Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set)

by Tony Bertauski

  He pulls his hand out of his pocket.

  The wooden orb is warm. It hums, but not like his phone on vibrate, more like a caffeinated buzz in the palm of his hand. Like the sun rising on a cold day to kiss his cheeks.

  They reach the clearing.

  Oliver stops just inside the trees, eyeing the windmill across patches of wet ground and dying snow. The orb burns in his palm, the vibrations shaking his hand. He holds it between his finger and thumb. It sounds like a summer cicada taking flight.

  “What’s wrong?” Molly asks.

  It pulls Oliver’s attention away from the windmill. He looks to the far left of the clearing, just about where the mysterious snowball was launched. Something moves in the shadows.

  Something massive.

  It steps into the light, revealing its thick legs and barrel-shaped torso. One powerful arm hangs at its side; the other holds the nearest tree.

  Across the distance, Oliver feels the needles from the branch he’s holding as if they’re pricking his own hand. His heart, for once, isn’t beating like the heart of a frightened rabbit. It’s calm and still. For once, maybe the first time he can remember, strength fills him from the inside, pouring through his hand like the orb is a spigot turned wide open. At that moment, he could lift a fallen tree.

  The snowman steps back and then dissolves like he had once before, this time in a slushy stream that sifts between the trees. The orb falls quiet.

  “Do you believe?” Oliver asks.

  Molly’s eyes are glassy. She wets her lips and whispers, “I believe.”

  F L U R Y

  sixteen

  Green grass and May flowers replace the snow.

  Oliver holds the wooden orb. Ever since they saw the snowman, the day he took Molly out to the hobbit house, the day she held his hand, the orb had fallen silent. Now it’s just a piece of wood. Oliver wishes for winter to return. Maybe not today.

  Molly’s coming.

  Today they’ll hike out to the forest flush with new growth and find the bracelet tree. They’ll cross the bridge to hike beyond the hobbit house. If there’s time, they can read another journal. Maybe the snow is missing, but the magic can still happen. And not the science kind of magic.

  That boy-girl kind of magic.

  He pulls on a sweatshirt and a clean pair of cargo pants, stuffing his phone deep in the side pocket. His boots are on the back porch. The backpack, though, isn’t under the bed. He left it in the upstairs bathroom, tucked behind the toilet, to find the best journal entries to read. The ones in his backpack had more sketches and boring details about snow and daily chores—things about sustainable energy and food sources. Once he got to a passage that addressed the fat man—the red-coated man named Santa—he slid a square of paper between the pages.

  He promised not to read the last two journals without her. He scanned the pages to find the good parts, but he kept his word and didn’t read them. Not all of them. But these are the last two. It was like coming to the end of a really good book: you want to read the end without the journey ending.

  First things first.

  Rule #1: Nothing happens unless the chores are done.

  Oliver skips down the steps. Mom and Grandmother must be outside. There was talk about a garden and a shovel. Without a rototiller in sight, Oliver could guess who would be working the shovel. And what about mowing? Would he have to cut the pasture with a pair of dull scissors?

  The chore board is clean.

  Not a mark, not a letter. Nothing. His heart swells, but he holds his breath. Grandmother could be in the backyard, waiting to ambush him with a rusty pair of shears. Get to mowing, Olivah.

  He’d have to think about this. Maybe it’d be wise to meet Molly at the entrance, hike through the trees to avoid the backyard; maybe load up his backpack for the day.

  He closes the pantry door. The backpack.

  It’s sitting on the kitchen table, the flap flung open. The pockets are limp, the inside empty.

  Oliver turns cold and not the kind nipping at your nose—the kind that reaches inside your belly, pulls your intestines into your throat, and wraps them around your heart like copper wire. Because it’s not just the library books, the magazines and the World of Succulents that’s missing.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Oliver jumps.

  A sound escapes him, one reserved for cornered animals. Grandmother is wearing a black dress that reaches the floor, white frilly trim at the cuffs and hem. Clutched to her chest, her knuckles white around the spines, are the scuffed covers of the journals.

  All five of them.

  Oliver’s chin begins to twitch. Lies tumble around his mind like a lottery wheel, but there are no words to get stuck in his throat. He’s empty.

  “Where?” Grandmother shouts. “Where did you find these? You tell me from where you took these books!”

  Her voice has changed. It sounds small and scratchy.

  The leather bindings creak under pressure, tendons stretching the thin and spotted skin on the backs of her hands. With them pressed to her breast, she reaches out with one hand, her fingers curled like talons, and crosses the kitchen. Her footsteps land like cinder blocks, shaking the dishes.

  She catches his chin—her thumb plied to the left side of his jaw, her fingers clenching against the right. He falls back a step.

  “This is not your property,” she hisses. “I have locked doors in this house that you are not to open, places you are not to trespass. I made that very clear, Olivah. It was and is the first rule.”

  The pressure of her grip eases.

  “How dare you violate my trust. Now tell me where you found these.” Her eyes search his face. “Where are the other two?”

  Other two?

  She’s holding five of them. If the one he dropped is still in the attic, that means there are seven journals. There were only six in the footlocker. He’s sure of it.

  “I want to know where you found these.”

  For a moment, it sounds as if she’s asking, really asking where he got them. As if she doesn’t know.

  “Answer me!”

  Her nails dig into his soft flesh.

  “What’s going on?” Mom is just inside the kitchen with dirt on the knees of her faded jeans.

  “I have invited you to stay in my house, Debra. I opened up my life to you when you were in need, and now you have violated my trust.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There are rules; I made that quite simple. All you had to do was follow them. Why is this so difficult? Why can’t people simply do what they promise?”

  It’s not clear who she’s talking to. Or about. A small squeak slips through her spastic attempts to swallow. She grabs the journals with both hands again, squeezing and pushing them up to her chin.

  Mom looks at Oliver. “What happened?”

  He clasps his hands behind his back to keep them from shaking. There’s nothing he can do about his chin, still throbbing from Grandmother’s claw.

  “Answer your mother!”

  “Mother.” Oliver’s mom holds out her hand. “Let’s be calm.”

  “He took these. I found them in his bag.”

  “The blank diaries?”

  The line between her thinning lips tightens. “No.”

  “What are they?” When Grandmother doesn’t answer, she turns to Oliver, tells him to take a deep breath and relax. She just wants to know what’s happening.

  “Those are great-grandfather’s journals…from the 1880s.”

  He adds more details about the journey. At first, his words blur together, but they become stronger the more he talks about the tragic journey and how great-grandfather survived because of the pendant around his neck.

  He leaves out the weird parts.

  Grandmother’s eyes glitter as if a slick of tears has formed.

  “Okay,” Mom says. “Were they in your room with the blank one?”

  “The garage.”

  �
��Liar,” Grandmother seethes.

  “Mother! That’s enough!”

  “That door is locked. It is always locked. No one is allowed in there, ever.”

  “I swear, it was unlocked,” Oliver says. “I didn’t do anything to—”

  She starts for his chin. Oliver involuntarily steps back.

  “Stop this!” Mom steps in front of her. “You will not touch him like that, Mother. And you will not speak to him like that, either. He is my son. I am his mother.”

  “Then act like it.”

  “And hit him? Berate him? Criticize him until he’s nothing, is that what you mean?”

  Grandmother turns her steely glare on him, the one that could pierce an armored tank. This time, though, it’s lacking conviction. She walks to the other side of the kitchen, the books shielding her. The house is silent except for her wheezing and the covers squeaking beneath her palms.

  “I know Grandmother’s rules; I swear I never broke them.” He winces, knowing he’s broken more than a few, just not that one. “It was during the winter, when it was cold. I was looking for a place to store the snow shovel. The door was unlocked, I swear. I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t snooping. But the garage was heated and I was cold, so I stayed until my exercise time was up. I didn’t take anything.”

  He avoids looking at Grandmother because he did snoop—major league snooping—and he did take something. His hand moves over his pocket. Grandmother sees him feeling for the comfort of the wooden orb, reaching for the confidence that surges through his arm when he squeezes it.

  “What do you have?” she says.

  The blood drains from his cheeks, replaced by chilled antifreeze. Grandmother, walking silently this time, crosses the kitchen and pulls his hand away.

  “What’s in your pocket?” she asks.

  He reaches to the bottom and pulls the pocket inside out. It’s empty. It’s gone. But he had it with him when he left his bedroom. He never goes anywhere without it.

  “I just…I found the journals. They were interesting, that’s all. I was bored.”

  “Why did you take them?”

  He shrugs. “I was going to put them back when I was finished.”

  “Can I see them?” Mom asks.

  “No,” Grandmother says.

  “Why not?”

  “They are my property, Debra. Your son took them.”

  “If they’re just diaries, why can’t he read them, Mother? I’d like to know more about my grandfather. I’m sure that’s why he read them.”

  Grandmother’s grip tightens. Her chalky complexion turns pinkish then red like stage lights warming her face. She turns and, without a sound, leaves. The creaky floor tells them she’s crossed the house.

  Oliver explains to his mom, again, how the door wasn’t locked. The door was indeed unlocked every time, the garage warm and inviting. As if waiting for him. Grandmother returns, her steps a little more forceful. She’s pulling on a sweater. The journals are somewhere safe, unlikely to ever be found again.

  “Come along.” She gestures for them to follow as she trods—yes, actually trods—to the mudroom and out the back door. Mom watches her without moving.

  A deep breath escapes her.

  Grandmother is waiting in front of the garage, bare hands at her sides. No glove, this time. Oliver walks around the garage, his mom chaperoning like a prison guard. Nervous worms turn in Oliver’s stomach as he steps into the shade. The mud squishes around his boots. Grandmother stands back, a grim frown pushing her chin forward.

  Oliver reaches for the doorknob.

  The metal knob is colder and harder than it should be. He squeezes it and closes his eyes. He turns it.

  Click.

  It hardly moves before catching the lock. It’s followed by three more clicks as he tries again and again.

  “Mom, I swear…”

  Keys jiggle.

  Grandmother pushes her way past them, avoiding the soft muddy spot where Oliver’s standing. She removes his hand and, sorting through an old set of keys, some of them the old-fashioned skeleton type, finds a modern one. She slides it into the lock and, before opening it, drops the keys into her sweater pocket, but not before Oliver notices a smaller key sandwiched on the ring. This one is short and square, more like a peg with a glowing blue cube at the end, as if catching light in the shade. He’s seen a key like that before.

  In the footlocker.

  Grandmother tells Oliver to remove his filthy boots. The garage is cold and dank.

  “Grandmother, it was unlocked all the other times, I swear.”

  Her x-ray truth sensors tell her he’s not lying about the door, and that’s what bothers her. He was lying about something earlier.

  “Where did you find the books?”

  He points at the dark corner beneath the bench.

  Grandmother investigates. “Exactly where?”

  “In the footlocker. That was unlocked, too. I know I said I wasn’t snooping, but I didn’t come in here to do it. I was just looking for somewhere to put the shovel, and then I was going to leave. I just noticed the footlocker, and…and I got curious. I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t think I was hurting anything.”

  That’s where the six journals were, he wants to say. Not seven.

  A sick feeling fills his stomach. He was curious when he rifled through the filing cabinet and crouched beneath the workbench. But if he was honest, he was getting back at all the strict rules. The garage was his one safe place he could do stuff he knew he shouldn’t be doing. He was hiding in the dark when she came into the garage wearing the metal glove, unlocking the door when she did and locking it when she left. But still, it was unlocked for Oliver. Somehow, it was always unlocked. This was his place to learn secrets.

  Secrets no one was going to tell him.

  He’s not certain if that rotten sensation is guilt or sadness that it’s over.

  Grandmother walks away from the workbench and past the filing cabinets. The pinkish hue of anger fades from her cheeks. Her eyes dart around the room, her head turning like a bird listening for a worm. She pats her empty pockets. Her hand, the right one, the one that always wears the metal glove, flexes uncontrollably, like it’s searching for something she can’t reach.

  Mom looks under the workbench. “What footlocker?”

  “The old one.” Oliver starts bending over, but now he knows. Maybe it’s because the garage feels different—colder and darker. The look on Grandmother’s face.

  Something’s wrong.

  She walks around the shiny black car and pulls the garage door shut. Patting her pockets, Oliver thinks she’s looking for the glove again, like the bulky thing was hiding in a secret pouch. Instead, she pulls out a cell phone and not an ordinary one.

  A smartphone.

  “Mother, what are you doing?” Mom asks.

  Oliver doesn’t notice that she’s thumbing through contacts and searching for a number. He’s still processing the vision of her holding a cell phone. And using it. She puts it to her ear, the black modern case clashing with the steel gray hair pulled back in a grandmotherly bun.

  Grandmother answers his mom’s questions, but Oliver is wondering how she’s getting service. The rules prohibit Oliver from using electronics; he had assumed they applied to her, too. But if brought to a court of law, the rule clearly stated that he not use electronics.

  “Hello,” Grandmother says to someone. “Yes, it’s Mother. I need you to come to the property tonight. Bring Henry and Helen.”

  That snaps Oliver back to the present moment like a fist in the midsection. It doesn’t take long for the facts to tumble into place. If Henry knows he’s been in the garage, when he finds out that he was reading the journals…

  He’ll know I’ve been other places.

  F L U R Y

  seventeen

  Oliver adjusts his weight. The bottom step creaks.

  Grandmother stands with her back to the front door. Despite spring’s warmth, she hides her han
ds in the pockets of a dark wool coat.

  “This isn’t necessary,” Mom says.

  “Do you want to continue living here?” Grandmother takes her laser blue-green eyes off of Oliver. “If you do, there are rules to be followed. If you and Oliver do not follow the rules, people can be hurt. Or worse.”

  She puckers in consternation, lines of worry carving the flesh around her paper-thin lips.

  “He said the garage was unlocked. He didn’t take anything,” Mom says. “I understand it can be dangerous if he gets lost on the property or stays out after dark, but you’re overreacting, Mother. He was just reading journals about his great-grandfather. Maybe if the rules weren’t so strict, if you let him use his phone and iPad, he wouldn’t be looking for something to do.”

  Oliver shoves his hands deep into his pants pockets, searching for the comfort of the orb. He wishes he could find it. He’d squeeze it right in front of her, he wouldn’t care. He needed it.

  Grandmother turns her focused high-beam on him, as if sensing the untruth.

  I did take something.

  It never felt like he took it until she asked. The journals, those he took. But up until the moment she asked, the orb felt like it belonged to him.

  “My property operates on rules. It is the sole reason I am alive today.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Order, Debra. I’m talking about order and chaos. Without structure, there is chaos. You have to know your environment and the world you live in to survive. Despite your convictions, you know very little, my child. Chaos has not done you much good, I think you’ll agree.”

  “Mother, can we just talk about the garage right now?”

  “Do you want to stay in this house, Debra? Do you want to live under my roof?”

  Mom’s chin juts forward. She shakes her head, an expression Oliver has come to know as grim resignation. “I appreciate your hospitality,” she says, the words being pushed out, “but there’s no need to drag this out.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Of course, Mother.” Mom stands straighter. “We need a place for now.”

  “Then you shall follow the rules.”