. They clean the kitchen. When they leave, it satisfies rule number five. The wording, like the others, is odd. As if it’s saying more than the obvious.

  Rule #5: Leave rooms as if no human had ever passed through it.

  F L U R Y

  four

  Two nights later, it snows.

  Six inches of fluff covers the land, including the sidewalk and driveway. Oliver clears it with a brand-new shovel.

  They still hadn’t made it to the library. Mom told him to sneak his phone into the bathroom or read the iPad beneath the covers. He just couldn’t do it. It felt like Grandmother could read the guilt on his face.

  They ate at the absurdly long table. At lunch, Grandmother instructed him on proper tea etiquette. It didn’t help that the tea tasted like boiled cabbage water.

  At dinner, they lit the massive candelabra and ate in silence while shadows danced on the walls. His mom made small talk, but Grandmother refused to open her mouth except for small, appropriately gauged spoonfuls of food. She chewed her food twenty times before swallowing, staring ahead as if she was counting.

  His back aches from shoveling.

  This will count for exercise. He’s halfway around the circle drive in forty-five minutes when his mom calls from the front porch.

  “Watch your sugar!”

  Oliver waves. She’s wearing an apron. He’d rather shovel out to the main road than help in the kitchen. A strand of white lights twinkles above the doorway, Mom’s attempt to summon the Christmas spirit. When Grandmother saw them flashing, she set her jaw and narrowed her eyes like a bear had dropped a load on the porch. But she said nothing.

  Christmas still has a pulse.

  It takes almost an hour and a half to finish shoveling. He’s sweating beneath new winter clothes. He could go inside and warm up, but that would require ten minutes of knocking snow off his pants, and then he’d just have to turn around for the remaining half hour of outside exercise.

  Rule #22: Fulfill your duty to the second. He adds a thought. Fulfill your duty before you take a doody.

  He chuckles, but then stops. Having those thoughts is dangerous. If she turns those blue-green x-ray eyes on him, she’s sure to know what he’s thinking.

  He can warm up when he takes his mandatory five-minute tepid shower that fulfills the rule on personal hygiene.

  He walks through the virgin snow to the decrepit windmill. The windwheel turns at a slow mechanic pace even though there’s no wind. The artifact is as old as the house and just as solid, but something has to be done about the squeal. He can hear it in his sleep. He’d already gotten used to the thundering ruckus in the far-off trees. There must be construction somewhere, but at night?

  He doesn’t want to overanalyze.

  The windmill, though—something has to be done. Maybe if he had some oil, he could lubricate the bearings. The struts are close enough to climb. And even if he falls, the snow will soften his landing. It may knock him out. Given the state of things, that doesn’t sound so bad.

  He grabs one of the four legs, thinking maybe he can gauge the sturdiness with a swift shake, when the world turns into a photo negative—black turns white, white turns black.

  He lets go.

  A strange tingle lingers in his arm, and his teeth feel numb. Suddenly, he feels weird. But his sugar isn’t low.

  The thing is wired.

  Cattle ranches are hot-wired, he knows. He had gone to a friend’s ranch and was told to watch out for the bare wire running along the top rail, but he got confused at the gate and grabbed the wrong one. The world turned inside-out.

  So climbing the windmill is out.

  Maybe Grandmother should know that it’s electrified, but then he’d have to explain what he was doing touching it, and then she’d turn her x-ray eyes on him.

  Rule #441: Don’t climb rusty windmills full of electricity, dummy.

  Oliver walks around the trees where the clearing opens up. The land slopes down. On the far side, the forest is dense. That’s where the rumbling happens. The tracks he’d seen the last couple of nights have vanished. He looks back at the house and identifies his bedroom window on the third floor. Even with the fresh snow, it seems like there should be slight depressions.

  But there are none.

  He starts for the house and notices the orange snow shovel by the driveway. He’s not sure where it goes, but it’s definitely not the front yard. A detached garage is tucked into the trees. Oliver retrieves the shovel and takes it around the back.

  The large garage door is locked. He finds a door on the back, out of view from the house. The doorknob turns easily. A wave of hot, dry air breathes out. A creepy sensation crawls under his skin.

  If you find a door is locked, it is locked for a purpose.

  This isn’t locked, so he steps inside the dark confines of the heated garage, but not before stomping the snow off his boots.

  It’s so much warmer than the house.

  A black Cadillac Eldorado is parked inside. Its trunk is massive, and the convertible top is down. Panels shine like it just came from the factory, but the red leather seats are worn like they’d seen a thousand road trips. He steps around the back end, careful not to touch the flared taillights.

  Another oversized car could fit into the othe
r half of the garage. The open floor is slightly darker than the concrete below the car, but both halves are clean—not a spot of oil, grain of sawdust or fleck of dirt anywhere. Large triangular blocks are wedged under the wheels as if it’s on a slope, but the garage floor is level.

  A workbench is attached to the wall with a pegboard above it. Hammers, screwdrivers, clamps, hoses, and things he’s never seen are hung on hooks with their outlines painted behind them.

  A single window faces the house, letting in diffuse light. A pair of binoculars hangs next to it. The view to the house is at an angle. No one can see him here. He pulls them off the nail and admires the cracked leather strap and well-oiled hinge. He brings the windmill into focus, the blades still turning.

  He slings the strap over his shoulder.

  A filing cabinet is to the right, nestled between larger shelves. Ducking below the window, he puts his hand on the top drawer.

  His heart is pounding.

  He looks at the window one last time and gives it a tug.

  The drawer slides on lubricated rails. It’s not locked. Manila folders are stuffed inside with bent tabs and scribbled notes. Oliver nervously swallows. His hand quivers as he pries them open, revealing endless pages of handwritten notes and sketches and schematics.

  There’s more of the same in the other drawers, each one so full that, it seems, another sheet of paper couldn’t fit. Oliver’s palms are sweaty. He tugs out a handful, carefully noting where their location is before placing them on the workbench.

  In the dim light, the thrill of rebellion courses through him. Once he snooped through his dad’s dresser drawers and found a pistol and a plastic baggie with white pills. That was nothing compared to now. His head fills with helium and threatens to lift him into the rafters.

  He can’t decipher any of the notes. It’s all higher mathematics and engineered plans. One folder contains a folded map that appears to be a nautical chart with notes scribbled in the margins and lines drawn throughout the Arctic Ocean.

  THUMP.

  The snow shovel clatters on the concrete.

  Oliver jumps back; his heart seizes for a full beat. His legs turn to jelly as he tries to catch his breath. He hurries to put the folders back together, shoving them into their correct slots, easing the drawers closed and then wiping his fingerprints from the handles.

  He grabs the shovel and starts for the door…but notices something under the workbench. It’s where the sound came from, like something hit the outside wall.

  A large chest is hiding in the shadows.

  His heart is still thumping. He should just take the shovel and go. Besides, the excitement is working on his blood sugar. He doesn’t have his pack with him.

  But maybe, next time, the door will be locked.

  He squeezes the snow shovel with both hands until his knuckles ache. He lays it on the floor—if it fell again, he’d have a heart attack—and squats to get a better look. It’s a green footlocker with a leather handle and brass rivets. He takes a deep breath before crawling underneath.

  The buckles unlock with a sturdy tug. The lid cracks open, releasing stale air. Oliver scoots closer. It looks like blankets. He digs his phone out and uses the flashlight app.

  It’s an old coat with a row of buttons. The material is coarse. Beneath it, though, are stacks of leather-bound books. Six of them. Oliver gently lifts the jacket out. The books are similar to the one in his bedroom, although, he discovers after prying one open, these are filled with words and not the kind written with a ballpoint pen. These appear to be quilled with a bottle of ink.

  The binding cracks as he carefully opens the one on top. There’s a date scribbled on the first page. He briefly flips through the pages, all dated and filled with notes and hand-drawn illustrations.

  Next to the journals are miscellaneous items—a tattered long-sleeved undershirt, a sextant, a collapsible telescope, a jewelry box, and a weird key with a blue cube instead of teeth. There’s also a small wooden sphere about the size of a golf ball.

  Oliver picks up the sphere.

  It hums in his hand. The vibrations drive up his arm and spread across his chest, but not like the windmill. This current, if that’s what it is, feels warm and mild. It feels good.

  Safe.

  There are numerous lines carved into the surface—intricate shapes and designs that vary in width and depth, as if carefully crafted with fine instruments. It’s heavier than he expected, too; perhaps the center is weighted.

  He holds the phone closer, rubbing the smooth surface with this thumb, digging his thumbnail into the grooves. It reminds him of one of those drawings in the filing cabinet.

  “Oliver!”

  He bumps his head on the bottom of the workbench and scrambles to slam the footlocker. Mom shouts his name from the house again. The latches won’t catch. He opens and closes the lid, and they snap this time. Oliver sweeps the shovel off the floor and slowly peeks out the window. She’s on the back porch.

  It’s getting dark.

  He rushes around the car, careful not to touch it, and sneaks out the back door, shutting it without a sound. He takes several breaths, afraid to let her see him coming from the garage. Instead, he flees into the forest and heads for the windmill, staying just inside the tree line and out of sight of the house.

  To his right, the forest is dark and deep. He holds the shovel like a battle staff, breaking small, dead twigs. His heart bangs inside his head.

  The squeal of the windmill calls from his left.

  Just a little further and he can exit into the clearing. More twigs snap when he sees the dim light of the sunset ahead. He slows down, but the sound of breaking branches continues.

  He spins around.

  Something’s back there, in the dark. Oliver stumbles into the open, tumbling into the snow with both hands on the shovel. The sun is behind the mountains. He scrambles around the trees until the house comes into view and stops with a stitch in his side and his breath burning in his throat, expecting a wolf or bear to come flying out, claws extended.

  Nothing does.

  He wouldn’t have the strength to swing the shovel if it did.

  The binoculars press against his ribs. When he shoves his hand into his coat pocket, he finds a small orb at the bottom.

  The wooden sphere.

  He doesn’t remember taking it.

  F L U R Y

  five

  There’s a small Christmas tree on the dresser.

  Oliver stays beneath the thick comforter, watching the miniature lights glowing on the tips of plastic branches, splashing colors across the walls.

  It’s the smallest tree he’s ever seen.

  A black kit containing the blood test, injections and glucose tablets is next to the tree. It’s too far to reach and too cold to get out of bed. He’s sluggish and moody. His sugar is always low in the morning, but just a few more minutes.

  He reaches under the bed. His phone is charging on the floor. He feels the binoculars wedged beneath the mattress. The wooden orb is next to them. He grabs the orb and holds it on his fingertips. He assumes it had been hand-carved, but the spherical shape is so perfect and the lines so precise that something had to fabricate it and certainly not those tools on the pegboard. Yet the footlocker looked a hundred years old.

  The bedroom door begins to open.

  If the hinges didn’t creak, he never would’ve gotten the orb under the blankets before the gray-haired, tight-lipped old woman stepped inside. Oliver slides down until his nose perches on the comforter’s edge.

  Grandmother is momentarily distracted by the tiny tree. She tilts her head curiously.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You should knock.”

  “This is my house.”

  She takes a step into the room, glancing at the window. If she gets to it, she’ll see the phone.

  “I’m naked.” He slinks lower. “I sleep that way.”

  “Well, I…Olivah, that is not appropriate.�
� Color seeps into her ashy cheeks.

  “I learned it camping. It’s better for body heat.”

  “Well, then, you will have to wash the sheets.”

  Unexpectedly, she leaves the room, forgetting whatever she had come to do. Even her footsteps are loud, creaking all the way to the stairwell, where they stop. Mom must’ve been waiting. They begin muttering in low tones, but the words carry through the house.

  “You didn’t need to wake him.”

  “He cannot sleep all morning.”

  “Mother, he’s been working ever since we got here. Let him rest.”

  “He’s a diabetic, Debra.”

  “Yes, and let him manage it.”

  It had been three days since Oliver discovered the garage.

  Every night, a few inches of snow would fall, and he would take the shovel out for another workout. Strangely, the road leading to the roundabout was always cleared, as if Grandmother paid someone to leave the roundabout for Oliver.

  “Olivah should be on a schedule.”

  “He’s not an infant.” Mom’s voice echoes.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, Debra.”

  “Don’t raise my son.”

  “He needs structure to shape his life.”

  “Structure worked wonders on me.”

  Footsteps come heavily toward the bedroom. Oliver doesn’t hear his Grandmother’s descent. His mom looks into the room. Her headband is around her neck, her brown locks falling over her eyes and ears, hiding her golden line of earrings.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Take your time.”

  “I need to shovel?”

  She grimaces. “Yes, sorry. Your cousins are coming in a few days.”

  “Henry and Helen?”

  “Remember them?”

  Barely. They came down to Texas when he was seven. He doesn’t remember that being fun.

  “Grandmother wants to get the house ready. Once you get your chores done, you can do whatever you’ve been doing outside.” She squeezes the lump at the end of the bed that happens to be his foot. “What have you been doing?”