Riders In The Sky Part 36

Then: "Mr. Cutler, Merry Christmas. This is Santa Claus, about to land on your lively little paradise in the sea."

2.

Casey stood far from the church, under the wide branches of a tree old enough to be his great-grandfather. There was a sharp-edged moon, there were diamond stars, there was enough chill in the air for it to be no other season than winter. It would have been perfect had there been any snow.

He hadn't planned to be here.

He didn't want to be here now.

Earlier that evening, however, he had been standing in the living room, a sandwich in his hand, and he had seen the kids rush out of the house and across the street. By the time they reached Bannock's car, John and Lisse had joined them, and they all got in and they all drove away.

Not one looked in his direction.

Not one had spoken to him since he'd left them on Wednesday.

He knew, though, that they had been discovering the island. Driving down the harbor to check out the boats, the houses on the Hook's slope, the handful of restaurants down there; walking up and down the main business district, checking the shops, having a late lunch at Betsy's, last night having a drink first at the Tide, then at the Edward Teach. As far as he knew, they had never mentioned his name, except to say they knew him back when and had dropped in to see how he was doing.

Junior told him this.

Early this morning he had ridden up on his scooter, a large bag of warm food in the carrier.

"Mrs. Nazario," he said when Casey met him at the steps. "She says you are supposed to be eating. I think she's mad at you, Mr. Chisholm. I think Mr. Nazario isn't mad at you, but I think she's really mad at you, Mr. Chisholm."

"I'm sorry if she is," he'd said.

Then, his left hand fluttering around his left shoulder, he looked at the houses and said, "There are people around, they say they know you. Do they know you, Mr. Chisholm? Do they really know you from the time when you didn't live here but lived somewhere else?"

He had nodded, said nothing.

Junior told him what his father had told him, what he had heard in the luncheonette. "I know they think I don't hear good, but I do. I think they don't know I know."

Casey smiled. "Yeah, Junior, I know the feeling."

Junior had shaken his head. Flapped his arms. "Lots of new people here, I can't keep sense of them all. Does your friend have a fancy coat and hat?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Boy, one of them does. Funny hat." He tugged at his own, this one with flaps he never tied under his chin, but just as vibrantly red. "Really funny hat. Funny face, too. Holes in it, Mr. Chisholm. Got holes in it all over. His friend has a mustache this big, too." He stretched his arms out as far as they would go. "Funny."

Casey smiled again.

When Junior left, wishing him a merry Christmas and hoping Santa Claus would visit and bring him lots of stuff, he had returned to the house and sat in the living room. The television stayed off; he didn't think he could stand seeing another day of dying.

He tried to read, but somehow the book's language didn't seem to be English.

He tried singing to himself, but somehow he'd forgotten just where all the notes were.

He fixed a leak in the kitchen sink, scrubbed the bathtub and the bathroom sink, swept the floors and vacuumed the rugs, and spent too d.a.m.n much time standing at the living room window, wondering if maybe he should make the first move.

When they all left, he ate the rest of the sandwich, used the dust pan and a brush to wipe up the crumbs, and decided to make an early night of it. If he turned on the TV, there'd only be church services and five different versions of A Christmas Carol, not one of them his favorite, the one with Alistair Sim.

A few minutes before eleven, he put on his coat, grabbed his gloves, and went out.

Fresh night air might help him think, although what he had to think about, he surely didn't know.

Things; that's all, things.

Before he knew it, he had found the tree, and the spot beneath where he could watch and not be seen. Far beyond the reach of the nearest street lamp.

The carillon had played "The First Noel" and "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," and he had sung along with them, under his breath, watching his breath slip into the night and fade. He noticed how many cars were parked along the street, and wondered how many others had been driven to the mainland and parked on streets similar to this.

How many people were left on Camoret Island?

A stir of annoyance at himself.

So what are you doing, Casey? Standing out here in the cold like a d.i.c.kens orphan? You feeling sorry for yourself, boy? You feeling a little lonely? You hoping Cora or Reed will come running out of the church and straight into your arms, beg your forgiveness, and drag you back inside where you'll take your place at the altar while the congregation applauds and weeps and welcomes you home?

What are you looking for, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h? You looking for a d.a.m.n miracle?

Or just a good reason to die.

He waited a while longer-for what, he didn't know-then decided it was time to head back. If he kept well to the side of the road and used the trees wisely, they'd never know he'd been here. No embarra.s.sing questions, no need to lie.

a.s.suming, of course, they bothered to talk to him.

A last look, a sour smile, and he turned to leave, hadn't left the protection of the tree when he saw a car glide toward him from the north. Its headlights turned the interlocking branches into cage bars, but they didn't touch him as he pressed closer to the trunk.

This late at night, he couldn't help wondering why the vehicle was moving so slowly. Almost as if its occupants needed the time to check things out. Except, since it was halfway to midnight, there wasn't much to see-Christmas lights on the houses, the lights spanning Midway much farther down, and that was about it.

The engine barely made a sound.

As it pa.s.sed his spot, he tried to see inside, but all the windows were tinted; he couldn't even see the dashboard's glow. And once past the church and the bulk of parked cars, it sped up abruptly and vanished, leaving only a blurred taillight trail behind.

A shrug, a tilt of his head, and he began the trip home. Long strides and swinging arms, not bothering to look behind him because he figured he'd hear any cars first and have plenty of time to get out of the way. Or hide.

He quickened his pace when the carillon sang again, "Joy to the World," sounding distant and small.

Midnight, then.

Merry Christmas.

"Stop it," he whispered harshly. "Stop it, no one's listening, no one cares."

He broke into a trot when he reached his front walk, had the door closed behind him just as John's car pulled up, made a U-turn, and parked. Lisse got out first, the kids climbing out of the back. Their voices were loud, exuberant, and he watched them give over to a round of hugs before separating.

Only John looked his way, and might have come to the door had not Lisse grabbed his hand, laughed, and pulled him away.

When the street was silent again, Casey took off his coat and gloves, tossed them onto the couch, and went upstairs. He made to pa.s.s the storeroom, changed his mind, and went in, crossed over to the closet, and stared at the door.

It was open.

Less than an inch, but it was open.

This time he didn't curse it, or kick it, or turn his back to it. He closed it gently with the fingers of one hand, pushing until he heard the latch catch, then reluctantly took his hand away.

It's the season, he told himself as he headed for bed; it's the season, and the sentiment, it's nothing you haven't been through before. Forget it. Ignore it. Sleep in tomorrow, eat, read, and before you know it, Christmas will be gone.

Sure, right, something answered; and then it will be one day closer to the end.

3.

Christmas day on Camoret Island: Junior Raybourn sits cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree, wrapping paper torn and strewn around him, his red hat perched on the back of his head, a bow with an adhesive backing stuck to the back of his hand.

He holds up a red and white cardigan with horn b.u.t.tons and two pockets. "Is this mine?" he asks.

Senior, from the sofa, nods. "All yours, son."

"Can I wear it to work do you think?"

"I don't know. You'd have to be awfully careful not to get grease on it."

"Oh." He folds it carefully and returns it to its bed of red tissue paper. "I will think about it."

"Good."

"Do you like your present?"

Senior holds up a Sherlock Holmes pipe, with the face of the detective carved into the bowl. There isn't a chance in the world he'll ever smoke it. "Fine, son, very fine."

"Miz Nazario helped me."

"You did a good job."

"I know. Is there football on? I'd like to watch some football now."

"We'll check after breakfast."

Junior turns on his b.u.t.tocks, raises his knees and hugs them tightly. "I think next time," he says, resting his chin on his knees, "I'm gonna ask Santa Claus to bring me a book."

Jasper Cribbs stands in his driveway, tapping his foot impatiently, checking his watch every ten seconds. The women are, as always, late, and it's getting him mad. They're going to spend the day in Savannah with his in-laws, hardly the way he feels like celebrating the holiday. But it keeps Mary Gwen happy, and it doesn't cost him a dime, so what the h.e.l.l, bite the bullet, smile like it's an election, and maybe next year they'll both be stone dead.

Now that would be a present he could get his teeth into.

A car honks from the street and he waves without looking, reaches through the driver's window, and pushes his own horn, a long blast that has the front door open and his wife and daughter scurrying out before the sound dies.

"Let's go, let's go," he urges with false joviality, clapping his hands, opening the door for his wife. "Can't get the good stuff if we're not there, you know."

"Oh, you," Mary Gwen says, playfully slapping his arm. "Momma would shoot you if she heard you say that."

Your mother, he thinks sullenly, would shoot me in a heartbeat if she thought she could get away with it.

Mariana, acting as if she were being asked to commit some utterly distasteful sacrifice, opens the back door and gets in on her own. Slams it shut behind her. She lobbied for days to stay home, as she has done every year since she was twelve, and resents the fact that even now, in her twenties, she has to do what Daddy tells her.

He raps a knuckle on her window until she slides it down. "Cheer up," he tells her. "It won't be long, you know that. We'll be back before you know it, and you can still see your friends."

She doesn't answer; she just pouts.

Spare me, he begs the sky as he rounds the back of the car; spare me.

What sustains him today, what has lightened his mood considerably, was the call he'd received late last night from Norville.

"He's here."

"You sure?"

"Just talked to him."

"He knows what to do?"

"Jesus, Jasper, he's a d.a.m.n professional. Yes, I'm pretty sure he knows what to do."

"Fine. Let me know when it's over."

"Jasper, trust me, I have a feeling you'll know it anyway. Oh, and merry Christmas."

Whittaker Hull looks at his Christmas tie and utters a martyr's sigh, "Darling, next time just give me the money, all right?"