Midnight Before Christmas (2 page)

“Wait just a minute, Mrs. Tucker.” Megan planted a brick-size boot in the doorway. “You can’t shut the door on ol’ Santa.”

“I may be old,” Mrs. Tucker said, “but I’m not senile or blind. You’re not Santa. You’re a woman.”

Megan coughed. “Well then, I’m Mrs. Santa.”

“I don’t normally think of Mrs. Santa as sporting a beard,” Mrs. Tucker answered. “But I suppose anything could happen that far north.”

Somehow Megan didn’t think Mrs. Tucker was quite into the spirit of the thing.

“I’ve got something for you,” Megan said, abandoning the basso profundo voice. She brought the cookie-filled plate around to view.

“Oh, joy,” Mrs. Tucker said wearily. “What is it this year?”

“Cookies! Ho, ho, ho!”

“Cookies? Why, I haven’t been able to eat cookies since—” She stopped in mid-sentence. All at once her eyes glowed like Christmas lights. “Oh, but I do like this!” She snatched the bundle out of Megan’s hands, plate and all.

“Wait,” Megan said hesitantly, “I think you’ve got the—”

“I do
love
blue china.” Mrs. Tucker dumped the cookies into a nearby bowl and clutched the plate against her bosom. “When I was younger and Herbert was still alive, we used to travel all across Europe, visiting flea markets and resale shops. He would hunt for those insipid Hummel figurines, and I would collect all the blue china I saw.” Her eyes drifted upward dreamily. “’Course I had to sell it after Herbert died and the taxes had to be paid and things got bad. Never thought I’d have any again.” She looked at Megan and beamed. “Till you showed up at my door.”

Megan coughed. “Um, ma’am, I think you misunderstand—”

“I tried to be brave when I had to sell it all off. Tried not to think about it afterward. But I couldn’t help myself. I do miss those beautiful plates. Miss them every livelong day.”

“Mrs. Tucker, I’m sorry, but the plate isn’t—”

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me, child. I’ll cherish this plate for the rest of my days.”

“Mrs. Tucker! I’m trying to tell you that—” Megan stopped cold. She peered into the woman’s eyes, those dark eyes that now, for the first time in who knows how long, seemed bright and alive.

Mrs. Tucker’s hands began to tremble slightly. She loosened her grip on the plate. “You … were saying something?”

Megan took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then nodded. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Tucker.”

“Oh.
Oh!”
A radiant smile erased the wrinkles of her face. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She winked. “Santa.”

Megan boot-flopped her way back to her car. Well, what’s a plate, anyway? she told herself. Eight years of being a priest, she never once put a smile on anyone’s face like that one.

She had almost reached the car door when she heard the cry from behind. “Wait! Saaaanta!”

Mrs. Tucker was hobbling down the sidewalk after her, carrying what looked like a large framed picture of some sort.

Mrs. Tucker finally caught up to Megan, then stopped to catch her breath. “You’ve been so kind. I wanted you to have something.”

“That’s not necessary, ma’am.”

“No, I insist. Even if you don’t want it for yourself, maybe you can pass it along to someone else. It’s a lovely piece of artwork. Very valuable.”

Artwork? Megan’s eyebrows rose. What a coup if she could bring a valuable piece of art back to the Legal Services offices. They could sell it at their annual auction. Something like that might pay their operational bills for a year.

“I’ll miss it,” Mrs. Tucker continued, “but who knows? Maybe this could mean as much to someone else as that plate means to me.”

“Could I see it?” Megan asked.

“Of course.” Mrs. Tucker turned it around. The framed material was not canvas but lush black velvet. Megan’s eyes fairly bulged as she gazed upon the subject—or, more accurately, subjects: several bulldogs huddled around a poker table.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Mrs. Tucker said. “My late Herbert just adored it.”

“Did he?” Megan said evenly. “Herbert must’ve been an interesting man.”

“Not really. But he did love his bulldogs.” She pressed the picture into Megan’s hands. “Here.”

“Oh, gosh. I don’t know—”

“I insist.” She started back toward the house. “And thank you again. I have to decide where I’m going to hang my new plate!”

Megan nodded and waved. “Merry Christmas!” She turned, opened the car door, and tossed the alleged artwork into the backseat. “Jasper, meet your new bulldog buddies!”

Jasper grinned, and a huge pool of doggie spittle dripped down onto the passenger seat.

“Way to go, Rudolph.” She slid into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. “To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”

“J
UST LEAVE THE BOTTLE.”

“Carl, I will not leave the bottle.”

“I said leave it.”

“And I said no!”

Carl and the bartender hunched over the single-chair table and glared at each other, their eyes searing the void between them.

Carl Cantrell clenched the top of the whiskey bottle, his hand wrapped around the bartender’s. “I need a drink,” he said, slurring his words more than a bit.

“You’ve had a drink. You’ve had several drinks. And the day’s barely begun.”

Carl yanked harder, trying to get control of the bottle, but the bartender stubbornly refused. Their arms worked back and forth like pistons.

Joe the bartender stopped pulling, reached around with his other hand, and extended Carl’s arm. He saw the strip of torn shirt wrapped around his forearm, now stained with blood. “Jiminy Christmas, Carl. What’ve you done to yourself?”

Carl jerked his arm back. “It’s nothin’. Just a scratch.”

“A scratch? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me. ’Cept I need a drink.”

“Forget it.”

Carl grabbed the bottle again. “I need a little somethin’ in the mornings. Just to get my heart started.”

“You keep drinking like this, your heart’s gonna stop dead in its tracks.” The bartender jerked the bottle free. “One more drink, Carl. That’s it.”

Carl made a hiccuping noise. “Then make it a double. I’m in pain here.”

“One more drink.” The bartender pulled Carl’s shot glass closer and poured. “And after that, I want you out of here. And I don’t want to see you around anymore. Got it?”

Carl’s watery eyes widened. “Whadd’re you saying, Joe?”

“You know what I’m saying. I don’t want you around no more. You don’t belong here.”

“Joe …” A lump seemed to catch in his throat. “I been comin’ here forever. Me and the boys—”

“You ain’t been with the boys for years and you damn well know it. Those days are done. You tossed ’em away with about ten tons of hooch.”

“But, Joe …” He reached out with his good arm and was embarrassed to see that it trembled. “This is my place.”

“This is a cop bar,” Joe replied, turning away. “And you ain’t been a cop for a good long time.”

Carl watched as Joe faded into the dark recesses of the bar. His head hung in place, seemingly frozen, as if he didn’t have the strength to move it. He felt tired and washed out.

His eyes had the misfortune to light upon the wall-length mirror behind the bar. He could see himself, draped over this rickety, unbalanced table like a human vulture. His face was drawn and his hair was a mess; he looked pathetic. His chin was dark with stubble. Come to think of it, he hadn’t shaved this morning, had he? Maybe not the day before, either. Maybe not since he lost the job at the hardware store—his fifth in a year.

Jeez. He pounded himself on the forehead. No wonder Bonnie wouldn’t see him, wouldn’t let him see his boy. He looked like death warmed over. If he’d bumped into himself on the street, he probably wouldn’t let Tommy talk to him, either. Just a bum, his son would think. Some worn-out, washed-up rummy. Keep your kids away. Don’t let them be infected by the thick smell of flop sweat. Don’t let them be contaminated by the man who reeks of failure.

He picked up the shot glass and downed it. The liquor burned his throat, coating his stomach with a new layer of confidence and self-respect. The sudden warmth surged through his arms, his legs, his head.

He felt better. But how long would it last?

One thing was certain—he wasn’t welcome at Joe’s anymore. Where else could he go? There weren’t many places open this time of the morning, and on Christmas Eve, no less. Most people weren’t bar-hopping on the twenty-fourth of December. Even most rummies had someplace else to go. Even the most pathetic drunks usually had a family.

But not Carl. Not anymore.

I’m all alone, he thought. The words were a relentless pounding inside his brain. I’m all alone.

He banged the empty shot glass down on the table, making it rock back and forth on its not-on-the-level legs. It wasn’t right. Not right at all. Sure, he’d been going through a rough patch. Times were hard. But that was no reason for Bonnie to bail out. That was no reason to take away his son, his Tommy, the only thing that still mattered in his life.

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a creased and slightly torn photo. Tommy and him, three Christmases ago. They were standing in front of the tree, Tommy in his jammies going ape over the Dinosaur Mountain play set Santa had brought him. Carl sitting just beside him, grinning from ear to ear like the proud daddy he was.

Three Christmases ago. And in three short years, the whole damn world had changed. Tommy didn’t even look like this now.

Carl picked up the shot glass and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall on the opposite side, leaving a dark, dripping stain on the fading wallpaper.

Joe hustled out of the shadows. “I want you gone, Carl! Now!”

“I’m goin’. I’m goin’.”

“I’ll give you thirty seconds. Then I’m calling the cops.”

“The cops?”

“Yeah, the cops. You remember them, don’t you, Carl? The boys in blue. That nice shiny uniform you used to wear? Well, they’re gonna be in here to haul your butt to the pokey if you’re still around in thirty seconds!” He checked his watch. “Make that twenty.”

“I’m gone,” Carl muttered. “Thanks for everything.”

He shoved the photo back in his wallet, threw some money on the table, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door. His arm twinged as he twisted it back into the coat sleeve, but the whiskey had deadened the pain just enough to make it bearable.

He stepped onto the sidewalk and was nearly bowled over by shoppers rushing both ways at once. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Of course they were, Carl thought. Everyone has places to go, people to be with. Everyone but me.

He spotted a group of carolers on the opposite corner, teenagers mostly. They were singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Whatever happened to the classic Christmas carols—“Silent Night” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem”? Nothing was what it was supposed to be these days. Nothing worked right.

He would have to fix things, that was all.

He remembered the look on Bonnie’s face when she finally told him Tommy wasn’t at home. Sad, pathetic, desperate. No doubt in his mind—she was telling the truth.

But if he wasn’t home, where was he? Neither he nor Bonnie had parents living in the area.

Day care? It was pretty pathetic, thinking she would put the kid in day care on Christmas Eve, but that had to be the answer. He knew the private school she sent Tommy to provided child care during nonschool hours.

He shook his head. What a sorry thing to do. She probably wanted Tommy out of her hair. Probably just wanted him gone so she could celebrate the holidays one-on-one with Frank. How sick, and … and …

And how interesting. How interesting.

He zipped up his coat and headed down the street where he had parked his pickup. I will not let Christmas pass without seeing my son, he told himself. I will not allow that to happen. It isn’t right.

He sucked in the bracing air, letting it swirl in his throat and lungs with the last traces of whiskey. I will see Tommy, he muttered resolutely. No matter what.

I will see Tommy.

Or no one will.

M
EGAN FINGERED THE SMALL
cameo-encased photograph. My dear sweet mother, she thought, as she had every day for weeks now. Who would have ever thought I could miss you so? When you were alive, it seemed like all we ever did was argue. And now that you’re gone, I feel like someone cut a hole in my chest and ripped my heart out.

She turned down the photo and forced herself to look away. It wasn’t healthy, she told herself. All this moaning and whining. Especially on Christmas Eve. The holidays were tough enough on a single woman without this kind of self-indulgence.

But that was the head talking, not the heart. The heart was telling her that her mother, her only family, was dead, and that she would spend Christmas Eve alone.

A growling, spitting noise erupted from the corner of her office. Jasper scooted forward and wiped his wet face against her exposed ankles.

Yes, she would be spending Christmas Eve alone. Or worse.

Her hand pressed against her forehead. How could this happen? How could she let it happen?

I’m all alone, she whispered quietly to herself. I’m all alone.

Before she had gone to law school, Megan had been an Episcopal priest. Technically she still was, she supposed, but people rarely thought of priests and lawyers as inhabiting the same body. During her eight years at St. Paul’s, she had comforted any number of lonely and despondent persons, patted their hands, said the words they needed to hear. But today those words held no meaning for her. She just didn’t believe them anymore.

Not now. Not after April 19, 1995.

Without thinking, her eyes rose to the row of ceramic Kewpie dolls lined up on a shelf just above her law books. The hula girl. The Eskimo. All the others.

So many memories. So many times shared.

And all of that was over now.

She sat up in her chair and scanned the cluttered surface of her desk. What was she doing here in the office, anyway? She had meant to stop in for only a minute to pick up a few things, since she was downtown anyway after finishing her cookie deliveries. There was no reason for her to stay.