"I never saw a toy store there," Grandma said, "but I was shopping with Tootie Frick last week, and we saw a store with a toy soldier on the door. I tried the door, but it was locked, and there weren't any lights on inside. I asked someone about it and he said the store was haunted. He said last week there was an electrical storm inside the store, with thunder and everything."
I transferred a raw cookie-dough star from the table to the cookie sheet. "I don't know about the haunted part, but the place is supposed to be a toy store. The guy who owns it has failed to appear for a court date, and I haven't been able to find him. Supposedly he makes some of his own toys, and he has a workshop somewhere, but I haven't been able to get an address for the workshop."
When the bail bonds office opened tomorrow morning I'd have Connie, the office manager, run a cyber search on Claws. I could also check to see if Claws was on the books for electric and water at a location other than his house and his store.
"You're gonna have to pick the pace up here," Grandma said. "We still got to put the frosting on these cookies. And we got the filled cookies to make yet. And the cream cheese snowballs. I can't be doing this all day because I gotta go to a viewing tonight. Lenny Jelinek is laid out. He was a member of the Moose lodge, and you know what that means."
My mother and I looked at Grandma. We were clueless.
"I give up," my mother said. "What does that mean?"
"There's always a crowd when there's a Moose laid out. Lots of men. Easy pickings, if you're in the market for a studmuffin."
My mother was mixing cookie dough in a big bowl. She looked up, spoon in hand, and a glob of dough slid off the spoon and plopped onto the floor. "Studmuffin?"
"Of course, I've already got my studmuffin all picked out," Grandma said. "I met him at Harry Farfel's viewing, week before last. It was a real romantic meeting. My studmuffin just moved into the area. He was driving around, trying to find a business associate, and he got lost. So he went into Stiva's Funeral Parlor to ask for directions, and he bumped right into me. He said he bumped into me on account of he has vision problems, but I knew it was fate. All the little hairs on my arm stood up the second he knocked me down. Can you imagine? And now we're practically going steady. He's a real honey. He's a good kisser, too. Makes my lips tingle!"
"You never said anything," my mother said.
"I didn't want to make a fuss, what with Christmas on top of us."
I thought it was sort of cool that Grandma had a studmuffin, but I didn't really want a mental image of Grandma and the good kisser. Last time Grandma brought a man home to dinner he took his glass eye out at the table and set it alongside his spoon while he ate.
I had some success at eliminating senior studmuffin thoughts. I was having less success at eliminating thoughts of Diesel. I was worried he was in the living room deciding who in my family should be beamed up to the mothership. Or maybe he wasn't an alien. What then? Maybe he was Satan. Except, he didn't smell like fire and brimstone. His scent was more yum. Okay, probably he wasn't Satan. I went to the kitchen door and did another look out.
The kids were on the floor, transfixed by the television. My father was in his chair, sleeping. No Diesel. "Hey," I shouted to Angie. "Where's Diesel?"
Angie shrugged. Mary Alice looked around at me and also shrugged.
"Dad," I shouted. "Where'd Diesel go?"
My dad opened one eye. "Out. He said he'd be back by dinnertime."
Out? As in out for a walk? Or out as in out of body? I looked up to the ceiling, hoping Diesel wasn't hovering above us like the Ghost of Christmas Past. "Did he say where he was going?"
"Nope. Just said he'd be back." My father's eyes closed. End of conversation.
I suddenly had a scary thought. I ran to the front foyer with the spatula still in my hand. I looked out the front door and my heart momentarily stopped. The CRV was gone. He took my car. "Damn, damn, damn!" I went outside to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. "Diesel!" I yelled. "Deeezel!" No response. Big deal Man of Mysterious Talents can open doors but can't hear me calling him.
"I just got to thinking about today's paper," Grandma said when I returned to the kitchen. "I was looking at the want ads this morning, thinking I could use a job if the right thing turned up... like being a bar singer. Anyway, I didn't see any ads for bar singers, but there was an ad in there for toy makers. It was worded real cute, too. It said they were looking for elves."
The paper was on the floor beside my father's chair. I found the paper and read through the want ads. Sure enough, there was an ad for toy makers. Elves preferred. A phone number was given. Applicants were told to ask for Lester.
I dialed the number and got Lester on the second ring.
"Here's the thing, Lester," I said. "I got this phone number out of the paper. Are you really hiring toy makers?"
"Yes, but we're only taking toy makers of the very highest caliber."
"Elves?"
"Everyone knows, they're the top of the line toy makers."
"Are you taking on anyone other than elves?"
"Are you a non-elf, looking for a job?"
"I'm looking for a toy maker. Sandy Claws." Click. Disconnect. I redialed and someone other than Lester answered. I asked for Lester and was told Lester wasn't available. I asked for the job seeker interview location and this resulted in another disconnect.
"I didn't know we had elves in Trenton," Grandma said. "Isn't that something? Elves right under our nose."
"I think he was kidding about the elves," I said.
"Too bad," Grandma said. "Elves would be fun."
"You're always working," my mother said to me. "You can't even bake Christmas cookies without making phone calls about criminals. Loretta Krakowski's daughter doesn't do that. Loretta's daughter comes home from the button factory and never thinks about her job. Loretta's daughter handmade all her own Christmas cards." My mother stopped mixing dough and looked at me, wide-eyed and fear-filled. "Did you send out your Christmas cards?"
Omigod, Christmas cards. I forgot all about Christmas cards. "Sure," I said. "I sent them out last week." I hoped God and Santa Claus weren't listening to me fib.
My mother blew out a whoosh of air and made the sign of the cross. "Thank goodness. I was afraid you forgot, again."
Mental note. Buy some Christmas cards.
By five o'clock we were done with the cookies and my mother had a tray of lasagna in the oven. The cookies were in cookie jars and cookie tins and some were stacked high on plates for instant eating. I was at the sink, washing the last of the baking sheets, and I felt the skin prickle at the back of my neck. I turned and bumped into Diesel.
"You took my car," I said, jumping back. "You just drove off with it. You stole it!"
"Chill. I borrowed it. I didn't want to disturb you. You were busy with the cookie making."
"If you had to go somewhere why didn't you just pop yourself there... like you popped into my apartment?"
"I'm keeping a low profile. I save the popping for special occasions."
"You're not really the Spirit of Christmas, are you?"
"I could be if I wanted. I hear the job's up for grabs." He was wearing the same boots and jeans and jacket, but he'd substituted a brown sweater for the stained thermal.
"Did you go home to change?"
"Home is far away." He playfully twirled a lock of my hair around his finger. "You ask a lot of questions."
"Yeah, but I'm not getting any answers."
"There's a chubby little guy in the living room with your dad. Is that your boyfriend?"
"That's Albert Kloughn. He's Valerie's boyfriend."
I heard the front door open, and seconds later, Morelli sauntered into the kitchen. He looked first to me and then to Diesel. He extended his hand to Diesel. "Joe Morelli," he said.
"Diesel."
They spent a moment measuring. Diesel was an inch taller and had more bulk. Morelli wasn't someone you'd want to meet in a dark alley. Morelli was all
lean hard muscle and dark assessing eyes. The moment passed, Morelli smiled at me and dropped a feather-light kiss on the top of my head.
"Diesel is an alien or something," I said to Morelli. "He appeared in my kitchen this morning."
"As long as he didn't spend the night," Morelli said. He reached around me to a cookie tin, removed the lid, and selected a cookie.
I cut my eyes to Diesel and caught him smiling.
Morelli's pager buzzed. He checked the readout and swore to himself. He used the kitchen phone, staring at his shoes while he was talking. Never a good sign. The conversation was short.
"I have to go," Morelli said. "Work."
"Will I see you later?"
Morelli pulled me out to the back stoop and shut the kitchen door behind us. "Stanley Komenski was just found stuffed into an industrial waste barrel. It was sitting in the alley behind that new Thai restaurant on Sumner Street. Apparently it had been sitting there for days and was attracting flies, not to mention some local dogs and a pack of crows. He was muscle for Lou Two Toes so this is going to get ugly. And if that isn't bad enough, there's something screwy going on with the electric grid. There have been power outages in pockets all over Trenton and they all of a sudden correct themselves. Not a big deal, but it's making a mess out of traffic." Morelli turned his head to look through the glass pane, into the kitchen. "Who's the big guy?"
"I told you. He popped into my kitchen this morning. I think he's an alien. Or maybe he's some kind of a ghost."
Morelli felt my forehead. "Are you running a fever? Have you fallen down again?"
"I'm fine. Pay attention. The guy popped into my kitchen."
"Yeah, but everyone pops into your kitchen."
"Not like this. He really popped in. Like he was beamed down, or something."
"Okay," Morelli said, "I believe you. He's an alien." Morelli dragged me tight against him, and he kissed me. And he left.
"So," Diesel said, when I returned to the kitchen.
"How'd that go?"
"I don't think he believed me."
"No kidding. You go around telling people I'm an alien and they're eventually going to lock you up in the booby hatch. And just for the record, I'm not an alien. And I'm not a ghost."
"Vampire?"
"A vampire can't enter a home without an invitation."
"This is too weird."
"It's not that weird," Diesel said. "I can do some things most people can't do. Don't make more of it than it is."
“I don't know what it is!"
Diesel's smile returned.
* * *
At precisely six o'clock we sat down to the table.
"Isn't this nice," Grandma said. "It feels like a party."
"I'm squished," Mary Alice said. "Horses don't like when they're squished. There's too many people at this table."
"I've got room," Albert Kloughn said. "I can pick my fork up and everything."
My father already had lasagna on his plate. My father always got served first with the hope that he'd be busy eating and wouldn't jump up and strangle Grandma Mazur. "Where's the gravy?" he asked. "Where's the extra sauce?"
Angie carefully passed the bowl with the extra marinara sauce to Mary Alice. Mary Alice had a hard time getting her hooves around the bowl, the bowl wobbled in midair and then crashed onto the table, setting loose a tidal wave of tomato sauce. Grandma reached across the table to grab the bowl, knocked over a candlestick and the tablecloth went up in flames. This wasn't the first time this had happened.
"Yow! Fire," Kloughn yelled. "Fire. Fire! We're all gonna die!"
My father looked up briefly, shook his head like he couldn't believe this was actually his life, and returned to shoveling in his lasagna. My mother made the sign of the cross. And I dumped a pitcher of ice water into the middle of the table, putting an end to the fire.
Diesel grinned. "I love this family. I just love this family."
"I didn't really think we were going to die," Kloughn said.
"Have another slice of lasagna," my mother said to Valerie. "Look at you, you're all skin and bones."
"That's because she throws up when she eats," Grandma said.
"I have a virus," Valerie said. "I get nervous."
"Maybe you're pregnant," Grandma said. "Maybe you got the morning sickness all day long." Kloughn went white and fell off his chair. Crash, onto the floor.
Grandma looked down at him. "They don't make men like they used to."
Valerie clapped her hand to her mouth and ran out of the room, up the stairs to the bathroom.
"Holy Mary Mother of God," my mother said.
Kloughn opened his eyes. "What happened?"
"You fainted," Grandma said. "You went down like a sack of sand."
Diesel got out of his chair and helped Kloughn to his feet. "Way to go, stud," Diesel said.
"Thank you," Kloughn said. "I'm very virile. It runs in the family."
"I'm tired of sitting here," Mary Alice said. "I need to gallop."
"You will not gallop," my mother yelled at Mary Alice. "You're not a horse. You're a little girl, and you'll act like one or you'll go to your room."
We all sat stunned because my mother never yelled. And even more shocking, my mother (having put her time in with me, the original space cadet) never made an issue of the horse thing.
There was a moment of silence and then Mary Alice started bawling. She had her eyes scrunched tight and her mouth wide open. Her face was red and blotchy and tears dripped off her cheeks onto her shirt.
"Christ," my father said. "Somebody do something."
"Hey, kid," Diesel said to Mary Alice, "what do you want for Christmas this year?"
Mary Alice tried to stop crying but her breath was coming in gulps and hiccups. She scrubbed tears off her face and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. "I don't want anything for Christmas. I hate Christmas. Christmas is poopy."
"There must be something you want," Grandma said.
Mary Alice pushed her food around on her plate with her fork. "There's nothing. And I know there's no Santa Claus, too. He's just a big fat fake."
No one had an immediate response. She'd caught us by surprise. There was no Santa Claus. How crappy is that?
Diesel finally leaned forward on his elbows and looked across the table at Mary Alice. "This is the way I see it, Mary Alice. I can't say for sure if there's really a Santa Claus, but I think it's fun to pretend. The truth is, we all have a choice to make, and we can believe in whatever we want."
"I think you're poopy, too," Mary Alice said to Diesel.
Diesel slid his arm across my shoulders and leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "You were smart to choose a hamster," he said.
Valerie returned to the dining room in time for dessert. "It's an allergy," she said. "I think I'm lactose-intolerant."
"Boy, that's a shame," Grandma said. "We got pineapple upside-down cake for tonight, and it's got lots of whipped cream on it."
Beads of sweat appeared on Valerie's upper lip and forehead, and Valerie ran back upstairs.
"Funny how these things come on," Grandma said. "She was never lactose-intolerant before. She must have caught it in California."
"I'm going to get some cookies from the kitchen," my mother said.
I followed after her and found her belting back a tumbler of Four Roses.
She jumped when she saw me. "You startled me," she said.
"I came to help with the cookies."
"I was just taking a nip." A shudder raced through my mother. "It's Christmas, you know."
This was a nip the size of a Big Gulp. "Probably Valerie isn't pregnant," I said.
My mother drained the Big Gulp, crossed herself, and went back into the dining room with the cookies.
"So," Grandma said to Kloughn, "do you make Christmas cookies at your house? Is your tree up yet?"
"We don't actually have a tree," Kloughn said. "We're Jewish."
Everyone stopped eating, even my
father.
"You don't look Jewish," Grandma said. "You don't wear one of them beanies."
Kloughn rolled his eyes up as if looking for his missing beanie, clearly at a loss for words, probably still not getting total oxygen to his brain after fainting.
"How great is this?" Grandma said. "If you marry Valerie we can celebrate some of those Jewish holidays. And we can get a set of the candlesticks. I always wanted one of those Jewish candlestick things. Isn't this something," Grandma said. "Wait until I tell the girls at the beauty parlor that we might get a Jew in our family. Everyone's going to be jealous."
My father was still sitting lost in thought. His daughter might marry a Jewish guy. This wasn't a great thing to happen, in my father's view. Not that he had anything against Jewish guys. It was that chances were slim to nonexistent that Kloughn was Italian. In my father's scheme of things, there were Italians and then there was the rest of the world. "You wouldn't be of Italian descent, would you?" my father asked Kloughn.
"My grandparents were German," Kloughn said. My father sighed and went back to concentrating on his lasagna. Yet another fuckup in the family.
My mother was white-faced. Bad enough her daughters didn't attend church. The possibility of non-Catholic grandchildren was a disaster right up there with nuclear annihilation. "Maybe I need to put a couple more cookies on the plate," my mother said, pushing back from the table.
One more cookie run and my mother was going to be passed out on the kitchen floor.
At nine o'clock Angie and Mary Alice were tucked into bed. My grandmother was somewhere with her studmuffin, and my mother and father were in front of the television. Valerie and Albert Kloughn were discussing things in the kitchen. And Diesel and I were standing outside on the sidewalk in front of the CRV. It was cold and our breath made frost clouds.
"So what happens now?" I asked. "Do you get beamed back up?"
"Not tonight. Couldn't get a flight."
My eyebrows raised a quarter of an inch.
"I'm kidding," he said. "Boy, you'll believe anything."