The Santa Society (7 page)

The Christmas room. I race through the house.

Sure enough, the door is ajar. I step in, my breath coming in shorts huffs. I try to relax, but my head starts to pound. Everything looks in order…except the closet door. It’s been left open and the boxes they moved haven’t been put back. I lift my gaze…and gasp. A life size zombie peers at me through hanging clothes. It’s the angel, but she’s hardly recognizable. A denim shirt encircles her head, its sleeves tied into a turban. Worse, the “o” of her singing mouth gleams with a greasy layer of black lipstick. She looks as if she’s kissed a pot of hot tar.

I stomp across the room and snatch away the turban. It’s one of my father’s old shirts, I think, because it’s way too big to be my mother’s. Instinctively, I use it to wipe the lipstick from the angel’s mouth, resulting in a gruesome black smear. It sickens me. I glance down at the soiled fabric as tears begin to burn my eyes. I’ll never get the stain out. What was I thinking?

I turn and stumble out of the room. I can hardly see anything as I drift down the hall. Shock thickens my thoughts. But I try to stay focused: I need stain remover. And some all-purpose cleaning spray. By the time I reach the kitchen, I know I have to choose which to save first: the angel or the shirt. I decide on the shirt. It just seems more immediate.

Like a blind drunkard, I feel along the laundry room shelf in the dark, searching for stain stick. But my arm presses too hard against the bleach bottle. It tips and comes crashing down on top of the washing machine where it bounces off the edge and plummets to the floor. An ugly dent now mars the washer’s lid.

Pungent fumes begin to fill the air. I flip on the light. It’s the bleach…leaking out through a crack in the plastic bottle. It pools all around me. Hot tears stream down my cheeks as I grab a folded towel and throw it on the puddle.

My gaze drifts to the shelf where, like a miracle, a tube of stain stick has rolled to the edge. I grab it and smear it on the shirt, not stopping until the stick is nothing but a plastic nub. On my way through the kitchen, I toss the bleach bottle in the trash and grab the spray cleaner and paper towels.

Reason bursts through the front door, just as I reach the hallway.

“Good News,” he announces.

I brush past him without acknowledgment and head for the Christmas room. My head pounds, my neck aches, and I care only about cleaning the desecrated angel. The Lawless’ can stick their offer right—

“What—” Reason follows me. “Oh.”

I tear off a paper towel, spray it, and begin dabbing at the angel’s mouth. Black lipstick has filled the web of tiny crackles in the surface of the enamel. Wiping won’t cut it. I spray the cleaner directly on her mouth. Maybe it’ll seep in. I hear movement behind me as I wait for it to dissolve.

When I wipe again, the paper towel drags and clings. I peel it off. Small bits of wet paper fuzz remain stuck to her. The cleaner has not only stripped the shine from her mouth, but the black webs are still there too.

“She has whiskers,” my voice cracks as I speak.

I feel his presence just behind me. “I’m sorry. I should’ve watched the kids better. I’m sorry, Er.”

He says it like “air.” My chest tightens.

I turn and move past him. I need my chair, my mother’s chair.

Reason has taken the angel outside and loaded her in his truck because he’s promised to fix her. Now, he sits on the sofa across from me, trying to explain the terms of the offer.

“It came in at sixty thousand below your asking price. But they’ve made the offer official. It’s signed. If you accept, we’ll move forward with the inspections and closing.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can counter, maybe come down a little and see what they say. I don’t know how much wiggle room you’ve got to play with or how bad you want to sell it.”

“I have the entire price. The house is paid for.”

“I see. Well, it’s your call. It’s a question of how fast you want to sell it. Right now, you have a very real possibility of closing by Christmas.” He stares at the floor as he speaks.

The moment presses me. I could accept, sign, and seal the deal. I could leave. I imagine myself stepping off the plane in New York…but then I just stand there, not knowing where to go or what to do even in a daydream.

The idea of going back feels just as bizarre as a hairless cat puking in the Christmas room, or black lipstick on my mother’s angel. I’m not sure, but maybe there’s also an element of pointlessness about it. I try to weigh it. I have my career and old life in New York on one hand, and a house full of depressing keepsakes on the other—things I obviously care a lot about.

“I want to counter,” I hear myself say. “I want to counter...with a price increase of $10,000.”

His head snaps up. He looks at me with a question stamped on his face.

“Yes, I said increase.”

“Increase,” he repeats.

“Right.”

“I’ll get right on it.” He seems clouded with thoughts as he gets to his feet and sees himself to the door.

But my head hurts so bad I don’t care. I’m not even sure I know what I’ve just done—because now that I’m alone, panic begins to flutter in my stomach. What if they accept? I resist the sudden urge to call Reason and cancel everything. Instead, I make myself a stone. But it doesn’t calm the troubled waters in my heart, where I find myself praying the Lawless’ won’t buy my mother’s house.

Chapter 9

I WALK INTO the Mistletoe Salon on Main, and for a second, I’m blind. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim track lighting. A copper wall separates the small waiting area from the rest of the salon. Water cascades over it and disappears inside a floor drain, camouflaged by plants and pebbles. The sound of moving water combines with the scent of aromatic oils, creating a calming ambiance. I survey it like an impartial spectator. Nope. I’m just not feeling it.

I only came here to get away from my silent phone. Waiting for Reason to call with an update just got too far under my skin. So I left my cell phone at home, hoping for the unwatched pot effect.

“May I help you?”

I turn to the man wearing all black clothing. His tight shirt stretches over his chest, where a crucifix hangs in the cusp of his v-neck. The shirt is so tight his skin shows through the fabric weave. He holds his hands folded in front of him, looking more like a pseudo-priest or a personal trainer than a hairdresser.

I shift my eyes to the appointment book on the desk. “I have an appointment at 2:00.”

“What’s your name, babe?”

I shift uncomfortably. “Erin.”
Please don’t let this be my hairdresser.

“Ah, good.” Recognition flashes in his eyes, and he winks. “I’m Rick. You’re all mine for an hour. Follow me.”

So I do, still hoping there’s been a mistake. Maybe he thinks I want a massage. I consider asking, but he leads me to a row of chrome sinks and red cabinets where he extends his arm toward a chair and steps back.

I lower myself into the seat and remove my scarf. He’s already tucked my collar pretty far down by the time I lean back in the chair, so I decide to put the scarf over my chest instead of my lap.

He reaches across my face and arranges my hair. His shiny bicep jumps up and down just inches from my cheek. The scent of coconut oil and sandalwood surrounds me as he leans in even closer.

I will myself to relax. It’s a haircut. Not a pap smear.

He turns on the water. I close my eyes as he begins to rinse and lather my hair. I try to forget about his bouncy muscles, the crucifix that keeps tickling my nose, and the smell of oiled skin. But when he begins massaging my scalp, I actually start to relax.

I woke up all through the night from the same bad dream about the Lawless’ accepting my counter offer. I also think I dreamed about Reason. When I woke up that time, I felt disappointed.

Reason. I’m afraid of who he’ll bring over next, or what new kind of ridiculousness will follow. I know I shouldn’t blame him if I don’t like the prospective buyers. I mean, he’s been more than willing to fix the damages so far. So why am I so irritated at him? And it’s not just the Lawless’ flippancy about the house. It’s Reason
trying
to sell it that bugs me, too, even though I know I hired him to.

I’m starting to think maybe I’d prefer him to show up without any buyers...and invite me for another walk. I see his face in my mind—the way he looked at the Ceremony of Lights.

“You like this part, huh?” Rick brings me back to reality.

I’ve been smiling without realizing it, so Rick massages me harder.

I struggle to mentally distract myself from the discomfort. The first thing I come up with is Reason. He’s muscular, but not in a prissy way. Unlike Rick. And I bet Reason smells better than Rick too. Wait—what am I doing?

I need to get Reason out of my thoughts. I’m an idiot for not accepting that purchase offer. I should be packing right now. There’s nothing special about Reason. It’s just the isolation, depression, and
pain
talking. And the pain is really starting to talk as Rick grinds the base of my skull against the ceramic neck-rest.

Just when I think I can’t bare it anymore, Rick finally turns the water on and begins rinsing. He takes forever while I grimace and fantasize about finally getting my head out of his hell-sink. As soon as the water shuts off, I bolt upright in the chair without even waiting for him to wrap the towel around my hair.

“Whoa. Kinda feisty, aren’t you?”

“Looks like snow.” He points upward.

Indeed, heavy snow clouds hang in the sky—the first time this season. The walk home goes faster than I expected. I must have forgotten my plan to walk as slowly as possible. As I turn on my street, I notice a white work truck parked near my house. At first, I think it’s at Callie’s, but as I draw nearer, I see it’s definitely in front of mine.

By the time I pass the next few driveways, I see workmen milling around in my front yard. Some of them huddle together, looking down toward the ground. Others unload some seriously heavy duty equipment. Orange cones have been put out, sectioning off the portion of the street in front of the work truck.

I’m almost to my mailbox, when a guy steps out of the truck’s driver side. He carries a clip board in his hand and a walkie-talkie on his belt.

He squints at me as though it’s bright and sunny. “How ya doin?”

“Good, actually. How about you?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, meaning it completely.

“Not too bad. Are you Ms. Sinclair?”

“Yes.” I feel my smile fall a little.

“We’ve got a little problem in the sewer lines right here. It’s the darnedest thing.”

I draw closer and shove my hands in the pockets of my vest, unsure if I like the beginning of this.

He goes on. “We’ve spent the last few weeks inspecting sewer lines here in the Historical District. Seems there’s a fault line we weren’t aware of before. I don’t know if you ever noticed it, but we had a few tremors not too long ago.”

“No, I didn’t feel anything.”

“Well, we ran some cameras through the sewer lines, checking for leaks at the joints. Everything looked good except for here at your property.”

“You mean there’s a sewage leak?” I sniff the air.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“But you’re fixing it, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, well thanks for letting me know.” I start to walk past him.

“Wait. There’s just one more thing.”

I look past him where I see Klaus watching me through the window with his paws on the sill. “Okay.”

“Some of the leak is on
your
private property, between the house and the curb. It’ll have to be addressed immediately before it gets down into the water table.” He pulls an envelope from his clip board.

I’m not liking the sound of this at all.

“You should have received a letter about all of this.” He hands it to me and looks in my eyes as if he’s watching for lies.

“I didn’t get a letter.”

“Really. Well, here’s another one. The original gave you thirty days to have the repairs permitted, completed, and inspected.
This
letter, states the city will complete the repairs. You’ll be responsible for the charges and civil penalties.”

My mouth falls open in disbelief. He nudges my arm with the envelope and I grab it.

“But I didn’t get a letter,” I insist.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to take that up with city administration. I’m just the repair guy.” He starts to walk away, then stops and turns his shoulder back. “By the way, you should come up with a more creative excuse before you call them.”

He gives me a wink then walks back to his truck where another man begins helping him unload more equipment.

I think of calling after him, insisting it’s the truth. But I’m distracted by the yellow “caution” tape splayed across the concrete stairway. I lift my eyes and see it also surrounds half the front yard. Worse, Reason’s red real estate sign now has another sign stuck to it. This one is bright orange with a black biohazard symbol and the words: Sewage Leak

I gape at it as a cold breeze begins to blow over me. I tuck down my chin and start looking for a way in that isn’t taped off, blocked by equipment, or congested with shrubs. I pace the length of the front yard. There isn’t any.

Finally, I shove my hands in my pockets and climb the steep slope of Callie’s yard. I’d rather crawl through the hole in the bitter cherries. Maybe, it’ll take me somewhere else, somewhere without sewage.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon arguing with the sewer department. Not only do they claim they have no record of the letter, they also seem to have no clue about the leak.

“I’m staring at a slew of people in my front yard. They’ve dug up half the lawn. Do you hear me? Half the sod is gone.”

“Ma’am, please hold while I get my supervisor.” She speaks with a curt tone. Then I hear a click and Christmas music fills the line. It interrupts occasional for a prerecorded voice that thanks me for my patience while I continue to remain on the line.