Part 14 (2/2)

”She used to love these blossoms, too.” His voice was more of a growl, the grinding sound of stones pressed together. Harold Curtis's eyes were black, lost.

”Please,” she pleaded.

”Oh.” His eyes dropped, finding his arm and the tight grip on Janie's arm.

When he released the girl, her arm bloomed white where his thumb had pressed into her skin. She backed away. His head sank to his feet.

”No cookies this year, Janie,” he muttered, but the girl was already gone. Harold eventually lifted his head, and his eyes watched the lazy dance of blossoms as they broke free of the tree and wandered to the ground.

Chapter 69: The Bet.

Ben says the fuse is waterproof.

I take the bet. He swallows sparks, and the color burns from his face.

After a dull thump, his mouth opens, blood sputters out, and he mutters, ”You owe me,” before collapsing.

Chapter 70: Night Lights.

On the outside, the lights s.h.i.+ne brighter than I remember as a kid, but inside the old man is dying. That's what Mom says anyway, that's what she tells me while we drive the boys around town so they can see Christmas lights. She's Grandma to them, and she doesn't say anything about the man dying loud enough for them to hear.

”He has cancer. The bad kind,” she whispers.

I nod, wondering just what the good kind of cancer is.

She continues. ”A nurse comes in twice a week, that's what Mary Ann says anyway. Really bad shape.”

”How'd he do the lights?”

”The town helped out-some volunteers at the church. Downtown businesses. It'll be too bad when he's gone, an end to an era. Do you remember when we used to drive by here.”

My hands tighten on the wheel. ”Sure.”

The boys are still gawking at the house, their bundled little faces pale and slack as they drink in all the twinkles, the thousands of tiny sparkles. Out, out brief candle, I think, but the candles won't go out. The town won't let them go out. I step on the gas and pull away from house, a little disgusted with myself, a little disgusted with us all.

At the Phillips 66 station three blocks down from the house, I turn onto the highway and head home. In the review mirror, I see the boys yawn. They're up past bedtime, and tomorrow is Christmas. Mom looks at me, and I can tell she's frowning a little from the droop at the corners of her mouth. Probably a response to my scowl. I try to relax, but all I can think about is the old man rotting inside his house.

Liz meets us at the door. ”How was everything?”

I shrug. ”The boys need to get to bed. Tomorrow's Christmas.”

She backs away a little, probably sensing one of my moods. Before helping Nick and Nate into their pajamas, we lay out three sugar cookies-the flaky kind Mom makes with red sprinkles-and set them on the table with a gla.s.s of milk. ”For Santa,” Liz tells the boys.

We tuck them in upstairs, and I crash in the living room, flipping through TV stations trying to find A Christmas Carol. I only like the version with Alastair Sim. In every advertis.e.m.e.nt, the houses are decorated with little lights. I can't escape the thoughts of the old man. Mom and Liz are talking while I surf; I can hear a little of their mumbles.

”What's eating him?” Liz asks.

”I don't know...we drove by all the places he liked as a kid.”

I smash the power b.u.t.ton on the remote, and march into the kitchen.

”I'm going to bed,” I announce.

On the way to my old bedroom, I pause outside the boys' room and peek in. They're tucked neatly under fat comforters, sleeping peacefully with visions of Santa and the gifts to come in the morning. Nothing is out of order for them, only me.

I've been lying in bed for thirty minutes, staring at the ceiling, before Liz comes upstairs. She undresses, folds over the blankets, and slips inside. She's trying to be quiet, probably sure I'm asleep.

”I'm not asleep,” I say.

A pause. ”Oh, sorry.”

Another pause. I feel the air in the room thicken.

”What's wrong, Bub?”

”Nothing.” I close my eyes and wait a few moments. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe not. ”We drove by a few houses I remember from when I was a kid.”

”Oh.”

”Yeah. This one house, well Mom said the owner was dying. Cancer. He's in bad shape.”

”That's too bad.”

I suck in a lungful of stale air. ”The town won't let him die.”

”What?”

”They put up lights on the house.”

”Who did? I don't understand.”

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