Revenge – Part One (Marian Bron)

The citronella candle sputtered in its terracotta pot as another popcorn dud landed next to the flame.

“Bull’s-eye,” Liza shouted. “Drink up Ladies!”

We drained our wine glasses.

Kernels littered the teak tabletop’s surface. As a group our aim was horrendous, Liza’s the first successful shot in quite awhile. If we kept this up, there wasn’t a chance in Hades that any of us would be going home drunk tonight.

“Fill ‘em up,” Erin said passing the bottle around, everyone except Marnie pouring the cheap chardonnay into glasses. She refilled hers with sparkling water, alcohol a sin she didn’t allow herself.

Mimi, her dog, and the popcorn bowl sat in her lap. The dog’s nose shoved deep into the bowl snuffling up what she could.  Marnie fished out a kernel and passed the bowl to Samantha. Holding Mimi close, she carefully aimed for the pot. It jumped off the pot’s edge, landing in the puddle of melted wax.

“Thank you, Lord,” she declared throwing her hands up in victory. She tipped her glass, guzzling it in one smooth gulp. A lady-like burp escaping as she set the glass down. The rest downed another glass of wine. Things were looking up.

Samantha was next. The force of her shot bounced the dry kernel off the table top and into Liza’s glass.

“I’ll get you a fresh one,” Erin laughed. “It’ll be covered in Mimi goobers.”

“Bring another bottle, too,” Samantha said. “This one’s just about done.”

Our men were inside watching the NHL playoffs. Besides being married to five high school friends, a love of hockey was all they had in common. Most girls’ nights they stayed home, but Erin and Ted had a new state-of-the-art home theatre room complete with a loaded beer fridge. Naturally, tonight the boys tagged along.

For us five girls, life had gotten dull. We’d become popcorn duds ourselves. Not one of us had any sizzle left, let alone the energy to pop. Liza and Barry were the only ones busy with small kids. Marnie and Frank had no kids, just that ugly Shih Tzu with its unfortunate orthodontia. The rest had teenagers who didn’t need us anymore. All five of us looked forward to these monthly get togethers. Sometimes we went to the movies, occasionally dinner but usually we met at each other’s homes. Everyone brought wine, except for Marnie, she drank nothing but sparkling water. We all brought junk food except for Liza. Since meeting Barry, she was off sugar. Her vegetable tray sat untouched next to a nearly finished plate of decadent brownies, empty chip bowl and platter of nachos and cheese. Mind you she was in amazing shape. Barry demanded it.

Liza adored him, we did not. He was a pretentious twat. A loaded twat with a gold touch. After college he got into banking and moved steadily up the ranks until he was managing the biggest bank in town. They’d purred up to Erin’s house in a Maserati, his newest toy, while the rest of us poked up in mini-vans. Tonight, however Barry seemed to have lost some of his glitter. It was small things. Liza’s comment about the new car and ladies. His never-ending meetings. Little jabs all evening long. Normally Barry only allowed one glass of wine, tonight she was on her fifth. Her aim was spot on, but her speech had started to slur.

“You know what, ladies?” she asked, pulling the pan of brownies towards her.

We watched as three brownies made their way into her mouth, her expression as she swallowed bordering on orgasmic.

“How I’ve missed you,” she said as she corralled the crumbs into a neat pile. She bent, vacuuming the pan empty with her mouth, wiping her face clean with the back of her hand.

“Barry?” Marnie whispered, quickly glancing over her shoulder. Disobedience was a sin.

“Hah! Barry the saint,” Liza slurred. “Lipstick on your collar’s gonna’ tell on you.”

We didn’t know what to say. Had Barry cheated? They had little kids. How dare he!

She raised her wine glass, sloshing half the contents onto her blouse. “Here’s to Missy Gillespie, home wrecker.”

“His receptionist?” I asked.

Liza sniggered, nodding. “He’s such a cliché.”

“What are you going to do?” Erin asked. We pulled our chairs closer, as everyone’s voice lowered. The men were still downstairs.

“Revenge. Get him where it hurts most.” Liza refilled her glass.

“An eye for an eye? It’s Biblical.” Samantha shrugged. “Why not?”

“I don’t think, the Lord meant literally,” Marnie said. “You can’t sin, too.”

“No, girls,” Liza said, her articulation perfect, eyes sparkling. Thoughts of revenge clearing her system of alcohol. “I’m going to rob his bank. You in?”

Christmas Memory 1999 (Diane Chartrand)

I stood freezing in the long line, at the Toronto Greyhound Terminal, for over two hours at Bay 6 with my bag beside me.  The bays were outside, and the wind and snow were blowing directly into us.

Being just a few days before Christmas, everyone appeared tired and ready to board their bus and sleep.  The time was closing in on midnight, but I was wide awake and anxious to see my six grandchildren in Ohio and their beautiful mother, my first-born daughter.

Finally, the bus had arrived.   I won’t have to change buses until we cross the border in about two hours and enter at the Buffalo Terminal.  I’m excited, and sleep doesn’t come.  I look out as the night has changed to a bright full moon and millions of stars.  As we go south, the snow is left behind us.

I envision the scene, I’ll hopefully see, in the next few days.  Getting to watch the kids open the presents I shipped down.  There will be joy on their faces along with a lot of noise as the children range in age from two to thirteen.

 As we arrive at customs, the driver says, “Make sure you take all your belongings off the bus.  Pick up your bags from under the bus and take them with you through that door to the left.  Make sure you have all your identification ready.”

I grab my backpack and a small bag from under the bus and make my way into line.  A customs agent calls up one person every twenty minutes.  At this rate, I’ll never make my connection in Buffalo.  After about forty minutes it’s finally my turn.

“ID please.  Where are you going and for how long?”

“To visit my daughter and six Grandchildren in Dayton, Ohio and will be there for five days.”

“Are you declaring anything into the country?”

“No.  I already sent my gifts to their house a couple of weeks ago.”

“Okay move on to the other officers to get your bags checked.”

Customs hadn’t started using screening machines yet, so our bags were checked manually.  This process always left a mess inside.

“Okay, you’re good to move on.  Take your bags and go back to the bus and wait with the driver.”

I was overjoyed that was over.  There were others, though, who didn’t get through as quickly.  One lady had packed sliced meat and oranges, both items not allowed to cross the border.  This caused a delay for over an hour while one of the customs agents searched for an interpreter because this lady, nor anyone in her family, spoke English.

After several more transfers along the way, I finally arrived in downtown Dayton.  I was so relieved to see my daughter and son-in-law sitting in the waiting room.  After a short drive, we arrived at the house.   All the children came up and gave me a big hug.

My Christmas in 1999 was the first I had spent with my family in many, many years.  It will always be the one I treasure the most.  It was the beginning of many more years of special occasions with them.

Christmas Back in My Time (Maria Melillo Jones)

The Christmas Novena began in the middle of December.  Although harsh, several of us young kids got up just before 5 a.m. and went to church.

The cold mountain air pinched my cheeks and took my breath away.  When I inhaled through my nose, my nostrils would stick together.  I wrapped a scarf around my mouth and nose.  As I walked, seeing my breath, I pretended I was smoking a cigarette.  The condensation in the chilled air not only affected my breathing but bones as well.

Everything around us kids was innocent, but the mischievousness in our developing minds was not. The mass was monotonous, but the spirit of Christmas influenced us to attend, knowing our families were still sleeping.  We made plans the night before to meet by the church at quarter to five.

My father would never allow me to leave the house at such an early hour.

Since I took religion classes, I was able to convince him. I came up with a little fib.   Our priest demanded we attend the Christmas Novena to help us get a good mark in religion, and with our first communion blessing.

Little did he know.

My girlfriends and I sat behind a pew of old ladies praying the Rosary. We were too young to know the Rosary, but we said a few Our Fathers, and Hail Mary’s.

As they kept going, we sat silently. The old ladies, all wore the same brown square shawls with long fringe resembling dreadlocks.  The shawls were folded in a triangle.  It covered most of their bust and waist, and from what I heard it kept them very warm. My grandmother also had one.

As we sat quietly, we all had the same idea.  We began tying the fringe of the shawls from one lady to the other, down the entire pew.  It was priceless watching them trying to come out of their seats — some exiting towards the right the rest towards the left. The surprised look on their faces, as they were pulling against each other.  Suddenly all their shawls fell on the church floor.   Some were upset, and some took it with a good laugh and much patience, untying the dreadlocked fringes. As we looked from afar laughing like silly girls.

One of the other things that attracted us to church was the massive Nativity scene.  It was an entire village with big mountains, houses, a blacksmith. All kinds of animals, and figurines. They all had a purpose. If you watched it long enough the Nativity Scene started to come to life. The empty cave waiting for the arrival of our lord and savior.

I could stay there for hours, admiring it and use my imagination to create the saga of Jesus.

What made Christmas special was my Uncle Rosario, who could always put a smile on our faces. Artificial Pine trees were rare in houses of poor people, my uncle would cut down a Lucina tree, bring it home and before we all knew, it became a beautiful Christmas tree. It filled the house with the fresh scent of the Mountains.

We decorated it with candies, chocolate kisses, mandarins, and strings of popcorn that we helped make. Now no longer bare, it was a beautiful and humble Christmas tree.

My uncle had four sons, and I was his only niece in town.  Uncle Rosario told us not to touch the ornaments until after Christmas.  The aroma of the mandarins circulated the house teasing us.

We resisted the first day, after that, the cheating began.  My oldest cousin asked what I would like.  I chirped out a chocolate kiss.  All of the boys took something as well.

“That’s way too many decorations off the tree, yells my oldest cousin.  Papa is going to notice.”

One of the boys came up with a brilliant idea to replace the candy. Fill the wrappers with old chewing gum.

There we were the five masterminds, sitting by the fireplace, chewing gum like little mules, to fill the empty foils.  We shaped the wrapping as perfect as possible and placed them towards the back of the tree. It worked like a charm.

Little by little even the popcorn garland was getting skimpy, which made my uncle suspicious.  One day he gathered us around the tree and asked if we had noticed a mouse eating the popcorn.

I stayed silent as the boys looked at each other. The middle one finally spoke up.

“Now that you mention it, Papa, we did hear some noises last night; It could have been a mouse, or two.”

My uncle had a big smile on his face not able to bring himself to laugh, but his grin said it all.

A Merry Christmas to you all.

Stranger at the Door (Rian Elliott)

Elise said goodbye to her second daughter-in-law, sighed, paused, amended the thought to younger daughter-in-law, or rather younger son’s wife. Did that make her the younger daughter-in-law although technically older than both sons and her other daughter-in-law? In any case Bella was a very forthright young woman, not put off by any such distinction of age or rank.

She reviewed her Christmas plans. It would seem no Bella and David, certainly not unless she was prepared to bar Carla and Daniel unequivocally. Possibly Daniel alone as the younger son would be acceptable but that wasn’t going to happen.

First Christmas memories at her grandparents’ table rose unbidden. It held the two of them, their five children and spouses plus a growing number of grandchildren along with neighbours from time to time. She had been in the first group of three grandchildren, so there were over a dozen at the table always, and always one extra place. Her grandparents explained to her each and every year that on this day there must always be a place for a stranger at the door. Over time this became an acknowledgement of those no longer with us, but when alive George resisted even this interpretation and it never became their practice.

But that didn’t address the source or solution to the Bella and Carla dilemna. This couldn’t have happened at her grandparents’ table. Strong feelings often, yes, but never abandonment. She donned coat and hat, grabbed her bag and set out for the supermarket. She arrived to find a police officer standing with the store manager on either side of a youngish man with a cardboard sign announcing his homelessness. She continued inside and proceeded with her few supplies to her favourite checkout. To a friendly ‘Hello, dear,’ she smiled and nodded at the door.

‘Didn’t I see him here on the weekend?”

‘Yes, he hides a bike around the corner and lives in that three-storey walk-up two blocks over.” Her voice lowered. “But the manager allows no panhandling.’

Elise pondered the question of being homeless versus foodless on the way to the seniors’ centre to visit her friend Mona who would be going to her daughter’s for Christmas. Mona expounded on her guilt for leaving three or four fellow residents who had no family. Elise shared hers over argumentative daughters-in-law and grandparents who coped with more boisterous acrimony which didn’t result in anyone leaving. She ended with ‘even an extra place for the stranger at the door’.

“But perhaps,” she ended, “that was just a cultural thing with our family.”

“Oh, no,” Mona jumped in. “Scrooge’s nephew.” But just then they were joined by fellow card players.

Elise thought on the way home that they didn’t warn you when you were having sons or daughters. Daughters tended to be around all your life. Sons followed wives.

She thought about all this overnight through tossing and turning and dreaming of Alistair, the only real Scrooge, finally reaching a Eureka moment in the early hours. Hah, Scrooge’s nephew indeed, making a versa from vice, or family from strangers, and formed a plan.

The next day she called on Mona first and saw the manager, making arrangements to have Mona’s friends delivered to her place on Christmas day.  On her way back she spotted the bike rider from the day before and flagged him down to issue her invitation.

Her afternoon was spent telephoning, first Daniel’s in-laws, then David’s, announcing that she would be hosting a Christmas buffet between 2 and 5. Only then did she call Daniel and Carla though it was Carla who answered and carefully expressed doubts that her family would attend.

Then it was Bella, whose reply to the announcement was a repetition.

Steeling herself, Elise said only,

‘Well, just to let you know you are all welcome. I do have a couple of special guests, but whatever works for you.”

She spent the rest of the week unpacking inherited china which hadn’t been used since it arrived in her basement, reviewing the neighbourhood and issuing invitations. There were cautious commitments, startled silences and a few offers to bring one thing or another.

By Christmas Day the fridge was full, table set and plates stacked beside the microwave. She was, she thought, as prepared as her grandparents had been those many years ago.

The doorbell rang, and there stood bike rider and one young female companion, expecting. Very expecting..

SANTA CLAUSE (Rian Elliott)

The day was cold and the wind capricious as it whipped around the five children leaving the schoolyard and setting out northward, then west toward the river a block later, leaving their schoolmates to find their different paths.

Three of the five were boys, six years old and from Miss Grady’s Grade One class. The fourth  boy was two or three years older, the brother of one of the Grade Ones. He joined them with some reluctance, expressed by whoops and yells between his departing classmates and himself. Carolanne Wexler, the oldest at eleven, almost ready for Junior High and the only girl, started to shiver as they neared the river. This older boy, Ralph, bounded from side to side with a knowing bragadaccio while the three youngsters gazed uneasily. He commanded the sidewalk and increasingly the conversation. Her shiver owed more to Ralph than the wind as she watched one of the three youngest, her brother Thomas. Ralph went on and on in his sing-songy voice, telling of an outing with his cronies where they had to pretend, due to the presence of a parent, to still believe in Santa Claus. The younger three voiced a boisterous astonishment that this duplicity was necessary. Ralph ended with, “Well, it’s worth it if you let them know what you want.”

She set as fast a pace as she could while the younger three danced around Ralph but took some  solace from seeing Thomas was not, she thought, as enthusiastic or admiring as the others. At the others peeled off, leaving Thomas and Carolanne to go a further block.  For half the distance Carolanne concentrated ferociously on the ground before her, finally pausing mid-stride and lifting her chin. Looking straight at Thomas, she said,

“Well, even for a little show-off that was a nasty way to get attention. And in front of his own little brother!”

Thomas gaped at her, then shrugged.

“Well,” he looked at the ground as one foot traced circles on the sidewalk, “I guess everyone knows it’s your parents who fill the stockings.” Gathering confidence in the pronouncement he expanded on his knowledge. “If there were any Santa, they’d have stockings too.”

She struggled with this the rest of the way home, thankful that it was Friday and there would only be two days of school the following week. Deciding how to deal with this threatened to take the whole weekend.

After changing from their school clothes Thomas went down to the basement declaring his intention to check for a clear space to make a sled. He was, Carolanne and their mother observed, increasingly taken with this plan as the possibility of snow and Christmas grew closer.

The next day their visit to the mall around the corner introduced their younger brother, Peter, aged three, to Santa Claus. And yes, Carolanne took Peter’s hand and Thomas went ahead to show him the satisfying action of sitting on a strange knee and telling the man in red what you wanted. Peter was not reticent in this regard. Anyone in hearing distance knew his immediate, long-term and Plan B wants.

As they climbed in the car to drive off however, Thomas made a point of announcing off-handedly that if he and his father were to build a sled before snowfall the stocking delivery would have to include both tools and basic materials. He laughed at only slightly higher a pitch than normal, announcing that he hoped Santa would choose sled components that would fit on the delivery sleigh. His father merely commented that an assembled sled would probably take up less room, while Carolanne and her mother kept their faces stiff during the whole of this exchange. When they reached home and their mother announced lunch would be ready in fifteen minutes, Thomas turned to his father.

“Do we have time to look at the basement and decide where there would be room to put a sled together? Just in case?”

“Well,” his father paused at a fixed glare from their mother. “It’s good to hear you thinking ahead. Right now I have to do a little of that.” He nodded to their mother. “That Bartley contract I’ve been working on needs a couple of extra clauses and I may have to go in to the office after lunch to get that roughed out.”

Carolanne collected cutlery and started setting the table as their mother turned to the stove.

When seated, Carolanne took one sip of milk before speaking. “What are extra clauses and why do they have to go in to what you’re doing?”

“A good question,” their father sighed. “It’s like when you and someone else agree on something, say like you and Thomas taking turns to set the table and you draw up a schedule. But when you think about it, you realize there may be a time we either go out to lunch or out to a picnic and the table doesn’t need setting. The clause will say how the schedule is adjusted because you still agree on taking turns and how that will still happen. Do you see?” He looked at Thomas and Carolanne in turn.

“Yeees,” Thomas tossed the thought around along with a bite of cheese sandwich. “But you said a contract was made for court, like having to tell only the truth in court, so if you said what you meant in the first place why would it need a clause?”

Their father laughed. “As a lawyer I can only say it’s judges who think like that who keep the whole thing going.”

After lunch Thomas and Carolanne did the dishes while their mother put Peter up for his nap and their father left for the office.

As he wiped the last dish and Carolanne reached to put it in the cupboard Thomas looked at her and said, “I won’t tell him.”

“Tell who what?”

“I don’t have to show off. I won’t tell Peter there’s no Santa Claus.”

“I know you’re not.”

Just then their mother came in. “Thank you both. Peter could hardly keep his eyes open, but he kept trying because he knows Santa comes when he’s asleep. I’m afraid we’re in for some disappointing nights.”

Thomas pointed to the calendar on the basement door with the month of December blocked off below a pair of deer in a forest. “Maybe you could show him how to cross off the days.”

Mother and Carolanne exchanged a look. “What a good idea. Maybe if I hold him up right before bedtime you can show him how.”

Thomas went to his room to plot snow runs with an inspired arrangement of towels and pillows draped over boxes allowing a virtual unending circular run with careful manoeuvring of the empty match box which served as his model sled.

Carolanne watched in wonder before entering her room and carefully, quietly closing her door. She then arranged the blanket at the end of her bed in a half-circle. Taking the black china Scottie dog bank from her dresser she unscrewed the bottom and coin by coin, bill by bill, emptied the contents. Counting each pile she noted on an envelope the number and final total before placing the whole in the envelope. This she placed in the bottom of her ‘Sunday’ purse and Scottie back on the dresser.

Leaving her room she paused in Thomas’s doorway.

“What space were you planning to use in the basement? Do we have to move any of the summer things to make room?”

“I don’t think so. It’s sort of neat already. Do you want to see?”

“Yes, okay. We can check on what else can be moved.”

They went down and Thomas outlined to Carolanne the minor adjustments that could be made to clear the workbench, presently used as a stand for the laundry baskets. While Thomas walked back and forth, demonstrating the actions needed to produce a sled, Carolanne found a new spot for the laundry basket on the other side of the washing machine. When Thomas was turned away she fished two socks from the basket and stuffed them down the back of her jeans before he once again faced her.

“You have it all worked out, I think. You could probably build anything.”

“Sure, Dad could build anything he wanted to,” Thomas was only minimally taken aback. Girls said weird things sometimes.

The next day after church and Sunday School Carolanne asked her mother if she could walk home with one of her friends rather than riding with the rest of the family. Permission granted, she joined Sally from two doors down and they set out on a route that passed the drug store. Sally watched as Carolanne traced a methodical path past magazines and toiletries and in mere minutes was standing at the checkout, mission accomplished.

As they continued along the street Sally glanced and did a double-take as Carolanne stopped at the corner and tucked the contents of her foray under her sweater and consigned the shopping bag to the trash can.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“If you had a younger brother you wouldn’t ask.”

“Well, no, but I have an older sister.”

“But not a brother. And definitely not one named Ralph. Or something like that. So yes, I think it’s a good idea.”

They parted at Sally’s house, with plans to meet on Christmas morning after breakfast, now only four days away.

The following day  after school, Carolanne gritted her teeth when it came time for their little group to set out for home together. But Ralph joined them and with one whoop commandeered the airwaves with the proceedings of the day in his classroom. There had been, apparently, no work done. The whole day consisted of a review of work done in that term and there had been lots of interruptions and ad hoc comments having nothing to do with the work at hand. There had even been a reference to his teacher as a ‘doofus’.

When Carolanne spontaneously burst forth with, “And how do you get smart enough to know a doofus when you see one?” Ralph was silent for all of two seconds, then started an outline of what he expected to do on the soccer field the next day. She was pleased to note the three younger ones did not rise to his defence. So she and Thomas left for the final lap with no further aggravation.

On their way home after that last day of school before the holidays, Ralph was somewhat subdued and the younger three chatted among themselves. When they approached some state of excitement over the coming events and Ralph looked ready to speak, Carolanne stepped to cut him off from the others. Looking him in the eye she asked, “And what will you be doing for the holidays?” Giving her a blank stare he started a rundown on what would happen if snow did or did not show up. As the others peeled off, Thomas sank into a deeper and deeper silence, barely stopping to greet their mother before going up to his room.

Their father worked late that night, so even the dinner table was relatively silent. The bright spot of the evening was Peter marking the day unaided, after help from Thomas on the previous nights. He chortled with glee as they looked at the two blank squares yet to be filled in the calendar. Even Thomas came out of his silence at Peter’s antics. To calm him down his mother suggested all four of them share his story time, so they took turns reading from Peter’s choices.

The following day their father came home early to their mother’s relief, and all five set out to collect their Christmas tree. It would be a small one this year, to sit in a corner of the living room where it could be fenced off so Peter couldn’t dive into it and pull it down on top of himself.

Dinner over and the tree set up, the evening was spent unpacking ornaments and separating them for destination to higher branches to father and lower to Carolanne and Thomas, while mother and Peter re-arranged any Peter considered awry.

Then it was time for Peter’s bath with father while mother prepared cocoa for the story time. This was enticement for Peter. Tonight the sight of the one remaining blank on the calendar made turning away a near impossibility, but finally they gathered around the tree to see the lights come on.

The following day was filled with ‘mother’ errands to prepare for dinner the next day. Their grandparents would be there, and neighbours would drop in to wish them well. Carolanne and Thomas both helped at times in the kitchen, stirring this and licking that and washing dishes. Carolanne looked at Thomas from time to time, but if he was wondering when their parents had time to fill stockings he didn’t show it. She herself helped her mother by cleaning her room unaided, vacuum and everything. She offered to help Thomas as well. After some thought she was allowed to vacuum after he had disassembled the snow trail and placed it for safety on his bed.

At last it was ‘the’ calendar moment. Peter was lifted up and ready to yelp the house down at the sight of the last square, but Thomas gazed sternly, holding the crayon inches from his fingers until silence reigned. With a truly amazing sense of occasion, Peter took his cue and slowly, deliberately, the last red V appeared in the box labelled ‘24’.

This night they hung their stockings by the fireplace, and Peter did not get to choose the story. Father took him on his knee and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ rolled with quiet drama, and with as much solemnity as possible Peter was taken upstairs.

If Thomas was awake deliberately or otherwise later in the night, Carolanne was unable to discover it. So the next morning as he and Peter were first to the fireplace she was pleased to hear what she hoped was a yelp of surprise and joy. Very soon all five were gathered round and Peter was handed his large red woolen sock with a P, Carolanne her striped sock with a C, and Thomas his polka dot sock with a T. This left two dark green socks. They stared in silence for all of five seconds before Thomas made an announcement.

“Probably Santa thinks parents know who they are without the letters.” He peered inside, then handed one to their mother and the other to their father, looking gravely at Carolanne as he passed her going back to his place on the floor. When the contents had been emptied they were all happy with their usual complement of nuts and oranges. Thomas seemed pleased with a couple of real tools in his, Peter delighted with the box that held his puzzle set, mother carefully not astonished at the magazine and scented soap in hers, and father tongue-in-cheek as he gazed at a woodworking magazine with instructions on building a sled. And Carolanne was certainly happy with her new bookbag.

They sat down to breakfast before opening other presents so it was some little while before Carolanne saw Thomas open the one large present from their parents, a carefully wrapped sled. As father later explained to Thomas, they thought Santa would realize father wasn’t up to snuff in the sled-building department, but, as he waved the woodworking magazine, he thought Thomas and he between them could manage a storage shelf or two.

Later still, when Carolanne was ready for sleep that night, she gazed at her empty china Scottie dog bank with satisfaction and lifted it to pat its head. Surprised, there was a clunk. When she opened the bottom out fell assorted change, about a tenth of what was there before. Leaping out of bed she took the few steps to Thomas door to see him packing away his indoor “snow run”. He looked up and gave her a grin, falling snow in the window behind him..

Black Cat (Madeleine Horton)

The black cat curled up in the strange soft material that now lay on the ground. Last night the bed had looked like one of his kind, only much larger. A giant cat with an arched back among strange figures of unknown creatures on the lawn. The orange balls with grimacing faces still sat on the steps, no longer glowing. The sun was warm, a relief from the nights now longer and cooler.

“P..s..t.., get out of here.” A large woman with a rake loomed over him. “P..s..t.” The old sound. Well known by the cat.  The sound he had instinctively learned meant bad, scat, bolt. The woman spoke to a man raking leaves nearby. “It’s that damned black cat, the one with the stumpy tail. Sleeping in one of the blow-ups. Probably been hanging around the bird feeder too.” The cat ran off.

Food was getting harder to find. In the little green space where families sat and children played on swings, bits of meat were easy to find in the hot times. Sometimes people threw pieces to him when he crept into the open. Today there was no one in the green space. The cat knew he had to get to the street with many fast-moving things. He made his way through yards and over fences. He had his favourite spots but the best meant he had to cross where the fast things came and went and sometimes made a shrieking noise at him.

Today he was lucky. A girl coming out of one of the food places stopped when she saw him lurking under a patio table. “Poor kitty.” She stopped and opened her bag and broke off a large morsel and threw it to him. He grabbed it and ran behind the building. Meat with many tastes. Like eating grass mixed with unknown plants. Still, meat.

The cat spent the afternoon roaming to other food places. He watched a flock of small brown birds that also hung around the food places. He tried to catch one of them pecking something on the ground but had no luck. The bird remained wary while eating.

By early evening he was still hungry. The people were leaving the food places and the cat wanted to find its way back to the quieter places and find somewhere to sleep. He had luck crossing back to his usual haunts. Daylight was fading as he trotted along a sidewalk. A couple of slow-moving fast things passed by but did not shriek at him. Another stopped a little ahead of him and two people stepped out. They were dressed in the same dark clothes. The cat smelled meat. “Good kitty. It’s all right.” He deked under a bush.

But the smell of the meat was enticing and he was so hungry. He crept from the bush towards the spot on a lawn where the meat had been set. He was aware of the man and the woman standing quietly several feet back from the meat and he was confident in his ability to snatch and run. He had done that many times before. He lunged at the prize but was surprised that it seemed rooted to the ground and, in the second he made an effort to secure it, he was trapped as if in a giant spider web. Though he thrashed and spat, he was dumped into a small cage. He heard a door click shut.

“Got him at last,” said one of his captors to the other.

“Not a moment too early with Hallowe’en tomorrow.”

Through a little slot the cat saw himself being loaded into a moving thing.

The cat remembered he had been in a moving thing before when he was very young. He was with another of his kind who looked like him in a similar cage They seemed to be there for a long time before the moving thing stopped and the man came and took the cage, letting it sway as he walked so that his litter mate and he fell to one corner.

He did not remember what the man and woman said.

“Do we have to do this?”

“Nobody wants a black cat,” the man replied.

“It seems so cruel.”

“You were the one who would not let me drown them from the beginning. That’s what we always did on the farm. You said give them a chance. This is a chance. We’ve kept them too long. Look at you. Get a grip.”

The man opened the box and dumped the cats into a ditch. The woman and the man left.

The cat did not remember learning to hunt or the day the other cat was hit by a noisy moving thing and could not follow him anymore. He did remember the cage and the man and he learned to stay hidden even as he gradually found himself back in territory with many people.

The cat had spent a first winter under porches, always hungry, learning to stalk the small birds where they gathered to eat. But that was after the worst time. The time like now. When the days were getting shorter and the nights colder and the leaves were falling from the trees and he first saw the strange things that glowed on the lawns. The worst time was the night when many little people roamed the streets from house to house and some bigger people saw him and cornered him and one put him in a soft cage and flung him over his shoulder.

“This will make our gathering complete. Tell the others. See you all at the Devil’s Den.”

There were thirteen invited friends at the party. The cat knew nothing of Hallowe’en, of Medieval beliefs that black cats were witches in disguise, that women said to be witches were burned at a stake or drowned to prove their innocence, that their cats were tortured. In truth, those gathered knew little of the history either. They said they were having a black mass. This meant they had lit a fire under the iron kettle used for boiling maple sap, now referred to as the cauldron. They stood in a circle around it, drinking beer, some raising their free hand in the sign of the horns. Two of the girls, clustered together, spoke in low and frightened tones. A third girl danced with abandon flinging her hair and stripped to her bare breasts despite the chill of the night. Everyone was dressed in black in a motley assortment of hoodies and trench coats. A couple of males braved the cool night in black band shirts. A tall thin male completely in black and with a black cape strode around the circle, shouting, “Ave Satanas. Everyone. Ave Satanas” until a few joined in. The cauldron was filled with rotting leaves and murky waters from the fall rains. The dancing girl threw in some incense and turned from the fire.

“I need life force. It is time for the cat.”

The male in the black cape brought the sack from the shack. He was unsteady on his feet as he held the squirming animal aloft by its tale. One of the two frightened girls screamed, “Don’t. Don’t.” Others chanted, “Kill the devil” or “Kill for the devil.” Another male with a butcher knife gave a vicious slash at the cat, severing a large part of its tail. The cat dropped to the ground and ran into the deeper woods.

The cat remembered hanging in the air and the pain in his tail and falling to the ground and running away. The cat did not know what else went on after he escaped. Nor did he understand the chanting. “Kill the witch. Kill the bitch.” He understood screams and fear.

Now the moving thing was stopped. The cat heard the man and the woman stepping out and coming to the rear door. Inside was now pitch black. The cat cowered in the back of the cage.

Chip Shot (Rian Elliott)

“He will be missed.” The pastor’s voice rang out in declaration or command. Looking down, his voice softened in repetition.

“He will be missed by his wife Laura, and his precious daughter Barbara.”

Barbara half-turned and flicked her auburn waves and granite eyes over me.

Indeed, I always knew I’d miss Mel and a tear wound down my cheek unbidden. Barbara sniffed. Well, she had two parents, but she was her father’s girl.

As agreed we had a small gathering with refreshment in the church hall after the last prayer. It seemed more appropriate.

Not that I didn’t have my place in our family. Even when Barbara was very young he would only golf nine holes on the weekend, setting himself obstacles to practice chip shots in the backyard as she watched from her playpen or sandbox. Later they always enjoyed the dinner I had waiting after her soccer, basketball, volleyball games, and the snacks before practice, golf and piano and skating and sailing. Mel insisted on the sailing. Barbara was not to miss out on water sports as I did. In fact, almost half the backyard was devoted to a swimming pool when Barbara reached her teens, leaving a small section for his golf shots and less room for a shrub and plant surround. Admittedly, this served us well in her teenage years.

No wandering around shopping malls, she was in the backyard along with anyone considered suitable by Mel. My contribution was to see that he too had a usable share of the yard and to this end I tried to see that he had the tools to keep the yard in shape.

It took some continuous thought. On Father’s Day when the pool was put in I bought him a skimmer. Barbara gave him a model frog that same year. It sat on his desk till the day he died, or possibly the next. Barbara rescued it, she announced, just before the service. Though I can’t imagine what she thought would happen to it.

For every holiday, birthday, celebration thereafter I added to his repertoire kept in a small service shed between the pool and ‘his’ side yard. Increasingly, since the pool was hers and the green was his, servicing that fringe was left to me. But I did not give in.

From that Father’s Day forward I added clippers, little hoes, even a workshop on garden design at one point. He was happy enough to try each out at the beginning, but there was always some interruption from Barbara to see this, help someone do a somersault. So the yard work fell to me.

This took us through Barbara’s wedding at age 19, where the number of guests made garden upkeep a necessity. Even with a year’s warning outlining the circular path and the walkway to the reception area at the back was full-time effort every weekend. Mel did manage to cart the weeds and lay the bricks where outlined. To be fair, he also did a bit more when Barbara was gone. I was perfectly willing to encourage this with equipment that he did use, regardless of Barbara’s comments.

And on the last Father’s Day she gave a withering glance as I presented the crème de la crème for our garden upkeep. She had bought him a Golf Package which would involve touring ten top of the line courses within a day’s drive. That would hardly leave him time for chip shots on our small green square amidst the Japanese maples which were my one victory in yard planning. The woodchipper I presented to help keep his green space free excited no interest.

So I always knew I’d miss him, but then he returned. Even then if he had reappeared in total the first time I could have coped. Possibly even if he’d started with a mid-air smile. He and Barbara read Alice and the Cheshire Cat so many times it would have been a bit of a chuckle, maybe. But what anyone would make of a stray knee or a dangling ear lobe I can’t imagine.

I did try when his hand appeared close to mine while unlocking the side door. With a deep breath I reached out for what I hoped would be recognized as a reassuring pat. But it slipped quickly past and behind me.

Over time it seemed daylight was not a happy option. As we went along his parameters seemed to set themselves. Body parts and location never matched precisely but it did seem the uppermost portions were likelier when I was seated and reading, or sometimes having a morning coffee in the kitchen. Indeed one morning there was a glimpse of his right eye and I could have sworn he gave a wink, a ‘have a nice day’ nod to me if any message was intended.

The knees, feet and hands were more likely to appear when I was standing or walking around. I thought once when I saw a foot tapping in the middle of the living room he might be reminding me of how we used to dance. Ridiculous though I felt I found music for the tape deck and when the jive started I showed willing and held a hand out and open and head to the side, inviting him to join me. But this took too long perhaps, for he faded sadly rather than blinked away after one feeble turn.

Oddly, although he might appear in any of the downstairs rooms or windows, there was no glimpse outdoors either by the pool or the green.

From then on he appeared mostly near doorways. On that last day his hand appeared beside me when I opened the basement door, only to disappear as the door swung back.

I felt his foot firmly in my back and my equilibrium vanish as I pitched down the stairs. I barely had time to think that for once Barbara had it dead right. The woodchipper was a step too far.

Last Dance (Rian Elliott)

He slid through the side entrance of the men’s long care unit seconds after the last bed check. Hauling the skateboard from the bushes where he had stashed it the previous afternoon he charged around the building to the women’s side, bathrobe flapping around his patterned pyjama bottoms in the light drizzle.

Taking one deep breath before turning the corner he let out a low whoop of joy at the sight of her, white umbrella protecting her bathrobe and pink nightie with the only footwear she could grab, blue flipflops. Seeing him, she joined in his laughter as he placed the skateboard on the ground before her while holding his hand out in invitation.

“Stop laughing. I told you I’d save the last dance for you.”

“You did. But not that you’d get there yourself whether I had wheels or not,” he held her hand more firmly with one foot blocking the board while she placed one foot on.

“Pshaw. They can take your licence but there’s always wheels somewhere. And I meant any and every last dance. So here we are with no dance hall and no ball but we’re still singing in the rain on a lovely wide terracotta pathway.”

He guided the board and supported her with one arm around her waist as she stroked the ground on the other side. “They’ll never look for us here. With any luck we’ll make it to the pavilion on the other side of the grounds.”

“Let ‘em save their idiot wheel chairs for the gullible.”

“We’ll dance the night away and if we don’t manage to catch pneumonia by morning we’ll take a piggyback run down the slope on the other side and land on the freeway. If we time it right we can grab the back of a passing rig and ride till the next midnight or dance through the next county, whichever comes first.”

“You lost me at pneumonia. No one seems willing to let us have anything else.” Her breath was coming slow and shallow at this point. He slowed their pace

“Are those shoes up to all this?” He cast a concerned look at her flipflops, ignoring his own slippers

“Not with anyone else. But open toes are fine with you. Even in your logging boots I knew my tootsies were safe.”

“Not everyone would say that.”

“But no one else knows what I’m talking about. Wouldn’t you like a turn on the board? It’s better than biking.”

“I always knew you weren’t happy about the back seat of the Harley.”

“The back seat was fine,” she chuckled. “I just didn’t like seeing the road come up. Wouldn’t have wanted the last dance to be spent on crutches or splints for either of us. Hey!”

“Hey yourself.”

“There’s the pavilion. I knew we’d make it. Do you have your music thingy in your pocket?”

“I do, not that we need it. We make our own music, celebration or not. But by the way, Happy Anniversary!”

Tower Lights (Marian Bron)

I have no life, and the entire town knows it. Every year, I sit home the night of the big Halloween Dance at the community center. Everyone has a date for the dance, even old Mr. Ellis from up the street. He’s ninety-four and hasn’t had teeth since he was forty-two. I have teeth and still can’t get a date.

The upside is that everyone needs a babysitter and you don’t need a degree in economics to figure out I can make a fortune. I charge twenty-five dollars an hour and don’t change diapers. This year I am booked to babysit for Mrs. Westenraugh. She and her family are new to the area and I have been recommended by a neighbour of hers.

Drizzle hangs in the air, finding its way up coat sleeves and down rubber boots. To say I’m cold is an understatement. Orange auras, floating on light posts, hum in the misty gloom, singing me down the dead-end street to my newest employer’s home.

Stone pillars flank an eight-foot-high wrought iron gate that bars the path of would-be intruders. A rusty screech and the subterranean whir of motors and the gates creak open. Silently, they shut behind me. Slick with rain, a cobbled driveway disappears under hunched willow trees. Their feathered branches sway back and forth, reaching to stroke my cheeks. Long-fingered leaves trail over my face, their moribund digits kneading and slithering, pawing. I whip them away with the sweep of an arm.

Through the mist, looms a moldering Gothic mansion. Eavestroughs swinging loose, hang by long rain silvered spikes, screech in the gloom. Shutters, rusty hinges oiled by the vile elements, tap an eerie tempo against brick walls. My steps slow. I should have checked this woman out before agreeing to sit for her. I shake my head and square my shoulders. For twenty-five dollars an hour, I can tough it out.

Crumbling stone steps lead up to the front door. I lift the brass lion head shaped doorknocker by its chin and let it fall. There is no friendly clack as it hits the strike plate. A dolorous moan echoes through the gloom. No footsteps approach, no tapping of heels crossing floors, just a groan as the wooden door opens.

A witch stands before me. More precisely, a woman dressed as a witch stands before me. Mrs. Westenraugh with her jet-black hair, peeked hat and broom in hand, is dressed to party.

“The babysitter is here,” she calls over her shoulder.

My knees knock as I step over the threshold and follow her into the depths of the house. I really should have checked this place out beforehand. Suits of armour wielding polished poleaxes stand guard while old bespeckled men scowl from portraits lining the hallway’s walls.

“The television is in the den through there,” the witch says pointing down the hall. “And there are snacks in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

I nod my head. I can do this. Remember,  twenty-five tax-free dollars.

“We’ll be back just after midnight. Dr”—a thunderclap shakes the house—“won’t give you any trouble. He’s in his bed. Do not under any circumstance disturb him. Do not check on him. Leave him be.” Each ‘do not’ weighted with a glare.

My employer disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone. This should be an easy hundred bucks. Sounds like the kid, Drew, Drake or whatever his name is, is down for the night.

A spider stands guard over the remote sitting on the coffee table in the den. I flick him away and turn the television on. It’s not long before my stomach starts to rumble.

Mrs. Westenraugh deserves props for embracing the whole Halloween thing. In the kitchen, an enormous cauldron hangs over the open fireplace, a foul-smelling stew lazily bubbling away. As I give the green mess a stir, black blobs rise to the surface and break free, hovering above me, bumping against the ceiling. The fire’s snake-eyed reflection glistens in each orb.

Going by the jars of dried herbs and odd-looking vegetables in the cupboards, the Westenraughs must be health nuts. Each jar is labelled in Latin. Make that educated health nuts. There are no chips or cake in sight, and no soda. I don’t trust the tea. Tap water and a lint-covered mint, hiding beneath a used tissue in the pocket of my raincoat will have to do.

Back in the den, I surf the channels. It’s the usual Halloween fare. Every horror movie ever made is on television tonight. The opening credits to “Dracula Visits America” scrolls across the screen. I’m sitting all alone in a creepy house; I’m not going to watch anything scary. I leave the TV on the local community cable station, its elevator music playing as I read the announcements. I should have brought a book.

It doesn’t take long for boredom to set in. I start to wander. First around the den, opening drawers and looking into urns, before moving out into the hall. This house would be a great place for a game of Sardines. There are so many great hiding places. Cupboards under stairs, deep deep closets, and nooks and crannies galore. The Westenraughs should rent the place out, it’d make an incredible haunted house. I take the staircase to the next floor and enter what can only be a torture chamber. A bed of nails, a guillotine, a rack, and even a coffin. I reverse and step back out of the room. Mrs. Westenraugh let her imagination take her a bit too far.

Ten o’clock sounds. Two hours to go.

From a bedroom window, I can see the east wing of the house, where a four-storied tower rises from its roofline. A light blinks on in the top window. Drake, Drew or whoever is awake and pacing. His dark figure moves back and forth across the lit window.

He stops, raises a hand, pressing his palm to the window pane. I step back, ducking behind the drapes, not sure if he saw me. He moves away from the window. Seconds later he’s back, only to disappear again. The lights go off but not for long. On and off they go, again and again. The boy is playing with the lights.

There are no electric light switches anywhere near the bottom of the tower’s staircase. The space above a bituminous void, too dangerous to attempt without illumination. A candelabra and box of wooden matches are the only source of light. Slowly, one hand clamped to the railing and the other holding the lit candelabra out in front of me. My foot too long for each ancient rung, I tiptoe, circling my way up the twisted staircase. Each tread creaking under my weight. The wind picks up, keening in the dark, drafty fingers of cold working through the brick. The candles flicker, burn bright, before almost sputtering out, inviting ghostly shadows.

“Please don’t go out,” I mutter. My breath fanning the flames, once again lighting my way.

Drew/Drake’s door is shut. I should have asked the witch to repeat her child’s name. It puts me at a disadvantage. Across the door’s wooden face is a faded golden inscription. My fingers trace the Latin words.

“Pray-ee-monty-us pram-unit-us,” I sound out, having no idea what Praemonitus pramunitus meant. Hesitatingly, I push the door open. Traces of incense wafts past me. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. A man, not a child, stands in the center of the room, his hand rests on the side of an open coffin. His ruby lips turn up, the smile not reaching his eyes. His long blue-tinged fingers push a satin-lined black cloak off his shoulders.

“Good evening.” His white canines glow in the candlelight. Their points glisten red.

I am out the door, down the stairs, shoving my feet into my rainboots, grabbing my raincoat and pushing out the front door in seconds. Dashing out into the rain, I pinch myself. I must be dreaming. There is no way that woman said Dracula. Willow branches grab for me as I race down the driveway, throw my coat over the gate, clambering after it with simian speed. I am home in no time.

The front door slams behind me. Leaning against it, I try to catch my breath. I am home. My warm modern, lovely normal home.

“Hey?” my mother pops her head out of the family room. “You’re early?”

I sink to the floor.

“What’s wrong?”

If I tell her, she’ll have me committed.

“Neighbour’s dog.”

The Painted Smile (Maria Melillo Jones)

The painted smile on his face was abruptly wiped away when he saw his best friend kissing his girlfriend.  Through the double panel glass doors, he sees all three of them resembling a perfect family having a quick glance at his best friend holding his newborn baby girl.

Enraged, and heartbroken he continues to watch the ungrateful scene.  What a fool I have been in believing that she loved me, or that she was loyal to me while I was away serving our country.  I don’t even know if Isabella is my daughter.

He walks into the room with a teddy bear and flowers in his hand.  His girlfriend and his best friend are surprised and shocked by his presence.

“Aren’t you supposed to work today?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t you like that.”

Throwing the flowers in her face he asks, “Is that his child?  Tell me?”

Her head tilted down.  She is not looking at him or responding.

“Damn it, answer me?”

He grabs her arm.   “Look me in the eye.”

She is still quiet with her eyes looking down.  It seems obvious to him now, Isabella is not his child.

He is furious and takes off in a hurry.  His red truck speeding down the road sending a blaze of dust behind it. A few meters away he can hear the whistle of a train coming. He put his foot on the gas and gives it all. His truck came to a skewed standstill only feet on the other side of the train track. He coughed and said, “Hell with Her.”