Copyright © 2007 Lyndell King
“A one-legged Santa in a wheel chair, you say? Blind in one eye and can’t see too well from the other?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
A sound like strangled laughter came down the phone line. Glory Beatrice Smith stood in her busy kitchen with her lips pursed, twirling a dangling strand of her picininny-soft gray hair in agitation, and waiting for the policewoman to contain herself. What was there to laugh about? Her brother should be home by now, eating his lunch to keep his diabetes stable. She’d sent him on a simple errand, delivering toys to the local preschool. An hour’s work tops, even allowing for the taxi there and back.
“How long has he been missing?”
“Two hours.”
More muffled laughter.
Glory huffed out worry and irritation. Patience was a gift of the spirit, just not a gift she’d ever received. Of all days for Gabriel to disappear. In fifty-two years, the only thing she’d asked of him was that he help her win this position as Spin-stars President. If he didn’t get his butt back here pronto, she’d never meet all her charity commitments. And if she failed, she had no chance of beating Cynthia, philanthropist extraordinaire and hot favorite for the presidency. She could hear Cynthia now.
“Unmarried women have no idea of the sacrifices it takes to truly serve others. Widows make a far better choice for president.”
Hunh! Hadn’t she ever heard of Mother Teresa or the Apostle Paul?
“What makes you think he’s missing? He could be Christmas shopping or something,” the policewoman asked.
“He’s nearly blind. What would he buy?” And for whom? All they had was each other. “He was only supposed to be Santa until half past ten, and then he promised to come home and ice cookies.”
The phone crackled with static as if the policewoman had covered it with her hand. Was that good or bad? Glory strangled the phone and firmed her chin. Gabriel could be lying in a ditch somewhere while these people handed her from department to department, each one giving her a similar unhelpful reaction.
Henry, her large gray cat, wove his rotund body in and out of her skirts asking to be fed. Again. He was the animal version of a hobbit. Breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, then lunch. He had the same blobby shape and hairy toes as a hobbit, too, but she wasn’t in any mood to indulge him. She nudged him aside with her foot.
“And you said your surname is Smith?” the policewoman asked yet again.
“Yes, yes, I was hoping you could send someone to --”
“Just a moment, Ma’am.” The phone switched to an electronic version of White Christmas, which seemed vaguely ridiculous in her over-heated kitchen. Heat shimmered from her oven full of cookies and rising steam from the plum pudding fogged up the sash windows. The steam made more hair curl from its pins to worry her eyes, but hairdos were the least of her worries.
As the phone Musak switched to a tinny rendition of “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,” Henry sat on her toe to remind her of his unmet needs. He was heavier than Aunt Betty’s sponge cake and about as dense, so the song seemed ridiculously appropriate. He meowed loudly and patted her ankle with a paw just in case she hadn’t noticed him flattening her extremities. His deep, croaky mew sounded more crow than feline, which was also appropriate, since she’d likely need a crowbar to get him off.
“Hello?” came a deep male voice down the line.
Yet another department. The police woman must have patched her through. Glory bit back a groan.
“Hello?” she echoed.
“Look, lady, it’s Christmas, not April Fool’s.”
“Yes, I know, but --”
“You may think this is hilarious, but we’re too busy for prank calls at this time of year.”
“Oh, but this isn’t --”
Click. The dial tone hummed in her ear.
She stood for several moments staring at the phone, blinking rapidly, her mouth hanging open like a dead goldfish. So much for public servants. She’d like to give them a serve, and not of figgy pudding. According to the wall clock it was midday, and she was nearly an hour behind schedule.
She wiped sweaty hands down the front of her reindeer apron and sighed. There was nothing else for it. She’d have to search for Gabriel herself. No matter that her feet already ached and her afternoon was booked solid. He’d have more than a flea in his ear when she found him.
Henry sent up a constant flabby-gummed whine like a balloon with a leak. Anyone who came to the door and heard him would swear he was starving to death, at least until they noticed his sixty centimeter girth.
“Yes, yes, you’re hungry again,” she snapped, raking hair back from her eyes. He always mewed when she baked cookies, like he got high on the sugar and cinnamon smell or something. She couldn’t leave cookies out for Santa, either. Henry ate them before she’d even poured the accompanying milk.
The smell of scorched cinnamon penetrated her pique. She slammed the phone back into its cradle and ran to the oven. When she threw open the door, a cloud of smoke wafted into her face and made her heart sink. She yanked out the tray of singed offerings and wrinkled her nose with disgust. The poor souls at the men’s shelter wouldn’t thank her for these monstrosities. King Wenceslas took meat, wine and pine logs -- not ...charcoal.
Drat and tarnations! This was what she got for trying to do two things at once. She hated waste, and now she’d wasted both time and ingredients when she could least afford to. And what was she supposed to do with her failed goods? If she threw them in the garbage, Cynthia’s spies were sure to find them. She’d have to dig a hole and bury them in the backyard. Right next to the hole for Gabriel if he was just playing with the kiddies and had forgotten to come home on time.
Henry mewed and leapt onto the kitchen bench to remind her of his famished state. No wonder they used cat’s eyes to keep cars on the road. That singularly purposed stare would scare a pig’s tail straight.
She sighed again, mentally ticking off the things she still needed to do. Feed the greedy puss, bake another batch of cookies for the shelter, find her brother, finish painting toys for the pediatric ward tomorrow, deliver food parcels to several needy families, choir practice, then hurry back to make the sugar-free mince pies Gabriel always liked while he watched the late-night Carols By Candlelight on television. It was a cozy tradition she rather looked forward to each year – crisp, joyful voices raised as one, their praise cutting through the silent night. Maybe she could finish painting the toys in front of the TV this year to make up time.
She waved a hand to shoo Henry from the bench. Animals did not belong on food preparation surfaces unless they were plucked and buttered. His whiskers twitched, his tail flicked, and his well-rounded, fluffy butt connected with the milk carton – accidentally on purpose. Milk splashed across the bench and onto the floor.
“Henry!” she scolded. “Now see what you’ve done.”
He stared back benignly and side-swiped the sugar with one paw. She lunged to save it, waving the cookie tray to shoo him. Her foot lost traction in the milk and twisted. She slipped and crumpled into an unceremonious heap beside her pink laminate cupboards. A loud crack echoed through her as she hit the tiles and cookies catapulted from the tray to rain on her head like deep brown brimstone. One bounced on her crown and sent a shower of dark crumbs down her cheeks. Others landed in the sprawl of baking supplies that Henry was systematically knocking to the floor. Butter. Oops. Flour. Poof.
“Henry!” she shrieked. Sharp pain speared her groin as she tried again to shoo him. She bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Henry’s fluffy face peered over the counter edge, looking down at her, full of accusation. He mewed. An egg rolled beside him and fell to splatter square on the bridge of her nose. Yolk dripped onto her shirt and apron in a sticky, greasy mess just as the phone’s shrill call rang through the small kitchen.