“This is no joke,” Molly says. “If that thing ever becomes unstable, that could be a disaster on a national scale. We got to tell someone.”
“What, that my grandmother’s hiding a nuclear power plant stolen from the North Pole? Besides, Grandmother’s not doing anything wrong.”
“Tell them about Flury and the snowman-things…” She waves off. “Never mind. I just heard myself. What if you tell your mom?”
“No, I can’t. Grandmother acted like she was protecting her.”
“You can’t do nothing.”
They sit quietly through a bluesy version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and sip coffee. Oliver squeezes the orb like answers will leak out.
“If I ask you what needs to be done,” Molly says, “what’s the first thing that comes to you?”
Sadness.
That’s what comes to mind, and that’s what bothers him most. It’s not the jilted reality or the crimes hidden on the property, it’s palpable sadness. The essence saturated him, and he can’t rinse it out.
“It’s a prisoner.”
“What is?”
“That super sphere. And so is Flury. They’re sad because they’re trapped.”
“But Flury isn’t.”
“I think he is. I know he’s running around, but somehow he’s trapped on the property. The windmill is keeping him and everything else there.”
“The windmill?”
He waves his hand. It’s just a guess. “Just trust me, they’re trapped.”
“Well, maybe that’s good, with those things on the other side of the river.”
But that’s the thing: that snowthing felt sad, too. That lumpy, dirty, leafy snowthing that rose up at the mouth of the cave and chased him down the spiral staircase was menacing, wanted to hurt him, but beneath the rage and hate there was a deep misunderstanding.
There were wounds it couldn’t heal.
“We got to let them go,” he says.
“We need to tell someone is what we need to do.”
“First we got to release Flury.”
“How?”
When he reached for the super sphere, it burned his hand like radiation. Malcolm Toye had written in one of the journals that he wasn’t allowed to touch one with his bare hand or it would do something bad. But there was a way.
“We get a glove,” he says. “If I get back down there, I can pull the super sphere off that rod. I think everything loses power after that, including the windmill. And the super sphere will be free.”
“Why will it lose power?”
“Nuclear fusion, remember?” He describes the cables running across the ceiling. “That’s got to be it.”
“You could get hurt.”
“Not with a glove. That’s what he used in the journal. I can pull it out of the lab, and Flury can take it.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Where’s that?”
He finishes the last swallow. “The North Pole.”
F L U R Y
twenty-eight
The snow begins coming down in the second week of December.
By the third week, twenty-two inches accumulate.
When Oliver isn’t working, he’s sitting in the apartment watching snowplows search for asphalt. Unsuspecting parked cars become dormant lumps. Only the regulars within walking distance stop by the café for the morning grind.
Oliver keeps himself busy, but the coffee machines can only be cleaned so many times. Ms. Megan lets him put in hours even though she doesn’t need him. The money is nice, but more importantly, his mind is occupied. Because when he’s upstairs, he thinks about his plan.
And how flawed it is.
First, he has to find a metal glove. Grandmother doesn’t exactly leave it around the house.
Next, he’ll have to take another trip to the lab, assuming the key is still in the footlocker, assuming the footlocker is still under the bench, and assuming the garage is unlocked.
If all that comes together—the glove, the car, the lab—and he frees the super sphere and he doesn’t kill himself with radiation or nuclear waste or whatever’s cooking inside it, Flury will take it back home…to the North Pole!
In his mind, Flury would fly off like a magic unicorn while he and Molly stood next to the windmill and music played them into the sunset. She had asked about the magic bag; did he see one in the lab?
No.
Actually, he forgot about the magic bag. Even if he remembered to look, he’d still have to find a glove, still have to learn how to use it, still need a reindeer…
Yeah. The plan has flaws.
***
Three days before Christmas, Molly trundles across Town Square with her father’s snowshoes. Mariah Carey sings through the café’s speakers about what she wants for Christmas.
Molly will surely retch when she hears it.
Oliver considers walking to the back room to skip the song, but then the red and green strands of lights flicker out and the music dies. The café goes dark. So does the restaurant across the street.
The power outage lasts into the night.
By morning, half of the town gets their power back. Molly’s house is one of the lucky ones. Town Square, however, is still cold. That’s when Oliver and his mom pack up for the property.
The road is barricaded between walls of dirty snow. It’s doubtful the car will make it. Colorado was built to withstand this snow—even small towns—but now power complicates matters.
Failed transformer, the gossip goes. The backup, too. Waiting on parts.
Here it is, two days before Christmas and it seems Grandmother has no choice but to let them stay over for the night. Or two.
They reach the property entrance.
The snow has been blown off the wrought-iron gate; the road beyond is clean. Just the slightest hump of snow runs along the pavement’s edge. Grandmother waits on the porch, hands stuffed in a mink hand warmer. She looks shorter, her hair grayer.
Very few words are shared.
The chore board is long. At the top, in bold letters, is a statement. A rule.
NO GOING OUTSIDE.
That night, Oliver stands in his bedroom. The clouds turn the landscape ashy. He can’t see the trees shake on the other side of the field, but hears the thumping, the limbs snapping. The wooden orb hums in his hand with each crushing blow. The fresh snow has renewed the battle of mystery.
Midnight, he goes to the bathroom.
The floor is unusually silent beneath his footsteps, as if he’s somehow gained the ability to walk without sound. The garage, half-buried in a sloping drift, remains dark; no hints of a trail lead out to it.
Even Grandmother has abandoned the trek.
He wakes late the next morning feeling sugar-weird and injects insulin in his leg. Garland corkscrews around the bannister all the way to the bottom floor. Something smells good. Mom is whistling at the stove, and Oliver steals a muffin on his way to the chore board.
A new list is waiting.
In the living room, just below the wide picture window, is the miniature Christmas tree his mom bought last Christmas and had put on his dresser. Red, green and blue pinpoints glow on the tips. The tree is matched in height by six gifts, three on each side and brightly wrapped.
“You didn’t think Santa forgot us, did you?” Mom says, drying her hands.
She goes back to baking and whistling.
Oliver stares out the window, a pristine field of white lays beyond the slow-churning windmill, not a single track spoiling its splendor. He spends the rest of the morning in that room, smelling the cookies and listening to Mom’s happiness. Ever since he arrived at the property a year ago, the house has been a symbol of oppression and sadness, a place where joy withers in a never-ending winter. Yet, that day, this Christmas Eve, he had never felt so warm and comfortable.
So at home.
About midday, right before tea, a car door slams. A bean of excitement leaps in Oliver’s stomach.
He hadn’t seen or heard from Molly since the power went out, which, according to Mom, has been restored. They’ll go back Christmas day.
Tomorrow.
When a second and third door slam, his excitement turns frosty. Aunt Rhonnie’s hollow laugh penetrates the door. When Grandmother opens it, his aunt has her phone against her head. She makes a grand entrance in a sleeveless top and tea-saucer-sized sunglasses. Her elbows are as sharp as window panes; more ribs push against him when they hug.
The twins follow like ducklings.
“Merry Christmas!” Aunt Rhonnie shouts. “Oh, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!”
The house silence is shattered by cackling laughter and the sharp command, “Put them in the living room, Henry. Now.”
Helen is absorbed by her phone, and Henry carries presents while staring knives into the back of Oliver’s head, shredding the magical spirit of Christmas Eve, killing the intoxicating cookie smell that dares to linger.
***
Henry and Helen are putting on their boots.
“Where are you going?” Aunt Rhonnie says.
“A short walk,” Henry says.
“No, you’re not. It’ll be dark soon, and we’re opening presents.”
Oliver is washing dishes when Henry comes through the kitchen, brushing against him on the way to the living room. Did they think they were going to cross the field and back before night? More importantly, do they know about the lab?
Of course they do. They go out to that hobbit house and sneak through the secret entrance, I’ll bet. But do they have a key?
Oliver pats the bulge in his pocket, as if the orb could suddenly vanish. It had done so once before. He couldn’t stop it from doing it again.
The doorbell rings.
Oliver’s hands are deep in the sink. The front door opens, and his mom bursts out, “Oh, Merry Christmas!” There’s shuffling in the foyer, shoes falling on the floor, and giggling. Oliver dries his hands.
“You’re not going to open presents without me.” Molly walks into the kitchen. Her hair is tied on top of her head, red and green striping her hair. A black scarf is wrapped once around her neck, hanging to the floor.
“Nice hair.” Helen strolls through the kitchen.
“Nice scarf,” Molly quips.
Helen stops in the doorway. They stare without blinking. Henry comes to his sister’s side, like a shark smelling blood. His hair is stiffly sculpted into place.
“I think it escaped the zoo,” Henry says.
Helen smirks. It’s a deadly smile, the corner of her mouth jabbing into her cheek as her eyes darken. It turns Oliver’s stomach cold.
Molly throws her arm around Oliver. “Better hide your eyes, kiddies. The animals are going to play rough.”
She growls, biting Oliver’s neck and tickling his ribs. They break out in laughter. The twins walk off.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
He doesn’t need to open presents.
Christmas is already perfect.
***
Mom lights candles in the living room.
The warm light lifts the gray pall from the faded wallpaper. U2 is singing about Christmas on Helen’s phone, the sound tinny and small on the built-in speaker but better than the silence. Grandmother sits in a rocking chair facing the window, the rails slowly creaking.
The field is still white. Still perfect.
The presents, meanwhile, have quadrupled. Aunt Rhonnie, with a Santa hat flopping over her ear, drinks her special coffee and sorts through the gifts. She claps as she hands them out. Mom has a matching Santa hat. For the first time, they look like sisters, act like twins. The wrapping paper is torn, folded and stuffed in a plastic bag as each gift is opened.
“Hug your cousin,” Aunt Rhonnie says to Helen. Then, “Hug your grandmother.”
Oliver barely makes contact with her.
Grandmother doesn’t even bother hugging back.
The ritual continues until all the gifts are open. Aunt Rhonnie hugs them all, leaving a trail of expensive perfume that will need to be showered off.
The sun has dropped behind the mountains, and the day is quickly fading. The windmill is a skeletal figure. Oliver will have to risk leaving his room tonight if there’s any chance of seeing the lab. He can’t do it now for a lot of reasons, especially since Molly’s here. The plan was bound to fail, he’d accepted that. She didn’t need to be around when it did.
He can set his alarm for the middle of the night, long after everyone is asleep, during the hour Santa is laying presents under trees. If the footlocker is there, he can grab what he came to get. And go where he came to go, do what he came to do.
And hope he finds a metal glove somewhere along the way.
“What’s that?” Aunt Rhonnie reaches behind the little tree. “Is this yours?”
“No,” Mom says. “I didn’t wrap that one.”
“It’s for Oliver.”
“Maybe it’s from Santa.” Mom passes it across the room.
The gift is half the size of a shoebox. The wrapping paper is red. There’s no ribbon or tag, just Oliver’s name scrawled in the middle.
“Open it,” Aunt Rhonnie says.
He pulls the tape from one end.
The windmill begins to squeal when he slides out a brown box. Oliver folds the wrapping paper and hands it to Mom. With eyes on the box, no one looks up when—out of nowhere—a gust of wind batters the window with sleet.
He pulls off the lid.
The candlelight captures the dull silver inside. Nestled in a fold of tissue paper, neatly lying flat, is a single glove.
A metal glove.
“Where’d you get that?” Helen asks. “Who is it from?”
Grandmother stops rocking. Expressionless, she watches him lift it from the box. It moves like thick silk, cool against his fingers.
“What’s going on?” Helen asks.
A snow flurry blows across the open field.
The whiteout engulfs the singing windmill.
The house shifts in the blustering squall.
“Olivah.” Grandmother is reaching, hand open. “Give it to me.”
His hand aches to slide inside the smooth glove, to feel the snug fit, the metallic grip.
“Olivah.”
Oliver rubs the interior, smooth on his fingertips, just like he thought. The glove’s hem closes around his fingers and begins to work up to his knuckles.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. Hand it to me now.”
The house shakes.
Nothing is visible past the window but a white cloud, bits of ice ticking off the glass.
“Honey, let me see it,” Mom says.
Henry lunges.
Oliver twists away and gets to his feet.
Henry latches onto his wrist, but Oliver pulls away, backs against the wall. Effortlessly, almost of its own accord, the glove slides over his hand. The dull surface brightens like polished steel. A light warms him from the inside. The room flickers with candlelight, but the flames look bright, feel warmer.
And the wooden orb vibrates.
Henry gets to his feet.
Oliver reaches for his pocket.
“Stop,” Grandmother says. Henry freezes, his knees bent and loaded. Grandmother leans forward and pauses before standing. “Olivah, listen to me. You do not know what you are about to do.”
“He needs to be free.”
“There are other things to consider.”
“I can’t leave him. He needs me.”
“He needs all of us. Stop what you’re doing. Hand the glove to me.”
The raging squall rattles the window.
“I can’t.”
“Trust what I’m saying.”
She takes half a step, hand extended. Even in candlelight, her cheeks are pale. Her eyes, tired.
“Olivah.”
Strands of gray have pulled free from the eternal bun and wave over her forehead. She waits for him, openhanded. Oliver’s fingers in
ch away from his pocket. He doesn’t want the glove or the orb. He just wants to do what’s right, wants to relieve Flury’s suffering, wants to extinguish the sadness below ground.
“No!” Grandmother shouts.
Henry launches.
Oliver leaps backwards. His gloved hand instinctually seeks his pocket, sinking deep inside. Henry grabs his sleeve with one hand and thumps Oliver’s chest with the other.
Oliver falls back.
His fingers dig deep.
The wooden orb leaps into his gloved palm.
A bolt, a current, a flash of energy fills him. Henry is knocked back. Grandmother falls back into the rocking chair. Aunt Rhonnie’s Santa hat tumbles across the room. The miniature Christmas tree falls over, wrapping paper swirls in a sudden draft like the storm outside has found its way into the living room. Oliver swells with life, with energy.
Electrified.
His hair tingles.
Oliver pulls his hand out. The orb is locked into the glove. The storm dies inside the room, wads of bright paper wedged beneath the chairs, pushed against the walls.
The squall outside dies.
The flurry settles.
The windmill emerges from the whiteout. A path is dug from the field, wandering all the way to the distant trees. Walls of snow have been thrown to the sides like a commercial snowplow passed through. And in the middle, limping near the windmill, walking toward the house, is a figure hunched in a hooded cowl. Things move in the mist settling around the figure.
Disfigured lumps of snow.
“Henry,” Grandmother says. “Let your grandfather inside.”
F L U R Y
twenty-nine
“What?” Aunt Rhonnie says. “What did you say, Mother?”
The hooded figure makes his way toward the house with a slight limp. Oliver had assumed, when he snuck into the attic, that it was Grandmother in the driveway. Of course, there could be another black cloak, but the frail nature of the man she called his grandfather matches what he saw that night he watched from the attic. And those things in the field, the ones behind him, the creatures that chased him at night…the snowthings…they’re with him.
Claus Trilogy (Boxed Set) Page 71
