The Santa Call and Other Stories, Page 3

  “Really? Wow. I thought no one was supposed to know that, not even your son.”

  As of right now you are a no one.

  “Oh. A technicality. Interesting.”

  Continue!

  “Yes, Sir. Now, Jacob’s never told anyone just how much he’s afraid of the shower curtain—or, rather, what’s behind the shower curtain. It’s just that I happen to know. I used to wonder why every time Jacob went to the bathroom I’d hear the shower curtain scrape open—thrown open, actually. Then I caught on, finally, that he was looking behind the curtain, making sure that nothing was going to jump out at him while he was going potty.

  “It occurred to me that this would be the perfect gag. I was going to scare the...marbles out of him.

  “Now, I knew that Jacob always got up and pottied in the middle of the night because I would have to clean the urine off the seat in the morning. He was probably so scared in the middle of the night that he just opened the flood gates in the general vicinity of the toilet and then ran back to bed and under his covers.

  “And so last night—or was it just a couple hours ago?—I left my bed around midnight and crawled into the bathtub with a blanket, closing the shower curtain behind me.

  “Let me tell you about cold, God! My skin was so numb I was getting sick, I think. It was also impossible getting comfortable in that thing. Why my mother loves to lay in it for hours at a time I’ll never know. Anyway, I somehow managed to fall asleep...and was literally shocked awake when the light suddenly turned on.

  “From the back of the tub, I peeked through the curtain and saw him standing in the doorway. He was looking down the hall—not in the bathroom—probably making sure that nothing was going to come and get him from that direction. From my angle, all I could see was from his stomach up. I decided then that I’d better get up and get ready to scare the bejesus out of him. Sorry, is that a bad word?”

  Yes.

  “Sorry, anyway...I saw the fear in his eyes. The poor guy was really spooked. I couldn’t believe it but I actually started feeling bad for the snot face.”

  Easy.

  “Sorry. Anyway, I started thinking that I couldn’t kick a man when he’s down, especially my own brother. I realized it would definitely not be funny to scare the shi—-crap out of him, so I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to do it. And that’s the honest truth.”

  I like honest.

  “I bet. So, yeah, I knew I was stuck. How was I going to not scare him at this point? The slightest sound or movement was gonna send the little fart face through the ceiling. Oops, sorry.”

  Sigh.

  “I felt horrible knowing he was going to get scared and there was really no way to stop it. Even if I whispered his name and told him it was me—from the moment of that first syllable he would literally crap his pants like grandma used to do.

  Remember who you’re talking to, young lady.

  Er, sorry. Anyway, I got to my feet as quietly as I could, and I don’t think he heard me. I peeked out the back of the curtain again and saw that he was studying the front of the shower curtain where the spout was. And when he began reaching for the curtain, I saw the baseball bat.

  “And then....well, then I got scared for myself. The way his eyes looked I knew he was going to swing away no matter who he found—and that who just so happened to be me. That look in his eyes was a deep fear—the kind of look I imagine most people have just after they pull themselves out of a nightmare.

  “And so Jacob reached for the curtain and raised the bat to his shoulders—

  “And I shouted his name—

  “And he screamed like a monkey with his balls on fire—sorry. But the scream...that’s what I remember most. I don’t think he even recognized me. His eyes were wide and wild. Hell—heck—I barely recognized him. I guess that’s what happens when your worst nightmare comes true.

  “The next instant the bat jumped off his shoulders—and at me. I raised my hands to ward off the blow, and managed to block that first swing—but he smashed my fingers good. Real good, and it hurt like heck! The worst pain in my life. But what scared the shit out of me—sorry, but I think that’s what really happened—was that I knew that the pain was going to get even worse—because he was going to swing again, automatically, reflexively, instinctively....

  “Jacob was still screaming like a baboon with his nards in a vice. He had to have awakened the entire house, the whole neighborhood. It was the worst sound...a sound I will never forget.

  “And swing he did. Down the bat came again, and before it hit me, I screamed myself, and that’s the last thought I remember having. It was lights out. I really don’t remember much pain from that second swing. I felt myself floating, then saw myself lying in the bathtub...saw a steady stream of blood going down the drain straight from my head....

  “Then I saw a bright light before me, and here I am—hey, what’s this?”

  A SORT OF DVD OF YOUR LIFE. OR, MORE ACCURATELY, EVERY TIME YOU CURSED.

  “What do I do with it?”

  YOU WRITE A PARAGRAPH DESCRIBING THE PROPER WAY YOU SHOULD HAVE HANDLED IT—AND NO FAST FORWARDING.

  “So I made it!? God? God?”

  Barley.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  Nature’s Assassins

  They always come when you’re asleep.

  They know you’re asleep, because you’re part of nature too.

  In a world where chip refers to computers and the word gay rarely carries joy; in a world so damn modern it’s hard too imagine that these little green guys are a part of it.

  They’re little and they’re green, and we’ll call them Nature’s agents.

  Or, more appropriately, Nature’s assassins.

  With only a sliver of a fingernail moon shining above, four mysterious creatures cross the residential street under the protection of darkness, for the nearby streetlight was momentarily out (though city workers will later discover a small rock-like pine cone sitting in the lamp’s metal dish and chalk it up as another vandalism).

  These four beings, as they scurried across the asphalt, emitted a curious noise. It was not the patter of small feet that could be heard, but something that sounded more like the rustling of leaves.

  You see, these four entities were of the plantae species. These four entities, according to their DNA structure, were never meant to walk. They were meant only to soak-in water and sunshine and to spread their long green arms. They are commonly called spider plants, and twenty minutes ago those four plants pushed themselves up and out of Mrs. Henderson’s garden. The sleeping Mrs. Henderson was spared the sight of her spider plants’ sudden mutiny from her garden.

  A gust of wind swept down the street and gave the four spider plants a boost on the rear, and they tumbled over the curb and each other like kids suddenly freed at recess.

  The house before them was dark and silent, with its single resident, Ralph Emery, sleeping peacefully; and that was due partly because on this day his company had just won a major court case.

  His company, Pacific Plastics, had just been awarded the legal rights to dump their contaminated waste into the Mississippi River. It had been a very publicized fight with the conservationist, and Mr. Emery had not won many friends. More important, he lost one very influential one.

  Mother Nature.

  Four crows swept out of the sky, silent black missiles, and each picked up a long-armed plant. In that instant, a stray cat (a cat Mr. Emery once sprayed with water) clawed the screen leading into Mr. Emery’s bedroom. The cat was gone in an instant and the screen fell silently free on the grass below. The crows let go of the plants and each drifted into Mr. Emery’s bedroom.

  What can four spider plants do to a man?

  Just ask the screaming Mr. Emery.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  The Gift of the Magi

  by O. Henry

  ONE dollar and eighty-seven cents
. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

  There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

  While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

  In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

  The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

  Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

  There was a pier glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

  Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

  Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

  So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

  On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

  Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

  “Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

  “I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

  Down rippled the brown cascade.

  “Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

  “Give it to me quick,” said Della.

  Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

  She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

  When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

  Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

  “If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

  At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

  Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying a little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

  The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

  Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

  Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

  “Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again—you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

  “You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

  “Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

  Jim looked about the room curiously.

  “You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

  “You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

  Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny
some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

  Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

  “Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

  White and nimble fingers tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

  For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

  But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

  And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

  Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

  “Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

  Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.