The Santa Society (2 page)

I lift my cup and realize I’ve already taken the last sip. I don’t have any further reason to sit here, except for the one I’m avoiding, tied to the tree outside.

I rise from my chair and gather my trash from the table, shoving used sugar and creamer packets into one of the empty cups. I toss it all in the trash and head for the door. The bell jingles, and the dog gets to his feet to watch me step out onto the sidewalk.

I survey the area again but still don’t see anyone around. I focus on his tag, crossing the space between us without looking directly at his face. This is a task, a quick duty. That’s all.

I lift the red tag to read it. Someone has engraved the name, Klaus, on it. I say it in my mind like “house” but with a K sound. I flip it over and my heart sinks. It’s blank.

“Great,” I say out loud. His ears perk up. He gives me that queer once-over again, as though he reads me. I realize his leash has slipped to the base of the tree. Whoever tied him here didn’t do it very securely. They only wrapped it around the trunk.

I can just walk home now—pretend I’ve never met this dog and have no idea he shivers out here in the cold, barely tied to a tree. At least there’s no traffic yet. And I’ve done worse things. Like the cancer decision.

I should’ve talked my mother out of dying, especially dying at home. Nothing about it felt dignified. I can’t get it out of my head. I should’ve taken her to the hospital—done
something
. But I didn’t. So this—leaving this dog here for someone else to deal with—it’s not that big of a deal.

I start walking home.

Behind me I hear silence…then, the faint clink of a dog tag. I know, even before I feel his soft snout brush my hand. He’s following me.

Chapter 2

THE HOUSE WATCHES US through the maple trees as we approach. Its dark window-eyes peek through branches and russet leaves as we near the concrete stairway that leads to my yard. Klaus keeps pace beside me, dragging his leash on the pavement. I hear the scratchy crackle of leaves as it sweeps through them.

I refuse to hold that leash. If he belongs to me, let it be of his own volition—not mine. This way, when he sees what a mess of a person he’s chosen, it won’t be my fault. And if his owner should turn up, I’ll be able to say with a clean conscience I didn’t steal him from the tree outside the coffee shop. Already, I wonder if someone has returned to find him missing. In my mind, I imagine the robust Italian woman describing me to a police officer in her broken English.

“She only come early. Dark hair. Very stick, no meat. Always wear one—what you say—beanie? Black scarf, other clothes is—well—plain.”

 Maybe I shouldn’t go there again or else march him right back and tie him to the tree, just like I found him.

That isn’t what I do, though. I climb the stairs and follow the walkway leading to the porch steps. Leaves have blown through the rails to gather in drifts like colored paper snow around the bowed legs of my mother’s white rocking chairs. I haven’t moved them since I came back here last fall. They still lean face-first against the wall, upturned and out of service.

Voices drift over from the neighbor’s yard. The man of the house stands on a ladder, hanging strings of Christmas lights along the eaves. His wife and young daughter unfold an inflatable snowman in the grass while plastic reindeer gather around them. I can see them over the tops of the bitter cherry shrubs.

Klaus nudges my leg as if he has a duty to keep me focused. I slip my hand in my jacket pocket to get my keys but find only small bits of lint beaded in the seams. Dread passes over me. I check the other side. Soon, I am moving my hands over my jean pockets, patting at them repeatedly, knowing but not wanting to believe I don’t have my keys.

I grab at the door handle with a small bit of hope. Maybe I forgot to lock it. The cold metal knob doesn’t budge.

Klaus makes a loud huff and plops his bottom down on the whitewashed floorboards.

I cut my eyes in his direction. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m only human.”

He returns my sideways look, then lies down and looks away. I begin pacing.
There has to be a spare.
I try to remember. She must’ve kept one out here somewhere. My mother stayed prepared, always.

The brick.
She kept it under there once a long time ago.

I hurry down the steps toward the border that surrounds the overgrown bushes in front of the house. One brick sits askew, raised a little higher. I snatch it up. Freshly exposed worms and pill bugs scurry over the moist soil looking for hiding places. I check the bottom of the brick, hoping for a patch of black tape, but instead I find a shriveled spider and some kind of cocoon. Several bricks later, I’ve found nothing but more bugs. I shove the bricks back in place. I don’t even have a cell phone with me.
I left it inside.

My shoulders slump, and I blow out a gust of breath. It’s been a long time since I felt this screwed.

Klaus watches me from the porch, his head resting on his front paws.

Cold moisture seeps through my jeans as I continue to kneel in the grass. I could go check the back door and the windows. I try to hope, even though I am a meticulous nighttime lock-checker, and I know I haven’t opened any of the windows this past year.

I rise to my feet and hear Klaus’ nails scratch across the wood. He scrambles to his feet and trots down the stairs. Like a snob, he doesn’t look at me as he passes by. He crosses the lawn toward the corner of the house, the one nearest to my decorating neighbors. He moves with determination as if he’s decided to try out their house instead. At least they look like they live there, whereas I only have a house I can’t get into.

But Klaus does not turn that direction. In fact, he reaches the bitter cherry shrubs and hangs a sharp right, disappearing around the corner of this house. I don’t follow. Instead, I make my way back to the porch. There has to be a key here somewhere. My eyes settle on the old black mailbox hanging beside the front door, a surviving relic of the days when the postal service walked. I brush away spider webs and tug at the lid. It won’t budge, so I pull harder until it finally gives. I shove my hand in, feeling around for the key. It has to be here.

I touch something that crackles like paper. Pinching it between two fingers, I extract a small piece of yellowed notebook paper folded into a square—one of Mom’s notes. I can’t believe it’s been here all these years
.
My throat thickens. There’s no way I’m opening it now.

I shift it to my left hand and shove my right one back in for another pass through, just in case I missed something. But it’s empty.

I squeeze the note in my palm and tremble. A toxic mix of regret and bitterness washes over me. I should have listed this house for sale months ago. I will never be able to get out of the past as long as I continue living in the museum that preserves it.

I hear a sudden series of thuds like footsteps coming from inside the house.

My mind races. Someone is in there. I freeze, liquid terror cooling my veins. A single, low shudder moves through the living room floor, rippling outward to where my feet stand outside.

I know I should run. I should tear out of here screaming at the top of my lungs so the neighbors will hear. Even if I don’t scream, I should run...before the front door opens and someone drags me inside.

But I only step backward, right onto a loose board in the floor. It makes a loud creaking sound that almost makes me scream. My body doesn’t cooperate with my fear. Instead of hightailing it out of there, I feel compelled to know more. I tip toe past a rocker, toward the front window.

From next door, I hear, “Mommy, look at that lady next door. What’s she doing?”

“Shhh, don’t talk so loud, Callie. She’ll hear you.”

“But she looks like she’s sneaking. People aren’t ’sposed to sneak. That’s bad.”

“Jeez, Callie. Be quiet.” This voice sounds like an older girl. Must be her teenage sister.

Great, now I’m the creepy lady next door. The conversation reduces to whispers and more shushes.

At least they know I’m here. Oddly, it gives me enough courage to move closer to the window. Whoever broke in must still be in the living room, since the noises stopped there—unless they’re sneaking too.

My heart pounds in my chest. I can’t believe I’m being such an idiot, but I take another slow, careful step. Putting my body in front of the window seems like a bad idea. So I crouch beside the green shutter and steady myself. I’ll take a quick peak, only a second. Then I’ll take cover again.

I lunge for the window, my neck extended like a goose. If the neighbors are still watching, I’m sure I look very concerning now. But I have no time to think about it. I’m focused more on the fact that I can’t see inside. The sunlight is too bright. I retreat to the shutter.

This time, I lunge with my hands cupped at the sides of my face. I press against the glass, feeling like a bobbing target at the fair. I don’t see anything unusual. But, wait. Maybe I do—something odd in the floor. I tuck in my chin, trying to get a better look. Now I can’t see because my breath fogs the window. I give it a brisk swipe with my sleeve and try again.

I can see well enough to make out a definite dark area on the carpet. I peer at it, hoping the force of my will power might sharpen the image. How strange—the shape of it looks almost like—I smash my face in closer and stare in disbelief.
Impossible.

It’s a dog…with a red tag.

Klaus
. I can’t believe my eyes. He’s sprawled legs-up across my mother’s Persian rug. He sleeps with his head resting against the base of the couch. His lips have fallen open, exposing his teeth and the pink insides of his lips.

I don’t even realize my jaw hangs open until I snap it shut and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
How did he get in?
I squint to see the back door—definitely closed. But I do see a small sliver of light shining through the wall near it. Ah, the poodle door. But that’s way too small, and it’s got plastic covering it inside. It’s been closed up since Honey got hit by a car five years ago.

Even though I see Klaus in the house, I can’t fathom how a dog his size could fit through a poodle door, especially not with plastic sealing it. A cold breeze blows over me as I stare at his sleeping form. He looks so warm and comfortable it irritates me. I shiver and pull my scarf up over my chin.
I’m
on the cold side of the window now.

I scramble down the steps two at a time and sprint to the back of the house, passing the shrubs as I go. Through them, I hear Callie again.

“Maybe somebody won’t let her in.”

You got that right.

“Nobody else lives there, smarty pants,” says the older girl.

“That’s enough, Holly,” the mother scolds.

I round the back corner, not caring what anybody thinks. Sure enough, just past a spray of dead desert sage I see the poodle door has been pushed in. A large strip of plastic hangs out of it, preventing the flap from closing all the way.

Nice
. Heat rises in my cheeks as I narrow my eyes.

I glare at the crumpled plastic, trying to think. If he got in, I should be able to. I get down on my knees and stick my head through the flap. The edges press painfully into my collar bone as the remaining strip of plastic stretches across my eye. No matter how I turn, I can’t get my shoulders through. It’s no use. I get to my feet and stroll back through the grass, kicking at leaves. I don’t want to accept the obvious: I need a locksmith.

A little girl’s head appears in the shrubs, sticking through a gap between two bushes. She wears her auburn hair in two braids that hang over each shoulder. They glow like copper in the sun. She smiles at me with a gummy pink gap where her two front teeth should be.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” she asks, her face an open window of curiosity.

“Nothing. Just locked out of the house.”

Her head disappears for a moment. “I told you!”

She reappears. “My name’s Callie, and I’m six.”

“I’m Erin.” I cover the distance between us and plop down in the grass a few feet away from her.

She gives me a sympathetic look. I lower my eyes, and grab a handful of grass. I select the longest blades and start twisting them together...like I’m six too.

Finally, she says, “What’re you gonna do? Will you be locked out forever? Will you have to get a new house?”

“No. I guess I gotta call a locksmith. After that, I’ll get a new house.” I look at her and smile. Sitting here talking to her feels almost like life again.

Her brown eyes surprise me. Aren’t redheads supposed to have blue eyes? I squint and raise my arm against the growing brightness. Through the small shade of my hand-visor I see tiny freckles on her nose too.

“What’s a locksmith?”

“An expensive guy who unlocks your house when you get locked out.”

“Why did you lock yourself out?”

From behind her, I hear, “Jeez, Callie. Leave her alone. Mom! Callie’s talking to the lady next door—in the bushes.”

Callie ignores her.

“I didn’t mean to,” I say to her. “Could you ask your mom if I can borrow a phone?”

I’m still waiting for the locksmith two hours later. I’ve met my mother’s neighbors: the Collins family. They moved in two months after she died, which makes them my neighbors now, I suppose. I’ve turned all the rockers around upright and had my ears talked off by Callie and Holly, but mostly Callie. Their mother, Tammy, has gone home to finish the decorations. Her husband, John, never came down from the ladder. He just blinked down at me as I crouched in the shrubs and gave me a friendly wave.

My jaw tightens as I steal another peak at the sleeping Klaus.

Callie notices. “You should teach him to open the door when you get locked out.”

“Good thinking.” I turn around just as a plain white van comes to a stop in front. A large man climbs out. His Carhartt coveralls and brown work boots suggest he does grubbier work than picking locks. His hair is completely white, except for his beard, which is stained yellow around his mouth.