Boo Humbug Read online

  EARLY IN THE MORNING, Alfred drove toward … Where was he going again? Hobbieville. He reached for the map and wondered if gravel qualified for a road and whether or not it would be on a map. It amazed him how hard it was to find one thing out in the middle of nowhere. He came to a screeching halt, which is really impossible on gravel, and swerved, narrowly missing … What was that? Gripping the steering wheel, he tried to catch his breath. But suddenly a man jumped in front of his car. Holding a rifle. Alfred gasped, staring at the man’s intense eyes and his “get out of the car” gesture. He didn’t really want to, but the person with the gun usually gets their way.

  Alfred slowly emerged, keeping his hands pointed toward the sky. “Don’t shoot me,” he said.

  The man stepped forward, adjusting his John Deere hat and looking Alfred over. “What makes you think I’m going to shoot you?”

  “The gun.”

  The man glanced at it like he hadn’t realized it was there. “This ain’t for you. It’s for that deer you nearly ruined for me.”

  “Ruined?”

  “I know what you’re thinking: dead is dead. But road kill isn’t edible.” He looked off in the direction of where the deer ran. “Dang it. And the wife was going to make venison stew tonight.”

  “Oh … sorry,” Alfred said, trying to sound equally disappointed about the venison stew. He didn’t think he was pulling it off, though, so he changed the topic as he finally put his hands down. “I’m looking for Hobbieville.”

  The man chuckled. “Seems like you’re not looking too hard now, are you?”

  “Um … I’ve been following a map. There’s supposed to be a road somewhere around here—”

  “This is the road.” The man pointed to the hill just up ahead. “About a half a mile, and you’re there.”

  “Thanks. And … um …” Alfred gestured toward the gun. “Good luck with the venison.” He got in his car and was about to pull forward when the man came up beside him and motioned for him to roll his window down.

  “We’re not quite finished here.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re a visitor.”

  “But not of the intergalactic variety,” Alfred joked.

  Venison Man didn’t look amused. “Where are you from?”

  Alfred wasn’t sure New York was the best answer. “Skary.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “I like Skary.”

  “Oh. Good. Me too.”

  “Planning on being there for that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “That big Christmas getup they’re doing.” “The lights?”

  “No, the production. The Christmas play.” “Really?”

  “You’re not going?”

  “Uh … no, I am. I’m just … I was just coming to spread the news about the play.” Alfred patted the fliers next to him. “How did you hear about it?”

  “From Pete, Janet’s uncle on her mom’s side.”

  “Oh.” Alfred glanced to the hill ahead. “Where can I get a cup of coffee?”

  “At the gas station. Straight ahead.”

  “How about a bite to eat?”

  “At the gas station. They got rest rooms too. Sign says Employees Only, but tell ‘em Burt sent you, and they’ll give you the key.”

  “Right.”

  “You go right, and you’ll be plowing down a cornfield. Go straight, and you can’t miss it.”

  Alfred rolled up his window, gave a short wave, customary in these parts, then went straight ahead. There, on the other side of the hill, was the gas station. Ironically, he didn’t need any gas.

  After he stopped the car, he opened the door, trying to hold it steady against the winter wind, and hurried inside, clutching his fliers. The attendant, standing behind the counter smoking, couldn’t muster up an expression, but nevertheless felt free to stare.

  “Howdy.” No matter how many times Alfred tried that, it just didn’t come out right, and always gave him away. “Got coffee brewing?”

  The man pointed to his left. A large sign announced their new cappuccino maker, which wasn’t a cappuccino at all but rather some concoction of sugar, chemicals, dairy product, and possibly coffee. The three flavors included pumpkin spice, chocolate-vanilla-caramel delight, or Irish Cream. Next to it was the regular coffee, which Alfred decided on. Thirty-two ounces of it.

  Balancing the coffee and the fliers, he managed to throw down a couple of bucks at the counter. Just for kicks he asked, “Rest rooms?”

  “Not open to the public.”

  “Burt sent me.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” The smoking attendant reached for the key. “Pull the door tight, or it’ll pop open and embarrass the daylights out of everyone standing on aisle four.”

  “Right. Listen, maybe I’ll wait a minute and drink my coffee.”

  “Suit yourself.” The man put the key away.

  Alfred noticed a small crowd through the glass door that led to the diner. He walked toward it, trying to gather a game plan. He figured his best move would be to keep using Burt’s name like a secret code.

  As usual, the crowd looked up as he entered. There were people eating stacks of pancakes and others digging into french fries and burgers. Alfred steadied himself and waved. “Hey everyone. Wanted to give you some news.”

  The waitress, a younger woman and the friendliest face in the room asked, “Good news?”

  “Skary is putting on a Christmas production. An event.” Alfred withdrew one of the fliers and held it up. “And you’re all invited.”

  “I heard something about that,” the waitress said.

  “Mo told us about that yesterday,” someone said.

  “Can’t remember the last time we had something like that around here,” said another.

  Alfred smiled. He couldn’t recall anything ever being this easy. He tucked away the flier in order not to jinx a rolling snowball’s worth of good luck. “So you’re all coming?” he asked.

  The crowd nodded. The waitress said, “Why don’t you come on in? We’re still serving breakfast if you want something.”

  Alfred set the fliers down and climbed onto the stool at the counter. “Omelets?”

  “No, sorry. Scrambled or fried.”

  “Scrambled. Any fresh fruit?”

  “We have apple butter for your toast, or grape jelly if you prefer. You want sausage or bacon for your side?”

  “Sausage, I guess.”

  “And I see you already got yourself some coffee,” she said with a smile. “Next time just come on in. It’s free over here.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  She put the order in and came back to him. “I just called my grandparents and told them about the play. They’re planning on coming. I hear it’s going to be the most amazing thing we’ve ever seen!

  “Well … uh, I don’t know if it’s—”

  “Are you going to have animals? Live animals?”

  Alfred tried not to look as confused as he felt, and maybe it was because he was used to Broadway, but as far as he knew, there wasn’t a petting zoo planned. However, whatever gimmick would bring people in, he was for it, though he couldn’t really guarantee anything more than chickens and black cats. “You never know what’s in store,” he said and grinned.

  “This is taking me back to my childhood,” the waitress said, her eyes turning dreamy. “My grandparents used to always take us to this play. I loved it so much. I’m so glad to see it back. And this year, I’m going to vow to read the entire story to my kids on Christmas Eve.”

  Okay … well, good for her. If he could, in some small way, contribute to the advancement of literature, wasn’t all this worth it? Especially without the help of fliers. The speed at which news flew from one place to another around here must set some sort of record. Small towns may have a slow pace, but they sure have some advanced way of spreading information—and fast. This could give dial-up a run for its money.

  “There
’s even going to be a little bit of a twist to the story.”

  “Really?” Her face lit up again with excitement. “I didn’t even realize there could be a twist.”

  “Well, every story has its interpretation, right? People come to it with their own worldview and take away from it things that are meaningful to them. This story has been told hundreds of times. For example, I’m sure everyone who has read it has a different picture in their mind of what the ghosts look like.” “You mean the angels?”

  Alfred rested both arms on the counter. “See? You’ve proven my point. I say ghosts, you say angels.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess you’re right. Never thought of it like that before.” She held out her hand. “I’m Denise, by the way.”

  Alfred shook it gently. “Denise, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Alfred.”

  She laughed. “I know who you are! You almost killed Burt’s deer for him!”

  Ainsley rubbed Wolfe’s shoulder as she cradled Abigail in the other arm. “Honey, I know you don’t want to go, but you’re doing Lois a huge favor. And the whole town is getting behind this production. People are already making plans to attend!”

  Wolfe did look pathetically miserable.

  “Abigail will be fine.” She smiled. “She misses her daddy, but I tell her you’ll always be back.”

  Wolfe let out a sigh as he stared at the front door. “I suppose if I must go …”

  Ainsley watched his gaze hover at the door. She hated to see him like this. He’d stayed up half the night worrying about what Charles Dickens would think about it. Ainsley kept having to remind him that Dickens was dead.

  Lacing her fingers between his, she said, “Wolfe, you know what? Don’t go. Don’t do this. It’s early enough. Lois can find someone else.”

  Wolfe’s eyes widened with surprise. “Oh … no, I couldn’t do that to Lois.”

  “There’s plenty of time to find someone else. What about Martin?”

  “No. The mayor’s already playing Bob Cratchit.” Wolfe waved his hands. “Look, I need to stop complaining. I’ll go do it, do the best I can to salvage the play, and that will be that.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Wolfe nodding emphatically as he grabbed his coat from the closet. “So I guess I better go study my lines. I’ll pop in later, okay?”

  “Uh …” But he was out the door. Ainsley held Abigail upright and nudged her nose against the baby’s. “Your father! Always a writer!” She laughed. “Is that what you want to be when you grow up? A writer? Well, I suppose I could tolerate two writer-type personalities. Just promise me you won’t die a thousand deaths at a bad review, okay?” She walked to the kitchen, laid Abigail in her playpen, and was about to do some dishes when a knock came at the door. Wiping her hands, she went to answer it.

  “Hi,” said Dustin, standing—well, slouching—there with a large smile. “It’s Dustin. From the bookstore.”

  “Hi, Dustin,” Ainsley said. “What brings you by?”

  “Umm … like … can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Ainsley opened the door wider, and Dustin strolled in, glancing around the house.

  “Huh.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I dunno. I just pictured Boo’s house a little different, you know? I mean … it seems so normal.” He shrugged. “I guess when you married him, things changed, right?”

  “Not really. I’ve added a few touches, but Wolfe always had a nice decorating sense about him. His house was beautiful when I met him.”

  “That stinks,” Dustin said. “I thought maybe he had trapdoors and stuff.”

  “So … what brings you by?”

  “There used to be rumors he had a guillotine in the basement.”

  “No.”

  “What’s that smell?” He looked at the counter and pointed. “That! What’s that?”

  “Pureed turkey.”

  Dustin covered his mouth and stepped a few feet away, uncovered his mouth, and seemed to breathe better. “Uh, yeah, anyway, I’m supposed to follow you around.”

  “Why?”

  “Lois wants me to be more like you. My character, I mean. Fred.”

  “Not following.”

  “She says you’re an optimist. My mom sees one of those for her contact lenses.”

  “Uh, Dustin, an optimist is someone who is positive.”

  “I know. I’m just making a play on words. It means overly positive.”

  “Not overly. Just positive.”

  “Okay …” Dustin already looked bored. “So can I hang around you today?”

  Ainsley glanced at Abigail. “I’m pretty much just doing the mom thing, you know? I don’t know how exciting that’s going to be.”

  Dustin inspected his fingernails. “I guess that’s what Lois means. Maybe she wants me to see what you’re like around the baby versus what Wolfe’s like.”

  “What Wolfe’s like? What do you mean?”

  “You know, how it drives him crazy and stuff.”

  Ainsley put her hands down on the counter, her fingers spread wide. “You’re going to have to explain yourself.”

  Dustin’s eyes lit up as he pointed into the kitchen. “Oooo! I love the hatchet!”

  “That’s a meat pounder. You were saying …?”

  Dustin’s eyes still roamed the room as he talked. “You know, just see what makes this so fun or whatever.”

  Ainsley’s mind turned over the eighteen hundred possible interpretations of what Dustin had said, and he noticed the silence. “So, uh, this is what you do in the mornings? Put turkey in a blender?”

  “Let’s go back for a moment, Dustin,” Ainsley said, trying to control each word that wanted to jump out. “You were talking about driving Wolfe crazy?”

  “Not you. The whole baby thing.”

  “What whole baby thing?”

  “You know, how he gags at the smell. He told Oliver he has nightmares about Abigail vomiting all over him.”

  “She’s not vomiting. She’s spitting up. Well, usually, except recently when she had that stomach thing …” Ainsley glanced at Dustin, who looked disgusted. “What else?”

  “Nothing, dude. I mean, he’s fine as long as he can go to play practice.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “So he doesn’t have to change diapers.” Dustin glanced at the turkey. “I don’t blame him, if that’s what she’s eating.” He actually looked pale.

  “You’re saying that he’s doing this play just so he can get out of changing diapers?”

  “No, not just the diapers. He also takes naps behind the stage. I have to tell you, the guy looks like he could invest in some eye drops.”

  “I can’t believe this! He’s pretending to be interested in doing this play just so he can get out of diaper duty? He’s a little tired, so he thinks he can just go off and take a nap? I’m tired too! I’m in this house all day too! I’m the one who has to purée the turkey! And the spinach! And every other horrible smelling food that was never meant to be creamy! And to be such a coward about it! To leave under the guise of caring about a stupid play that he doesn’t even want to be involved with in the first place!”

  Ainsley’s chest heaved in and out. She felt like she could burst into tears at any moment.

  “So,” Dustin said, leaning on the counter, “this is optimism, huh?”

  CHAPTER 10

  “I am a mortal,” Scrooge remonstrated, “and liable to fall.”

  “Bear but a touch of my hand there,” said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, “and you shall be upheld in more than this!”

  “COME ON OUT, honey,” Lois called from in front of the stage. But he wouldn’t come out. “Irwin, let’s go. I need you out here.” Lois sighed and looked at Oliver. “What is going on?”

  Oliver stood there in a nightcap and nightgown he kept complaining was too short. “Maybe it’s—”

  “I look like an idiot!” came a reply from behind the curtains.


  “Honey, come on, now. It’s a play. This is your costume. It’s not like you’re going to be patrolling the streets in it.”

  “I will lose all respect. I will hear about this for months. There is no way I’m showing myself in this.”

  Lois crossed her arms. “I stayed up all night sewing that thing. You’re telling me you’re not going to wear it now?”

  A few seconds passed, and then the sheriff peeked his head through the curtains. In one hand he clutched a branch of holly. In the other, a flashlight. “Come on,” Lois urged in the tone she used when she meant there was really no need for the other person to decide what he wanted.

  With a sigh and an eye roll, the sheriff came stomping out. The white tunic Lois had sewn looked perfect, as well as the shimmery gold belt she’d made of sequins. She’d hand stitched bright yellow flowers along the bottom, near the hem. His arms flung out, and his expression said, Happy?

  Oliver’s own expression didn’t help matters. “Close your mouth, Ollie,” Lois whispered, then met the sheriff halfway. “Why are you holding the flashlight?”

  “I just don’t think this is going to work.”

  “Sure it is. You’ve got that other elastic belt on underneath your tunic, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You just stick the light in there at the middle of your lower back. Make sure the light is pointing up, not down.”

  “Why does he have to stick a flashlight under his costume?” Oliver asked.

  “Because he is supposed to be glowing. Light is supposed to be radiating from him.”

  “Can’t I just smile a lot and use that whitening toothpaste you got me?”

  “Okay, look, we can worry about the light later. Let’s just get into the rehearsal.”

  “But what about the rest of me?” the sheriff asked, adjusting his white, long-flowing wig. “I look like a girl!”

  “No,” Lois said, “you look like a child. Which is how you’re supposed to look. Well, like a freakish child, but we haven’t even done makeup yet.”

  “I don’t think makeup is going to be needed,” Oliver said.

  “All right, look, let’s just get the rehearsal going, boys. Oliver, you’re going to be sitting on the bed. Irwin, you’ll stand next to the bed. Oliver, let’s start here in the script.”