Boo Humbug

by Rene Gutteridge

  Wolfe stormed up the steps, and Oliver heard the door slam. Goose’s and Bunny’s ears went up as they studied Oliver. The teakettle whistled, startling him to his feet. He took it off the burner, sighed, and opened the refrigerator. If all else fails, pillage the fridge.

  Swollen, puffy, dark blue bags hung under Alfred Tennison’s bloodshot eyes. Strangely, though he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, he felt hungover. His dreams wrestled his mind all throughout the night, until the morning sun demanded he rise. He couldn’t be completely sure, and he wouldn’t mention a word of it to anybody, but if he had to describe it, it was as if he were being … haunted. Not by ghosts, per se, though that might be preferable. Instead, it was by fear. His past, which he wished he could do away with, seemed chained to him. He was helpless. And desperate. This was the magic formula to get him back into the office of Jack Hass.

  Dr. Hass twiddled his thumbs, lost in his own thoughts, gazing toward the ceiling. Alfred had explained it the best way he knew how, even throwing reputation to the wind as he described the sheer terror that had come over him when he heard those awful words from the stage.

  It made him sound pretty kooky when he had to admit that the terror came from two sock puppets, but Dr. Hass, of all people, seemed to understand it was not so much the puppets as what they represented.

  Finally, Dr. Hass leaned forward. “Alfred, I don’t normally tell people to do this because frankly, not too many people really want to face their fears. But you have carried this for a long time, and I believe you’re ready to be done with it once and for all.”

  Alfred fingered his jaw as he listened. He could barely nod, but he did.

  “You must go and confront Ignorance and Want, face to face.”

  “Did I mention their eyes are glued on and they have marker smiles?”

  “They’re symbolic. Your mind is playing tricks on you, but the real issue is your past. And I think we need to bring Tiny Tim into this conversation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at the root of all this is the fact that Tiny Tim hurt you. And the irony, I suppose, is that he is a gentle-natured boy.”

  “Leave it to me to embody irony.”

  “So you’re going to go confront your fears. You will find these puppets, and Tiny Tim, and you’re going to stand there and tell them that your life is yours and not theirs, that they may no longer steal your joy.”

  “Uh …”

  “No. Alfred, if you want to get better, you are going to have to do this. There’s no hesitation. No second thoughts. You go and do it now.”

  Alfred slumped in his seat. The irony continued as he realized the puppets and Tiny Tim could both be found in the same place—Katelyn Downey’s home. She made the puppets, and her son, Willem, played the part of Tiny Tim. Fighting his demons turned out to be convenient. That couldn’t be overlooked.

  Alfred managed to stop fiddling with anything within reach and said, “All right, I’ll go.”

  Melb and Ainsley sat at Melb’s breakfast bar. The babies were content on the floor, indulging in the flashing lights and electronic music of their baby toys. But the two women were not content. Ainsley watched Melb pick up the receiver of the phone one more time, hold it to her ear, and then set it back down. “It’s working. I hear a dial tone. Maybe there’s a phone outage.”

  Ainsley shook her head. “All the phones would be out.”

  “You’re right. It’s Skary. There’s one line that runs through the entire town.”

  “Which means,” Ainsley said, “that Wolfe doesn’t care.” She sniffled.

  Melb sucked in a deep breath. “Ainsley, I rarely say this out loud, and never to myself, but maybe … maybe we overreacted.”

  Ainsley cut her eyes to Melb. “There’s no mistaking what happened, Melb. And now this is confirming what I feared. We’re too much trouble. Wolfe would rather be off doing some stupid play.”

  “Ainsley, I know one thing. Wolfe loves you and that baby more than life itself.”

  Ainsley’s hot stare focused ahead as she sipped her equally hot coffee. “Then he’s going to have to prove it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing.

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time “All right, I’ll go” actually came to pass and Alfred went. He couldn’t quite figure out how to put it to this woman. He supposed the best approach was to be vague and only answer questions that he had to. Still, he had to come up with a good reason why a grown man needed to see sock puppets, plus Tiny Tim, while remaining uncreepy.

  So he decided to attempt charm and put on the appearance that this was a normal thing to do and that there was nothing odd or weird about it at all. He’d simply insert himself into the situation by way of association: he was merely tying up loose ends, making sure that everybody had everything they needed for the play.

  He would then firmly look those two puppets right in their plastic eyes. After that, he would chat it up with Tiny Tim and practice good old-fashioned forgiveness.

  Fifteen minutes later, he would be out the door and freed from the “redrum” of all hauntings.

  The first sign that his plan might go awry was the fact that he found Katelyn Downey at home, in her pajamas, blotting her eyes as she answered the door. Her nose glowed bright red.

  “May I help you?”

  “Perhaps now is not a good time,” he said, stepping backward.

  “No, no. Please. Ignore … this.” She gestured toward her face. “It’s just been a bad morning. But I’m fine.” She forced a smile.

  “Okay … well, I wanted to stop by and check on the, uh, puppets.”

  Her eyes widened enough that Alfred wondered if he’d somehow, unbeknownst to him, accidentally thrown in an insult.

  “The puppets?”

  “I can come back.” Alfred quickly turned, but she raced out the door and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Wait. Please.” She pulled him back to the porch. “I’m sorry. It just caught me by surprise, that’s all. You’re Alfred, right? The man who passed out last night? Are you okay?”

  Well, at least he’d moved on from being the infamously failed editor and agent of Wolfe Boone. “I’m here at the request of Lois,” he said, hoping that would add to the legitimacy of all this, “to inspect the puppets.”

  Tears squirted out of her eyes as she lowered her head and started blotting her face again.

  “Um … I’m sorry, did I …?”

  She shook her head. “No, please. Come in. Please.”

  “No, I don’t think now’s a good—”

  “I insist.” She opened the door wide and flagged him in with the tissue.

  Alfred, against his better judgment, walked through the door. The house had a more contemporary feel than the rest of the homes in Skary. It wasn’t “cozy.” Instead, it had updated paint, streamlined furniture, and, with a little help, some real lighting possibilities.

  “I was just making some cider,” she said. Alfred noticed a pot on the stove, with cloves and cinnamon floating on the top. Cider from scratch? She’d been indoctrinated. She dipped some out with a ladle, handed it to him in a Pier One mug, and asked him to join her at the Pottery Barn breakfast table. At least she had style. “This play,” she said, waving her arms in the air like she was referring to an astronomical phenomenon, “has just taken over my life. I volunteered, you know, since I have experience in theater. Well, children’s theater. Church children’s theater. But anyway, I volunteered. Lois signed me up to make the hideous children, Ignorance and Want.”

  Alfred shivered.

  “Then she asked if Willem might be able to do Tiny Tim. And I thought, ‘Well, why not?’ We’ve always known Willem is gifted, and he’s got the good looks of a movie star, so we agreed he should do it. So on top of sewing these puppets, I’ve had to help Willem with his lines.” She sighed as she rested her chin in her hand. “It’s been overwhelming. And then last night, Lois was very disapp
ointed with what I came up with. I don’t think we’re seeing eye-to-eye.” She dabbed the corner of her eye.

  Okay, well, that solved the mystery of why she couldn’t stop crying. “May I … see the puppets?”

  “She’s checking up on me, isn’t she?”

  “No, no. Not at all. It’s just procedure.” Alfred tried to say that with an even expression. “Maybe I could … Maybe I could offer some suggestions.”

  Katelyn seemed to be motivating herself, and then she stood, left the room, and returned clutching a sack. She was about to open it when a little boy appeared in the doorway leading into the living room.

  “Mommy, what’s going on?” His gaze fixed on Alfred, who tried to look pleasant even though he wasn’t a fan of children.

  “Nothing, honey. This is just a man working with the play. Mr. Alfred. Can you say hello?”

  Apparently not. And Alfred would prefer not to be called “Mr. Alfred” anyway.

  “Willem here has been practicing very hard on his lines, haven’t you, honey?”

  Stare.

  Katelyn cleared her throat. “Oh, now, Willem, let’s not lead the nice Mr. Alfred here into thinking you’ve got stage fright.” She glanced at Alfred. “He really doesn’t. He’s a very talkative child. Usually.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, I insist. He must say his lines. You’re here, after all, for that very purpose, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I did want to see Tiny Tim, but—”

  “Willem! Say your lines this instant!”

  Alfred waved his hand. “Mrs. Downey, please. It’s not necessary. I’m sure this fine son of yours will rise to the occasion when it’s time.”

  With a longsuffering expression, she gazed at her son as if he’d personally insulted her. Then the dryer buzzed, and she sprang up from the table. “Excuse me. I have to attend to that or, well, things wrinkle and …” Her voice trailed off into what looked to be another round of crying as she raced from the room.

  Alfred glanced at the boy, who crossed his arms and frowned. “What did you do to my mother?”

  “Me? Nothing. She was crying when I answered the door.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Look, I think your mom is just a little stressed about this play, that’s all.” He hoped this was the right tone in which to speak to a child. He didn’t have much experience.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Well, I’m uh … uh …” He gestured toward the bag that held the puppets, which sat in the middle of the table. “I’m just here to inspect the puppets. Do you like puppets?”

  “Why would a grown man want to see puppets?”

  “I … I don’t want to see them. I just … well, look, it’s complicated—”

  “I bet.” His eyes narrowed.

  “Look, kid, beat it, okay?”

  “And leave you alone with these puppets? I don’t think so.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be Tiny Tim? Likable? Affable? Good-natured?”

  “Terminal.”

  Alfred was about to retort when Katelyn returned, this time with fresh makeup and a gleaming smile. “Sorry about that. But there’s nothing worse than ironing sheets.” She smiled at her son, who returned the favor with an innocent, wide-eyed look in need of affirmation. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and go,” she said with a wink.

  But then he stepped forward, clasped his hands behind his back like he’d just morphed into a von Trapp, and said, “God bless us, every one!

  Katelyn clapped her hands together, gasping and gushing so much she failed to notice the evil, sinister glance the kid gave Alfred. It diminished as he smiled angelically at his mother.

  “I knew you could do it!”

  “Can I play my Wii now?”

  “Sure.”

  Before Alfred could even reconcile himself to the fact that he’d not forgiven Tiny Tim even the least bit and instead loathed him even more, Katelyn drew a puppet from the bag, and it stared him down.

  Well, that wasn’t really true. Each eye pointed outward so it couldn’t look right at him. Its hair, brown, short, and stringy, stuck to the sock in an oddly meticulous pattern. Its mouth, bright red and crooked, gave him a preschool look. Alfred smiled, then laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “Ha. Ha-ha! He’s not scary. He’s not scary at all!”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. The gummy worms didn’t work. But I’m not sure what else to do.”

  “May I see Want?”

  Katelyn pulled her out of the bag. Her hair, also long and stringy, was tied up with two bows on each side of her head, but that was the only difference. She looked exactly like Ignorance, gummy worms and all. Katelyn looked in desperate need of suggestions.

  “Okay, well, maybe we can add some … slime.”

  “Slime?”

  “Sure. Hanging off their faces.” Katelyn didn’t look inspired. “You’ve got a son. Surely he can help you acquire some slime.”

  She nodded and her eyes brightened. “I think you’re right.”

  “And maybe lose the eyes. Cut holes out so they look empty.”

  “Oh, that is good!”

  “That paired with a mouth that looks like it came off a crazed clown, and I think you’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you, Alfred!”

  “My pleasure.” Alfred stood and glanced at the puppets one more time. With a chuckle, he shook his head and went to the door. “You’ll do just fine.”

  “What about Willem? Do you think he’ll do well?”

  “Oh … sure. He brings a real immaturity to the role.”

  She placed a grateful hand on her heart. Alfred wanted to do the same because he thought, and was almost sure, that he would not fear Want or Ignorance anymore.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible, save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

  IN THE WEE HOURS of the morning, when the entire community of Skary was asleep, Wolfe lay in bed contemplating irony. He liked irony—had used it a lot in his books. But living it was a different matter entirely. Like the way he was alone in the house, not a sound to be heard, but he couldn’t sleep. No crying baby. No nagging wife. No visitors calling in the middle of the night. But he couldn’t sleep.

  Most of his wakeful time, he spent conversing inside his head with Ainsley about how wrong she was. It was a very one-sided conversation, but he didn’t care. He was still angry. And, admittedly, heartbroken. They’d never had a fight like this. There had been a squabble or two, but nothing that wasn’t resolved quickly.

  He rose from bed before even Goose and Bunny awoke. He clicked on the television to eat his bowl of cold cereal. He was used to a nice big breakfast, so this was just another painful jab. Oliver hurried out the door without a word, presumably late to work.

  Wolfe spent a while working on his book, the one that he’d decided might take him a lifetime to finish, and the rest of the morning working on his character for the play. The hours dragged on and on. He decided to pass the afternoon reading A Christmas Carol. He practically knew it by heart, usually reading it through at least once every Christmas. Of course, that was before Ainsley put the joy and holiday back into Christmas for him. Now he had parties and dinners and gift shopping. He volunteered at the church to bring food and toys to needy families. He helped decorate the community center.

  The phone didn’t ring one time, no matter how long he watched it and prayed it would. Even more gut-wrenching, it was all because he hadn’t put the Christmas lights up.

  Anger stirred all over again.

  So the cycle went until evening, at which time Wolfe arrived at the theater. He’d been looking forward to this day. Of all the ghosts, he thought he would like to play this one, the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. Without a single word uttered, this ghost commanded fear i
n every reader’s heart. Each time Wolfe read the first lines in the chapter that introduced the ghost, chills would race up and down his spine. He’d learned the valuable lesson that less is more, and used the technique often in his own books.

  Wolfe entered from stage left, but nobody was around. “Hello?”

  “Be there in a sec!” Lois called from behind the stage. The erected set looked pretty good. Painted on one panel was a gravesite, and on the other half of the stage was the Cratchits’ living room with a fireplace, chairs, a throw rug, and a candlestick. Soon the other actors started arriving, including Oliver.

  “Heard anything?” Wolfe asked him.

  “I tried calling. Twice. She hung up both times.”

  “What are we supposed to do, then?”

  “I don’t know. It sure made for a long day.”

  “You know what? Two can play at this game.”

  “Four.”

  “The point is, if they’re not going to tell us what’s wrong, then why should we have to beg for the answers?”

  “Because I miss breakfast.”

  “Me too.”

  “A lot.”

  “But we have to stay strong. Our stomachs cannot control us. They’re the ones who are mad. They at least owe us an explanation.”

  “Sausage and biscuits.

  “Get ahold of yourself, Oliver. We can’t cave.”

  “Not even for french toast?”

  “All right, people! Gather around,” Lois said, patting her hands together. “Tonight we’re going to run the last of the scenes with the ghosts. Personally, this is one of my favorites. And not just because I play Mrs. Cratchit and have all the good lines!” She turned to them and took on her character. “The Founder of the Feast indeed! I wish I had him here. I’d give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he’d have a good appetite for it!” Bowing to the light applause, Lois said, “That’s the kind of energy I want from all of you. We’re not in costume yet, but Wolfe, I would like to see you for a moment. There are a few things I want to fit you for. The rest of you, run your lines until we return. Wolfe, follow me.”