Boo Humbug Page 4

  “I don’t know. I mean, the guy used to be kind of brooding, you know? And not in an ‘I want to be noticed’ sort of way. He really was brooding. All the time. I hardly ever saw him smile. He’s different now. It’s like everything is enjoyable to him.”

  “Is he working on a new book?”

  “Every time I ask him that, he tells me he’s writing an unauthorized biography about me.”

  Dr. Hass laughed, but Alfred didn’t.

  “Anyway, I guess I just want to know why he’s content and I’m not. And don’t tell me it’s the wife and baby, because he’s got a case of the nags and the bags,” Alfred said, pointing to underneath his eye, “and I wouldn’t want any of that.”

  “Alfred, I think the reason for your discontentment is clear.”

  Alfred leaned forward and engaged Dr. Hass. “Yes? What is it?”

  “You haven’t put up your Christmas lights yet!”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You’re poor enough.”

  “Come, then,” returned the nephew gaily. “What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You’re rich enough.”

  WOLFE SPOONED turkey delight into Abigail’s mouth as quickly as he could. The smell nauseated him. Wolfe wondered why he couldn’t feed her the apple cobbler, but Ainsley wouldn’t hear anything about it. “If you feed her the sweet stuff, that’s all she’s going to want to eat.” Even the sweet potato puree was off limits, except on Saturdays. He watched Ainsley cleaning the dishes and thought through his plan as he studied his daughter’s face. She was the spitting image of Ainsley, except she’d inherited Wolfe’s slightly crooked ears. Her hair was white-blond, and her eyes perfectly round like she was in a perpetual state of excitement. Scooping the dribble off her chin, he decided she was getting a little full. Maybe she wasn’t, but he had to get some fresh air.

  “Hey,” he said, leaning on the counter next to Ainsley. “Something’s come up that I wanted to run past you.”

  “What?”

  “Lois is putting on a Christmas play.”

  Ainsley turned with surprise. “Really? I love Christmas plays!”

  That’s going to help.

  “It’s quite a large cast, and Lois is looking for actors.”

  “Okay …”

  “It’s A Christmas Carol,” he added quickly.

  “Oooo! I love the classics! And that’s my favorite of Charles Dickens!”

  “It is wonderful.” Wolfe glanced back at Abigail. She was chewing on her bib. “Lois wants me to be in it.”

  “Wolfe, don’t you remember what happened the last time you were in one of Lois’s plays? You swore you wouldn’t do another.”

  “I know,” Wolfe said, trying to think fast on his feet. “But it is one of our favorites. And I’d get to play one of the ghosts.”

  Ainsley set down the dish she was drying and turned to him. “I don’t know, Wolfe. Last time, you were completely stressed out. Grumpy all the time. And if I remember correctly, you and Lois have very different artistic tastes.”

  “She’s desperate. You should’ve seen her. Nearly in tears. I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “But it’s so close to Christmas as it is. She’s just now starting?”

  “You can see why she’s desperate.”

  “Well, what’s the rehearsal schedule like?”

  He’d known that question was coming. He hoped he’d buttered her up enough, but in reality, she wasn’t looking very buttery. “As you pointed out, we don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll be gone a couple or five nights a week.”

  A small, disappointed frown appeared.

  “But I’m home during the days,” he added. “All day. Mornings and throughout the night …”

  Ainsley glanced at Abigail, and then back at Wolfe. “I don’t know …”

  “Oliver gets to do it.” And he sounded exactly like a third grader when he said it, too.

  Ainsley bit her lip, thinking it over.

  He was nearly to the point of dropping to his knees and pleading when she said, “Wolfe, I know the last few weeks have been really hard. We’re both exhausted. And I know you need to get out of the house.”

  Wolfe stood there, not sure whether he should be nodding enthusiastically or disagreeing emphatically.

  Then she blinked slowly, smiled, and rested her hand on his arm. “Of course you can, honey. It sounds fun.”

  Alfred stepped out the door of Dr. Hass’s office and right into the path of Sheriff Parker, who took a firm stance and gave him a hard look.

  “Sheriff,” Alfred said in a polite tone that would’ve gone nicely with a hat-tipping, if he’d been wearing one.

  “Alfred.” The sheriff didn’t tip his hat, and he was wearing one. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Problem?” He was coming out of Dr. Hass’s office, but most of the time when people wanted to know your business, they used the indirect approach and asked a neighbor.

  “I got a report this morning,” the sheriff said.

  “A report about what?”

  “Christmas carolers? Harassing? Ring a bell?”

  “Yes! And thank you for taking it seriously. It was infuriating, and I’m not going to put up with it any longer. There should be some sort of ordinance or city code or something. I know we’ll never be able to get rid of them completely, but maybe they should only be allowed to do it starting December twenty-third.”

  The sheriff crossed his arms. “You got something against Christmas carolers?”

  Uh-oh. “They filed a report on me?”

  “Harassment is a very serious violation in our town, Mr. Tennison.”

  “I wasn’t harassing them! They were harassing me!”

  “If this is any indication, no wonder they were frightened.”

  “Frightened? I asked them to leave my property.”

  “First of all, it’s not your property. You rent it from Mr. Duvane. Secondly, we don’t shout. And we certainly don’t shout at elderly people who are trying to bring some Christmas cheer.”

  “Look, this is a huge misunderstanding,” Alfred said. “It all started when I woke up to the sound of Lo—” Alfred caught himself. Lois was the sheriff’s girlfriend, or fiancée, or something. Best to avoid this.

  “The sound of what?”

  “The point is that I wasn’t prepared for it.”

  “That’s obvious. You haven’t even hung Christmas lights.”

  “I have a bad back.”

  “Mr. Johanson is in a wheelchair, and he managed to get his lights up.”

  “Of course he did.”

  The sheriff placed his hands on his hips. Well, one hip and a gun holster. Then he pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket.

  “Are you writing me a ticket?”

  “Yep.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what.”

  “That’s a crime?”

  “That’s for the court to decide. You’ll have to make an appearance at the county courthouse, which is forty-seven miles east and usually very crowded and running behind.” The sheriff continued writing. “The penalty will most likely be community service.” He glanced up at Alfred. “Of course, we could just cut to the chase and get that over with now.”

  Alfred propped his own hands on his hips. “What did you have in mind? Picking up trash on the side of the road?”

  “Your buddy Hass here’s got that covered from his fiasco a few months back. But there is something.

  “What?”

  “The community is putting on a Christmas play. It’s not called community theater’ for nothing. The community usually gets involved.”

  Alfred started to get that sinking feeling, the same one that came when he got word that one of Wolfe’s books was going to be reviewed by some highbrow literary magazine.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  The sheriff looked down at the ticket he’
d just torn from the pad. “We can skip all the paperwork.”

  Alfred slumped. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Don’t ask me. Ask Lois. She’s at the theater right now.” He glanced up at the sign over Dr. Hass’s office. “And you didn’t ask me, but if it helps, staying busy is the best cure for the blues.”

  Lois had always thought of herself as an especially tolerant person. She didn’t scowl at the people who felt the need to “amen” during the sermons, she didn’t gripe to her neighbors about where they put their outdoor trash cans, she didn’t curse at slow lines or raise Cain about taxes. But the one thing she just couldn’t seem to dismiss was the know-it-all.

  And here he was, sitting on her stage, treating her like she was an idiot.

  “You’re just being small minded, Wolfe,” Lois interrupted. “Yes, I realize Jacob Marley is supposed to be a man. But I’m updating the story. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s been done to a classic or two.”

  Wolfe sighed loudly. “I know that. But making Jacob Marley into Jae Cobb-Marley, a ruthless businesswoman in the fashion industry who is only interested in herself, doesn’t really fit the pulse of the story. You have to understand that Dickens wrote this in the mid-1800s in England. The poverty, filth, and disease that the people had to endure at that time were unimaginable. It’s been said that nearly half of the funerals then were for children, which is why the passage that Dickens wrote when the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come shows Scrooge the death of Tiny Tim was particularly moving. Many people had lost a child themselves.”

  “I have Tiny Tim in the play, Wolfe. And all the other characters. I’m bringing some of them into modern times, but it’s not like I’m rewriting the story.”

  “Some of the characters?”

  “Much of the appeal of the story is that it takes people back to a time that isn’t ours. But why not mix it up with some characters from our time? A bridge-the-gap sort of thing.”

  Wolfe tried not to wince. “Okay, look, let’s start with how you became inspired to do this particular project. Out of the entire collection of classics, what made you choose this one?”

  “Oh, I just love those little porcelain Christmas villages people have sitting around their house this time of year! The nineteenth century was so pure and simple and romantic!”

  “And there’s the irony. It wasn’t pure or simple or romantic. It was a world full of hurting people, just like now.”

  “Believe me, Wolfe. The message will come through loud and clear. I promise.”

  “But why not just cast Jacob Marley as a man? That’s one of my favorite passages, where Scrooge is beholding his old business partner. Marley’s jaw is hanging on its hinge, wrapped up in bandages. It’s gruesome, horrific, to see him walking around, looking as if he’s rotting right there in front of Scrooge. It should be appalling. Cast Marlee as Belle. She’d be perfect for Belle.”

  Beholding. Nice. If that’s the kind of word Wolfe liked to use in his books, no wonder they were tanking. “Believe me,” Lois said, not to be deterred, “I will have no problem bringing the audience to repulsion. Jae will be wearing polyester, and though you may not get it, believe me, a lot of women in the audience are going to be appalled.”

  Wolfe scowled.

  “You’re too good for this? Is that what you’re saying? Too good for my little production?” Lois folded her arms. “In that case, you’re welcome to go home to your family. But when it’s eight-thirty at night and you’re changing your tenth diaper of the day, don’t come crying to me. I gave you a way out.”

  Wolfe’s fingers traced his eyebrows. “Fine. Which ghost do you want me to play?”

  “That’s the kind of attitude I’m looking for. And don’t get too attached to the word ghost. There’s a good chance I might be using the word goblin.”

  CHAPTER 6

  To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue.

  THIS WAS A NEW sensation, if it could be called a sensation. It was actually an antisensation. Alfred felt numb from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. His skin was numb, his nose was numb, his brain was numb, not to mention his emotions. Or lack of emotions. He couldn’t feel a thing.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was still fear, and he supposed that’s what kept him chained to the sidewalk outside the theater. He couldn’t make himself go in. Part of him scolded himself for being such a pansy and letting the sheriff—who had nothing better to do with his time—bully him into doing something for the community. But another part of him felt it might be time to face his demons. If he got involved with the play, maybe these nightmares would stop, and he could finally get over Want, Ignorance, and that rotten little pipsqueak, Tiny Tim.

  “Alfred,” he said quietly to himself, “you can do this. One foot in front of the other. You’re strong. You’re normal. You’re not going to be ruled by Ignorance any more!” Alfred took one small step. “Ha! Take that, Chuck!” Another step. “Good riddance, Dickens!” Slowly, methodically, he kept taking steps forward, and with each step a nearly indescribable confidence built inside him. He even smiled and picked up his pace a little bit. He was no coward! He could do this. He could put this to rest once and for all!

  “Yes, indeed!” Alfred said, swinging his arms by his side as he began a brisk walk. He arrived at the doors to the theater and, without even a hint of hesitation, reached for the handle. But before he could grab it, it swung away from his grasp. He stumbled backward, only to find Wolfe hurrying out. Wolfe’s eyes grew wide when he noticed Alfred.

  “What are you doing here?” Wolfe asked.

  “I’m … I’m … the play.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Alfred wasn’t sure. Maybe he should be, by the look on Wolfe’s face. He’d seen that look before, only once, when Alfred had to break the news that the cover of one of his books had a typo in the title. They recalled all of them, but not before the late-night talk shows got wind of it.

  Wolfe stepped closer, looking this way and that, until he was looking at Alfred, square in the face. “Listen to me, Alfred. I’m serious. If you never listen to me again, that’s fine, but listen to me now.”

  “What?”

  “Run for your life.”

  “Run?”

  “Haul yourself out of here. Believe me, this is nothing you want to be involved with.”

  “The play?”

  “Yes, the play. If you even want to call it that. I don’t think that’s an appropriate word. Atrocity. Yes, that’s a good name.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What isn’t wrong, that’s the question.” Alfred couldn’t remember ever seeing Wolfe so intense. “Slaughtered.”

  “Someone’s been slaughtered?”

  “Yes. Try Marley, the three ghosts, the entire premise of the book. And that’s not to mention the language, content, and spirit of the work.”

  Alfred just stood there, blinking.

  “She’s destroying a masterpiece! There’s got to be some law against this.”

  “If there’s a law about putting up Christmas lights, there might be hope for you.”

  Wolfe grabbed Alfred by the shoulders. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t get involved in this. You’ll thank me for it.”

  “So you’re not doing it?”

  Wolfe looked away sheepishly. “I’m desperate.”

  Alfred watched him walk away down the sidewalk, then Alfred turned his attention back to the theater. Well, he was desperate too. Not in a dirty-diaper sort of way, but in a save-the-sanity sort of way. Taking a deep breath, he flung the door open and walked inside. Really … how bad could it be?

  He found Lois sitting in the middle of the stage on a folding chair, going through what looked like a script, scribbling on one page after another. She didn’t hear him come in, so he waited a little bit, trying to get his courage back. Finally he stepped out of the s
hadows and down the aisle that led to the stage.

  Lois looked up, squinting in the stage lights. “Who’s there?”

  “Alfred. Tennison.”

  He walked toward her as she put her script down. Once he was near the stage, he offered a smile. “Looks like you’re working hard.”

  She straightened her posture and snubbed her nose a little. “Why do you care?”

  “Look,” Alfred said, his arms open in an apologetic, explanatory gesture. “I wanted to come to say I’m sorry about this morning. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  Lois’s expression took on a little less hostility. “Go on.”

  “Um, well, that’s what I wanted to say, and to see if you might consider me for one of the roles. I realize you’ve probably cast the main characters,” he said, trying not to sound hopeful, “but perhaps I could take a smaller role? And by smaller, I don’t mean one of the children. Just something with a few lines.” He felt relief wash over him. There. He’d done it. That wasn’t so bad.

  But Lois didn’t look convinced. “I want people who want to be here, Alfred. This is going to take a lot of time and dedication, and if you’re not willing, there’s no reason to be in it.”

  “I’m willing,” he said with a placating grin. “Very willing. Enthusiastic, or as they say in your part of the world, gung-ho.” They also used it in China to mean a communist organization, but that was beside the point. Thanks to the marines in World War II, who adopted it as a phrase to mean overly zealous, it had become to the English language what “aw, shucks” had become to the English gesture. But nobody in Skary, Indiana, had much use for that kind of information.

  She sighed. “I don’t think so, Alfred. I’m sorry. You’re just not what I’m looking for.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Not what you’re looking for? Just a few hours ago, you were standing over me in my own house begging me to be Scrooge.”

  “That was then. This is now.”

  “How can you change your mind that quickly?”

  “I’m a woman. And I have intuition. Something tells me there’s more to this story. I know a thing or two about men, and one of their strong points isn’t apologies.”