Pete’s family sat at the gate, waiting for their flight. Joey was banging Lego guys into each other, and making irritating sound effects. Pete’s mom was reading The Essential Marcus Aurelius, and Pete’s dad had his iPad plugged into the outlet behind his chair, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi to surf the net. As always, they had arrived two hours early for the international flight, and as always, they were now waiting, and waiting. Pete sat staring out the window at the Cathay Pacific airplanes, and thinking about the Weiner Dogs story. In the end, it all seemed to hinge on this Goddess of Whimsy.
“What’s whimsy?” he asked.
“Google it.” His dad answered automatically, handing him the iPad.
Pete typed the word whimsy into the online dictionary, and read the definition: “A playful, or fanciful sense of humor.” Pete thought about that for a minute, and then said, “So Uncle Duane is whimsical.”
His dad nodded slowly, but the way he nodded with his head tilted told Pete that he didn’t exactly agree. “Is he? Maybe yes, maybe no. Uncle Duane does some nutty stuff, but I sometimes think he’s one of the most serious people I know.”
“How can anyone over the age of three be serious about actually digging a hole to China?”
“I suspect Uncle Duane knew full well he wasn’t really going to get to China, but I also suspect that he was very serious about that hole. He was probably feeling the dirt, and smelling it, and doing everything he could to seriously understand the hole, and to understand exactly how difficult it would be to dig through the entire earth. He was probably trying to get a visceral feel of how big the planet really is, and I doubt that he would understand why we might find that humorous, or fanciful.”
Pete’s mom joined the conversation. “Did you know that once, when I was a couple years younger than you, he took my brother and I to the beach so that we could bury him completely in the sand, because he wanted to know what it felt like to be buried alive?”
“Buried alive? His whole body? You mean, like, you covered his face?”
“Covered it completely. He brought along a straw to breath through. First he helped us dig a hole he could lie down in, then we covered him with sand.”
“How did it feel?”
“He didn’t like it much. Said he felt smothered, and that he hadn’t considered the fact that he would have to trust us completely. He said he nearly panicked when he realized how heavy the sand was, and how long the burial would take, and then he started thinking we might get bored, and give up, and go swimming, and that someone might come along and step on him, or think the straw was garbage and throw it away, and he realized that he wouldn’t be able to shift the sand to unbury himself from underneath, because it was too heavy. It must have been a really awful experience, but he went through with it. We would have stopped any time he told us to, but he wanted to experience the full deal.”
“Freaky.” Pete couldn’t quite imagine that kind of commitment to something so unnecessary.
“And it’s not that he’s just obsessed with digging,” Pete’s mother went on. “He just really wants to understand everything, in a very non-abstract sort of way.”
“So if Uncle Duane’s not exactly whimsical, then whimsy would be more like --?”
“Go on.” His dad prompted. “What do you think?”
“Maybe more like pretending to believe in talking animals, or dwarfs and fairies.”
“Pretending to believe? Not really believing?” His dad was going to push him to really understand what he was saying.
“I think maybe if you really believe, you become serious again, but maybe not.”
* * *
“Dad, is mom the Goddess of Whimsy?” the boy wanted to know.
The man sighed. “We’ve got to get her back, don’t we?”
The boy agreed. “We’ve got to get her back.”
* * *
Somehow, George wasn’t at all surprised to see Mr. McAllister at the Narita airport while they waited to change planes.
“And how is your Christmas shaping up?” Mr. McAllister asked, after shaking everybody’s hand, and exchanging exclamations of surprise. George couldn’t help wondering if the surprise was any more genuine on Mr. McAllister’s part than on his own. Was this meeting really a coincidence? Of course it was. Mr. McAllister wasn’t going to fly all the way to Japan just so that he could have one of his enigmatic conversations. He was here to change planes, just like everybody else.
“As far as we can tell, Christmas is going to happen,” George answered.
“Always the optimist,” his dad laughed.
“At least he’s talking,” his mom said. “That’s good enough for me.”
“But Christmas will happen, right?” Brittany asked Mr. McAllister. “Don’t you think?”
“Are you doing everything you can to bring it about?” Mr. McAllister’s answer was very serious.
Mrs. Weaver took up the challenge. “We have a suitcase full of presents for my parents. They have a Noble Fir set up in the living room waiting for us to decorate, and I’m certain we’ll have Bing Crosby on the CD player.”
Mr. McAllister looked at George and Brittany. “And the two of you? What are you doing?”
George answered first. “Well, I’m trying not to worry any more, and I think it should be easy to stay away from Jennifer for at least the next couple of weeks, if you know what I mean.”
Mr. McAllister turned to Brittany, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
She answered, “Well, I’ll just keep reading, if I can – I mean – if you know what I mean — and I’ll keep asking questions, and keep trying to make connections.”
“More may yet be required of you.” Mr. McAllister looked very serious.
“But what more can we do?”
But all Mr. McAllister said was, “I hear my plane being called.”
A voice over the loudspeaker intoned, “This is the final boarding call for flight 901 to Dublin. We are now boarding all sections of flight 901 heading for Dublin.”
“You’d better go.” Mr. Weaver shooed Mr. McAllister off to his own gate.
“But we need to know!” Brittany called after him.
“You don’t want to make poor Mr. McAllister miss his plane,” Mrs. Weaver chided her daughter. “After all, you can talk to him in the new year.”
George whispered to Brittany, “I think I already have.”
Brittany whispered back, “That’s the first call I heard for that flight. How did they get to his final boarding call so fast?”
“We weren’t paying attention, that’s all. We weren’t listening for flights to Ireland.”
“But I don’t think they gave a gate number.” Brittany persisted. “We couldn’t find him now if we wanted to.”
“I don’t know if I’m ever going to understand that guy,” George answered.
They looked down the concourse. George’s teacher had evaporated into the crowd of people.
But that didn’t matter, because the Weavers’ row numbers were being called now, so they collected their carry-ons, and joined the long, slow line of people whose rows were also in section two on the flight to LAX, and they tried to forget about Mr. McAllister’s cryptic warning. After all, what else could they do?
* * *
Pete’s lower back hurt from being in the same position for so long. He was starting to lose feeling in his feet. Soon, he knew, they would start to tingle, and then to hurt, and then he would have to either stand up in the isle and stomp around like an idiot, or else kick the back of the seat in front of him, which the old lady sleeping there wouldn’t like. He should get up, and go to the bathroom, but that would mean walking past his sleeping brother, and a sleeping stranger, and there was no room to walk past them without waking them up. Besides, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the window. All he could see was white. Ice, and ice, and more ice. What was he looking for? Flying reindeer? Santa’s workshop? It wasn’t even the Arctic Circle he was looking at, was it? His neck was sore, and his forehead hurt where it pressed into the hard plastic side of the cabin, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Suddenly Joey’s hand shot past him, and the shade slammed down over the window. “The announcement said you’re supposed to cover your window so that people can sleep, and watch TV.”
“I was looking out the window, you moron.”
“Mom, Pete called me a moron!”
“Shut up, you idiot! Do you want to wake up the whole plane?”
“I think we need to change seats.” Their mom’s voice came from behind them. It was the phony sweet voice. The voice that was one step away from the screaming at the top of her lungs, and making an embarrassing scene voice. “I’d like the window for awhile.”
“Fine.” Pete said. “I need to get up anyway.”
When Pete returned from the bathroom, his feet feeling more normal, he took the isle seat his mom had vacated in the row behind where he had been sitting a few minutes ago. He pushed the buttons on the personal TV screen on the seatback in front of him until it showed the distance to their destination. They were still hours away. Of course they were still hours away. They were still very far north, which was why he was seeing all the white out of the window. They still had to fly over Canada, and then Washington State. It occurred to him that anything could be happening down there on the land, and they would have no way of knowing. An atomic bomb could drop. A plague could infect the entire population. And they would still be alive – safe in the climate-controlled airplane, partway between where they live, and where they used to live. Like some kind of world between worlds. And it was amazing how different the worlds of Hong Kong and Reedsport were. Maybe not as different as Hong Kong and the wiener dogs’ world, but pretty darned different. And the airplane was like the waiting room with the white seats that the fox presided over. He looked at the screen again. About three more hours of waiting, and no fox to talk to.
* * *
Christmas lights glittered in the rain, and reflected in the glistening black pavement. Illuminated inflatable Santas and snowmen perched on rooftops. Glowing life-sized manger scenes, skating rinks, and choo-choo trains decorated front lawns. “I love Christmas!” Brittany exclaimed as they drove towards their Grandparents’ house in the rent-a-car. A brass choir played Good King Wenceslas from the car radio. Even the streetlights and the stoplights had been rendered magical by the raindrops on the windshield.
* * *
“How do we find her?” the boy asked.
“I don’t know how to find her.”
“Do you want to find her?”
“Do I want to find her?” the man repeated.
“You miss her. Do you want to find her?”
“You should open the next box. It’ll be Christmas in a few days.”
“A few days,” the boy echoed. He opened the cardboard box marked December 22 and took out a plastic basket, and some carrots and cabbages, and another piece of paper. He handed the paper to his dad to read aloud.
December 22
“The only way I could get them to even agree to meet all together was to promise a banquet,” said Manchester to Akelmeyer, as he laid out carrots and cabbages.
“That’s all right—whatever it takes. If we can get them all together.”
When the elves had gathered, and taken their places around the table, the meeting was called to order. They really did look like bizarre, oversized cartoon aardvarks to Akelmeyer—pink, purple, green and yellow ones.
They were bickering over everything.
“I wanted that carrot.”
“That was my carrot.”
“I want lemonade.”
“I want candy.”
“You’re stupid.”
“No, you are!”
It seemed as if nothing could please any of them.
“OK, it’s up to you,” said Akey, turning and looking meaningfully at the reader. I think the contents of the pep talk are not so important. But, they must hear you. Good luck.”
“Who are you talking to?” asked Manchester.
* * *
“Why doesn’t it say to be continued?” Asked the boy. “All the others have said to be continued.”
* * *
Grandpa opened the front door. Brittany rushed inside to hug grandma, who was standing right behind Grandpa. George shook Grandpa’s hand. A good firm handshake – looking him straight in the eyes. Then they hugged. The Noble Fir waited in the living room, skimming the ceiling like it did every year. On the table was a platter of Christmas cookies, and another plate of cheese and crackers. Water was boiling in the kettle for tea or hot chocolate. Whatever they wanted. They were at Grandma’s. Everything was good.
* * *
“Maybe it won’t be continued,” the man said.
“Come on. You have to continue it.” The boy tugged at the man’s sleeve. His lip trembled. “You can’t just leave them there.”
The man looked at his son. “You love the wiener dogs, don’t you?”
The boy answered. “I love the wiener dogs.”
“But what if I don’t have any more in me?”
A tear began to form in the boys left eye. “I love the wiener dogs.”
The man turned away. He didn’t want the boy to see his face. “Well, Akelmeyer says they need a pep talk.”
“I don’t know how to give a pep talk. We should have a banquet,” the boy said, placing the plastic carrots and cabbages on the cardboard diorama.
“A banquet?” the man repeated the boy’s words.
“We wouldn’t have to have carrots and cabbages. We could light the Advent candles, and we could have something we like. Maybe pumpkin pie.”
“Pumpkin pie?”
“I like pumpkin pie.”
“Your mother used to make pumpkin pie.”
“I know.”
“Not from a can. She used to cut up the real pumpkin, and boil it, so you would know what it would feel like to be a pilgrim from the Mayflower during early times, when their crops failed, except for the pumpkins that the Indians taught them about.”
“Maybe Mom would come – if we had a banquet.”
“Honey, she’s not coming back.”
“But maybe with pumpkin pie.”
“She wrote a letter.”
“I know.”
“You know about the letter?”
“It’s a long letter.”
“How long have you known about the letter?”
“Maybe a year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But I can’t read it.”
“What do you mean you can’t read it?”
“It’s in cursive. I can’t read cursive.”
“You can’t read cursive?”
“We learn cursive next year. But I know that the letter means that she went away. She didn’t get kidnapped. She didn’t get killed. She wrote a letter, and she went away. On purpose.”
“And you still want her to come back?”
“Don’t you?”
“Son, Nobody’s perfect. You may think you’re perfect, and I may think I’m perfect, but we’re all just doing the best we can.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maybe when you’re older.”
* * *
bweaver: [7:33] We got December 22! Did you?
Pmeren: [7:33] I got it too. It’s on my e-mail, and in the notebook both.
Bweaver: [7:34] What do we do now?
Pmeren: [7:35] What do you mean?
Bweaver: [7:36] What do you mean, what do I mean? It says we have to give a pep talk.
Pmeren: [7:37] Is George there?
Bweaver: [7:39] Right here. It’s me. Sitting next to Brittany. She’s right. We’re the readers.
Pmeren: [7:40] Yeah, ok, maybe, but how do we give a pep talk to . . . wait a minute. Who do we give a pep talk to? And how? Who and how?
Bweaver: [7:41] Akelmeyer says it doesn’t matter what we say. Just that we give a pep talk.
Pmeren: [7:41] That still doesn’t tell me how. POS BTW
Bweaver: [7:43] OK. Looked that up. I don’t care if you have a parent there. Say hi for me. We aren’t doing anything wrong.
Pmeren: [7:44] Maybe not, but I feel silly.
Bweaver: [7:44] patching the hole in the fabric of the universe makes you feel silly?
Pmeren: [7:45] Give me George.
Bweaver: [7:48] George here. Sorry. Went for some hot chocolate.
Pmeren: [7:49] You gotta B kidding me! Don’t leave me with your sister again.
Bweaver: [7:50] Why, what’s wrong?
Pmeren: [7:50] Read the thread!
Bweaver: [7:53] Still don’t get it.
Pmeren: [7:53] Aaarrrggghhhh!
Bweaver: [7:54] Brittany again. Can we get back to the point?
Pmeren: [7:55] Jet lag. What was the point?
Bweaver: [7:56] Pep talk?!?
Pmeren: [7:56] My eyes feel like sand paper. How can you guys be awake? How can you be thinking about pep talks? What is a pep talk?
Bweaver: [7:57] A talk of pepper ;)
Pmeren: [7:58] I give up. I’m too tired for this.
Bweaver: [7:58] Wait! Pete, don’t go!!!
Bweaver: [7:59] Pete???
Bweaver: [8:00] Pete??? Are you there?
Bweaver: [8:01] Pete??
“Give it up Brittany.” George reached to log off the Internet, and turn off the computer. “He’s gone.”
Brittany moved to block his finger on its path to the off switch. “He didn’t log off.”
“He’s exhausted. He thinks he’s been awake for a million hours. He went away and forgot to log off. I’m going to bed.”
“Going to bed? Don’t you even care?”
“Care about what?”
“The pep talk?”
“Tell you what. You give them a pep talk for all of us.”
“Fine! Maybe I will!”
George headed down the hall towards an early bed. It was hard to worry much, here at his grandparents’ house, with the forced air heaters, and the thick peach carpet, and the huge Noble Fir waiting to be decorated in the morning.
Brittany yelled after him, “And when I save Christmas, you won’t get any presents.”
George indicated his lack of concern with a backwards, over the shoulder wave, and Brittany growled a growl of frustration.
How was she supposed to give a pep talk? Who was she supposed to give a pep talk to? She wasn’t too worried about what she would say. Akelmeyer had said that what she said didn’t matter. She didn’t always understand Akelmeyer, but she trusted him.
It didn’t matter what she said, but who was she supposed to say it to? The wiener dogs? The Elf-varks? The author? And how would they hear her? If she had the notebook, she would write it there, like it was part of the story. But she didn’t have the notebook, because Pete had the notebook. Stupid Peter Meren with his stupid, stupid jet lag.
After determining that her grandparents had not yet set the burglar alarm, and that they would not set the alarm for the next half hour or so, and after to promising to dress very warmly – to wear a coat, and mittens, and a scarf, and a hat, and after being supervised by her grandmother to make sure that the scarf and hat weren’t leaving even the tiniest morsel of exposed flesh, and after promising up and down not to catch pneumonia from the cold, because after all, it had been known to get as low as 38º in December, Brittany went outside.
The rain had stopped, and the clouds had even disappeared. Brittany could see the stars. The crisp, cold air made the stars seem brighter, and closer. She wondered if the author was looking at the stars too. Maybe, maybe not, but it would be stars from seven years ago. Had the author been waiting seven years for someone to read his story, or was he writing right now? Were seven years ago, and right now somehow happening simultaneously? Somehow touching? And was he looking at stars right now? Did the author look at stars at all? No stars were mentioned in the story.
Brittany began to talk. To the stars? To the author? To the characters? Maybe to the characters. She didn’t know, but she talked out loud, for anyone who wanted to listen. Hopefully it wouldn’t be the neighbors.
“I’ve always wanted to do something special – something important. Santa’s elves are important. They have an important job. How can you have something important – something life-changing to do, and then fight, and bicker, and not get the job done? How can you worry about silly workers rights, and micro-circuitry? If I had something important – something I was meant to do – I would just work, and work at it until it was done, the way Frodo just carries, and carries the ring. He doesn’t complain about unfair working conditions!
“But maybe your working conditions are really, really bad. If that’s it, couldn’t you do something about it? Would Santa really make things be all that bad? I mean, he’s Santa! He’s supposed to be checking to see if we’re naughty or nice. He’s not allowed to be naughty, is he?
“Of course, he probably was pretty bad, when he was all drunk, and everything, but he’s different now. He woke up from the spell. Why aren’t you elves different? Don’t you notice that he’s different? That the bad Santa was all because of the Raven? Don’t you see that things can change? Don’t you see that it’s up to you to stop fighting, and start acting like reasonable elf-varks?”
Reasonable elf-varks? Brittany laughed. What was she thinking? How could an elf-vark be reasonable, when the whole image was so unreasonably absurd?
She shook her head. She had finally been given an interesting adventure – an interesting mission, and she was blowing it. Instead of just getting on with it, she was feeling jealous because it wasn’t as interesting as her brother’s adventure. She was fighting with George and Pete for no good reason. The story was obviously about working together, and she was fighting.
But getting on with what? What was her mission really? Read a story, and give a pep talk? Didn’t sound like much in the scheme of things. Maybe it didn’t really matter if she did it or not.
And why did the Raven keep saying “Nevermore?”
Why “Nevermore?”
What did he mean?
Nevermore what?
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