Cider House Fools, page 34
I open the carboard flaps on the box. There’s no putting this off. I pull my costume out of the box.
The Santa suit is old and reeks moth balls, sweat, and cheap cologne. I wonder if it’s going to fit over my frame, but I manage to get it on over my clothes. The pant legs are definitely too short, but the jacket still has room for me to stuff a pillow over my front. The beard loops over my ears, and I quickly dismiss the question of many people have breathed through the plastic hair before me. I pull the wig of white curls over my head and slap the hat on. The suit must be made of unnatural substances because although my hands are cold, a bead of sweat is already dripping down my back. Gross. Balthasar snickers behind me, slapping my ass. “That is horrendous,” he sniffs. “Is there a naughty elf costume?”
“In the mood to emotionally scar some children today?” I ask he straightens the black vinyl belt around my waist.
“I would never. I’ve just always had fantasies about being Santa’s very best helper. You know, helping him navigate the South Pole.”
“Santa’s in the North Pole,” I correct, tugging at the polyester beard that keeps slipping over my own and covering my mouth.
“By the time I’m done with him he’ll have two poles. One in the—”
Bennett walks into the small changing room. “Weston showed up. With a gun,” she adds. The smirk falls off Balthasar’s face. His jaw clenches. Violence seeps out of his pores. Bennett’s arms are folded under her breasts, her shoulders slightly hunched in, as if she’s subconsciously trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. I rub her upper arms, want to crush her against me, but not wanting to press her against scratchy fabric that hasn’t been dry cleaned in years.
“Where is Weston now, love? Where’s Smith?” Balthasar is at her side, tucking a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear. He slants his face so his lips brush her ear, the threat murmured softly against her skin. Her eyes close briefly as she sags, her body angling for the space between us.
“Smith and the man he came in with took him outside. I barely got to say two words to Smith.” She frowns. “Something’s going on with him. Balthasar, where did he go? He’s going to leave town again, isn’t he?” She steps back, away from us both, swallowing hard. “We can’t stay here Franklin. This is his home. I won’t run him out of it.”
“Both of you stop. We will talk about this. But not now. Today is about Gran,” Balthasar snaps, turning to the door. He’s tore up about saying goodbye to Gran, but he doesn’t want to add to Bennett’s struggles. Balthasar isn’t used to maintaining such tight control over his emotions. He’s all sharp edges. Hurt spasms across Bennett’s features. I reach out and grasp Balthasar’s arm when I feel him start to pull away.
“Bennett, I understand why you keep reverting to that conclusion, but it’s not fair to Smith.. He deserves a clear question and the option to answer it. Balthasar, Bennett did not mean to spout off about decisions she hasn’t made yet at such a delicate time. Did she?” I ask him, but I direct the question to her.
Bennett gasps. She throws herself at Balthasar. “Balthasar, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Not like that.” She grasps his face between her hands, trying to force him to look at her. “No matter where I go, I will ask you to come with me. And when I find the place I’m staying, I will ask you to stay by my side. I love you Balthasar.” His face crumples in her hands, his shoulders slumping in relief as he exhales.
“Thank fuck,” I crow, as they kiss. “Bennie, baby, I need to get this Santa gig over with. I don’t want to have to call Brian for special cream because I’m still itching three days after I take this off.”
“Let’s give out these gifts, so the people with kids can get them home. And then,” she slides into Balthasar side, reaching up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. “We can talk. All of us. Together.”
Balthasar smiles, sliding an arm around her waist, squeezing her against his side. He winks at me. “And then we can visit both poles,” he quips triumphantly.
“Ho, ho, ho!” I shout, bursting out the small room into the main reception hall. I don’t have a lot of experience with children, but I think I might like to have a couple someday. Aside from the nasty suit, I’m actually a little excited to get to play Santa for Bennett. The hum of adult conversation stops as scads of children scream excitedly, pouring out of the aisles around the rows of tables. I make my way up to the small stage. There’s an armchair under a white arch decorated heavily in garland, tinsel, lights, and colored bulbs. I think the arch is used for weddings, but the colored lights blinking and glowing from within painted glass bulbs has completely transformed it into the perfect accessory for Santa to pass gifts under. Christmas spirit swells in my chest and I decide to really give this Santa gig a go. “Ho, ho, ho! Who’s been good girls and boys this year?”
The kids all yell their responses, jumping up and down excitedly. “Oh goodness, I see a lot of good children in this room,” I boom in my jolliest voice. “Line up kids, line up.” The young lady taking the photographs is setting up a light with a scrim. A bead of sweat is already rolling down my forehead as the heat from her lamp turns my Santa get-up into fire hazard.
“I need five more minutes to set up and then I’ll be ready Santa,” she whisper shouts.
Fuck. Looking over the sea of shining faces, half are covered with barbeque sauce. The other half have cherry red upper lips, indicating that most of these little buggers are hopped up on Kool-Aid and sugar from the five-gallon beverage dispenser over by the coffee carafes. “I need an elf! Who’s been good enough to be Santa’s elf this year?” I shout.
The kids scream so loud my ears ring.
Melanie picks up the microphone. “Bennett! Calling Bennett Vanderberg to Santa’s chair!” A hush falls over the room as everyone starts looking for the granddaughter of the woman we are all here to say goodbye to.
Bennett bursts out the door of the changing room. Her face is flushed, her hair hanging in uneven curls, pulled out of the classic updo she did herself this morning. My left eyebrow lodges somewhere under the fringe of the wig I’m wearing as my jaw drops into the fake beard strapped to my face. The pattern hose she wore here are completely missing. “Uh, there she is! Come on over here elf Bennett! Ho, ho, ho!” I bellow.
Bennett scurries over to the gaggle of greasy children and starts greeting them while she gently helps them form a line. Becky, the high school photographer, gives a thumbs up from behind her camera. Bennett walks a boy that looks like he’s three or four up to me.
“Ho, ho, ho! Come on up…” I pause. Shouldn’t Santa know what the kid’s name is?
“I’m Ethan. Ethan Behwinger,” the kid volunteers eagerly.
“Oh! Ho, ho, ho. Ethan…Behwinger! You’ve grown so much I almost didn’t recognize you!” I bellow in my jolliest voice. “What do you want me to bring you this year Ethan?”
He glances out over the crowd, lifting his chubby little hand to wave. His apple shaped cheeks are fiery red from running around and playing, his strawberry blonde locks sweaty and plastered to his head. He’s wearing black jeans and green shirt sporting a big yellow tractor with Christmas lights draped over it. He’s smiling so big his ears are resting on the ends of it. He’s adorable, with hair the exact color I’d imagine a child of Bennett and Balthasar to have. I lean in, surprised to find I’m praying I have exactly what he wants in the stack of gifts.
“I wanna twactor. For my daddy. His id brwoken.” Oh my God. I search for Bennett, but she’s busy kneeling beside the next child. I need help. I have no idea what to say.
“Ethan, we don’t make tractors for grown-ups in the North Pole because they don’t fit in my sleigh. But I will spread the word your daddy needs his fixed. Can I give you a present you can share with your daddy?”
“Thank yew, Santa,” he breathes, thrilled at the prospect of having something his dad might like. Weston reaches in the bag and pulls out a wrapped gift.
“Merry Christmas Ethan. Go on back to your seat and you can unwrap your gift. Ho, ho, ho!” The kid jumps off my lap and runs back to his seat. Becky gives me a thumbs up. I lean over to Weston. “Did you hear that?” I hiss.
“I did. I know his dad. You might hear a lot of that Franklin, this a farming community. Do your best.”
I do. And I love every minute of it.
Chapter thirty-three
December
Smith
The service ends at four o’clock. The food has been demolished. I make trip after trip outside, filling the dumpster behind the building with large black garbage bags full of plates and Styrofoam cups and wrapping paper. Franklin is in overalls and ratty sweatshirt, carrying gallon buckets of hot water out to scrub the smokers clean. Whittaker is breaking down tables and chairs and hauling them to the storage room while Balthasar helps Bennett do dishes and clean up the kitchen. Melanie is packing up the photo display while Brian breaks down the Christmas décor.
Everyone is exhausted, but we put our heads down and go to work, knowing we can’t go home until the building is returned to the shape we found it in. I close the lid to the dumpster and wander over to the makeshift BBQ pit. “Need any help?”
“Sure. I’d really love a new pair of pants. That Santa suit wouldn’t let a single degree of body heat escape but little Billy Worthington’s pee soaked right through. You’ll trash your suit if you come over and clean these. I appreciate the offer though.” Franklin scrubs the natural bristled brush over the grills with loving strokes. He loves smoking and barbequing like I love building. I feel like I understand Bennett’s self-effacing partner a little more than I did yesterday.
The schick schick schick of the brush over the grates continues. “Smith, something happened in there I think you should know about. You were probably dealing with Wee Willy Weston at the time.” Schick. Schick. Schick.
“Go on,” I encourage, already feeling a swirl of dread in my gut.
He sighs. “You’re probably going to get pissed. You might think it’s none of my business but if it involves Bennett, well, it’s all of our business now, isn’t it?”
Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Agree to disagree for now. But go on, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
He stops scrubbing, setting the brush down to throw a bucket of water over the grates. “I’ll get up early tomorrow morning and trailer these back to Plowed. I can season them there. Think one of you could leave me a truck tonight?”
I nod, crossing my arms over my chest. I wait, trying not to be impatient, for him to get to the meat of the discussion. “Bennett asked Balthasar where you’ve been the last two days. She thinks you’re going to leave.” He pauses, studying my face. A tendril of panic threads through me. Not because I want to leave, but because I don’t know if I’m enough for her stay. “She said she wouldn’t stay here and run you out of your home again. Balthasar heard her. He looked like he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule.”
A voice in my head is telling me to walk away. I don’t want to stand here and rehash the time that changed the course of so many lives with a stranger. Except, he isn’t really a stranger. And not talking things out is why events happened the way they did when we were young. I want to say something eloquent, to prove to the guy that was smart enough to snatch up Bennett that I’ve earned my place with her now. I open my mouth, but the words get tangled up. Why aren’t actions enough? Why does everything have to be talked about?
“You know all those romance novels Gran has on the shelves in the living room?” he asks, changing tack.
“Yeah,” I answer, jolted out of my line of thought.
“Bennett used to read a lot when she could, before we opened the restaurant. I remember one Sunday afternoon she was curled up reading while I was watching a University of Michigan vs. Ohio State game. I was jumping up and down yelling on a long pass play that was heading into the end zone and she jump out of her chair and chucked her book. She hit a tray on the end table and knocked salsa guacamole all over floor, right when I screamed, ‘Touchdown!’.” He smiles fondly, lost in the recollection.
“I don’t see what bearing this has on our conversation, Franklin. I should get back in and help finish up.” I say, turning to head back in the building.
“I asked her why she threw the book. She said she hated the miscommunication trope.” I stop. Miscommunication trope? What the hell is that?
“I don’t know what that means,” I bite out, frustrated with his bullshit. I hate when people speak in parables and analogies. Just say what you mean, Franklin.
“It means she can’t stand stories where the relationships fall apart due to lack of communication. I know this thing we all have going is different for you Smith, but you are a part of who she is. It all falls apart without you. Talk to her.”
I dip my head, letting him know I heard him, and then I head back in.
An hour later we’re all sprawled out in Gran’s living room, drinks in hand. Bennett looks completed wrecked. She’s slouched against the arm of the couch, the lights of the Christmas tree turning her face assorted colors every time the lights change. Her legs are tucked up underneath her. The way she sits, and the simple ponytail her hair is tied up in has her looking like seventeen-year-old Bennett. I find myself blinking and shaking my head to bring me back to the present.
I sip my whiskey, convinced everyone is as lost in their own thoughts and memories as I am, until the hair on the back of my neck rises. Everyone in the room is staring at me. “What?”
“I think it’s time,” Franklin says leaning forward.
“I agree,” Balthasar concurs. Whittaker nods. They look at Bennett.
“Come on. She’s exhausted! This isn’t the right time,” I grouse, flinging an arm out toward Bennett as if they need me to show them where she’s sitting.
“It is the right time,” she agrees tiredly. “I know we’re all exhausted and grieving, but I’m tired of dancing around the past and worrying about what people will think. You know what I found yesterday? Tucked in on of Gran’s books? A letter. To paraphrase, she thinks we all should be together. We’ve spent this whole week dancing around our hurts, surviving our grief by finding tasks to complete, but now the funeral is over. I’m sick of waiting for a better time. No one is guaranteed tomorrow. Smith, where were you the last couple of days? And what did you do with Weston?”
I jerk, feeling attacked. “Weston is on a plane, on his way back to Pennsylvania.”
Surprise flits across her face. “How did you manage that?”
“Did you see the man I was with?” She nods. The others on the edge of their seats. I’m glad you assholes are enjoying the show. I throw them all dirty looks and continue. “That was my old boss. He owns a private military company called Haleworth Group. I served in Afghanistan with his oldest son Hal, and when we left the military, I hired on with them.”
Bennett eyes flare wide. “Weston has an older brother named Hal. He was constantly bitching about what a suck ass he is.”
I nod, confirming her suspicion. “The man with me, my old employer, is Hal and Weston’s father. He’s one of the richest men in America. And Weston is major thorn in his ass. I don’t think he’ll be bothering you anymore Bennett.”
Her mouth flaps open and shut a few times before she closes it. She drops her head, closing her eyes and rubbing them with her thumb and index finger. Whittaker is staring at her as if he can see through her skull and read her thoughts like a prompter. She takes a deep breath and lifts her head. “A part of me wants to be pissed off that you thought it was okay to handle my business without discussing it with me, but, I saw the loaded gun her brought to my grandmother’s service. An event full of children and families. Thank you, Smith. Thank you for taking out my trash.”
I lean back, sighing hard with relief. I didn’t realize I had been sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for her to berate me for sticking my nose in her affairs. Although it was a risk worth taking. I’d do anything to keep her safe from that sleazebag.
“Tell her everything Smith. Bennett, in the interest of transparency, I know what he’s about to tell you. We decided, collectively, that it wouldn’t be fair to dump this on you right before your Gran’s service. You deserved to be able to focus on Gran, there would be plenty of time after to tell you.” Her eyes narrow and her lips thin beneath flaring nostrils as Franklin gives his little speech. I’ve used up the only free pass we’re getting tonight, and we all know it. Balthasar and Whittaker glance at each other, all of shifting uneasily in our seats.
“Part of the reason Weston’s been sniffing around is because Hal Sr. cut him off. His bank accounts are empty. The only option he had was to cash in his investment in Smoke and Mirrors or get back in his father’s good graces. So old Wes decided to go for the gold. He was going to put on a ring on your finger, convince you to sell the farm, and burn your restaurant down for the insurance money.” I take a deep breath and drain my glass. Balthasar, uncharacteristically, gets up and mixes me another without saying another word.
