Bah Humbug / L.L. Bartlett
Bah, Humbug
A Jeff Resnick Story
By L.L. Bartlett
Copyright © 2010 by L.L. Bartlett
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously--and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
License Notes:
This efiction is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This efiction may not be re-sold or given to others. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your exclusive use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of all authors, and helping the e-reading community to grow!
Bah, Humbug
A Jeff Resnick Story
By L.L. Bartlett
“You won’t forget to top up the water in the Christmas tree stand, will you?” my brother Richard asked, his gaze darting to the long line at the security check-in outside the waiting area at the Buffalo International Airport.
“No,” I told him for the tenth time. And I wouldn’t forget to water the plants. Clear off the steps, or do any of the other nit-picky chores he’d outlined on the list he’d left taped to his refrigerator door.
“We should’ve gotten an artificial tree. Then I wouldn’t have had to worry....” he went on.
“You’d worry if we’d gotten a flame-retardant, stainless steel tree with sprinklers connected to every branch,” his wife Brenda piped up, as she stooped to rearrange the top layer of books, candy, vitamins and other sundries in her carry-on bag. Brenda never traveled light.
“Just think, later tonight you’ll be standing on a beach, under romantic moonlight,” my girlfriend Maggie said and sighed.
“If the plane isn’t late. Or the weather acts up, or—”
“Will you stop being so pessimistic,” Brenda told Richard.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” he admitted, and tugged at the collar of his turtleneck shirt. No wonder he was sweating. He also had on a parka—something he wouldn’t be needing south of the border.
“I’m the one who gets premonitions,” I told him. It had been that way since March, when I’d been bashed in the head with a baseball bat by some punk who thought he needed my wallet more than I did. Since then I’d known a lot of things—and not many of them were pleasant. Brenda says I’m psychic. I say … I know some things. “I predict you guys will have a wonderful, relaxing, stress-free vacation.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Brenda said, and snatched up Richard’s hand, squeezing it.
He managed a hesitant smile, the edges of his mustache quirking upward.
A family of five, all loaded down with carry-on baggage, passed us, and the line at security got that much longer. “We’d better get going,” Brenda said, noticing. She captured Maggie in a hug. “Now take care of Jeffy while we’re gone. Make sure he eats at least one good meal a day.”
“I will, I will,” Maggie promised.
Brenda grabbed me next, kissing me on the cheek. “And take care of my girlfriend.”
“You’ll only be gone six days. How much trouble can either of us get into?”
Brenda pulled away, giving me the fish eye. “Knowing you, a lot!”
“Come on,” Richard urged, picking up their carry-on luggage. He paused, gave me a knowing look that transcended words. A look that said, “I love you. I’m glad you’re back in my life. And don’t forget to take out the trash,” all rolled into one. I hoped he read most of the same on my face. What he actually said was, “Take care of the house, kid. I’m depending on you.”
“Be good,” Brenda called, following Richard to the waiting line. “Merry Christmas!”
“Bon voyage!” Maggie wrapped one arm around mine, waving to their backs as they joined the line of sheep waiting for the dreaded security nightmare that preceded all flights.
We turned to walk toward the terminal’s exit, and I swallowed down the lump that had formed in my throat. The best part of my holiday had just ended.
“I wish it was like the old days when you could stay in the waiting area and wave to the plane as it took off,” Maggie said, wistfully.
“Me, too.” Maybe then I wouldn’t feel quite so abandoned?
Maggie’s crystal blue eyes were moist with understanding. “The good old days,” she whispered, and her hand snaked down to take mine. All around us, the airport hummed with passengers and visitors, tearful goodbyes and joyful hellos. It was painful to experience and I wanted to get the hell out of there. I picked up my pace, dragging Maggie along with me.
“I wish we were going with them,” she said.
“They need time alone. Time to heal.”
She nodded, no doubt thinking about the trauma we’d all endured earlier in the month, thanks to Ray Sampson.
“I’ve had a good day,” Maggie said, fingering the garnet pendant on the chain around her neck. I’d bought it for her, not considering she might wear a red sweater for Christmas. It couldn’t compare with the diamond solitaire earrings Richard had given Brenda. Or the emerald necklace, or the sapphire ring ... the trip to Mexico, and ....
“Me, too.”
It had been the best Christmas of my life, but I had this funny feeling the day wouldn’t end on such a happy note.
Maybe I did wish I could’ve gotten on that plane.
We headed for the short-term parking lot. Maybe we should have said our goodbyes outside the terminal, but Maggie and I had time to kill, and I wasn’t quite ready to let the best Christmas I’d ever had end.
To say the air was bracing was putting it mildly, though late afternoon sunlight glinted off the parked cars as I huddled into my jacket and lowered my head so as not to take a direct hit from the wind. Unless the plane hit clear-air turbulence, they had perfect flying weather.
We claimed Richard’s Lincoln Town Car, paid the parking fee, and started off for Lackawanna and the Brennan family Christmas gathering.
Bah, humbug.
Except for carols on the radio, the drive was a quiet one. Even Maggie’s usually buoyant enthusiasm had flattened into nothingness as clouds began to gather in the west.
“It’ll be fine,” Maggie said at last.
I gave her a skeptical glance, but said nothing. She didn’t have that familiar quiver in her gut, a feeling I’d learned to be wary of. She didn’t have that niggling itch in the back of her skull—trouble on the way. Only I didn’t know what kind of trouble. And for all her soothing words, she was worried about something and had been transmitting it for the past hour.
We pulled up the driveway and I cut the engine.
The handmade wreath on the front door was heavy with what looked like real fruit, straight out of a Colonial Williamsburg brochure. Maggie’s sister Irene’s deft hand, no doubt. According to Maggie, Irene made sure everything about her home, her children, and her marriage was perfect. Or else.
That’s probably why she didn’t like me. Not only was I flawed, but I was essentially broke. And I was ruining her sister’s life. Not that she’d said so the one time I’d met her back in September. That was after the accident that totaled my car. I wasn’t hurt, but Maggie.... Well, the five-inch scar on her right calf might fade in another couple of years. Considering she’d nearly bled to death, that wasn’t too bad a price to pay.
I opened the trunk and retrieved the brightly wrapped presents, then followed Maggie up the walk. She pressed the doorbell and we waited. Minuscule snow
flakes gently landed in Maggie’s auburn hair. She smiled and impulsively kissed me.
The door flew open and Irene, dressed in a gold sequined top, dark silk pants, with perfectly coiffed hair the color of muslin and carefully applied make-up, stood before us. “Maggie, darling,” she cried, and gathered her sister in a careful hug. She glanced at me over Maggie’s shoulder. Her smile faded.
“Jeff,” she said coolly.
“Irene.”
I stood there with my arms laden with packages Maggie had insisted on adding my name to. But I didn’t know these people, hadn’t contributed toward the cost of the gifts.
Irene ushered us into her tastefully decorated Colonial home, to the formal living room where Maggie’s kin were sitting on the stiff, uncomfortable-looking furniture. Irene took our coats, and Maggie and I added the pile of gifts to the overflowing stack under the Christmas tree. It was Brennan family custom to open presents after dinner, she’d told me.
The holiday spirit seemed in short supply, although the adults were all sipping drinks. The kids were off in another part of the house, whooping and hollering, which gave the only hint of holiday cheer. As I took in the somber faces around me, a sensation of smothering concern for Maggie seeped into me. It permeated the room.
It would be a long evening.
“Can I get you anything?” a vaguely familiar face politely asked.
“Jeff, you remember Irene’s husband, Peter,” Maggie said.
“Peter,” I said in acknowledgment. The painless dentist, and the source of status Irene so coveted. “Bourbon on the rocks, please.”
“Maggie?”
“White wine would be great,” she said, and Peter turned for the makeshift bar in the corner. Moments later, we collected our drinks.
“Let me introduce you around,” Maggie said, and turned toward the couple sitting in the love seat. “You remember my sister Sandy and her husband Dave.”
They nodded. Dave didn’t offer his hand. Just as well. I didn’t want to touch him. Or anyone else. That might kick-start my sixth sense that let me know what people were feeling—and sometimes even thinking. But touching any of them didn’t seem like it would be a problem tonight. I’d been branded a pariah.
As I was introduced around the room, I knew the dark feelings I experienced were more than my own paranoia. Maggie’s family had already made up their minds to dislike me. But why?
Irene returned with a tray full of stuffed mushroom caps. She offered them to everyone. Everyone but me.
Okay.
Taking the chair farthest from the group, I looked for something to distract myself. The shelves against the back wall were full of bric-a-brac, but not a magazine or a book graced the tables—not even the morning’s newspaper.
I nursed my bourbon. This was as bad as sitting in a hospital waiting room. Okay, I knew that routine for killing time. Two times two is four. Three times two is six. Four times two is eight....
I made it to the sixes before Maggie caught up on the latest family gossip and found me.
“You okay?” she asked.
I could’ve told her I had a migraine, that I needed to go home. But why ruin her Christmas with her family because I was uncomfortable with them? Besides, something in my gut told me we ought to stay. That was good enough for me.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re awfully quiet.”
I shrugged. “I don’t do well with new people.”
“So mingle,” she said and smiled.
God, I loved her. She wanted her family to like me. She knew they didn’t. Did she know why?
I decided to push it. “Is something going on I should know about?”
Maggie’s smile waned.
“Maggs?” I pressed.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her expression darkening, her gaze darting to the crowd in front of the fireplace. “But I don’t like it. I’ll tell Irene—”
“No, don’t say anything. It’s not worth it.”
“But you’re important to me. I don’t want them to—”
I touched her arm. “Maggs, it’s just for a couple of hours. I’ll hang back and keep a low profile”
“But you shouldn’t have to.” Her whisper was turning harsh.
“Can I get you another drink?” Peter asked from behind her.
I peered around Maggie. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
Peter nodded and went back to his other guests.
Maggie’s cheeks flushed pink as she blinked back tears.
“Babe, just go be with your family. I’m fine. It’ll be okay.”
“But, you’re part of my family now, too.”
I gave her a smile. “Thanks.” She took a breath and forced a smile.
“Go,” I told her and kissed her nose.
“I love you,” she said, and kissed me back.
She turned and moved to stand next to her sister Sandy, who was talking to their mother.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Maggie. We’re good for one another. She kept my mind off other things—and people—who were off limits. Somehow we’d get through this evening, and later make love, and then I’d show her just how much she meant to me.
A grandfather clock near the archway to the dining room chimed five. Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour. I edged around the two tables Irene had set in the dining room; one for the adults and one for the children. The silverware had been polished until it glowed. Sparking crystal, starched and folded linen napkins, and calligraphied name cards graced each setting. Maggie’s parents would sit in the places of honor at the head of the table. Maggie and I were halfway down, with my chair smack against a leg of the table. I’d have to straddle it the whole meal.
Since no one was paying attention to me anyway, I wandered off in search of the kids.
The large-screen plasma TV in the family room was alive with pint-sized warriors doing battle. Two teen-aged boys sat behind controllers manipulating the televised titans. They didn’t acknowledge my presence, but since few of their parents had either, I didn’t take it personally.
A couple of smaller boys played with toy cars on the rug. They muttered a subdued, “hi,” and crashed miniature NASCAR racers into the furniture and baseboards.
The lone female had her nose buried in a book. I stood next to the couch, watching the game in progress. The girl’s gaze slid over the top of the book.
“You’re aunt Maggie’s lover, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “She’s my girlfriend. What’s your name?”
“Eleanor.”
God, I thought that name went out with First Lady Roosevelt.
“Hi, Eleanor. I’m Jeff.”
“Are you a millionaire?” this teenaged-Irene clone asked.
I laughed. “I’m not even a thousandaire.”
She wasn’t amused. “That’s what I thought.” She eyed my sweater and slacks, her gaze lingering for a moment on my crotch. “But you’ve got millionaires in your family, right?”
Funny how that little piece of news always precedes me. “Just one.”
“A brother, right?”
“Yeah.”
What else did this nosy kid know about me?
“How come you’re not rich?” she persisted.
“The luck of the draw.” I drained my glass and went off in search of a refill.
Peter wasn’t hovering around his mini bar, so I decided to serve myself. Irene glanced up at me from her post holding up the fireplace. Peter was quietly conversing with the family patriarch when Irene nudged him. What did she think I’d do, steal her crystal?
Peter crossed the room. “What can I get you, Jeff?”
“Another bourbon, thanks.”
Peter lifted the lid on the ice bucket, found it empty. “Damn.”
“Honey, the fire needs banking,” Irene said.
“I can get more ice. Freezer, right?”
“The kitchen’s through there.” Peter handed me the ice bucket.
<
br /> The tension eased as soon as the swinging door closed behind me. Away from the blast of the fire, the cool kitchen was a welcome relief. The glossy granite counters were clear of food prep. There was no heavenly aroma of roasting turkey--not even a potato boiled on the stove. We must be waiting for the caterer to arrive.
I opened the freezer, poking at the seven-pound bag of ice.
“What’re you doing in my freezer?” asked a cold voice.
I turned, showed Irene the ice bucket in my hand. “Peter asked me to fill it.”
Irene crossed the kitchen in four steps and snatched it from me. I stepped back as she took tongs from a drawer and opened the freezer door. “I understand you’re Jewish,” she said with a sneer, extracting ice from the plastic bag.
“My father was Jewish. I was raised a Catholic.”
“That still makes you half Jewish.”
“That doesn’t make me anything.”
Her lips curled in contempt. “You’re right. You’re nothing.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. How could this dreadful, tactless, bigoted woman be related to my sweet loving Maggie? And what did she think of Maggie’s best—black—friend, Brenda?
“Why did you invite me here, since you obviously don’t like me.”
“For Maggie, of course,” she said, practically throwing ice into the bucket.
Yes. Maggie. And I supposed I could suffer for a little while longer. At least until Maggie had had enough.
“My sister led a calm, safe life until the day you barged into it. First, her boss was murdered—”
“That happened before I met Maggie.”
“She lost her job—”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“Your lousy driving nearly killed her.”
“We were run off the road.”
“Only weeks ago some kook broke into your brother’s house and cracked her over the head, giving her a concussion.”
No doubt about it, I was a trouble magnet. Maggie had faced moments of danger and unpleasantness at my side.
“You’re not good enough for my sister,” she grated, finished filling the bucket and slammed the freezer door. “You’ll never amount to anything, and if you were any kind of gentleman, you’d leave her alone and let her get on with her life.”
Bah! Humbug - A Jeff Resnick Story Page 1
