Miracle and Other Christmas Stories

by Connie Willis

  “No,” I said, smiling. “I haven’t noticed a thing.”

  I waited for Gary in Hunziger’s office for nearly half an hour. “Sorry I took so long,” he said when he finally got there. “My ex-wife called. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that even you have to admit it would be a good thing if Penny was taken over,” I said. “What if the parasites aren’t evil? What if they’re those—what are those parasites that benefit the host called? You know, like the bacteria that help cows produce milk? Or those birds that pick insects off of rhinoceroses?”

  “You mean symbiotes?” Gary said.

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “What if this is some kind of symbiotic relationship? What if they’re raising everyone’s IQ or enhancing their emotional maturity, and it’s having a good effect on us?”

  “Things that sound too good to be true usually are. No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re up to something, I know it. And we’ve got to find out what it is.”

  On the tenth when I came to work, Penny was putting up the Christmas decorations. They were, as she had promised, something special: wide swags of red velvet ribbons running all around the walls, with red velvet bows and large bunches of mistletoe every few feet. In between were gold-calligraphic scrolls reading “And kiss me ‘neath the mistletoe, For Christmas comes but once a year.”

  “What do you think?” Penny said, climbing down from her stepladder. “Every floor has a different quotation.” She reached into a large cardboard box. “Accounting’s is ‘Sweetest the kiss that’s stolen under the mistletoe.’”

  I came over and looked into the box. “Where did you get all the mistletoe?” I asked.

  “This apple farmer I know,” she said, moving the ladder.

  I picked up a big branch of the green leaves and white berries. “It must have cost a fortune.” I had bought a sprig of it last year that had cost six dollars.

  Penny, climbing the ladder, shook her head. “It didn’t cost anything. He was glad to get rid of it.” She tied the bunch of mistletoe to the red velvet ribbon. “It’s a parasite, you know. It kills the trees.”

  “Kills the trees?” I said blankly, staring at the white berries.

  “Or deforms them,” she said. “It steals nutrients from the tree’s sap, and the tree gets these swellings and galls and things. The farmer told me all about it.”

  As soon as I had the chance, I took the material Gary had downloaded on parasites into Hunziger’s office and read through it.

  Mistletoe caused grotesque swellings wherever its rootlets attached themselves to the tree. Anthracnose caused cracks and then spots of dead bark called cankers. Blight wilted trees’ leaves. Witches’ broom weakened limbs. Bacteria caused tumorlike growths on the trunk, called galls.

  We had been focusing on the mental and psychological effects when we should have been looking at the physical ones. The heightened intelligence, the increase in civility and common sense, must simply be side effects of the parasites’ stealing nutrients. And damaging the host.

  I stuck the papers back into the file folder, went back to my desk, and called Sueann.

  “Sueann, hi,” I said. “I’m working on my Christmas newsletter, and I wanted to make sure I spelled David’s name right. Is Carrington spelled C-A-R-R or C-E-R-R?”

  “C-A-R-R. Oh, Nan, he’s so wonderful! So different from the losers I usually date! He’s considerate and sensitive and—”

  “And how are you?” I said. “Everybody at work’s been down with the flu.”

  “Really?” she said. “No, I’m fine.”

  What did I do now? I couldn’t ask “Are you sure?” without making her suspicious. “C-A-R-R,” I said, trying to think of another way to approach the subject.

  Sueann saved me the trouble. “You won’t believe what he did yesterday. Showed up at work to take me home. He knew my ankles had been hurting, and he brought me a tube of Ben-Gay and a dozen pink roses. He is so thoughtful.”

  “Your ankles have been hurting?” I said, trying not to sound anxious.

  “Like crazy. It’s this weather or something. I could hardly walk on them this morning.”

  I jammed the parasite papers back into the file folder, made sure I hadn’t left any on the desk like the hero in Parasite People from Planet X, and went up to see Gary.

  He was on the phone.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” I whispered.

  “I’d like that,” he said into the phone, an odd look on his face.

  “What is it?” I said. “Have they found out we’re on to them?”

  “Shh,” he said. “You know I do,” he said into the phone.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I’ve figured out what it’s doing to people.”

  He held up a finger, motioning me to wait. “Can you hang on a minute?” he said into the phone, and put his hand over the receiver. “I’ll meet you in Hunziger’s office in five minutes,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not safe. Meet me at the post office.”

  He nodded, and went back to his conversation, still with that odd look on his face.

  I ran back down to second for my purse and went to the post office. I had intended to wait on the corner, but it was crowded with people jockeying to drop money into the Salvation Army Santa Claus’s kettle.

  I looked down the sidewalk. Where was Gary? I went up the steps and scanned the street. There was no sign of him.

  “Merry Christmas!” a man said, half-tipping a fedora and holding the door for me.

  “Oh, no, I’m—” I began, and saw Tonya coming down the street. “Thank you,” I said, and ducked inside.

  It was freezing inside, and the line for the postal clerks wound out into the lobby. I got in it. It would take an hour at least to work my way to the front, which meant I could wait for Gary without looking suspicious.

  Except that I was the only one not wearing a hat. Every single person in line had one on, and the clerks behind the counter were wearing mail carriers’ caps. And broad smiles.

  “Packages going overseas should really have been mailed by November fifteenth,” the middle clerk was saying, not at all disgruntledly, to a little Japanese woman in a red cap, “but don’t worry, we’ll figure out a way to get your presents there on time.”

  “The line’s only about forty-five minutes long,” the woman in front of me confided cheerfully. She was wearing a small black hat with a feather and carrying four enormous packages. I wondered if they were full of pods. “Which isn’t bad at all, considering it’s Christmas.”

  I nodded, looking toward the door. Where was he?

  “Why are you here?” the woman said, smiling.

  “What?” I said, whirling back around, my heart pounding. “What are you here to mail?” she said. “I see you don’t have any packages.”

  “S-stamps,” I stammered.

  “You can go ahead of me,” she said. “If all you’re buying is stamps. I’ve got all these packages to send. You don’t want to wait for that.”

  I do want to wait, I thought. “No, that’s all right. I’m buying a lot of stamps,” I said. “I’m buying several sheets. For my Christmas newsletter.”

  She shook her head, balancing the packages. “Don’t be silly. You don’t want to wait while they weigh all these.” She tapped the man in front of her. “This young lady’s only buying stamps,” she said. “Why don’t we let her go ahead of us?”

  “Certainly,” the man, who was wearing a Russian karakul hat, said, and bowed slightly, stepping back.

  “No, really,” I began, but it was too late. The line had parted like the Red Sea.

  “Thank you,” I said, and walked up to the counter. “Merry Christmas.”

  The line closed behind me. They know, I thought. They know I was looking up plant parasites. I glanced desperately toward the door.

  “Holly and ivy?” the clerk said, beaming at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “Your stamps.” He h
eld up two sheets. “Holly and ivy or Madonna and Child?”

  “Holly and ivy,” I said weakly. “Three sheets, please.”

  I paid for the sheets, thanked the mob again, and went back out into the freezing-cold lobby. And now what? Pretend I had a box and fiddle with the combination? Where was he?

  I went over to the bulletin board, trying not to seem suspicious, and looked at the Wanted posters. They had probably all turned themselves in by now and were being model prisoners. And it really was a pity the parasites were going to have to be stopped. If they could be stopped.

  It had been easy in the movies (in the movies, that is, in which they had managed to defeat them, which wasn’t all that many. Over half the movies had ended with the whole world being turned into glowing green eyes). And in the ones where they did defeat them, there had been an awful lot of explosions and hanging precariously from helicopters. I hoped whatever we came up with didn’t involve skydiving.

  Or a virus or ultrasonic sound, because even if I knew a doctor or scientist to ask, I couldn’t confide in them. “We can’t trust anybody,” Gary had said, and he was right. We couldn’t risk it. There was too much at stake. And we couldn’t call the police. “It’s all in your imagination, Miss Johnson,” they would say. “Stay right there. We’re on our way.”

  We would have to do this on our own. And where was Gary?

  I looked at the Wanted posters some more. I was sure the one in the middle looked like one of Sueann’s old boyfriends. He—

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Gary said breathlessly. His ears were red from the cold, and his hair was ruffled from running. “I had this phone call and—”

  “Come on,” I said, and hustled him out of the post office, down the steps, and past the Santa and his mob of donors.

  “Keep walking,” I said. “You were right about the parasites, but not because they turn people into zombies.”

  I hurriedly told him about the galls and Tonya’s carpal tunnel syndrome. “My sister was infected at Thanksgiving, and now she can hardly walk,” I said. “You were right. We’ve got to stop them.”

  “But you don’t have any proof of this,” he said. “It could be arthritis or something, couldn’t it?”

  I stopped walking. “What?”

  “You don’t have any proof that it’s the aliens that are causing it. It’s cold. People’s arthritis always acts up when it’s cold out. And even if the aliens are causing it, a few aches and pains is a small price to pay for all the benefits. You said yourself—”

  I stared at his hair.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I haven’t been taken over. I’ve just been thinking about what you said about your sister’s engagement and—”

  “Who was on the phone?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “The thing is—”

  “It was your ex-wife,” I said. “She’s been taken over, and now she’s nice, and you want to get back together with her. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “You know how I’ve always felt about Marcie,” he said guiltily. “She says she never stopped loving me.”

  When something sounds too good to be true, it probably is, I thought.

  “She thinks I should move back in and see if we can’t work things out. But that isn’t the only reason,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I’ve been looking at all those clippings—dropouts going back to school, escaped convicts turning themselves in—”

  “People returning overdue library books,” I said.

  “Are we willing to be responsible for ruining all that? I think we should think about this before we do anything.”

  I pulled my arm away from him.

  “I just think we should consider all the factors before we decide what to do. Waiting a few days can’t hurt.”

  “You’re right,” I said, and started walking. “There’s a lot we don’t know about them.”

  “I just think we should do a little more research,” he said, opening the door of our building.

  “You’re right,” I said, and started up the stairs.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” he said when we got to second.

  I nodded and went back to my desk and put my head in my hands.

  He was willing to let parasites take over the planet so he could get his ex-wife back, but were my motives any better than his? Why had I believed in an alien invasion in the first place, and spent all that time watching science-fiction movies and having huddled conversations? So I could spend time with him.

  He was right. A few aches and pains were worth it to have Sueann married to someone nice and postal workers nondisgruntled and passengers remaining seated till those people with connecting flights had deplaned.

  “Are you okay?” Tonya said, leaning over my desk.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine,” she said, rotating the elbow to show me. “It must have been a cramp or something.”

  I didn’t know these parasites were like mistletoe. They might cause only temporary aches and pains. Gary was right. We needed to do more research. Waiting a few days couldn’t hurt.

  The phone rang. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” Mom said. “Dakota’s in the hospital. They don’t know what it is. It’s something wrong with her legs. You need to call Allison.”

  “I will,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  I logged on to my computer, called up the file I’d been working on, and scrolled halfway through it so it would look like I was away from my desk for just a minute, took off my high heels and changed into my sneakers, stuck the high heels into my desk drawer, grabbed my purse and coat, and took off.

  The best place to look for information on how to get rid of the parasites was the library, but the card file was on-line, and you had to use your library card to get access. The next best was a bookstore. Not the independent on Sixteenth. Their clerks were far too helpful. And knowledgeable.

  I went to the Barnes & Noble on Eighth, taking the back way (but no alleys). It was jammed, and there was some kind of book signing going on up front, but nobody paid any attention to me. Even so, I didn’t go straight to the gardening section. I wandered casually through the aisles, looking at T-shirts and mugs and stopping to thumb through a copy of How Irrational Fears Can Ruin Your Life, gradually working my way back to the gardening section.

  They had only two books on parasites: Common Garden Parasites and Diseases and Organic Weed and Pest Control. I grabbed them both, retreated to the literature section, and began to read.

  “Fungicides such as Benomyl and Ferbam are effective against certain rusts,” Common Garden Parasites said. “Streptomycin is effective against some viruses.”

  But which was this, if either? “Spraying with Diazinon or Malathion can be effective in most cases. Note: These are dangerous chemicals. Avoid all contact with skin. Do not breathe fumes.”

  That was out. I put down Common Garden Parasites and picked up Organic Weed and Pest Control. At least it didn’t recommend spraying with deadly chemicals, but what it did recommend wasn’t much more useful. Prune affected limbs. Remove and destroy berries. Cover branches with black plastic.

  Too often it said simply: Destroy all infected plants.

  “The main difficulty in the case of parasites is to destroy the parasite without also destroying the host.” That sounded more like it. “It is therefore necessary to find a substance that the host can tolerate that is intolerable to the parasite. Some rusts, for instance, cannot tolerate a vinegar and ginger solution, which can be sprayed on the leaves of the host plant. Red mites, which infest honeybees, are allergic to peppermint. Frosting made with oil of peppermint can be fed to the bees. As it permeates the bees’ systems, the red mites drop off harmlessly. Other parasites respond variously to spearmint, citrus oil, oil of garlic, and powdered aloe vera.”

  But which? And how could I find out? Wear a garlic necklace? Stick an orange under Tonya’s nose? There was no way to find out without their
figuring out what I was doing.

  I kept reading. “Some parasites can be destroyed by rendering the environment unfavorable. For moisture-dependent rusts, draining the soil can be beneficial. For temperature-susceptible pests, freezing and/or use of smudge pots can kill the invader. For light-sensitive parasites, exposure to light can kill the parasite.”

  Temperature-sensitive. I thought about the hats. Were they to hide the parasites or to protect them from the cold? No, that couldn’t be it. The temperature in the building had been turned down to freezing for two weeks, and if they needed heat, why hadn’t they landed in Florida?

  I thought about Jackie Peterson’s newsletter. She hadn’t been affected. And neither had Uncle Marty, whose newsletter had come this morning. Or, rather, Uncle Marty’s dog, who ostensibly dictated them. “Woof, woof!” the newsletter had said. “I’m lying here under a Christmas saguaro out on the desert, chewing on a bone and hoping Santa brings me a nice new flea collar.”

  So they hadn’t landed in Arizona or Miami, and none of the newspaper articles Gary had circled had been from Mexico or California. They had all been datelined Minnesota and Michigan and Illinois. Places where it was cold. Cold and cloudy, I thought, thinking of Cousin Celia’s Christmas newsletter. Cold and cloudy.

  I flipped back through the pages, looking for the reference to light-sensitive parasites.

  “It’s right back here,” a voice said.

  I shut the book, jammed it in among Shakespeare’s plays, and snatched up a copy of Hamlet.

  “It’s for my daughter,” the customer, who was, thankfully, hatless, said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “That’s what she said she wanted for Christmas when I called her. I was so surprised. She hardly ever reads.”

  The clerk was right behind her, wearing a mobcap with red and green ribbons. “Everybody’s reading Shakespeare right now,” she said, smiling. “We can hardly keep it on the shelves.”

  I ducked my head and pretended to read the Hamlet. “O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!” Hamlet said. “I set it down, that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.”

  The clerk started along the shelves, looking for the book. “King Lear, King Lear … let’s see.”