December 6

When Pete came downstairs in the morning, his mom was sitting at the computer.  She slowly swiveled her office chair so that she could look up at him.  “Honey, I’ve got some bad news.”

It wasn’t even 6:30 in the morning.  He hadn’t eaten his breakfast.  He had a bunch of French conjugations to memorize before he went to school.  He tried to anticipate.  What was she about to tell him?  What would be bad news at this time of the morning?

His parents were getting divorced? 

That would be bad, but it wasn’t likely.  They had been yelling at each other all his life.  They would just keep on yelling at each other forever.  They said if they didn’t love each other, they wouldn’t upset each other so much.  It’s probably where his little brother got the idea from.  The idea that yelling was something people just do. 

They were moving? 

No, she wouldn’t call that bad news.  His parents liked moving.  They thought it was a great adventure to watch complete strangers wrap up everything they owned in packing paper, put it all in cardboard boxes, leave all their friends and go someplace new where everybody who really lived there (translate: everyone who wasn’t an expat having an “adventure”) spoke a completely different language, and you had to figure everything out all over again.  His mother would call moving good news.  He actually didn’t mind it too much himself.

Christmas was going to be cancelled?

He needed to get a grip.

He gave up.

“Bad news?”  He repeated, trying to look expectant, and concerned, which was a difficult combination of emotions to dredge up before breakfast.

“Uncle Duane is in the hospital.”

Oh.  OK, that was bad.  But the guy was old.  And Pete didn’t really know him all that well.  He was his mom’s uncle Duane – her father’s brother.  Of course, he liked her Uncle Duane stories.  Who wouldn’t?  The guy was slightly crazy – in  an interesting kind of a way.  “What’s wrong?  Is he going to be OK?  Did he fall into his hole?”

“He’s having some trouble breathing.  They’re doing tests now.  The e-mail isn’t from him.  It’s from a very confused lady.  She’s not sure if it’s his heart, or if he has pneumonia again.”

“Who’s the lady?”

“She signs it Cindi.  With an i.”

“Oh.  That’s cute.  I guess.  I’m gonna get my cereal now.”

Joey started screaming from upstairs as Pete headed for the kitchen.  His mom sprung out of her chair like some kind of a trained seal jumping for a fish.  Whatever the stupid kid wanted – she was right there jumping through hoops to do it.  Maybe she had some misguided idea that she could sooth the seven-year-old tyrant before he woke up everybody in the building.  As if!  The building was full of teachers and their families.  They were already awake – listening to the screaming.  Morning entertainment provided by Joey Meren, for your listening pleasure.  Pete snorted in disgust. 

Joey was screaming that his pants were too big, and that he was afraid they would fall off of him.  Nothing new.  Pete worked on his French verbs in between bites of oat cereal rings.  Of course, Joey’s pants weren’t really too big.  They were really too short, and they looked ridiculous.  The shortness was accentuated by the way he always rolled them up around his waist, because he was always irrationally afraid that they would fall off.

Brittany burst into the kitchen right between il sait and nous savons.  Pete spit a mouthful of half-chewed cereal rings across the table.  Some of it landed on the Advent wreath, but he didn’t notice.

This must be why his parents always told him not to come downstairs in his boxers.  Why would anyone think to go visiting at 6:30 in the morning?  Who would let them in?

“Sorry.  I knocked, but I guess no one heard me.”  She looked up the stairs towards the yelling, as if it explained everything.  Maybe it did.  Maybe nobody could be expected to behave normally when their brain was being melted by that.

“Close your eyes,” Pete told her.

“What?”

“It’s 6:30 in the morning.  I’m wearing boxers.  Close your eyes.”

Brittany laughed the kind of laugh that was really one burst of air through her closed mouth.  The kind of laugh you laugh when you think something’s a little bit funny, but mostly ridiculous.  Not funny enough for a real laugh, but not stupid enough to ridicule outright.  “I have a brother,” she said, “and I’ve seen you in a swimsuit.”

“Close your eyes.”  Pete said through gritted teeth.

“Fine.”  She closed her eyes, and sat down at the table.  Pete ran upstairs to put on the rest of his clothes, and to warn his family about their unexpected guest.

“OK, what’s up?” He asked as he descended the stairs, fully dressed.  “Can I have my English notebook back?”

“Look!”  She was really excited.  She had the new notebook – the one with the stars and moons.  “It was here already this morning.  I didn’t even have to copy anything.”  She sat down next to him, and opened the notebook to December 6.  It wasn’t the same blocky printing anymore, like in his English notebook, but it was a new installment.  A new day.  A new piece of the story.  It was written in calligraphy now – the same style as Brittany’s calligraphy, but more regular.  As if whoever was doing it had studied out of the same handbook, but had been practicing longer.

Pete took a deep breath.  His stomach was fluttering unpredictably. 

Brittany took a deep breath.  Her face was flushed, and her eyes were shiny.

They began to read:

December 6, 2004

"Here, everyone, help yourself to some cinnamon rolls," offered Akelmeyer. 

Zeke took two right away.  "Fred, that latte looks awful good.  You know I am not afraid to be too forward," he chuckled.

"Oh, help yourself Zeke.  You know, it's the red button on the machine over there."  Fred turned to address Chloe, then thought better of it and turned towards Fawn instead.  "Fawn, why don't you tell us about last Christmas.  What was that like?"

"It was wonderful!  It was the best ever!  Oh, there were roasted chestnuts, and berries, and stuffed eggplant, and the elf consort played on their sarusaphones, and we all got presents--I got this great make-up kit--and we sang songs of peace, holding hands around the Christmas tree, and Santa made his yearly speech, but it was interesting for a change, and, oh...it was the happiest day of the year.  It was the twenty-sixth, of course.  Everyone works on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.  And then afterwards, the two-month hiatus, where the whole works shut down.  Santa used to go to Jamaica with Mrs. Claus, but ever since she passed away--" Fawn broke off and looked at her mom.

"He's never been quite the same since he lost his wife," explained Chloe.  "Dear, we all miss her so."

"That's when Mom took over as receptionist," explained Fawn.

"The North Pole thing is a story," insisted Malchisedech.  "Look, Admiral Peary, and many explorers since have been to the north pole.  Maps have been made.  There is no Santa's Workshop, or whatever.  I'm not saying you're lying, or anything.  It's just--"

"It's enchanted, alright?" said Fawn.  If you believe, it is real for you.  If you don't believe, you can't see it.  If you opened your mind a little bit--

She changed tactics.  "Do you think I'm real," Fawn fixed her doe eyes on Malchisedech and leaned toward him slightly.  She was lately aware of her blossoming beauty, and was learning to use it.

"Well, I guess, I mean, there you are."  Malchisedech blushed slightly.

"I do believe that it is true that people have a way of overlooking that which they do not believe in," said Fred.  "Deck, just listen to their story.  Please, Fawn, continue.  Could you tell us about the weeks leading up to Christmas?"

Zeke took two more cinnamon rolls.

"Do you mean this year, or last year?" asked Fawn.

"Well, both.  We are interested in what might have been different.  We do believe you are telling the truth.  Please."

"Usually the time from November on is hectic, but very fun.  The wish lists are cross-matched; the elf surveillance teams have returned, and are helping in the toy factory.  It's all automated now, very high-tech, but it runs at a much higher volume than it used to, so it still takes a lot of supervision.  The nightly meetings are best.  They’re sort of like pep talks, sort of like planning sessions, but a lot like parties.  There is always good food, and eggnog -- eggnog is only allowed in November and December.  Last year there was the problem with the water shortage, with the well drying up, but Santa brought in bottled water. 

"This year there was no problem like that, I mean, the troughs were always full." 

Fred cocked his head slightly, but did not interrupt.

Fawn continued, "but everything else has been going wrong.  Santa was so upset by the U.S. presidential election.  Santa is a Democrat; he says four more years of Republicans in America is bad for the children of the world.  He just seemed to give up.  He is not as young as he once was, you know.

"And then, the elves stopped making the toys.  Manchester -- he's the leader of the elves guild -- said the micro-circuitry in the modern electronic toys was becoming too much of a strain on the elves' vision.  In the old days, Santa would have solved the problem, but he just stared blankly at Manchester and said, ‘Well, we all have problems, you know.’

"And, then, the reindeer.  They can't fly!  It's as if there is a curse on Christmas.”

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Fred, "but, I think I had better have a closer look at that water trough in the lab."

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

“It was written in 2004.”  Brittany observed.

         “That’s exactly seven years ago.”

         “Isn’t there something magic about the number seven?”

         Pete drew on his Concepts in Christianity class.  “There are seven sacraments, and it took seven days to create the world.”  He caught himself before he started discussing the meaning of a ‘day’ in this context, not wanting to sound too much like Akelmeyer the wiener dog.

         His mom joined the conversation as she came down the steps.  “Seven Seraphim surround the throne of God.”

         “I like that,” Brittany smiled.  “Seven Seraphim,” she repeated the words slowly, as if savoring them.

         Joey followed his mom down.  “Snow White had seven dwarfs.”

         His mother continued, “there are seven wonders of the world, and in America, phone numbers have seven digits because that’s supposed to be the limit to the amount of data the human brain can remember at once.”

         “Then how do you explain that everybody remembers their area code too?”

         “I don’t try to explain anything at quarter to seven in the morning.  Have you had breakfast, Dear?”  She was talking to Brittany, who waved her hand dismissively to indicate that she wasn’t hungry.  His mom stopped at the table, looking at the notebook over their shoulders.  “What a beautiful book.  Did you do the calligraphy?”

         “Some of it.”  Brittany answered, truthfully.

         There was just too much to talk about.  As if by unspoken agreement, they got up and walked out of the flat together.  They had plenty of time to talk, because school didn’t start until 8:03.  They even agreed that it was funny that it started at 8:03.  What was wrong with 8:00?  8:15 would, of course, be even better, but 8:03 was just plain silly.

         They were both relieved to note that Santa was not a racist.  He just didn’t like Republicans.  Well, plenty of people didn’t like Republicans, but just as many people didn’t like Democrats, and neither Pete, nor Brittany could understand why a Republican presidency in America would be so bad for children all over the world.  Would children in Hong Kong, for example, even notice who was in the White House?  Pete barely noticed, and he was American.  The President of the United States could be a rabbit, for all a little Chinese kid would care, he figured.

         They also agreed that fresh baked cinnamon rolls sounded much better than off brand oat cereal rings, or Pop Tarts for breakfast.  They didn’t know of any really good place to buy cinnamon rolls in Hong Kong, and their moms didn’t exactly have a whole lot of time to cook.

        

         They weren’t sure what they thought about the “If you believe it, then it’s real” thing.  Did that mean that if you believed in Santa then he existed, and if you didn’t, that he didn’t exist?  Did it work the same way for God?  Of course, it was just a story, but the way it appeared so mysteriously made every idea in it seem very important.

Pete still didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t explain how the pages kept appearing.

Brittany wasn’t worried at all. 

(To tell the truth, that bothered Pete a little too.)  

Brittany liked the story, and she wanted to know who was writing it.  If they could figure out who, how was bound to follow, and she only hoped it didn’t turn out to be too boringly ordinary.  She liked the mystery.  It was as if she was no longer just treading water.  Something was finally starting to happen to her.  Something a little bit like in the books she read.  Frankly, she was afraid that if Pete explained it away, that it would turn into something simple and stupid.  Something that didn’t matter.  She wanted to matter.

They agreed to disagree about the importance of the way in which the story was appearing.  They also agreed that it would be nice to go to Jamaica in January like Santa and Mrs. Claus used to do every year.  They contemplated suggesting a family trip to Jamaica to investigate whether something had happened there to make everything go wrong in the story.  They laughed to think that their parents might even agree to do it, since they got a week off at Chinese New Year, and they would call a trip like that “an adventure.”  But in the end, they would remember that they were only teachers, with teachers’ salaries, and kids who would want to go to college someday, and they would settle for something near by, like diving in the Philippines instead.  They had been muttering lately that the boys were fourteen already, and that it was high time they learned how to scuba dive.

        

         Pete pulled out his French book, and Brittany quizzed him on conjugations until it was time for school.

*   *   *

         The man scrolled back through his document, trying to remember the personalities he had given the three little pigs.  Martin was the brave, smart one, right?  The oldest, who had built the brick house?  The one who wouldn’t have found himself without a job in this economy?  He came to the part about their unfortunate real estate experience, and he was surprised to find an illustration.  A sort of cartoon, really.  Houses inside of bubbles.  Bubbles popping.  Bubbles with houses, popping over the heads of astonished looking wiener dogs.  He shook his head.  He liked the picture, but where had it come from?