The Fat Man (19 page)

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful,” I said, trying not to gush.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

I forgot what I was going to say next. It was just so nice there. Then, I remembered. “Excuse me, ladies. I don’t want to seem rude, but is there a way to sneak out of this place?”

“I don’t want to leave. Really. But I have something I need to take care of.”

“I would come right back. Promise.”

I was getting a little sleepy. The past few days were becoming a blur and my eyes were getting heavier and heavier. Forty winks would do me.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Santa would still be fine if I got there a couple of minutes late. He could take care of himself.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Dingleberry and Rosebud could handle Zsa Zsa. They didn’t need me. I’d just be in the way.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Everything’s OK.
Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
Santa. . . Sant . . .

 

I
don’t know how I got to the street. My head felt like it was hatching an elephant and I could barely keep my eyes open. I reeled down the road like a kicked can. The street was empty, and as bleak as a spinster’s Saturday night. Something wasn’t right. The stores were boarded up, dark and ugly, selling midnight.

At the end of the block stood a little church. It was in worse shape than the stores. Someone was keeping sentry in a pool of dirty yellow light at the bottom of the church’s stairs. It was a man, old and dirty. He was dressed in red rags and he hunched in the gloom by an old trash can. He was ringing a bell that sounded like it had the croup. It was Santa. A skinny, sickly, mangy Santa. There was no twinkle in his eye. His beard was clumped and gray. Santa didn’t even have much of a lap to crawl into and whisper a wish. The Fat Man had disappeared.

I tried to call out to him, but I couldn’t find my voice. He just stood there, ringing the bell, but the sound wasn’t making a dent in the gloom. It just snuck down to the gutter to hide in the muck.

Then Santa noticed something. He lifted his eyes and stared hopefully down the street, like a sailor who’s not sure if he’s spotted land. Santa pumped the bell a little harder, trying to give the ring some joy, and stuck out his chest a little to show he was proud of his purpose on this sad little corner.

There was a family coming Santa’s way, a mom, a pop, and a little boy and little girl who both looked to be around nine years old. The mom and pop had red eyes and tight jaws and each were yanking a kid down the sidewalk. The parents gave a sideways look at Santa like he was the last thing they needed.

The little girl pulled the pop up short. “Who’s that, Daddy?” she asked, pointing at Santa.

“Shut up,” the dad said and tried to yank the little girl along. “Move before I kick you down the street!” he yelled.

“But who
is
it?” the little boy insisted.

“Shhhhhh!” Mom said.

“I’ve seen him before,” the little girl said.

“Me too!” the little boy said.

“Come
ON
!” the dad barked. Santa kept ringing the bell.

“Ow!” the little girl screamed. “You’re hurting me!”

“Mommy!” the little boy said. “Who is that?”

“It’s Santa!” the mom said in a huff. “Now let’s go!”

“The junk man?” the little boy asked. Junk man?

“Yes,” the mom said. “Now shut up and MOVE!”

Santa stopped ringing the bell and started to cry. “No,” he said. “Not junk. Toys. I bring toys.”

“It is junk!” the little girl screamed. She ripped away from her father’s grip in a huff and marched toward Santa. “That doll you brought last year gave me bad dreams!”

Santa tried to comfort her, but she slapped his hand away. Then the father moved in and gave the old man a shove. “Back off, Nick,” he said. “You touch my kid again, and you’ll wish you had never been born.”

“Please,” Santa sobbed, “I only want to make the children happy!”

“By giving them guns?” the mother screeched. She had dragged the little boy into the fray. “Guns that shoot things and teach them how to be thugs and criminals?”

“No!” Santa said.

“Bang!” the little boy hollered, pointing a lethal finger at Santa. “Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang! You’re dead, Santa! Dead! I wish everyone was dead.” To prove it, the little boy gave his mom a fist to the stomach. Most moms would have wept if their kid had tried something like that, but not this mom. She kicked the little boy in the head until a goose egg got laid. Santa tried to stop her, but the dad and the little girl tackled Santa and started beating him right there in the gutter.

I was too late. Zsa Zsa and Not So Tiny Tim had pulled it off. I screamed for the family to stop, but they kept pounding away at Santa. I wobbled over, but knew I didn’t have the strength to pull them away. The street was empty. I crawled up the stairs to the church door and pounded with all my might. “Help!” I cried. “We need help out here! Anybody in there? Where are you? Where are you? Do something!” But it was no dice. No one came out, no one heard. No one but me saw that family drag Santa’s carcass down the street like a bunch of jackals. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I sat there on the cold steps of the church for an hour or more, hoping I would die. I was tallying up my mistakes against my good points and had a pretty good idea of what list I was going to land on. I thought I could make a difference with the Coal Patrol, but it seemed the kids grew up and were still rotten. I thought I could change the parents, but that bought me a stocking full of trouble. It just seemed that the whole Christmas cake was made with bad eggs from the start. It kept getting worse and now Santa was something to be hated because he brought them what they didn’t want. The Misfits won.

I surrender. Better not pout about it, just try and forget it. Spilt milk.

Now what?

CHAPTER 22

M
oo!

Surely, I was confused.

Moo!

I was afraid to open my eyes.

Moo!

But something told me to be brave, so I finally took a peek. The dirty street and church steps were gone, which was good. But now I was face-to-face with a cow’s nose.

Moo!

When I tried to jerk away, I realized I was flat on my back in a bed. The room looked like every room in Potter’s mansion, except for the nosy cow.

Moo!

“What?!” I screamed at her. “Take a hike. What do you want?”

“You said something about spilt milk a second ago,” said a voice from somewhere beyond the cow. “Ginger’s just letting you know she didn’t leak one drop. She’s going for the record, you know.”

“Moo!” Ginger said as a way of punctuation, and then slid away to reveal a woman on a three-legged stool. “You were talking in your sleep,” the woman said, “and mentioned spilt milk. That kind of talk will get you stampeded around here, buster.”

“I had a bad dream,” I said, putting it mildly. “Let me guess. Milkmaid?”

The woman smiled. She had a sweet smile with a nice set of dimples. “Yep. And there are seven more just like me. My name’s Butter, by the way.”

“Butter? Butter Milkmaid?” I asked. “Does that mean you’re sour already?”

“I still get my churn on, little buster, don’t you worry about me one little bit,” Butter said. The dimples were still there. Butter was a round mound of a real girl, all hills and curves, with hair as yellow as, well, butter, and eyes like the Fountain of Youth.

My whole body felt heavy. I tried to lift my head and look around, but I could have just as easily picked up a mountain. I couldn’t see the other maids a-milking, just cows. Cows were everywhere, but it was quiet and peaceful. It was a nice change. “How come no one in here seems to want to kill me?” I asked.

Butter’s dimples disappeared. “I hate to break it to you, pard,” Butter said. “But you are indeedy going to get yourself kilt. They’re just keeping you here while they can plan something extra mean.”

“You want to fill me in?” I asked. “The last thing I remember was the Nine Ladies Dancing.”

Butter picked up her stool and moved it closer, but before she sat down, she swept her foot across the floor in a graceful kind of way.

Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
“Look familiar, baby?” she asked with a sad smile.

I certainly didn’t need any more trouble than I already had, but I would hate to have been hanging since the time Butter had been at a dancing weight. She was in no danger of getting stalked by Ahab, but no one was going to mistake her for a sapling either. I decided to play dumb. “What gives?”

“That toe dancing in the next room,” Butter said with a jerk of her head, “is how we hypnotize ya.”

“We?” I asked. Butter didn’t take offense.

“They,” she said with a lonely smile. “I used to be one of them until I got too old and fat.”

“You look swell to me, Butter,” I said, lying in a nice kind of way. “If I didn’t have a girl back home, I’d say it a lot sweeter than that, but you know how it goes.”

“Don’t I ever,” she said. “Potter uses the Nine Ladies Dancing’s charms to put a spell on folks, when he doesn’t feel like having them beat by the drummers or the pipers. But when the girls get the least little bit long in the tooth for toe dancing and whatnot, she’s made a milkmaid without so much as a how do you do.”

I took a look around the room again. The other seven milkmaids were watching Butter and me. There were only seven there and Butter made eight. “Maybe I’m still soft in the head from the spell,” I said, “but, after all these years, wouldn’t there be more milkmaids than you eight?”

Butter’s eyes went sad and she shook her head. “No honey, there’s always eight and only eight.”

“Then what happens to a milkmaid once a dancing lady moves in?”

“It’s a daggum shame what happens, sugar, and that’s the truth,” Butter said. “We get turned into milk cows.”

Moo!

Butter gave the cow beside her a kind pet on the top of its head. “It’s OK, sweetie,” she said to the beast. “You’re still a beautiful girl, yes you are. As pretty as pie.” Butter turned to me. “This is Ginger. Isn’t she one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen?”

“I believe she is,” I said, knowing what was good for me.

Moo!

“Ginger says ‘thank you.’ See, that no-account Potter, in addition to running everything in this sorry town, has cornered the black market on white milk,” Butter said. “Seems you elves just love your milk with your cookies and need plenty. Years back, Potter discovered that some elves were willing to pay through the nose for a little fresh cow juice, so Potter works us to the bone. There can only be Eight Maids a-Milking at any one time, but there’s no limit on cows. When he turns a dancer into a maid, he turns a maid into a cow.”

Moo!

“That’s tough,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Butter said. “I can’t imagine it’s going to get any better with Not So Tiny Tim in charge.”

“Listen, Butter. That girl at home I was telling you about is a reporter. I’ll tell her about the milk black market and she’ll write a story that will blow the whole thing up. Rosebud’s words are bombs and her powder is dry. She’ll shame the elves who are buying black market milk. This whole thing will disappear like a desert mirage. I’ll help her, I promise you. Just help me get back to Kringle Town. “

“It wouldn’t matter,” Butter said.

“Why not?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, this town is full of carnivores and they like their meat rare and bloody. And they’re always hungry.”

Moo!

“Besides,” Butter continued. “You ain’t gonna make it back to Kringle Town, lamb. You ain’t gonna see that little girl and you ain’t gonna tell that story. Not So Tiny Tim’s got other plans for you, and they’re fowl.”

“I didn’t expect them to be pretty,” I said.

“No, fowl, not foul,” Butter said. “F-O-W-L. Potter’s gonna chain you up with the Five Golden Rings and let the Seven Swans a-Swimming, Six Geese a-Laying, Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens, Two Turtle Doves and Partridge in a Pear Tree peck you to death in front of the whole town. Kind of like gladiating with birds. I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it, sweetie, those birds are plumb mean. The swans honk like a runaway bus, the geese pelt you with eggs, the calling birds and the French hens are pecking you all over, and the turtle doves aren’t doing any lovin’, I can tell you that. And the partridge is the meanest buzzard you’ll ever hope to meet. I’ve heard the last thing you’ll smell is pears and your guts.”

“Maybe I could get my hands on some birdseed, an anvil and a catapult,” I said.

My joke managed to make Butter smile just a little bit. “Sweetie, even Colonel Sanders couldn’t save you.”