The Santa Shop Read online

The bridge turned out to be only a twenty-minute walk from town. It was also surprisingly easy to find once I noticed a street sign declaring River Road. Though brief, the walk to the river was scenic. The town of Gray sat on a plateau that separated a series of four mountains in the east from a deep gorge and another cluster of mountains in the west. River Road skirted along the edge of the town's plateau and offered a breathtaking view of the snow-covered gorge and the western mountains beyond. Sheer granite faces dotted the otherwise white peaks in the distance. Painted against a brilliant backdrop of blue sky, the scene was like a picture you might find on a puzzle.

  As it happened, the bridge was one of those tall, black steel affairs. Barely two cars wide and at least a hundred feet long, the charcoal structure extended from the edge of the plateau, across a deep ravine, all the way to a ridge on the other side. I peered over the edge and gasped. It was easily a hundred feet straight down to the soupy mixture of ice and black water at the base of the ravine.

  No wonder people killed themselves here. It was certain that no one could survive the fall.

  I backed away from the edge and waited for my heart to return to normal. There was an irony here, I knew. It seemed ludicrous that I was ready to leap from the bridge, but the chance of slipping and falling from it terrified me.

  I walked a little further back toward town and leaned against a tree, comfortably distant from the edge of the ravine. For a while, I watched the water and ice churn slowly downstream. The wind was biting. My breath emerged in great clouds, and even with my hands stuffed securely into the depths of my woolen pockets I could feel them stiffening in response to the frigid Vermont air.

  If I wanted to survive long enough to leap tonight, it was obvious that I had to get back to town and find a warm place to hole up. The thought of a movie theater was a pleasant fantasy, but Gray didn't look big enough to even have a video store.

  During the walk back, a man in a silver CadillacTM crossed the bridge and stopped to offer me a ride. I caught the look of derision as he eyed me up and down and could see relief on his puffy face when I declined.

  "Merry Christmas," I whispered as he gunned the engine. As if in response to my sarcasm, the Cadillac'sTM big tires spun snow up into my face.

  Unlike the Albany station, Gray's bus stop was nothing more than a sign and a bench. There weren't even a few rectangles of PlexiglasTM to break the wind. I thought of cuddling up on the open bench, but it would surely be too cold and would bring suspicious eyes my way.

  There was no other restaurant along the small strip that I could see, but there was an old Victorian home with a sign out front that identified it as Andy and Sue's Bed and Breakfast. I went inside.

  I realized immediately that I should have knocked but against my expectations the front door deposited me right into the living room of the large Victorian House. There was no hotel desk and no bell to ring. Fortunately, the large room with plush furniture was empty. I hadn't interrupted a TV show or other gathering.

  "Hello," I said in a loud voice.

  "Hi. How are you?" A handsome thirty-something man strode casually into the room. He didn't act at all surprised by my presence and didn't perform the same scathing eye exam that I was generally used to.

  "We were just preparing dinner. You're welcome to join us if you're hungry," he said.

  "Or, if you like, I could show you to your room?"

  The man was so open and accepting that I felt low for my own hidden thoughts. If he only knew my purpose for being in his quaint little town, how friendly would he have been then? Among other things, I'll bet suicides weren't good for business.

  "How much is a room?" I asked.

  For the first time, the young man's eyes wandered up then down. There was no contempt in his voice or expression when he spoke, "First night's free, and so is Christmas. After that we can talk."

  "But—"

  "Let me show you to your room. You probably want to clean up before dinner."

  "I—" I never got to finish the statement because the blond man was already walking toward the stairs. Lamely, I followed.

  "I've got some clothes here from a man who forgot his luggage a few months back," the innkeeper offered. "I'll bet you could find something in them that would fit."

  "Thank you," I said as I followed him down a wide hallway on the second floor. At the very end of the corridor I could see a bathroom, brightly decorated with pink towels and a peach shower curtain. He led me to the last of three oak doors on the right.

  "Here you go," he said, swinging the door open. The room was fabulous. A colorful vase sat between two windows and the foot of the bed. A beautiful fern rose majestically from its soil all the way to the ornate metal ceiling high above. The four corners of the double bed were marked with thick mahogany posts, topped with pineapple carvings. The carpeting was a pale blue that matched the pillowcases and the floral comforter. The curtains, also pale blue, were fashioned of a fine lace that allowed the winter sun to shine in. There was a phone on one of the two nightstands, and beside the phone I could see a remote control that I surmised had to do with an electric bed. There was no television in the room.

  The innkeeper entered behind me and stepped over to the large armoire. He swung open two doors to reveal a very modern Sony TV hidden within.

  "We don't have cable here in Gray, but we're high enough to get eight stations pretty well. As you saw, the bathroom's just outside the door. In a minute, I'll bring in the clothes I mentioned."

  "Thank you."

  The man winked. "You're very welcome. Isn't this what Christmas is all about?"

  He left and returned a few moments later with an armload of dress shirts and casual slacks that looked suspiciously similar to those he was wearing.

  I wanted desperately to fill the tub and soak in warm water for hours, but I knew it would have been rude not to accept the dinner that had been so kindly offered. I settled for a sponge bath that left the inn's facecloth embarrassingly dirty. I tried hand washing the rose-colored square of material, but it was no use. I laid the cloth back on the sink and hoped the filth would come out in a machine.

  I had shaven one time or another over the past couple of weeks but I really wanted to take off the scruffy beard that had already re-grown. Unfortunately, there were no shaving utensils to be found.

  The shirt was my size, or would have been one year before. These days, my undernourished body left much of the material hanging loosely. I didn't fare so well with the pants either. I was forced to roll up the cuffs twice to keep material from dragging on the floor. I was glad, however, that they were longer instead of shorter because I had no other stockings and my white socks had long-since turned a frightful gray-black.

  Back in my room, I pulled my worn sneakers back on and went downstairs. It was no problem finding the dining room. I simply followed the sound of a boisterous voice.

  There were eight people sitting around a formally set table. The innkeeper sat at the far end, next to a soft-spoken, pretty brunette woman that I judged to be his wife. To the right of the couple was a hefty elderly gent. His bright red nose and cheeks were likely a testament to a tipping hobby. Beside the elderly man sat two pre-teen boys, who appeared content but strangely subdued. They had the same long hawk nose as the older man, though of course lacked the bright veins. Across from them was a middle-aged couple who apparently had been the cause of the commotion I had been hearing. From the way the salt-and-pepper an kept using the terms "in this part of the country" and "what beautiful views" I assumed he and his wife were tourists of one fashion or another. Sitting at the other end of the table, exactly opposite the innkeeper was a strange little girl. She was young, maybe eight or nine. Her neck hung at an awkward angle and her left arm was twisted in such a way that her palm faced outward even when hanging in a relaxed position.

  There was an empty chair and a place setting between the girl and the tourists. Feeling awkward, I moved across the room and settled down.

  "I
t's nice to have you with us," the innkeeper said. "I'm Pat Olsen and this is Carolyn, my wife."

  "I'm Skip Ralstat."

  The others also introduced themselves. The little girl had an especially difficult time saying her own name, "Juuu...dii...tth Aaa...nnne."

  "Judith Ann is our guest of honor tonight," the innkeeper said. "She's from the St. John's Children's Center here in town. We have one of the children over for dinner every night. It just happens that her turn fell on this beautiful Christmas Eve."

  I looked to the girl. She was beaming, so obviously ecstatic at being here. These people, the innkeeper and his wife, had to have been cut from a very special cloth. I felt a deep respect for them.

  The roast beef dinner and its accompaniments were wonderful. Not only were they delicious but they were also were served on beautiful blue chintz china. The drinks came in elegant rose and cobalt colored glasses. I did find it of interest that only juice, milk and water were offered with our meal. I wondered if maybe the innkeeper or his wife was a recovering alcoholic, but I somehow doubted it.

  It may have been that they didn't drink on this occasion so as not to tempt the old man with the red face. He looked as though the last thing he needed was more alcohol to drink. As it was, the veins on his nose looked red and swollen to the bursting point.

  I didn't speak more than a few sentences during the meal. The tourist and his wife did most of the talking, though the innkeeper seemed to have a way of inserting himself just enough to keep the man from becoming boorish.

  Sitting across from the somewhat somber boys, it was now obvious to me that the girl made them uncomfortable. As is often the way, the healthy fear those who are less healthy. It's almost as if we fear what we may become. In the boys' cases, maybe they really did believe that somehow the girl's condition was contagious.

  Though he didn't utter as much as one word to them, or to anyone else for that matter, the old man kept looking toward the boys and grunting. For their part, other than furtive glances toward the girl, the boys didn't look at anyone at all.

  Though the food was delicious, I was unable to finish my second plate. Apparently, my stomach had shrunk considerably over the last year. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't have eaten another bite.

  I excused myself and pushed away from the table. "Could you wake me around nine?" I asked as I crossed the room.

  "Sure," the innkeeper said.

  With only a few hours of life left to me, I was afraid that my mind wouldn't let my body sleep but it turned out to be no problem at all. In a very short time, the soft pillow and the equally soft bed dragged me into a deep, coma-like sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  The End of Everything