When Elves Attack (11 page)

Coleman leaned over. “What's the second dial?”

“Volume control.”

Coleman strained for a look at the roof. “I don't see any speakers.”

“Snake is our speaker.”

“But how . . . ?”

“You know all those piercings he has?”

“Like a pincushion.”

“The other dial controls a second set of lights, except I removed the lights and wired their sockets to his piercings.”

Coleman took a hit. “Righteous.”

“Observe.” Serge looked up and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Are you going to stay away from Nicole?”

“Fuck you! I'll do whatever I want!”

A quick twist of the dial.

“Ahhhhhh! . . . Dammit!”

“And I also want you to stay away from Jim and his whole family.”

“Eat shit! . . . Ahhhhh! . . . Stop doing that!”

Serge winked at Coleman. “I think you get the picture.”

“But, Serge,” said Coleman, glancing up the street at people on porches. “Aren't you worried about the neighbors calling the police?”

“I have a strong feeling they're with me on this one. Everyone loves Christmas displays.”

“So you're going to keep asking him questions like that until he agrees?”

Serge shook his head. “I'm not really interested in anything he has to say. Certain personality types tend to pull you into negativity. It's best not to dwell on them . . . Especially when we're out here to enjoy a special holiday moment.”

“Rock on, dude!”

“The key is to twist the dials simultaneously, so the lights are in sync with the audio. I'll start with an easy one. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.”

Dials twisted four times.

“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! . . . Ahhhhhhhh!”

“Sounds just like it,” said Coleman.

And so Serge ran through a full program of songs.

“What was that last one?” asked Coleman.

“ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.' ” Serge pulled the control box close. “And now the grand finale. I'm just going to use the left dial, ever so slowly increasing the current to the lights. And because those lights aren't designed to stand the kind of power for an oven, they'll begin to explode individually, like popcorn in a microwave. The bulbs' filaments will burn out pretty quick, but also pretty hot.”

“Will it electrocute him?”

“No, but he won't like it.”

The dial began turning.

At first a few isolated pops spaced out seconds apart. Then, in rapid succession:
pop, pop, pop, pop, pop . . .

It continued in a sadistic drumroll until the last light finally exploded.

From the roof:
“Okay, okay, you win! I'll never go near Nicole or her family again!”

Neighbors on porches up and down Triggerfish Lane uniformly broke into applause.

Serge glanced at Coleman. “Like I said, total respect.”

Chapter Fifteen

TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

An older-style Cadillac sat at the end of the Davenports' driveway.

Serge stared through binoculars.

“What's going on?” asked Coleman.

“Jim's mother is visiting for Christmas dinner.”

“But it's not Christmas yet.”

“I think there's some static between her and Martha.” Serge watched her set the table with the best china. “Jim told me Martha goes off the stress meter whenever her mother-in-law visits.”

“They fight?”

“Worse, this silent constant looming tension, Martha on the verge of a complete psychotic meltdown the whole time . . . So Jim told me they have his mom over just before Christmas, and then her parents just after. They reserve Christmas Day itself for immediate family when their older children drive in from out of town.”

Across the street, Rita Davenport entered the dining room to help Martha set the table.

“Mom, I really got this. Go talk with Jim and enjoy yourself.”

“Don't be silly. I can't just stand around while you're doing all the work.” Rita picked up a napkin, wiping down a fork Martha had already set beside a plate.

Martha's jaw clenched, blood pressure ticking upward. She faked a smile. “Excuse me a minute.”

“Take your time.” Rita wiped a spoon. “I've been doing this my whole life.”

Martha marched into the kitchen. “Jim! She's wiping off the utensils I've already set.”

Jim briefly covered his eyes with his hands. “Okay, I'll go talk to her.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Just try to relax.” Jim went into the dining room. “Mom, you don't need to do that.”

“What? I'm not allowed to help?”

“I've got some new family photos I'd like to show you.”

“Photos? Why didn't you say so? I must see.” She followed Jim past the kitchen doorway and into the den, where framed photos stood atop an antique bureau.

Martha tiptoed down the hall to eavesdrop.

“Oh, Jim, these pictures are absolutely beautiful. The children have really grown.”

“Yes they have, Mom.”

“And I love how they're displayed on the bureau . . . Do you have a dust cloth and some Pledge?”

Martha's hands balled into white-knuckled fists . . .

Back across the street, Serge lowered the binoculars. “I feel so bad Martha and I have gotten off on about ten bad feet, because I really like Jim, and she's so terrific for him. But of course the reality of the situation is obvious: The absolute best thing I can do for both of them is never to go near their house for the rest of my life.”

Coleman swayed with a bottle of rum and grabbed a chair for balance. “Huh?”

Serge stared at Coleman a moment. “I think you've got something.” He began nodding. “There are no absolutes. I've locked myself into a defeatist mentality. Of course I can make it up to Martha! And because this is one of her most stressful days of the year with her mother-in-law, it's the perfect opportunity to help her out.”

“But, Serge—”

He held up a hand. “Not now. When I was spying on them with the binoculars, they were just about to sit down to dinner, so I'll need to hurry.” He headed toward the refrigerator. “I hear you're supposed to bring something . . .”

Back across the street, Jim carried the turkey into the dining room and set it on the table.

“Everything looks so delicious,” said Rita.

They pulled out chairs and began sitting.

Ding-dong
.

“Who can that be?”

Jim stood back up. “You two go ahead and sit. I'll answer it.” He walked around the corner and opened the door.

“Jim!”

A gasp.

“I knew you'd look surprised. I've come to join you for dinner. I know it's last minute and all, but I hear it's okay if you bring something.” Serge grinned and held up a crumpled brown paper bag. “I'm going to make it up to Martha, and then you'll be so proud of me. I'm going to be just like you someday!”

“Jim, who's at the door?”
called Martha.

Serge slapped Jim on the shoulder—“Just leave everything to me”—and walked past him into the dining room.

“Surprise!”

Martha gasped.

“Who is this man?” asked Rita.

“I'm Serge Storms, super-close friend of Jim. And you must be his mom, who I've been hearing so much about.” He walked up with an effervescent smile and kissed her hand. “You're even more radiant than I could have imagined.”

“Serge,” said Jim. “I don't think this is a good—”

Serge looked at the table. “I see I'm just in time.”

“You're having dinner with us?” asked Rita.

Serge nodded and held up the crumpled bag. “I brought sides.” He set the bag on the table and rummaged. “These are only a few days old—five tops.” He began pulling out Kentucky Fried Chicken containers. “Here's coleslaw to die for, and the mac and cheese that Coleman barely touched, and a few biscuits. Heads-up, they're a little hard . . .”

Nicole covered her mouth and giggled.

Martha shot Jim a tense glance.

“Serge,” said Jim. “I think there's been a misunderstanding. This is my mother's special day with us. It's always just family.”

“Nonsense,” said Rita. “He's a good friend of yours, and I must say very well mannered.”

“But, Mom,” said Martha.

“We've got more than enough food,” said Rita. Then turning to Serge: “Why don't you pull up a chair and have a seat by me?”

Martha's temples throbbed.

Rita folded her hands on the table. “Jim, why don't you say the grace?”

“Mom, you know I'd really rather not—”

Serge's hand shot up in the air. “Oooo! Me! Me! Me! I'll say grace!”

Jim's and Martha's eyes bugged out.

“Why, Serge,” said Rita. “That's extremely gracious of you. I'd love to hear you say grace.”

“Okay, everyone, bow your heads.” Serge closed his eyes and devoutly folded his hands. “Dear God, please ask your followers not to start any more wars.”

Martha's head fell back over her chair.

Jim nearly fainted.

Nicole cracked up.

Rita Davenport slowly turned toward Serge. “That was a very interesting prayer. And a very good prayer. I know exactly what you mean: You're talking about the people in those
other
countries.”

“Well, what I actually meant was—”

Jim's hand shot out and grabbed Serge's arm. “Leave it.”

Serge shrugged.

Dinner and conversation proceeded with the tension of a midnight execution.

At the end, Rita set down her fork. “I'll be dead soon.”

“That's an excellent philosophy,” said Serge. “Don't take a single day for granted. Live life to the fullest!”

“No,” said Rita. “I'm talking about getting old. I'm worried what will happen to me.”

“What's to worry about?” said Serge. “You can always move in here. I'm sure they'd love to have you.”

Martha spit out her food.

“Serge,” said Jim. “We don't have enough room.”

“What are you talking about?” Serge spread his arms. “You've got plenty of room. I know the layout of the whole place, especially upstairs, except that's a touchy subject. The point is, it's a golden chance for all of you to spend a lot more time together.”

Martha began shaking, and grabbed a fork like a weapon.

Rita set her napkin on her plate. “I need to powder my nose. Jim, where do you keep the bleach?”

Serge's head snapped back. “Back up. Did you say ‘bleach'?”

“Yes?”

“Bleach,”
said Serge. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“No, is there something wrong with that?”

“Not if you're cleaning needles to shoot heroin, but otherwise, yes.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Rita.

“Jim,” said Serge. “I just ran the floor plan through my head, and you're right. There isn't enough room after all.”

Rita looked perplexed. “But I thought you said a minute ago they had a lot of space.”

“Oh, there's plenty of room, just not for you.”

“Did I say something wrong?” asked Rita.

“ ‘Bleach,' ” said Serge. “There's a lot I don't know about women, but I was married briefly, and I know about ‘bleach.' ”

“I didn't mean anything by it.”

“You're talking to someone who practically invented mind games.” Serge stood and sneered. “Martha invited you into her home, and Jim is your loving son. And you come in here with so-called idle comments, which disrespect Martha, put Jim in an awkward spot, and insult their marriage. And somehow you enjoy deliberately fanning this unpleasantness.”

“Well!” said Rita. “If I'm not welcome here!”

“Don't stay on my account,” said Serge. “I'll even kick-start your broom.”

“Oh! I never!” Rita grabbed her purse and stormed out the door.

Serge turned back to face the stunned expressions around the table. “Oh my gosh, what have I done?” He lowered his head. “You must think I'm horrible. I can't stop screwing up when it comes to your family. So I'm going to leave now, and I promise you'll never see me again.”

He started for the door.

“No,” said Martha. “Come back and have a seat. Would you like some dessert?”

Chapter Sixteen

CHRISTMAS EVE

A '72 Chevelle whipped up the driveway.

Coleman pulled something out of a bag. “It's called a Yule log.”

“Put that away,” said Serge. “It's disgusting.”

“Women dig it.” Coleman slid a switch. A humming sound. “Got three speeds. And a Christmas theme. Here are little reindeer along the side, and Santa's cap on the end.”

They got out of the car and headed for the house. “But why would you think a vibrator would be an appropriate gift for Martha?”

“You said Jim asked you for help with a present.”

“Just put it back in the bag before the neighbors see that horrible thing . . . Wait, what's that music coming from the house?”

“Early Jackson 5,” said Coleman. “ ‘Dancin' Machine.' ”

“I know the song. It just sounds extra loud, and the girls usually aren't up this early.” He stopped at the Christmas tree stuck in the doorway.

“What's that hanging from one of the branches?” asked Coleman.

Serge held the satin in his hand. “First-place ribbon from the neighborhood committee.”

They got on hands and knees, and crawled into the house.

Serge slowly stood. “What the hell?”

City and Country were dancing up a storm.

“Yo, Serge,” said Country. “Your friends are a hoot.”

City spun a shorter person, busting a tango move. “Never would have guessed you knew normal people.”

Coleman nudged Serge in the ribs. “I think it's the G-Unit.”

“I know who they are . . . Hey, Edith, what on earth are you doing here?”

Edith moved her arms up and down to the lyrics, performing the robot. “Just gettin' my swerve on.”

“I sensed that vibe.” Serge set his McMuffin breakfast on the table. “But how did you find me? I'm off the grid . . . If you could, then the cops . . .”

“Take a chill pill,” said Country. “We get the credit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I went to check our Facebook page, except you were signed in, so we decided to take a peek at your circle of friends and found their message . . .”

“. . . Figured why not invite 'em over?” said City. “At least it would break this stupid boring routine of you obsessing about Christmas.” She casually lifted a foot as a model train ran underneath. “Turned out they're a blast.”

“What's that?” asked Edna.

“What's what?” asked Coleman, wadding up a shopping bag.

“That thing you stuck on the shelf.”

“It's called a Yule log. It's a—”

“I know what it is,” said Edna. “Let me have it.”

Coleman tossed, and Edna caught it on the fly.

Edith reached. “I want to see it.”

Edna pulled away. “I spotted it first.”

Serge suddenly jumped.

“What's the matter?” asked Coleman.

“Someone just goosed me.” Serge turned and wagged a finger at Eunice, who giggled and ran away.

Coleman elbowed Serge again. “Old times.”

No response.

“Serge? . . . Serge, what is it?”

Serge was concentrating on the view out the window. “There's that Ford Focus station wagon again.”

“What's it doing?”

“Slowing down outside the Davenport place. Now it's speeding away, just like the Dodge Ram that won't be coming by anymore. And the black Delta 88 I saw again this morning.”

“Probably a coincidence.” Coleman raised tequila to his lips. “Let's do something. It's Christmas Eve.”

Serge snapped his fingers. “You're right! It is Christmas Eve. We're
required
to do something, and I know exactly what that is.” He turned to a roomful of dancing. “Yo! G-Unit! . . .”

“ . . . Stayin' alive! Stayin' alive, ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo . . . Stayin' aliiiiiiiiiiive . . .”

“Serge, the music's too loud.”

Serge made a shrill wolf whistle with two fingers in his mouth. “May I have your attention, please!”

“Still too loud.”

Serge reached for the volume knob on the stereo.

“ . . . Stayin' alive—”

Silence.

“Hey!” said Edith. “That's our theme song.”

“I have an important announcement to make.” Serge clapped his hands sharply for emphasis. “How'd you girls like to have some fun?”

“We're down with fun,” said Edna. “Count us in!”

“Better hear what it is first,” said City. “Never know with these guys.”

“It's going to be great!” said Serge. “We'll all go caroling!”

Non-enthusiastic stares.

“What's the deal?” said Serge. “Everyone goes caroling.”

“Sounds like we'll take a pass,” said Country.

“I can't allow it,” said Serge. “Besides, you're thinking of regular caroling. That's what everyone does. We're going Xtreme Caroling . . . I'm taking Christmas big!”

“What's Xtreme Caroling?” asked Eunice.

Serge looked over his shoulder. “Coleman, get the boom box . . . Okay, ladies, here's what we do . . .” And he laid it all out. When he was finished: “What do you think?”

“I'm in,” said Ethel.

“Me, too,” said Edith.

“But what do we wear?” asked Eunice, gesturing at the G-Unit's matching apparel. “We can't go around the streets in our nightgowns and slippers.”

“Already thought of that,” said Serge. “I know exactly what you need to wear.”

“What?”

“I'd like to surprise you.” He grabbed his car keys. “Come on, Coleman, supply run! . . . The rest of you start getting ready—and keep practicing what I showed you. It'll be dark soon . . .”

JUST AFTER DARK

A '72 Chevelle skidded back up the driveway.

Serge scrambled under the Christmas tree in the doorway. He stood and raised a shopping bag in each hand. “You're going to love it!”

The G-Unit grabbed the sacks and pulled out the purchases. “We're supposed to wear this?” said Edith.

“It'll be a gas,” said Edna. “Let's put them on.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were all ready.

Serge fit a green felt hat onto his head, and waved an arm forward like an infantry commander. “Follow me!”

Under the Christmas tree they went.

The unlikely alliance of eight people walked single file up Triggerfish Lane.

“When do we get going?” asked Edna.

“We'll start at the end of the block,” said Serge. “Then work our way back down.”

They reached the last house.

Serge walked up the porch steps of a pastel-peach 1929 bungalow. A finger pressed a button.

Ding-dong.

Inside:
“Honey, are you expecting anyone?”

“No.”

The door opened.

“Hello—” The woman's smile disappeared. Her expression didn't become one of alarm as much as: Improper Data Input. “. . . Uh, can I help you?”

“We're carolers!” said Serge. “More specifically, Xtreme Carolers.”

“I've never heard of Xtreme Carolers,” said the woman.

“Nobody has, until now!” Serge turned to Coleman. “Hit it!”

Coleman reached for a switch on the boom box . . .

A minute later, the woman called into the house: “Honey, come quick. You have to see this.”

Her husband trotted down the hall. “What is it?”

“Just look.”

Out on the lawn, a boom box thumped at top volume, heavy on the bass. Kool & the Gang's “Jungle Boogie.” Except the carolers had modified the words.

The G-Unit stood in a line, each wearing a tiny green elf suit. In unison they thrust their hips and pumped their fists by their sides, first to the left, then to the right.

Edna and Edith:
“ . . . Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da! Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da! . . .”

Eunice and Ethel:
“ . . . Get down, get down! . . . Get down, get down! . . .”

Behind them, Coleman ran weaving and stumbling with a lit pair of sparklers in his hands. Coming the other way, Serge did a string of cartwheels the length of the yard. City and Country stood on the sidewalk, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

“ . . . Christmas boogie! . . .”

Edith:
“Shake it around!”

“ . . . Christmas boogie! . . .”

Edna:
“With the funk, y'all!”

The song ended with a bow from the entertainers.

The couple on the porch applauded heartily. “Bravo!”

“Wait here,” said the woman, heading back into the house. “I want to get you something . . .”

House after house, same reaction. More applause. “They're so cute . . .”

And on down the street. Coleman caught up with Serge on the sidewalk. “This is excellent. Everyone's forcing eggnog on us.” He guzzled from a to-go cup. “I didn't know people would just give you liquor if you knocked on their doors and did shit in their yards . . . Caroling rules!”

“You need to be more careful with those sparklers. At the last house you singed your hair.”

“I don't mind.” He raised his cup to the sky. “Free booze!”

Serge grabbed his arm.

“Hey, man, it's cool,” said Coleman. “Nobody's going to pinch us for open containers on this street.”

“It's not that.” Serge stopped and watched red taillights slow down a half block away. “There's that Delta 88 again, driving by Jim's house.”

“Probably a real estate agent.”

“I got this feeling,” said Serge. “Just keep your eyes open.”

More houses and applause, until they finally arrived at 888 Triggerfish Lane.

“Martha,” said Jim. “Come out here and see this.”

“ . . . Get down, get down! . . .”

“Ahhh!” Coleman pulled off his burning elf hat and stomped on it.

Serge pressed another button on the boom box.

“ . . . It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes . . .”

Clapping from the porch at the conclusion.

“Why doesn't everybody come inside and join us?” said Jim.

“Yes,” said Martha. “Come on in. We have eggnog.”

Coleman almost knocked everyone over running up the steps.

Serge yelled after him: “Wipe your feet!”

Coleman hit the brakes and shuffled elf shoes on the welcome mat.

Soon they were all seated around the living room on sofas and lounge chairs. Small talk. Martha made the rounds, pouring eggnog in clear coffee cups.

“Can I pick what's on TV?” asked Serge, changing channels before getting an answer. “The Grinch is stealing Christmas.”

Coleman found something in his pocket. “I brought you an ornament.” He hung a candy-cane shiv on their tree.

Everyone smiled at one another in the warm hearth of holiday neighborliness.

“It's been a long time,” Jim told the G-Unit. “Where are you living now?”

“We're on the run,” said Edith.

“They had us living in this rest home with condescending caregivers and afternoon pudding,” added Edna. “But we said bullshit on that.”

Serge elbowed Coleman. “What's wrong with you?”

Coleman looked wide-eyed, up and down the Davenports' Christmas tree. “What do you mean?”

“You're acting weird,” Serge snapped in a loud whisper.

“The little lights,” Coleman said, entranced. “They're like fireflies swirling around the tree, playing tiny harps.”

“Did you take something again?”

“Oh no, absolutely not,” said Coleman. “No, no, no. Yes, actually a lot.”

“What did you take?”

“Mistletoe.”

Serge blinked hard. “Mistletoe?”

Coleman nodded, snatching at the air with his hand for a nonexistent glow bug. “Mistletoe gets you high.”

“But mistletoe's poisonous,” said Serge. “
Extremely
poisonous. Severe gastrointestinal toxin, and a potentially life-threatening drop in pulse. The hallucinations are just a side effect.”

“Fair trade-off.” Coleman snatched the air again. “Cool.”

Serge grabbed his wrist. “We have to get that crap out of your stomach.”

“Uh-oh.” Coleman put a hand on his tummy. “Think I'm going to be sick.”

“Don't you dare throw up on the sofa.” Serge pointed sideways with a thumb. “Martha just started liking us. Even if it's just a small amount of puke, women get funny about it.”

Coleman's head began to loll. “Ooooo, definitely going to be sick.”

“That's the two-minute warning,” said Serge. “To the bathroom, now!”

Serge propped Coleman up and began leading him with an arm around his waist.

“Is everything okay?” Martha asked with concern.

“Just something he ate,” said Serge.

“Fireflies,” said Coleman, snatching air and opening an empty hand in disappointment.

Serge grinned nervously at Martha. “Where's your bathroom? Preferably one of the less nice.”

Martha turned and pointed. “Just down the hall on the left.”

“Thanks.” Serge gave Coleman a tug around the waist. “Come on, you!”

Jim walked over to his wife. “Is everything all right?”

“Something Coleman ate . . .”

Outside, a vehicle with its lights off turned the corner of Triggerfish Lane and rolled slowly down the street. At the other end of the block, another car came around the corner and also killed its lights. The first vehicle, a Ford Focus, slowed and parked at the curb three houses east of the Davenport residence. The other, a black Delta 88, parked three houses west.

Drivers' doors opened simultaneously. Two silhouettes ambled toward each other on the sidewalk. But their attention was elsewhere, eyes trained on the Davenports' brightly lit porch.