The Santa Society Read online

  I rise to my feet and hear Klaus’ nails scratch across the wood. He scrambles to his feet and trots down the stairs. Like a snob, he doesn’t look at me as he passes by. He crosses the lawn toward the corner of the house, the one nearest to my decorating neighbors. He moves with determination as if he’s decided to try out their house instead. At least they look like they live there, whereas I only have a house I can’t get into.

  But Klaus does not turn that direction. In fact, he reaches the bitter cherry shrubs and hangs a sharp right, disappearing around the corner of this house. I don’t follow. Instead, I make my way back to the porch. There has to be a key here somewhere. My eyes settle on the old black mailbox hanging beside the front door, a surviving relic of the days when the postal service walked. I brush away spider webs and tug at the lid. It won’t budge, so I pull harder until it finally gives. I shove my hand in, feeling around for the key. It has to be here.

  I touch something that crackles like paper. Pinching it between two fingers, I extract a small piece of yellowed notebook paper folded into a square—one of Mom’s notes. I can’t believe it’s been here all these years. My throat thickens. There’s no way I’m opening it now.

  I shift it to my left hand and shove my right one back in for another pass through, just in case I missed something. But it’s empty.

  I squeeze the note in my palm and tremble. A toxic mix of regret and bitterness washes over me. I should have listed this house for sale months ago. I will never be able to get out of the past as long as I continue living in the museum that preserves it.

  I hear a sudden series of thuds like footsteps coming from inside the house.

  My mind races. Someone is in there. I freeze, liquid terror cooling my veins. A single, low shudder moves through the living room floor, rippling outward to where my feet stand outside.

  I know I should run. I should tear out of here screaming at the top of my lungs so the neighbors will hear. Even if I don’t scream, I should run...before the front door opens and someone drags me inside.

  But I only step backward, right onto a loose board in the floor. It makes a loud creaking sound that almost makes me scream. My body doesn’t cooperate with my fear. Instead of hightailing it out of there, I feel compelled to know more. I tip toe past a rocker, toward the front window.

  From next door, I hear, “Mommy, look at that lady next door. What’s she doing?”

  “Shhh, don’t talk so loud, Callie. She’ll hear you.”

  “But she looks like she’s sneaking. People aren’t ’sposed to sneak. That’s bad.”

  “Jeez, Callie. Be quiet.” This voice sounds like an older girl. Must be her teenage sister.

  Great, now I’m the creepy lady next door. The conversation reduces to whispers and more shushes.

  At least they know I’m here. Oddly, it gives me enough courage to move closer to the window. Whoever broke in must still be in the living room, since the noises stopped there—unless they’re sneaking too.

  My heart pounds in my chest. I can’t believe I’m being such an idiot, but I take another slow, careful step. Putting my body in front of the window seems like a bad idea. So I crouch beside the green shutter and steady myself. I’ll take a quick peak, only a second. Then I’ll take cover again.

  I lunge for the window, my neck extended like a goose. If the neighbors are still watching, I’m sure I look very concerning now. But I have no time to think about it. I’m focused more on the fact that I can’t see inside. The sunlight is too bright. I retreat to the shutter.

  This time, I lunge with my hands cupped at the sides of my face. I press against the glass, feeling like a bobbing target at the fair. I don’t see anything unusual. But, wait. Maybe I do—something odd in the floor. I tuck in my chin, trying to get a better look. Now I can’t see because my breath fogs the window. I give it a brisk swipe with my sleeve and try again.

  I can see well enough to make out a definite dark area on the carpet. I peer at it, hoping the force of my will power might sharpen the image. How strange—the shape of it looks almost like—I smash my face in closer and stare in disbelief. Impossible.

  It’s a dog…with a red tag.

  Klaus. I can’t believe my eyes. He’s sprawled legs-up across my mother’s Persian rug. He sleeps with his head resting against the base of the couch. His lips have fallen open, exposing his teeth and the pink insides of his lips.

  I don’t even realize my jaw hangs open until I snap it shut and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. How did he get in? I squint to see the back door—definitely closed. But I do see a small sliver of light shining through the wall near it. Ah, the poodle door. But that’s way too small, and it’s got plastic covering it inside. It’s been closed up since Honey got hit by a car five years ago.

  Even though I see Klaus in the house, I can’t fathom how a dog his size could fit through a poodle door, especially not with plastic sealing it. A cold breeze blows over me as I stare at his sleeping form. He looks so warm and comfortable it irritates me. I shiver and pull my scarf up over my chin. I’m on the cold side of the window now.

  I scramble down the steps two at a time and sprint to the back of the house, passing the shrubs as I go. Through them, I hear Callie again.

  “Maybe somebody won’t let her in.”

  You got that right.

  “Nobody else lives there, smarty pants,” says the older girl.

  “That’s enough, Holly,” the mother scolds.

  I round the back corner, not caring what anybody thinks. Sure enough, just past a spray of dead desert sage I see the poodle door has been pushed in. A large strip of plastic hangs out of it, preventing the flap from closing all the way.

  Nice. Heat rises in my cheeks as I narrow my eyes.

  I glare at the crumpled plastic, trying to think. If he got in, I should be able to. I get down on my knees and stick my head through the flap. The edges press painfully into my collar bone as the remaining strip of plastic stretches across my eye. No matter how I turn, I can’t get my shoulders through. It’s no use. I get to my feet and stroll back through the grass, kicking at leaves. I don’t want to accept the obvious: I need a locksmith.

  A little girl’s head appears in the shrubs, sticking through a gap between two bushes. She wears her auburn hair in two braids that hang over each shoulder. They glow like copper in the sun. She smiles at me with a gummy pink gap where her two front teeth should be.

  “Whatcha’ doin’?” she asks, her face an open window of curiosity.

  “Nothing. Just locked out of the house.”

  Her head disappears for a moment. “I told you!”

  She reappears. “My name’s Callie, and I’m six.”

  “I’m Erin.” I cover the distance between us and plop down in the grass a few feet away from her.

  She gives me a sympathetic look. I lower my eyes, and grab a handful of grass. I select the longest blades and start twisting them together...like I’m six too.

  Finally, she says, “What’re you gonna do? Will you be locked out forever? Will you have to get a new house?”

  “No. I guess I gotta call a locksmith. After that, I’ll get a new house.” I look at her and smile. Sitting here talking to her feels almost like life again.

  Her brown eyes surprise me. Aren’t redheads supposed to have blue eyes? I squint and raise my arm against the growing brightness. Through the small shade of my hand-visor I see tiny freckles on her nose too.

  “What’s a locksmith?”

  “An expensive guy who unlocks your house when you get locked out.”

  “Why did you lock yourself out?”

  From behind her, I hear, “Jeez, Callie. Leave her alone. Mom! Callie’s talking to the lady next door—in the bushes.”

  Callie ignores her.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say to her. “Could you ask your mom if I can borrow a phone?”

  I’m still waiting for the locksmith two hours later. I’ve met my mother’s neighbors: the Collins f
amily. They moved in two months after she died, which makes them my neighbors now, I suppose. I’ve turned all the rockers around upright and had my ears talked off by Callie and Holly, but mostly Callie. Their mother, Tammy, has gone home to finish the decorations. Her husband, John, never came down from the ladder. He just blinked down at me as I crouched in the shrubs and gave me a friendly wave.

  My jaw tightens as I steal another peak at the sleeping Klaus.

  Callie notices. “You should teach him to open the door when you get locked out.”

  “Good thinking.” I turn around just as a plain white van comes to a stop in front. A large man climbs out. His Carhartt coveralls and brown work boots suggest he does grubbier work than picking locks. His hair is completely white, except for his beard, which is stained yellow around his mouth.

  “Not having a very good day, huh?” He laughs as he makes his way up the steps and strolls over the walkway.

  “No, not a good day.” My gaze falls to the pouch he carries—the magic answer to my problem.

  He regards the door, assessing it with the look of a man hoping for a challenge. His expression falls by the time he reaches the top step. He sighs and pulls something from his pocket.

  “Well, this’ll only take a second.” He gives me a smile and closes in on the door.

  I watch him from the rocker. He shoves something into the threshold, in the tight crack between door and frame, and slides it down with a quick swipe. The door immediately opens. When he pulls his hand back, I see a driver’s license peeking out of his closed palm. I even recognize his bearded face in the tiny picture.

  I stare at it. It’s pretty much the same shape and size as the debit card in my back pocket.

  Callie hasn’t spoken. She hasn’t been this quiet in the whole two hours I’ve known her. She watches him, as though he has commanded lightening from his fingertips.

  He clears his throat. “Well, there you go.”

  “Thanks.” I pull my debit card from my back pocket and offer it to him reluctantly.

  He plucks it from my hand. “Credit or debit?”

  “Debit.”

  He lumbers off to his van.

  As soon as he disappears behind it, Callie turns to me. “Why didn’t you just use that little card like he did?”

  I let my breath out in a slow sigh. “Because, I didn’t think of it first.”

  “Oh.”

  “Callie!” Tammy calls. “It’s almost lunch time.”

  Callie offers me another toothless grin. “I’ll come back to see you again, okay?”

  The sight of her blazing hair and happy face warms me. Maybe even enough to melt a few ice crystals inside my frozen heart.

  “Okay.” I smile as she hops down the steps like a bunny.

  She gives me a little wave, skips across the lawn, and disappears through her bunny hole in the shrubs.

  The locksmith makes his way back to the porch. He struggles to separate the carbon copies of my receipt with his thick, square fingertips. After a few failed attempts, he finally lifts his thumb to his mouth and licks it. My throat tightens as he drags it across the top copy. It sticks. He tears it off and hands it to me.

  “Oh, wait.” He fishes in his coverall pocket. “There.” He brushes the pocket lint off my debit card, holding it up like a holy grail. “If this ever happens again, you can try this little baby right here. They don’t work on most locks these days, but you got an easy one.”

  Lucky me. “Thanks.” Tears sting my eyes, but I give him a tight smile.

  “Have a wonderful day,” he calls and heads back to his van.

  I glance down at the receipt, trying not to touch the wet corner at the top. I find the total written in red pen with a smiley face. My eyes tear up as I read the name signed at the bottom: Security Santa. I shove it in my pocket. I just gave up fifty bucks for a half price coffee and a free dog.

  Chapter 3

  AFTER TWO AND A HALF HOURS spent locked out of my house, $50 for a driver’s license swipe, and another $54 at the grocery store for dog food and accessories, I’m $104 poorer and pretty sure I should have stayed in bed this morning.

  Klaus yawns and jumps when I stumble through the door with a huge bag of kibble. I rest against the door frame with one knee lifted to balance the obnoxiously large sack and try to get a better grip on it, but the extra plastic bag on my wrist keeps getting caught up. I try to sling it outward, but the food bag slides off my leg and slams to the floor. The impact shakes the house so hard a picture falls from the wall beside me. I look down. The Serenity Prayer lies face up with small chinks in the glass, obscuring the words. Now the title reads: Sry Er.

  I blink at it, forgetting about the mess. For a moment, I can remember exactly the way my mother sounded when she called me Er—how she pronounced it like “air.” I am suddenly next to her bed again, listening to her jagged, uneven breaths.

  Only the light of the Christmas tree keeps us from total darkness. Casting a golden glow across her face, it gives her pale skin an ethereal glow. The rattle of her breathing has softened to the point I begin to panic. Maybe it’s about to stop. But then I hear a whisper so faint I’m not sure I have heard it at all. “I’m sorry, Er.”

  The sound of kibble crunching brings me back to reality. I open my eyes. The bag has a large rip in the middle. Through it, brown gumdrop-sized pellets have spilled out into the floor. Klaus happily sweeps them up like a Hoover vacuum with his doughy lips.

  “Okay, okay.” I reach for the bag, straining with all my strength to lift it. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll feed you.”

  I motion with my leg for him to follow me, hoping to keep him away from the glass. He gives me his once-over nod as though processing my words, then falls into a trot beside me. In the kitchen I set out a bowl of kibble and fresh water. He laps up all the water first then transitions to the food. Pieces of it fall from his lips to the floor. He makes a pass over them. Crumbs and even entire pellets vanish so fast I can’t see it with my naked eye.

  I turn my back and start rummaging for a plastic container large enough to store the kibble in. Finally, I find an extra trash can in the laundry room. Once it’s washed, I fill it up and drag it to the pantry. It takes some rearranging, but I finally clear a space big enough to shove it in and push against the door until it closes.

  I add more water to Klaus’ water dish, but he takes only a quick drink before he meanders over to the poodle door. Intrigued, I follow. I want to see how Klaus-the-house gets himself through that flap.

  He shoves his head through first and stands for a moment as though relishing the fresh air in his lungs. He reminds me of an ancient statue with no head. He backs up and snorts, with his face tilted up at me, like the rise at the end of a question.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him. “Don’t like audiences?”

  Klaus wags his tail and heads for the back door. He stands there waiting until I walk over and open it for him. From the doorway, I watch him mark off his territory. He urinates on the empty flower pot at the corner of the patio. Then he adds a splash to the lawn chair and the willow tree. Once he finishes squirting the garden hose reel, he trots past me through the door and into the living room.

  I follow, arriving just in time to see him climb onto the cream colored, microfiber sofa. He stretches out in the cushions and wallows around until he gets them just right. I consider reprimanding him for the liberties he takes, but I just don’t have the energy. I leave him to the couch and head back to the kitchen. I’d rather make a banana sandwich than argue over the couch. I never sit on it anyway.

  I glance at the clock. 8:00 p.m. I lay my book aside and lower the recliner’s leg rest. Maybe Klaus and I will be a good match. I mostly read. And he mostly sleeps, judging by the fact he hasn’t budged from the sofa.

  I don’t know why I keep reading about happy things like love and romance. It only makes me feel more miserable. But I’ve done it for months. I guess I don’t really have a better alternative. Adventur
e would only amplify my mundane existence. Family stories would only remind me of the family I don’t have. Horror…well, then I’d never sleep. Of course, I do have plenty of Christmas stories. I glance at the bookcase across the room where three entire shelves display my mother’s collection. She loved Christmas more than anything, except her family. Even our family portraits all contained winter backdrops. Fortunately, I took them down from the walls last week. At least in the closet they won’t haunt me so much.

  On the lamp table next to me, the yellowed note from the mailbox waits next to a business card. I reach for the note and carefully unfold it. I try to prepare by making myself a stone, cold and empty. The date reads December 25, 2000.

  Erin,

  Happy Birthday, sweet girl. I know we haven’t exchanged letters in the mailbox for a long time. I thought your 18th birthday would be a nice time for memories. And it’s Christmas. There is no better day of the year. I will always miss my time with you when you were growing up and all the ways I have loved you as a child. I know it’s your eighteenth birthday, but in my heart you will always be my baby. Since your father died, I know I have held onto you a little too tight. I promise to let you go, but only as far as I have to. Just please don’t forget how much I love you.

  Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday always,

  Mom

  I refold the note and return it to the table. My mind is a stone. My mind is a stone. I repeat it like a talisman that will keep me safe. Tears burn in my eyes. I am a bloody hard rock. Hot streams spill down my cheeks. I won’t break. But my chest clenches in a spasm that reaches down to my stomach and envelopes it with one massive fist. Sobs spill from my mouth. My voice deafens me, loud and raw. Everything inside me brims up and spills over. Sorrow and tears escape through my lips, my eyes, and my soul. I am somewhere other than here, as waves of agony sweep over me so intense I think I will die...and I hope I will.

  Because I know there’s a chance my mom might still be here if I hadn’t let her go. Maybe treatment would’ve let me keep her longer. And I know why I never got her note from the magic mailbox. It’s because I walked out on her in anger—the day I turned eighteen. I left, on Christmas, and I never moved back until all-the-time-in-the-world ran out.