Boo Humbug

  Alfred bit his lip. Now what?

  “Okay … look, maybe I can help in another way.”

  “Alfred, please. Don’t beg. It’s pitiful.”

  “Do you have a marketing plan?”

  Lois’s head popped up. “What do you mean?”

  “You want to fill this theater, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “How are you going to get the word out?”

  “Fliers.”

  “To the other counties?” Alfred could see the wheels in her mind turning, so he seized the moment. “Think big, Lois. Think very big. See the potential. We get the word out to neighboring towns, and you might have yourself quite a crowd. You might even have to add a couple of matinees.”

  An enthusiastic smile emerged. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I could be your marketing director. With a few clever tag lines, I think you’ll be turning people away at the door.” Her eyes were growing wider with each word. “It’s my sweet spot, Lois. I do it, and I do it well. Do you want my services or not?”

  She nodded, almost as if in a trance.

  “Terrific. Then you’ll agree to my proposal. I get forty percent of the ticket sales for every ticket I sell above a hundred.”

  “A hundred?” Lois gasped. “Impossible.”

  “Watch and learn.”

  Lois licked her lips. “Deal.”

  “I’ll get to work on it immediately. And Lois, let’s keep this between you and me. I don’t want people to start begging me to do marketing for them, and you do want people to believe they’re coming only because of the sheer genius of your work.”

  Lois nodded again, and he turned to walk out the doors. Maybe it was community work, but Alfred Tennison never, ever, worked for free.

  “All right, everyone, let’s gather around.” Lois beckoned them onto the stage. Wolfe trailed behind Oliver, hardly able to lift one foot after another. He’d read everything Dickens had written. In a sense, he felt like a traitor to be involved in such a mess as this.

  A circle of chairs sat in the center of the stage. Everyone in the cast began taking their seats. Wolfe sat next to Oliver, who glanced at him with bloodshot eyes.

  “I feel how you look.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to concentrate onstage. And every time I try to read something, the words go blurry, and I think I nod off sometimes.”

  “Maybe during breaks we can catch a nap.”

  “A nap …” Oliver looked like he could burst into tears. “I would pay three hundred dollars for a three-hour nap.”

  “Yeah, and no diaper duty for an entire day.”

  “You’re not kidding. Two nights ago, that thing stank so bad, my eyes were watering. I was gasping for breath. I thought I might pass out.”

  “If you tear a Kleenex in two and stuff each half up a nostril, that usually works.”

  “Good tip. Thanks.”

  “Business going okay at the car lot?”

  “Selling a lot of minivans.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now I understand why they’re such a dream car.” He smiled. “If they could just make a baby carrier that didn’t weigh a ton. But nothing beats sliding that door back and sticking the kid in without lifting.”

  Wolfe smiled. He understood. They’d bought one from Oliver in a nice forest green color.

  “Attention everyone. Let’s settle down. We have a lot to cover in a short period of time.” Lois walked to the center of the circle and turned as she addressed everyone. “Welcome to A Very Skary Christmas Carol.”

  “You got that right,” Wolfe mumbled.

  “Many of you may not be familiar with Charles Dickens. He was a little-known writer of the nineteenth century. A doctorate in English is required to understand a thing he’s saying. In fact, that’s where the phrase, ‘What the dickens are you talking about?’ came from.”

  Wolfe groaned. Lois glanced sideways at him but went on.

  “Let me tell you the premise of the story. It revolves around three ghosts who feel the need to come back to earth to stir up trouble.”

  “What?” Wolfe’s jaw dropped. “Lois, the story isn’t about the three ghosts. It’s about Scrooge.”

  “I’ll get to Ebenezer in a moment, Wolfe. Don’t get ahead of me.”

  “Who is Ebenezer?” Marlee asked.

  Wolfe rolled his eyes. This was painful. “Ebenezer,” Lois explained, “is the victim in this story.”

  A few eyebrows popped up. Lois didn’t seem to notice or care. “So basically the three ghosts torment Scrooge until he gives them all his money.”

  “Lois!” Wolfe exclaimed. “You’re missing the entire point of the book! The three ghosts are sent to show Scrooge how money has ruined him, and what lies ahead if he doesn’t change his penny-pinching ways.”

  Lois clasped her hands in front of her and stared mildly at Wolfe. “Isn’t that the wonderful aspect of literature, Wolfe? That it’s open for interpretation?”

  “You’re not interpreting it. You’re completely rewriting it!”

  Lois gave a knowing glance to everyone else. “It’s a common problem among writers,” she said smoothly. “They always think their methods are the best. Wolfe, you interpret it one way. I interpret it another. I happen to believe it’s a satire.”

  “A satire?”

  “Showing how the government can con you into giving them all your money by making you feel sorry for people.”

  Wolfe stared at the floor, his head pounding and his eyes stinging from fatigue. This was getting worse by the second. But couldn’t he just let it go? After all, this was Skary. Fifty people might show up for the production. And it got him out of the house for a little while, the importance of which couldn’t be stated enough. Wolfe sat silently, trying to focus on Abigail’s bout with the stomach flu last week as incentive to stay involved with the play.

  “Now,” Lois said, rubbing her hands together, “here’s the twist …”

  A twist? Wolfe could hardly bear to hear it.

  “We’re going to do this as a horror piece.” Lois held up her hand at Wolfe, apparently expecting the rebuttal well on its way to spewing out. “It’s a perfect fit,” she said defiantly. “If you ask me, I think Dickens didn’t play it up enough. Sure, he called it his little ghost story, but I’m thinking something along the lines of chain saws, hockey masks, the IRS. That’s what we’re going to offer our audience. A really frightening story.”

  “No kidding,” Wolfe muttered under his breath.

  “Now,” she said, “let me announce the cast to you. Oliver, my favorite cousin, is going to be playing Ebenezer Scrooge. I thought he would be perfect for the role because it’s easy to feel sorry for Oliver in real life, so I figured the audience would connect with him on the stage too.”

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Oh, um, thanks.”

  “Jae Cobb-Marley, Scrooge’s business partner, will be played by our own Marlee Hampton. You can guess why she got the part. No, it’s not only her name,” Lois said with a wink. “She exudes a businesslike prowess that I’m hoping to draw out from the character.” Marlee smiled, popped her shoulders up, and waved just like a businesswoman wouldn’t. “Bob Cratchit is going to be played by Martin Blarty, and Willem over here is going to play Tiny Tim.” Martin’s warm smile had the elder Cratchit written all over it. However, Willem’s smile, mischievous at best, didn’t really lend itself to the boy who finally touches Scrooge’s heart.

  “Now for the goblins.” Lois rubbed her hands together. “The Goblin of Christmas Past.” She pointed toward the sheriff and beamed. “Isn’t he perfect for it?”

  Wolfe, realizing he should tread lightly since the sheriff was his father-in-law and Lois’s boyfriend, said nothing. The sheriff smiled a little, and Wolfe could only guess he was in this play because Lois had guilted him into it.

  “The Goblin of Christmas Present, our own Garth Twyne.” The town vet, who was still bitter about losing Ainsley to W
olfe, stood.

  “Thank you, Lois. I would like to take this opportunity to thank—”

  “Get over yourself,” Lois piped in. “If it’s not in your lines, we don’t have time to hear it. Next, we have the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, Wolfe Boone.” She didn’t gesture or say it with any zeal, but the others clapped enthusiastically anyway.

  “I’m not a goblin?”

  “I’m not settled on any titles, Wolfe. It may be ghost, it may be goblin. We’ll have to see what works.”

  “Dickens used the word ‘phantom’ to describe the spirit,” Wolfe replied as he stood and took a little bow. If there was any role to take, this was the one. He didn’t have so much as a line and would only point here and there. The applause continued, so Wolfe played up a slight British accent and quoted Dickens like a true storyteller. “The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved, it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.” An apt description of Lois as well, Wolfe thought. “It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand—”

  “Fine, fine, so he can quote Shakespeare. Stop showing off, Wolfe. And the more I think about it, the more I’m liking ghost.” She pointed to Dustin. “Last but not least is Fred, Scrooge’s nephew, played by Dustin.”

  Dustin’s hands shot into the air like he was at a rock concert. “Dude, this is going to be awesome! Do I get to wear vampire teeth?”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Who are you?”

  “Ask me who I was.”

  “Who were you then?”

  AINSLEY AND MELB walked side by side, each pushing a stroller, both with diaper bags slung over their shoulders.

  Melb stopped. “Do you think it’s too cold? It seems too cold.” She rushed around to the front, tugging at the stocking cap on Ollie’s head. “I don’t want him to get an ear infection. Oh no!”

  “What?” Ainsley asked, rushing to Melb’s side. “Is that … It is!”

  “What?”

  “Snot!” Melb plunged her hand into her diaper bag. It re-emerged with a tissue. She pinched Ollie’s nose, trying to wipe it all off. “It’s clear, so that’s a good sign. Yellow or green, bad news. Means an infection. Hold on …” Melb looked at her watch while placing her hand on Ollie’s chest. “Okay, his breathing is normal.”

  Melb stood upright and took a deep breath. Ainsley put a hand on her shoulder. “Melb, it’s going to be fine. Look at him. He’s happy to be out and about in some fresh air. It’s a little crisp out here, but nothing dreadful. We can all use some fresh air.”

  “I suppose,” Melb said. She pointed to Ainsley’s stroller. “You should remove those cup holders on the handle.”

  Ainsley glanced to where her warm cup of hot chocolate she got from the coffee shop sat. “Why?”

  “If you hit a bump or the stroller got knocked, that hot drink could tip and spill all over Abigail, scalding her.”

  “Oh, uh …”

  “You should subscribe to one of those parenting magazines. They’ve got all kinds of interesting articles. This month there’s a little arts and crafts section on how to make puppets out of leftovers. It only lasts for a day because then you’ve got the mold to deal with, but you should see how Ollie’s eyes light up when I do the little voices. The little girl had spaghetti for hair. So cute.” Melb stuck her hand in the air. “We should go. I just felt a breeze.”

  “Melb, the kids are fine. You worry too much.”

  “Worry too much? Ainsley, these children are helpless. They are depending on us to make every single decision for them, from what they eat to how long they sleep. Did you know that as early as three months old, you could permanently scar your child by letting him see a troubled expression on your face? That could carry all the way to college! Have you started saving for her college, Ainsley? I realize Wolfe is out of work and all, but if I did the calculations right, adding in inflation, it will cost three hundred million dollars and eighty-two cents.”

  Ainsley tried not to laugh. Poor Melb. If ever there was an overly protective mother, Melb was it. Since the day Ollie was born, she had been fussing over every small detail, from the texture of the creamed peas (“He could have an aversion to vegetables for the rest of his life!”) to the shape of the pacifier (“If he’s going to have an oral fixation, it can’t resemble his thumb”) to the firmness of the mattress (“Back problems start at birth”). Ainsley supposed she couldn’t talk much. She sometimes tiptoed into the nursery to make sure Abigail was still breathing. But Melb seemed to take it a step further.

  “Melb,” Ainsley said, guiding her toward the park bench by the sidewalk, “come sit by me.”

  Melb steered the stroller so it sat right next to the bench. “Maybe if he doesn’t face the wind.” She looked at Ainsley. “Aren’t you going to get Abigail?”

  “She’s fine. I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  She gently placed a hand on Melb’s knee. “Melb, I feel like you’re missing out on the joy of being a mom.”

  “I’m happy. I’m very happy,” Melb declared. “And if I feel like I want to curl up in the fetal position and cry myself to sleep, I make sure Ollie is out of the room. I’m afraid if he sees me in the fetal position, he’s not going to want to learn to walk.”

  Ainsley shook her head. Melb, as usual, had missed the point. “You’re a great mother. You take care of him, feed him, dress him, and most importantly, love him. But you worry. All the time. About everything. Things that most likely will never hap—”

  “Aha! Most likely. Remember last year when that baby got his head stuck between the crib rails, and it took the fire department over an hour to free him? I bet those parents were thinking, ‘It’ll never happen to me.’ But it can happen. Which is why I measured Ollie’s head and then measured the spaces between the crib rails. He’s fine, thank goodness, and thank the Stepaphanolopolis family for the big heads they’ve passed down the pipeline.”

  “All I’m saying is that here we are, on a beautiful winter afternoon, with the bright sun and the leaves still falling off the trees, and you’re missing it because you’re worried.”

  Melb glanced at Ollie and then sighed, slumping against the park bench and crossing her arms. “That’s my job. I have to take care of him.”

  “You are taking care of him. He’s a happy, healthy baby. And so adorable.”

  That made Melb smile. “He does have my looks, doesn’t he?”

  “Those beautiful eyes of yours … the spitting image. And Oliver’s nose—”

  “We’ll have to wait and see on the nose. Sure, it’s cutely out of proportion now, but when he hits his teens, that thing could balloon up and block his sinuses, not to mention his self-esteem.”

  “See? You’re doing it. Projecting things into the future. He’s just a baby. Live in the moment. Enjoy this time, Melb. It will go by quickly, and the next thing we know, they’ll be grown.”

  Melb was silent for a bit, which meant that, quite possibly, Ainsley had gotten through to her. She studied Ollie, adoration in her eyes, then reached out and blotted his nose. He laughed and his entire face lit up as he looked at his mom. Suddenly, tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Melb, don’t cry,” Ainsley said, reaching out for her.

  “No, it’s okay,” she said, catching her tears with a finger. “It’s what I needed to hear. You’re right. I’m overreacting. To everything.”

  “You’re a good mom. Don’t ever doubt that. Ollie is lucky to have you as a mom.”

  “You really mean that?” she said, her eyes filling with tears again.

  “I really mean that.”

  Melb sniffed and put away her tissue. “I guess I am lucky. I have an adorable son, and at my age, it’s a miracle he’s even here. I have great friends,” she said, perking up, “and a terrific husband. You should see
Oliver, Ainsley. He’s so great as a dad. The other day, I asked him to change Ollie’s diaper, and he had literal tears in his eyes. He just loves it so much.”

  “I know. Wolfe is so torn up about having to do this play. He said he feels like he needs to be more involved in the community for Abigail’s sake. I can really respect that. He wants to keep Skary the way it is for his daughter.”

  “Huh,” Melb said. “That’s exactly what Oliver said.”

  “We have ourselves a couple of good men, and two beautiful babies to boot!” Ainsley stood. “You ready to keep walking?”

  “Yeah, but let’s head south. I don’t want him to accidentally look at the sun and go blind.”

  Alfred, by his own admission, had actually become an expert on small town life. He’d never admit that publicly, and back in New York he cursed the slow pace of Skary and pretended to embrace the madness of the city.

  But in a moment of honesty, there was something attractive about it all. For one, you had strolling, a lost art in the bigger cities. People here strolled in a way that made you think twice about honking at them at a crosswalk. Not that crosswalks were needed. If you closed your eyes and crossed the street in the middle of daylight, there was a ninety-eight percent chance you wouldn’t get hit by a car … the same chance you had, however, of starting rumors about your own mental health, but that was another story.

  The story at hand was A Very Skary Christmas Carol. Under his left arm, he carried a bundle of five hundred fliers, half red, half green. He’d driven thirty-seven miles just to find a copy shop. Skary had a pay-to-use copier, but Alfred could’ve typed out each flier faster than it copied, plus it had a fondness for putting a vertical line down the left side of the page.

  These fliers were classy and straight to the point. There was going to be an event in Skary. Not a play. Not a gathering. An event that you were never likely to see again, so grab your chance now, while it was here. For a short time. There was nothing like creating a frenzy. In the publishing world, it was as easy as throwing out first print run numbers.