And So Could Anyone (a short story)
A Christmas Nightmare.
Christmas ‘96
The small tear in the wrapping paper is to be expected. The hatching duckling effect is not.
I check on Kylie’s expression. She’s spotted it. You can bet this year’s Christmas turkey she’s spotted it. A rip. Right where the antler on the reindeer print should be joined to the animal’s head, there’s a rip.
Between every phrase of The Fairytale of New York, the thin paper moves as if there’s a stiff draft in the room.
“And the boys from the NYPD choir,”
The wrapping paper pushes outward.
“They were singing, Galway bay.”
The tear gets a little bit larger as the movement stresses the gift-wrap’s compromised structure. It looks like the cartoon reindeer is trying to kick.
“And the bells were ringing out, for Christmas day.”
That accordion never sounded so maniacal as this pine scented moment. Yet no less out of place in a Christmas context than whatever poor mammal has found itself wrapped up in our living room.
We didn’t plan to open gifts until after the turkey. Certainly not before Michelle gets back from her car. Then again, we also planned to keep this Christmas as a two person affair.
“What are you doing?” I catch the red fabric of Kylie’s jumper as she moves towards the Christmas tree.
Her eyes react to my touch like I’m trying to stop her from boarding the last flight home.
“If you haven’t noticed Mike. None of the other gifts under this tree require food, water or oxygen!”
I release an exhale and look towards the mistletoe wreath hanging from the front door. “She’s only going as far as her car. It’d be rude to open presents without her.”
A elbow or a backside bursting through the gift wrap, draws an involuntary laugh out of me. “What’s your guess, a border terrier or a wolf-hound pup?” I ask and wipe a tear back as the creases on Kylie’s brow grow deeper.
“Look, I know this is wild.” I say. “But she’ll be back any minute. Let’s just wait for her.”
“Mike?” Kylie picks up the package in two hands and lets the series of frantic bumps speak for themselves.
“You’ve gotta admit. This is a very Michelle type of gift,” I snort.
“She’s out of her fucking mind!”
“Hey, be nice.” I take the present from her hands and am caught off guard by its weight. Something about this snuffs out my light mood. “I just hope the poor thing hasn’t been wrapped up since last night! Did you hear her bring it out here this morning?”
Kyle looks ill. “Let’s just open it. I don’t want to think about that.”
***
I’ve barely managed to wrestle the phone away from Kylie’s hands when the novelty doorbell rains a 4-bit Mariah Carey impression down on the kitchen.
I push past the mistletoe, icy air rushes at my cheeks from through the open door. The bottle of Baileys posed beside Michelle’s flushed skin falls to her side in sync with her eyes. She tracks the shredded pieces of wrapping paper riding the wind towards her, at first frowning out of confusion, then for another reason. She bends down to pick up a cartoon antler printed on one of these scraps. “You started without me?” she asks in the Dublin drawl that broke every heart on campus all those years back.
My basketball days kick in without warning as a human body slams into my back. I bend my knees and block a frantic Kylie from jumping on our holiday guest.
“You fucking lunatic!” screams Kylie. “We’re calling the police right now!”
The pressure on my scapula subsides as Kylie doubles back towards the kitchen. I heave in a holiday weighted wheeze before scrambling to head her off. I cash in a lifetime of future apologies as I yank the phone line out of the wall.
The inflating and deflating chest of a wordless Kylie waits for an explanation as I gesture Michelle’s way. “They’ll never see this for what it is. If this makes it onto the news cycle…she won’t come back from this.”
A series of half words come back at me as Kylie malfunctions over this info.
A similar series of mutters come out of the tiny mouth drooling on our persian rug. A nappy rustles and ten pink fingers probe at the reindeer print that disguised Michelle’s deed until a few moments ago.
Our holiday guest moves to pick up the infant. No border terrier, no wolf hound. A human infant.
“Don’t. You. Dare!” growls Kylie.
***
Ice glistens under my headlights. There are nothing but Christmas carols on the radio. Dasher, Blitzen and Rudolph mock me through the airwaves. Though if I turn it off, all I’ll get is “Tidings of comfort and joy,” performed live by the door to door hordes outside. Thank God my family never adopted that tradition.
Barring the grocery delivery drivers picking up time-and-a-half hourly rates, I’m the only vehicle out here. I pray no one catches a glimpse of the living road safety violation strapped into the adult sized belt beside me.
Cosy orange windows advertise postcard memories in the making while I head for the only darkened lounge on the street.
It didn’t take much to draw the address out of Michelle, but I wouldn’t have dared turn up without calling ahead. I’d be looking for the house with police cars out front if that were the case.
I know the Cranstons. Thank god. Nice family. Mormon. Not in anyone deserves this. But they in particular don’t.
Of course I didn’t share the full story with them. They’d never understand this. Who would?
I sent the Cranstons out to Winstone’s quarry on the edge of town. I asked them to withdraw their baby’s college fund while I parked up two blocks away from their house.
The lie of an ageless nordic man, soaring reindeer and a workshop of elves drives this holiday. A burner phone, a bad accent, a ransom demand and a rendezvous point drive my grisly gift return.
Creeping into their back garden, I’m certain the groaning hinges of their gate can be heard by the entire neighbourhood.
It’s too cold to leave baby Lily Cranston on a back porch, but she’ll live.
I thumb out a text message. “CHANGE OF PLAN. BABYS AT HOME. GET BACK HERE SOON.
I would have wrapped her in a blanket if I wasn’t worried about being traced. The Reindeer wrapping paper should keep the worst of the wind at bay.
***
Before I left on my return mission I l floated the idea of Michelle coming with me. My thinking was: if anything went wrong, her presence might soften the blow.
If the Cranstons could see first hand how she is in person. How non-malicious she is, then maybe it could help?
Idunno, maybe that’s naive. But isn’t this whole holiday built on naive?
Either way, Michelle erased any possibility of riding shotgun with a few mouthfuls of liquor softened words. “Babies are a gift, no?” she offered, the combo of dialect and tipsiness forcing both Kylie and I to squint to make out the words. “Haven’t you two ever heard that saying? What’s the big deal?”
As her unsteady hand spilled Irish cream down the side of her glass, I wanted to hug her and smother her at the same time.
Kylie continued to sweep up scraps of wrapping paper as if she didn’t hear this.
Michelle took a sip and shrugged. “I thought…for someone in her position…” she appealed to me. “This would be like a miracle, no?”
That did it.
“Someone in what position?” growled Kylie, wielding the miniature broom in two hands.
If there hadn’t been an infant in my arms at the time, I’ve got no doubt I would have worn that bamboo handle across my cheek.
“You know?...” Michelle’s eyes darted, between Kyle and my crotch. “Finding out Mike got the snip, like. It must have been hard.”
***
By the time I’ve finished off dropping Michelle’s biggest mistake off at its distraught parent’s residence, the culprit herself has disappeared back into whatever corner she’d been dwelling in for the last two decades.
Kylie’s waiting for me on the couch though she’s no less distant.
“All I wanted this year was a small Christmas,” she says, staring into the dead embers of the fireplace. “Just you and I.”
I stand up from the couch.
“You’re the one who made me want that.” She adds.
“Smells like the turkey’s burning,” I mutter.
“Don’t you want the same thing anymore?”
I bat smoke away from my face and rush into the kitchen.
***
Though we’re coming into summer, I still look at every closed door like it might be kicked down any minute.
I’ve lost count of the interrogations that have taken place inside my head:
Q
“We went to high school together, once upon a time.”
Q
“She fell on hard times and reached out to me. How could I say no?”
Q
Not sure. Drugs? Street life? Didn’t seem right to pry too deep.
Q
“Yea Kylie knew about all that. Naturally wasn’t thrilled, but I talked her around.”
Q
Sexual? No. No it wasn’t like that.
Q
If you understood the mental state she’s in, you wouldn’t need to ask me that. No! I would never take advantage like that.
Q
I’m sorry. But in what world would I have let this go on if I’d had any idea?
Q
I thought a taste of normalcy would do her good.
Q
Well no. Obviously not.
Q
She’ll come around. There’s a lot to process.
***
I’ve finally let myself believe Michelle is in the clear. Enough time has passed. Even the local headlines have let the news of a new war in Estonia overtake the manhunt for a partial kidnapper.
I was stupid to think I could save her though. Even if she manages to stay hidden, she’ll never come back from this. Kylie’s reaction to that Christmas morning is proof of that.
She saw how troubled Michelle was. It was obvious on the day that the poor girl didn’t mean it, and when we explained the seriousness of it all she was remorseful as a catholic child. Shit, she probably finished two bottles of bailey’s alone that night! Yet, all the context in the world wasn’t enough to help my beautiful fiancé unsee the monster they built in the media.
Nightmare on Christmas Day.
Child Trafficker at Large.
Lifelong trauma in Reindeer wrapping!
Forget the manger? Try a back porch!
Cold footed kidnapper chokes!
It’s like she half believes I was in on it. I came home the other night to find a stag head mounted above our kitchen table. She didn’t say a word, but I kept catching her sneaking glances my way. I cut into my pork sausage and left it at that.
***
They’re already playing Christmas jingles in the mall. Christ! It’s not even November. “You scumbag you maggot. You cheap lousy–” I raise my head to the ceiling with a goofy grin on my face. It’s the censored version. I bow my head. Of course it is.
I came down here to pick up a new set of sneakers before the holiday mark-ups go crazy. Bumping into Mr Cranston is not the bargain I’m after.
He approaches me with a forced smile. I look down at his slippers as he shakes my hand. He asks how I’ve been, though it doesn’t for a moment feel like I’m part of the interaction.
My guess is, this public outing is probably step six or so in some recovery program.
“How’s the family–” the words are out before the pale band on his ring finger screams out at me.
“Good,” he’s quick to answer. “Everything’s good.”
I look down at the clinking bag by his hip. The neck of a Baileys bottle is sticking through the plastic. Better than Jack Daniels I suppose.
“That’s good,” I say.
***
***
***
Christmas ‘97
Piano keys tinkle from the kitchen top radio—a pretty, two handed intro in D major that’s familiar to all at this time of year.
I lift my nose to the exotic notes of a well seasoned venison roast. My sister Beth is skippering Christmas lunch this year. Kylie hardly batted an eye when I broached this invitation to her. I haven’t been able to eat since we spoke about it.
Three girlfriends ago, I learned to avoid any direct social events involving Beth and one of my significant others. Particularly if there’s drinking involved. But, she just found out her husband has been moonlighting as a dancer for the best part of a decade, so I’m on good brother duty at the moment.
What type of dancer? It didn’t seem right to ask. They’re spending the holidays apart, that’s as much as I could get her to cough up. In any case, my decision to buy red jackets rather than roasting potatoes have been the height of the drama. So you might say, it’s going well.
“Love the new decorations!” Beth lifts her fork in the direction of the stag head staring lifeless through fake marbles in place of eyes.
Kylie almost knocks over her own wine glass as she twists to get my attention. “Shit Mike, you might be right. I think all the women in your life are insane!”
Beth frowns in a way that only a brother could detect, though maintains a smile. She puts down the fork and interlocks her fingers. “Oh you’re not a fan of the taxidermy Mikey? I would have sworn this was your decor choice.”
I meet the mischief in her eye with a shake of the head. She takes my hint with a silent nod.
“No, no,” butts in Kylie.
I privately wince.
“Deer bring back bad memories for Mike.” She clicks her fingers. “I can’t remember what specific memory though…Mike help me out?”
I turn to Beth and stab my fork into a freshly sliced piece of meet. “Bethy. Venison is such an easy cut to overcook. But the way you perfected this one?--” I make an “okay” symbol accompanied by a content humming sound.
***
I try to get Beth out the door before the dishes are scrubbed, but Kylie insists on opening the presents. She presses play on the stereo and I know I should have already got Beth out of here by now.
Beth doesn’t seem to sense anything. She picks up her fourth Bailey’s of the morning and raises it in the air.
“They've got cars big as bars. They've got rivers of gold. But the wind goes right through you. It's no place for the old!”
She, the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl sing alone beside the pine tree in my living room.
Irish accents no longer bring a jolly atmosphere to this home.
“You were handsome. You were pretty. Queen of New York City.”
I glance at Beth’s car keys on the table and take my own glass to the sink.
Kylie smiles coldly at the cookbook I got her. Beth laughs at the ballet shoes I wrapped up in a rush this morning. “This isn’t funny!” she exclaims, though she’s beaming from one pine tree earing to the next.
There’s no present among the pine needles for me, but this is a small mercy. I release an exhale and push Beth playfully in the shoulder. “Alright sis. Guess I should drive you home then.”
“No you can’t.” Kylie sounds disgusted.
“Sure I can.” I wink. “I stopped boozing after lunch, unlike you two!”
She shakes her head. “No Mike. Your present.”
Dread fills me as she takes my hand and leads me up the stairs.
***
Beth throws her arms around me. “Oh my god! Congrats guys.”
It’s only after she’s moved on to Kylie that I see the crib. I don’t celebrate.
My eyes track the wallpaper from foot to ceiling, familiar cartoon reindeer grinning back at me.
“How far along are you?” asks Beth, rubbing a hand over Kylie’s belly.
Kylie ignores her. “What’s wrong Mike?”
Both of them turn my way.
“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” asks Kylie?
I’m frozen. I can’t take my eyes off the flat stomach that Beth is still rubbing.
“Of course it is!” offers Beth, her tone hardening. “Tell her Mike!”
I can’t speak.
The music fills the space. I swear someone’s turned up the volume.
“I could have met someone.” Resentful, bitter words. The counter point: “And so could anyone,” followed up by a heart wrenching inward inflection. “You took my dreams from me. When I first met you.”
“You hate it,” says Beth, mirroring the vocalist.
“Kylie, don’t be crazy!” Beth’s poor choice of words draw a glare out of Kylie.
I’m an invalid here in the spare room. Not knowing how to back out of this nightmare.
I can feel Beth growing restless. Turning on me. Her entire being oozes sympathy for Kylie, standing here alone, in her eyes: abandoned in this spare room by a cold partner. Then those eyes lower to the glass of Baileys in my “poor” fiance’s hand. Beth draws her fingers away from the stomach like it’s a hot stove.
I open my mouth to say something. But there’s no way I can explain this. Not all of it. Not enough to help her understand.
“I thought we could pretend.” Kylie’s voice breaks the silence that is not silent.
Organs and a chorus colour the room with jubilant contrast to the atmosphere within. The baby blue wallpaper and pastel coloured cot do the same.
It takes till the end of the song before reality truly sinks in for Beth. She’s recoiling from Kylie as if she’s got measles. Wordless eyes pleading to me for an explanation. I never want to see that expression duplicated again.
The sound of shredding turns all attention back to Kylie. She’s got two hands on a corner of wall paper and is running across the room with it, tearing it free from the yet to dry glue. She lets go of that whitened end and climbs up onto the couch in the corner. Fingernails digging for the next edge of decorative print.
“Get down from there Kylie!” Beth rushes to the chair and hovers her hands over my fiance’s belly. Her maternal instincts malfunction in the face of the unnatural world of my relationship.
I place a hand on her shoulder and for the second time, my sister recoils from Kylie remembering the truth. I grope for Kylie’s fingers. Hopes low. But she lets me guide her back down to the floor. I seat her. I seat Beth. Give both of them another drink.
Both are panting like they’ve just dragged a sleigh across the sky.
***
I bundle up as much of the unusable wallpaper as I can fit in my arms and stumble out of the room.
“You’re not taking that down to the–”
The panic in Kylie’s voice is at just enough of a spike to stop me in my tracks. I turn but don’t speak. She doesn’t finish.
It takes me longer than expected to find the basement key. It’s not in the usual sticky drawer in the kitchen. I probably haven’t been down there for at least twelve months so forget digging through my actual memories.
Eventually, I settle for the spare key on the master ring I keep in the back shed. Kylie doesn’t know about this key, so it’s a shame to lose that trick up the sleeve, plus it’s annoying to have to go out in the frost to get it. But it’s worth it to keep the peace.
The lock doesn’t want to obey at first. Forcing me to twist anti-clockwise before it will let me work the righty-tighty aphorism, but I get it in the end.
A wall of what smells like putrid meat hits me the moment I step into the dark. The light flickers, but waits till I’m two steps down before it dies. I get to the third step, hands still bundled with Reindeer wrapping when my foot lands on and forms around something hard and sharp. I freeze. The pad of my foot is stinging, but it’s too early to assess the damage. Please don’t be a nail. Why didn’t I wear shoes? I slowly lift my Rudolph sock which offered less than no protection. It’s okay. I think it was just plastic. I swap the wrapping paper under one armpit and pick up the object.
A packet of cable ties. Open.
I start to search my memories for the last time I would have needed these, but stop myself dead. I scan the room below just long enough to make out a shapeless bundle in the corner. I stop myself dead.
I leave the wall paper and its demonic cervine print right there on the stairs and I decide I’ll never take that fourth step and I’ll never get that bulb changed. I close the basement door as quietly as I can and pad my socks across the hallway carpet.
***
“So there are a few things you need to know about my brother…”
I close my eyes and rest my head against the hallway wall, sliding down it till I’m seated.
“This is what life with Mike is like. I’ve seen it happen to every girl he’s brought home. You can leave if you like. But it won’t undo whatever he’s already made you do.”
I breathe in this familiar air. I can smell chocolate notes and liquor riding the warmth from the lounge, I hear a fifth or perhaps a sixth Bailey’s being poured over ice.
“If you stay, he’ll look after you. You can be sure of that. He’s as loyal as a sheepdog in that way.”
Lounge piano is tinkering intro chords and Sean Mcgowan’s weathered voice tells the mournful story he’s told a million times and will tell a million more long after he’s gone. “It was Christmas evening, Babe.”
“But you’ll end up doing things. Things you’d never have done. Unrecognizable things.”
Nostalgia breathes off the surface of the notes of the piano as a story that never gets old, repeats itself again.
“Sooner? Yea I wish I could have warned you sooner. Wish I could warn the whole world about him.” A glass clinks. “I’d say he can’t help it, but I don’t know if that’s really the truth.”
“I turned my face away. And dreamed about you.”
Sidenote: This story was featured on the Top In Fiction list Volume II, Issue 8.
It’s always nice to get a bit of recognition from my peers.
