Wendy A. pulled out the catalog ad for the shoes and displayed it proudly.
“I heard those give you Barbie feet.”
“I know, right?” Wendy Anderson concurred enthusiastically.
“Do you think anyone is hiring?” Wendy T. was exasperated and unusually focused on the task at hand.
“Are you seriously suggesting that we get a job? I’m not sure I even know you anymore.”
“Petula is not joking, Wendy. We need to come up with some scratch for a gift ASAP or we’ll be exiled. Christmas Eve is tomorrow!”
“Do you have anything to sell?”
Wendy Thomas pulled on her pink plaid fedora thinking cap.
“Hmmm,” she wondered. “I do have that box of blank T-shirts we were going to use for the Fall Ball fund-raiser.”
“You mean our Cruel-Tees idea?”
“Yeah, customized disses, put-downs, and unfounded gossip ironed across T-shirts. I remember.”
“Wear your snark on your sleeve,” Wendy Anderson said proudly.
“Catchphrase!” they said in unison.
The two bimbots broke out laughing hysterically and gave each other a high five, impressed with their own ingenuity.
“Can you believe we almost got expelled over that?”
“I know,” Wendy Anderson said. “It’s so hard to start a small business these days.”
“Maybe it was because we only carried child sizes,” Wendy Thomas wondered. “I didn’t think that was weight discriminatory, but whatever.”
“Well, there’s no time to do custom work right now anyway. We need to get paid, pronto!”
“I don’t know if there is anything left to do but pray.”
“Okay, close your eyes,” Wendy Anderson began, clasping hands with Wendy Thomas and shutting her eyes tightly, head bowed. “Lord, how are we going to get some goddamned money for Christmas?”
Wendy Thomas opened her eyes a crack, just enough to see a banner hanging at the funeral home across the street.
“It’s a sign!” Wendy shouted, pointing it out. “Thank you, God!”
In bold black-and-white, candy-striped letters, it read: MONEY FOR CHRISTMAS!
Just like the time she found an ad at the ninth hour in the local community college newspaper for the exact amount of money they needed for last year’s gift—the brain study where they had their heads slowly frozen by wearing helmets with ice trapped inside and then were instructed to play video games while the researcher measured their increasingly delayed reaction times.
The Wendys ran across the street in their heels, nearly oblivious to the fact that Damen had been parked directly underneath the sign.
“Hey, what are you two doing here?” he asked.
“We might ask you the same,” Wendy Anderson responded.
“I was just driving by, and I saw this sign. A little extra money for Christmas wouldn’t hurt.”
“So you haven’t gotten anything for Petula yet?”
“No, but you say nothing.”
The thrill The Wendys experienced from gleaning this little piece of holiday intelligence lit them up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Wendy T. said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“In our defense, we did get her list late.”
“So, what’s the gimmick? Nobody just hands out money for nothing,” Wendy Thomas asked.
“Ever feel invisible?” a smarmy voice whispered from behind them before Damen could answer.
The Wendys felt a sudden chill rise up their spines, worse than anything a winter wind could supply.
“Um, no,” Wendy Anderson replied, offended by the question. “But why do you ask?”
They turned to find a tall, thin, dapper dude with a megawatt grin, decked out in a black, tightly fitted two-piece suit, with a candy-cane-striped tie and white velour lapels and pant cuffs. His hair was long and obviously dyed artificially white, slicked and pulled pack in a tiny ponytail, which was tucked under a red wool Santa hat, tilted slightly to the side. His beard was trimmed meticulously. This was no dime-store Saint Nick. He looked as if he been groomed and dressed in the finest Fifth Avenue designer showroom. More corporate than Kringle. The Wendys, however, found themselves unable to take their eyes off the bulge in his crotch. He gave a whole new meaning to Christmas package.
“Don’t move,” Wendy Anderson instructed, training her smartphone camera on him. “I’ve never seen a metrosexual Santa before.”
The plier of the dismal trade complied, smiling menacingly for them.
“Status update!” Wendy T. cheered, checking out the photo.
“You were saying?” Wendy T. resumed.
“You wanted to know what our little giveaway was all about,” he said, stepping uncomfortably close to them, package first.
“Back off, Santa Claws,” Wendy Anderson snapped, pulling Wendy T. behind Damen and showing him her long pointed nails.
“We’re listening,” Wendy T. said. “As long as we don’t have to sit on your lap to find out.”
He smiled wider.
“My name is Mr. Wormsmoth,” he said. “I’m the funeral director here.”
“So then shouldn’t Halloween really be your thing?” Damen observed. “Christmas doesn’t exactly seem like the best time to promote your line of work.”
“On the contrary, young man, my business is always in season,” the man answered dryly. “Which is why we host the funeral expo at the convention center every Christmas Eve.”
“Sounds creepy,” Damen added. “There’s not much joy in your world, if you know what I mean.”
“We like to think of it as counterprogramming.”
“Original. I like it,” Wendy A. said. “What do we have to do?”
“Model.”
“That’s it?”
“You mean like at a car show? Just stand there and rub our hands along somebody’s bumper?”
“Not exactly,” Mr. Wormsmoth informed. “But for the most part, you will just have to lie there.”
“Oh, well, you are in luck then. They’re experts at that.” Damen laughed. “It’s how they end up every Christmas Eve after the SantaCon pub crawl.”
The undertaker raised an eyebrow.
“You will be modeling outfits and, well, coffins. But not just any coffins. See-through coffins. It’s the latest thing. Part of our new If I Die Young line at the funeral expo.”
“FunCon!” Wendy T. announced.
“Casket couture!” Wendy A. squealed.
“You? In black?” Damen asked skeptically.
“I wear black to the gym. It’s slimming,” Wendy T. said. “It’s a fat funeral anyway, isn’t it?”
“Wait, so we just lie there for a while and let people look at us like we’re in a fishbowl?” Wendy A. asked.
“A shark tank, I’d say,” Damen grumbled under his breath.
“Think of it as a jewelry case,” he said. “Perfectly appropriate to display a precious gem like yourself. To be seen. Eternally seen.”
He opened his arms for a hug.
“Vanity vaults?” Wendy A. squeaked. “Deal!”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Damen cracked as The Wendys jumped at the opportunity like trained dolphins performing for a bite of mackerel.
“Two hundy! Come to Wendy!” Wendy T. purred.
“Easy money: the best kind,” Wendy A. agreed.
“What about me?” Damen asked.
“I was getting to that,” Mr. Wormsmoth responded. “There is one other thing.”
“Is this one of those Wait . . . there’s more kind of infomercial things, ’cause we’ve already accepted the offer.”
Wormsmoth lowered the boom. Literally.
“Once you are inside the coffin, you will be buried.”
“You mean like a magic trick?” Wendy A. asked.
“No, actually lowered into a grave,” he answered. “It’s all for the cameras, of course.”
; “Where?” Wendy T. wondered.
“The cemetery. But just for a minute. It’s all pretty safe.”
“Pretty safe?” Damen challenged.
“It will be with you, my young man, operating the winch.”
“I don’t know,” Damen demurred. “Heavy machinery and coffins.”
“Don’t be so nutless. You said you needed the money too,” Wendy A. barked.
“Either that or we tell Petula all she’s getting is a card for Christmas from the love of her life,” Wendy T. piled on.
“Are you really going to blackmail me at Christmas?”
“’Tis the reason for the season,” Wendy Thomas said.
Damen stared daggers at them.
“Really it’s pretty safe,” Wormsmoth advised.
“If it’s safe, why hasn’t anyone else signed up before now?” Damen pressed.
“Eyes on the prize, dude,” Wendy Anderson exclaimed, peeling off imaginary twenties from her imaginary bankroll.
Damen looked at Petula’s two obnoxious sidekicks and fantasized about lowering them down into a deep, dark hole and tossing shovel after shovel of cold, wet dirt over their selfish selves while they lay there helpless, encased in glass. Besides, Petula’s wrath would be far worse to handle than any potential lawsuit he might incur from accidentally entombing these two.
“It will be my pleasure,” Damen agreed.
A lone figure appeared and approached down the long walk into the compound, head bowed.
“Virginia!” Pam shouted at the sight of the little girl. “Did you find Charlotte?”
“I found her,” Virginia said.
“Is she in Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring her back?”
“No,” Virginia answered tersely.
“No? Why not! We’re running out of time. Christmas Eve is tomorrow!”
“I know, Pam.”
By now, CoCo, Prue, Gary, Violet, Kim, and now Mercury Mary—who’d reverted back to slurping down toxic amounts of sushi—saw them talking and rushed over. Virginia stood in the middle of the crowd, feeling like an accused witch at the Salem trials.
“Why so tight-lipped? I thought you’d be really excited.”
“I failed, okay? I let everyone down.”
“But you said you found her,” Kim said.
“Failed how?” Prue asked.
“She didn’t want to come back. She’s happy there, she said.”
A look of shock and amazement and disappointment dropped hard over each of their faces like a ton of unsecured bricks from a roof construction site on a windy day.
“Did you tell her what’s happening here, that we are all backsliding because of her?” Prue rasped.
“I felt like I was talking to a sleepwalker,” Virginia said sadly. “I didn’t want to jar her any more than I already had.”
“This isn’t exactly the best time for coddling,” Prue added wryly. “Why did we ever send a kid to do a ghost’s job?”
Prue’s tone was becoming more and more abrasive, but Virginia stood her ground. Pam put her arm on Prue’s shoulder to calm her.
“Sorry, Virginia,” Prue said, taking a breath. “I can’t help it.”
“Don’t apologize.” Virginia smiled. “I understand.”
“You said she seemed oblivious about the harm she might be doing?” Pam continued.
“There was no point to spelling it out. She wasn’t listening.”
“Not even about Eric?” Pam asked.
“Funny, but that was really the only thing she was really clear about.”
“Is that good or bad?” Kim asked.
Virginia shrugged, frustrated.
“She seems to be forgetting everything else, but she’s still angry at him.”
“Well, at least she still remembers something, for better or worse,” Pam said. “Maybe we can work with that.”
Eric ambled up to check in on Virginia’s progress, and the group went instantly silent.
“Hey, Eric,” Gary said, plastering a nervous smile on his face.
The rest of the Dead Ed pack did likewise.
“Whassup?”
“Not a thing, dude,” DJ chimed in.
Everyone looked down, shifting back and forth, petrified of the next question.
“Where’s Charlotte?”
“She . . .” Virginia began slowly.
“She hasn’t turned up yet, but we have a few leads,” Pam interrupted, signaling everyone else to shush with her eyes.
Even Electric Eric was trying to conserve energy. He remained laid-back.
“Cool,” he said, nonchalantly wandering off. “She’ll turn up. Later.”
“We’re not going to be able to keep this from him,” Mike said, his upbeat attitude turning decidedly morose.
“If this goes on much longer, it won’t matter anyway,” Prue observed.
The group broke up a little less hopeful than they had been earlier about Charlotte’s return, leaving Virginia, Pam, Prue, and CoCo to strategize.
“I only have one question, perhaps the most important one,” CoCo said to Virginia. “Was she wearing the same outfit?”
Virginia rolled her eyes and walked away. “I’m tired.”
“We need some expert help,” Pam said.
“Brain?” Prue asked.
“Brain,” Pam replied.
7
No Gift to Bring
Naughty or Nice
The commercialization of Christmas is often cited by critics as distracting from the real reason for the season. Pitting one against the other, however, is an oversimplification. They are two sides of the same coin. Our lists to Santa, from our earliest childhood, teach us that dreams can come true, the reward can be ours, but not only if we behave. If we believe. Which, after all, is the real meaning of Christmas.
“Virginia?” Charlotte awoke slowly and looked around, still stuck in her conversation with the little ghostly visitor from the night before. “That was strange.”
She sat up at the edge of her bed, stretched her arms upward, and yawned, feeling every muscle in her jaw, throat, and chest tense and relax in the proper order as she exhaled. She blinked a few times and wiped away the sand and eye goo she hadn’t had to contend with for ages. Whatever was going on, Virginia was telling the truth; it wasn’t a dream.
“I’m still here,” she said, tapping her feet on the floor. “And I’m still hungry.”
Charlotte stepped lightly over the pictures that were strewn across her floor, headed downstairs to the kitchen, and was greeted by yet another note from Gladys.
“Out Christmas shopping. Cereal in the cabinet.”
“Merry Christmas to you, too, Gladys.”
Charlotte reached for the cabinet handle and pulled it open, revealing several precisely marked plastic containers, all measured, with Gladys’s name written in Magic Marker on them, except for one that read CHARLOTTE.
Charlotte reached for her container and sighed with disappointment.
“Ugh. Shredded wheat. With flax.”
She took a quick look around the kitchen and in the refrigerator but couldn’t find anything remotely appetizing. Charlotte grabbed the milk carton, checked the expiration date just in case, and poured milk out until the shredded wheat squares were bobbing in a sea of white.
Charlotte dipped her spoon in the bowl, toying with the bits of cereal, sinking them, softening them up for the kill. As she filled her mouth with the whole-grain fiber tidbits, her eyes caught sight of Gladys’s note once again.
“Oh my God!” she cried, a spray of milk and bits of shredded wheat dropping from her mouth back into the bowl. “Christmas shopping!”
Christmas still hadn’t completely registered for her. She’d almost let it pass her by in the Great Beyond, and now she felt she didn’t have the time or, more important, the money to do anything about it. For just a second she considered that it didn’t really matter because she didn’t have anyone to buy for, exce
pt that she suddenly realized that she did: Scarlet.
“This is my chance to make friends for real!”
Scarlet might not know her—well, not yet anyway—but she sure knew Scarlet. Charlotte began thinking about her, about what she liked, what she hated.
“I need, I need to find . . .” Charlotte tried hard to conjure an image of it in her racing mind. An image of something she’s always wanted but never gotten. “The perfect gift.”
The Hawthorne Diner was packed with holiday shoppers breaking briefly for lunch. The windows were painted with snowflakes, Christmas trees, wreaths, Santas, elves, and snowmen—some with penises—by middle-school art students. The Wendys traipsed in and were ushered to their reserved table right in the picture window at the front of the restaurant. The waitress lumbered over with menus, and the busboy followed with water.
“Will Miss Kensington be joining you?”
“Yes, she will.”
Both Wendys had something on their minds, and as usual it was the same thing.
“I don’t know about this whole coffin stunt,” Wendy Anderson fretted, sliding into the semicircular booth. “Getting buried alive is not exactly how I planned to spend Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Wendy A. concurred. “Something about it feels odd.”
“You mean like everything?” Wendy T. clarified.
“But the money is good.”
“I have an idea! Let’s outsource it.”
“Huh?”
“C’mon, Wendy! Don’t you ever pay attention in Economic Unfairness class? We’ll find someone else to do the burial for us and pay them a small fee.”
“Okay, who do you have in mind?” Wendy T. answered, scrolling through her contact list.
“Definitely not anybody we know,” Wendy A. said.
“What about that girl who’s always stalking us?”
“She’s going to need to be incentivized a bit more, don’t you think?”
“We can just tell her it’s to buy something for Petula. She’d do anything to get in good with her. And we can tell her that she’ll be modeling. With us!”
“You have such creative uses for people. I really admire that.”
Screeching tires in the parking lot ended their conversation.