Xmas Spirit (8 page)

“Don’t move,” Wendy Anderson instructed, training her smartphone camera on him. “I’ve never seen a metrosexual Santa before.”

The plier of the dismal trade complied, smiling menacingly for them.

“Status update!” Wendy T. cheered, checking out the photo.

“You were saying?” Wendy T. resumed.

“You wanted to know what our little giveaway was all about,” he said, stepping uncomfortably close to them, package first.

“Back off, Santa Claws,” Wendy Anderson snapped, pulling Wendy T. behind Damen and showing him her long pointed nails.

“We’re listening,” Wendy T. said. “As long as we don’t have to sit on your lap to find out.”

He smiled wider.

“My name is Mr. Wormsmoth,” he said. “I’m the funeral director here.”

“So then shouldn’t Halloween really be your thing?” Damen observed. “Christmas doesn’t exactly seem like the best time to promote your line of work.”

“On the contrary, young man, my business is always in season,” the man answered dryly. “Which is why we host the funeral expo at the convention center every Christmas Eve.”

“Sounds creepy,” Damen added. “There’s not much joy in your world, if you know what I mean.”

“We like to think of it as counterprogramming.”

“Original. I like it,” Wendy A. said. “What do we have to do?”

“Model.”

“That’s it?”

“You mean like at a car show? Just stand there and rub our
hands along somebody’s bumper?”

“Not exactly,” Mr. Wormsmoth informed. “But for the most part, you will just have to lie there.”

“Oh, well, you are in luck then. They’re experts at that.” Damen laughed. “It’s how they end up every Christmas Eve after the SantaCon pub crawl.”

The undertaker raised an eyebrow.

“You will be modeling outfits and, well, coffins. But not just any coffins. See-through coffins. It’s the latest thing. Part of our new If I Die Young line at the funeral expo.”

“FunCon!” Wendy T. announced.

“Casket couture!” Wendy A. squealed.

“You? In black?” Damen asked skeptically.

“I wear black to the gym. It’s slimming,” Wendy T. said. “It’s a fat funeral anyway, isn’t it?”

“Wait, so we just lie there for a while and let people look at us like we’re in a fishbowl?” Wendy A. asked.

“A shark tank, I’d say,” Damen grumbled under his breath.

“Think of it as a jewelry case,” he said. “Perfectly appropriate to display a precious gem like yourself. To be seen. Eternally seen.”

He opened his arms for a hug.

“Vanity vaults?” Wendy A. squeaked. “Deal!”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Damen cracked as The Wendys jumped at the opportunity like trained dolphins performing for a bite of mackerel.

“Two hundy! Come to Wendy!” Wendy T. purred.

“Easy money: the best kind,” Wendy A. agreed.

“What about me?” Damen asked.

“I was getting to that,” Mr. Wormsmoth responded. “There is one other thing.”

“Is this one of those
Wait . . . there’s more
kind of infomercial things, ’cause we’ve already accepted the offer.”

Wormsmoth lowered the boom. Literally.

“Once you are inside the coffin, you will be buried.”

“You mean like a magic trick?” Wendy A. asked.

“No, actually lowered into a grave,” he answered. “It’s all for the cameras, of course.”

“Where?” Wendy T. wondered.

“The cemetery. But just for a minute. It’s all pretty safe.”

“Pretty safe?” Damen challenged.

“It will be with you, my young man, operating the winch.”

“I don’t know,” Damen demurred. “Heavy machinery and
coffins.”

“Don’t be so nutless. You said you needed the money too,” Wendy A. barked.

“Either that or we tell Petula all she’s getting is a card for Christmas from the love of her life,” Wendy T. piled on.

“Are you really going to blackmail me at Christmas?”

“’Tis the reason for the season,” Wendy Thomas said.

Damen stared daggers at them.

“Really it’s pretty safe,” Wormsmoth advised.

“If it’s safe, why hasn’t anyone else signed up before now?” Damen pressed.

“Eyes on the prize, dude,” Wendy Anderson exclaimed, peeling off imaginary twenties from her imaginary bankroll.

Damen looked at Petula’s two obnoxious sidekicks and fantasized about lowering them down into a deep, dark hole and tossing shovel after shovel of cold, wet dirt over their selfish selves while they lay there helpless, encased in glass. Besides, Petula’s wrath would be far worse to handle than any potential lawsuit he might incur from accidentally entombing these two.

“It will be my pleasure,” Damen agreed.

A lone figure appeared and approached down the long walk into the compound, head bowed.

“Virginia!” Pam shouted at the sight of the little girl. “Did you find Charlotte?”

“I found her,” Virginia said.

“Is she in Hawthorne?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring her back?”

“No,” Virginia answered tersely.

“No? Why not! We’re running out of time. Christmas Eve is tomorrow!”

“I know, Pam.”

By now, CoCo, Prue, Gary, Violet, Kim, and now Mercury Mary—who’d reverted back to slurping down toxic amounts of sushi—saw them talking and rushed over. Virginia stood in the middle of the crowd, feeling like an accused witch at the Salem trials.

“Why so tight-lipped? I thought you’d be really excited.”

“I failed, okay? I let everyone down.”

“But you said you found her,” Kim said.

“Failed how?” Prue asked.

“She didn’t want to come back. She’s happy there, she said.”

A look of shock and amazement and disappointment dropped hard over each of their faces like a ton of unsecured bricks from a roof construction site on a windy day.

“Did you tell her what’s happening here, that we are all backsliding because of her?” Prue rasped.

“I felt like I was talking to a sleepwalker,” Virginia said sadly. “I didn’t want to jar her any more than I already had.”

“This isn’t exactly the best time for coddling,” Prue added wryly. “Why did we ever send a kid to do a ghost’s job?”

Prue’s tone was becoming more and more abrasive, but Virginia stood her ground. Pam put her arm on Prue’s shoulder to calm her.

“Sorry, Virginia,” Prue said, taking a breath. “I can’t help it.”

“Don’t apologize.” Virginia smiled. “I understand.”

“You said she seemed oblivious about the harm she might be doing?” Pam continued.

“There was no point to spelling it out. She wasn’t listening.”

“Not even about Eric?” Pam asked.

“Funny, but that was really the only thing she was really clear about.”

“Is that good or bad?” Kim asked.

Virginia shrugged, frustrated.

“She seems to be forgetting everything else, but she’s still angry at him.”

“Well, at least she still remembers something, for better or worse,” Pam said. “Maybe we can work with that.”

Eric ambled up to check in on Virginia’s progress, and the group went instantly silent.

“Hey, Eric,” Gary said, plastering a nervous smile on his face.

The rest of the Dead Ed pack did likewise.

“Whassup?”

“Not a thing, dude,” DJ chimed in.

Everyone looked down, shifting back and forth, petrified of the next question.

“Where’s Charlotte?”

“She . . .” Virginia began slowly.

“She hasn’t turned up yet, but we have a few leads,” Pam interrupted, signaling everyone else to shush with her eyes.

Even Electric Eric was trying to conserve energy. He remained laid-back.

“Cool,” he said, nonchalantly wandering off. “She’ll turn up. Later.”

“We’re not going to be able to keep this from him,” Mike said, his upbeat attitude turning decidedly morose.

“If this goes on much longer, it won’t matter anyway,” Prue observed.

The group broke up a little less hopeful than they had been earlier about Charlotte’s return, leaving Virginia, Pam, Prue, and CoCo to strategize.

“I only have one question, perhaps the most important one,” CoCo said to Virginia. “Was she wearing the same outfit?”

Virginia rolled her eyes and walked away. “I’m tired.”

“We need some expert help,” Pam said.

“Brain?” Prue asked.

“Brain,” Pam replied.

7
No Gift to Bring

Naughty or Nice

The commercialization of Christmas is often cited by critics as distracting from the real reason for the season. Pitting one against the other, however, is an oversimplification. They are two sides of the same coin. Our lists to Santa, from our earliest childhood, teach us that dreams can come true, the reward can be ours, but not only if we behave. If we believe. Which, after all, is the real meaning of Christmas.

“Virginia?”
Charlotte awoke slowly and looked around, still stuck in her conversation with the little ghostly visitor from the night before. “That was strange.”

She sat up at the edge of her bed, stretched her arms upward, and yawned, feeling every muscle in her jaw, throat, and chest tense and relax in the proper order as she exhaled. She blinked a few times and wiped away the sand and eye goo she hadn’t had to contend with for ages. Whatever was going on, Virginia was telling the truth; it wasn’t a dream.

“I’m still here,” she said, tapping her feet on the floor. “And I’m still hungry.”

Charlotte stepped lightly over the pictures that were strewn across her floor, headed downstairs to the kitchen, and was greeted by yet another note from Gladys.

“Out Christmas shopping. Cereal in the cabinet.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Gladys.”

Charlotte reached for the cabinet handle and pulled it open, revealing several precisely marked plastic containers, all measured, with Gladys’s name written in Magic Marker on them, except for one that read
CHARLOTTE
.

Charlotte reached for her container and sighed with disappointment.

“Ugh. Shredded wheat. With flax.”

She took a quick look around the kitchen and in the refrigerator but couldn’t find anything remotely appetizing. Charlotte grabbed the milk carton, checked the expiration date just in case, and poured milk out until the shredded wheat squares were bobbing in a sea of white.