Chapter Eighteen

“Why’d you do it?” Anger barrelled through my fear, shooting from the pit of my stomach to my gritted teeth. “Why’d you kill them? Why’d you take my friend from me, Red?”

Red popped his head up from behind the open hood of the car in the garage. Momentarily dumbfounded, he recovered quickly and flashed his award-winning smile. Adorned in his dirty coveralls, he brandished a large oil-covered wrench in his hand. “What’re you talking about, Tex?” His wavering grin spoke volumes.

“I know you killed them, Red. I just want to know why.”

Red’s face transformed into one of a stranger. His brow furrowed, his eyes cold. An ugly sneer replaced the genial smile, a long way from the fair-haired, good-time, golden boy I’d become friends with and even admired.

“You gotta understand something, Tex.” He crossed the garage in lengthy strides. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to work at a school—a school where you once were the most promising athlete, one who would go places—and you end up as a janitor?” When he said the word “janitor,” his voice pitched high. “I was set to go to any school of my choice on a free-ride scholarship, but I blew my knee out. Then my choices became…limited.”

Slowly, he approached me, his wrench swinging by his side. I backed up to the opposite side of the garage, positioning the car between us.

“And those punks Rimmer and Bellman were shit! They taunted me. They teased me! They’d say things like ‘Hey, I saw your trophy in the case…too bad you’re a janitor now!’ and ‘Wow, I hope I make it big like you someday…the world’s oldest high school student!’”

The outrageous irony of the situation floored me. “You mean to tell me…you killed them…because you were bullied?” A giggle seeped out, then the dam broke releasing hysterical laughter.

“Shut your mouth. You don’t understand!”

“You don’t think I understand what it’s like to be bullied? Bullshit! What kind of life do you think I’ve lived since I started here?” Like a panther and its prey, he stalked me around the car as I kept moving.

“But your whole goddamn life?” He stopped, the wrench pointing at me like a hanging judge’s gavel. “I’d had enough. You gotta understand, something. I was those punks! I used to get all the chicks, the awards, the favored treatment. Everyone loved me…and then it was taken away.” His upper lip curled, his face a twisted visage of evil. “And that one night, after football practice, Rimmer actually came in here and said to me—just as sweetly as he could—‘Are you ever going to graduate, Red?’” He grinned and repeated, ‘Are you ever going to graduate, Red?’ I just…I kept hitting him with a crowbar. He was unconscious, and I tossed him into the trunk of my car. Then I dumped him.”

I looked toward the hallway door waiting for Mr. Jensen to come in.

“The funny thing is, Tex…” His smile came back, but this time not a good-natured smile, but one swimming in malice and insanity. “The funny thing is I liked it.” He licked his lips. “So, when I saw Bellman hanging out by himself at the old gas station…well, I grabbed my crowbar and went over there and did the same thing to him. The last straw was when I heard what he did to Ian. I did it for you guys, Tex!” For a moment, I saw the sincere side of Red shine through, protector of the underdog. He was insane, no doubt about it, possibly even more so than Bellman, but I felt he truly believed that he did it for us.

“That’s just…crazy, Red,” I said. “Yeah, those guys sucked, but we didn’t want you to kill them for us. And…and…what about Josh?”

“I didn’t want to hurt little Joshie.” Sadness weighed his gaze down. “But when he was riding around on his damn skateboard, he saw me do it. I stuffed Bellman in the trunk of my car and saw Josh staring at me from across the street. I yelled at him to stop, but he took off faster than shit. I knew he was afraid of the cops, so that gave me a bit of time. The next day, when his parents were gone, I went to his house, trying to talk sense into him. But…I knew it’d never work. I kicked in the door, went upstairs, and…” His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “I didn’t want to! I had to!”

“He was your friend!” A mixture of emotions threatened to overwhelm, to confuse me. I almost pitied Red.

Like a dime, though, he turned again. “Do you really think I would’ve picked you guys as friends? You’re the kind of geeks I crushed in high school. Now…I was one of you…” He slammed the wrench down onto the car, denting the body of his dream project he’d slaved over all semester.

“You’re nothing but a sad, failed bully, aren’t you, Red?” His eyelids flew up, exposing dilated pupils. “Why’d you go after me, then?”

“I couldn’t be sure what Josh might’ve told you. Nothing personal.” He shrugged. “And at Joshie’s funeral, I heard you say you were going to catch me. But…I’m going to get you first.”

Red released a guttural scream and ran after me. I darted to the left, and he countered by lunging after me.

Blown knee or not, Red still packed amazing speed. He tackled me from behind, arms around my legs. I went down onto the cement with a sickening thud. My chin felt like it split open. I wriggled around and saw Red raise the wrench above me, his mouth gaping open, roaring in incoherent rage.

The hallway door slammed open with a thwack. Mr. Jensen launched himself into the room, all three hundred pounds of him in a miraculously fast display of locomotion. He grabbed Red by the shoulders, practically carrying him across the room, as they slammed down onto the cement. They rolled and grappled as I scrambled to my feet. Red forced his way on top and grasped Jensen by the throat, his other fist raised high to deliver a blow. I grabbed the wrench Red dropped. With shaking hands, I swung it into Red’s back. He yelped and twisted around, snarling.

He bounded off Jensen and leaped at me. I waved the wrench wildly in front of me, trying to ward him off. A few lucky blows landed on his outstretched arms, but it didn’t stop him. He came at me fast, an unrelenting force from Hell.

“Hold it,” yelled a voice behind us. Detective Cowlings stood in the doorway, legs straddled and gun pointed at Red. Two uniformed cops backed him up, guns aimed as well.

Red looked like he’d just awakened from a bad dream. Shock filled his eyes, then fear, then a heavier than sandbags sadness. He crumpled to the floor, his head cowering between his knees, sobbing. He rocked back and forth as the two cops approached him warily.

I went over to Jensen to check on him. “Are you all right, Mr. Jensen?” I extended a hand to help him up, even though I knew I didn’t have the strength to do so.

“Yeah, Tex, thanks.” He coughed several times, cleared his throat. His hand engulfed mine. I pulled, but as I suspected, he pretty much had to get himself up on his knees. “Didn’t do you much good, though, did I?”

“Did you hear everything?”

“I sure did.” Another weird cough, a cat spitting up a hairball.

“Well, then, you did great, Mr. Jensen.”

The two policemen escorted Red away, his hands cuffed behind him. Still sobbing, he looked over his shoulder at me and stopped. “Sorry…I’m sorry, Tex…so sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” My voice choked, full of loss and sadness.

Of course, Cowlings watched the entire transaction with great interest. “Well, Tex, here we go again,” he said, for once smiling. “Your friend Mickey called me, told me where I could find you, and what you were up to.” His smile vanished. “Is that cut on your chin okay? Let me have a look at it.” He tilted my head back and carefully probed at it with his gloved fingers. “Yeah, I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Now…why don’t you tell me how you discovered who the biggest killer in Clearwell, Kansas, history was?”

Uh-oh.

“It’s like he told me, Detective,” interjected Mr. Jensen. “I didn’t believe him at first either, but when he told me his suspicions…well, I thought it merited further investigation.”

“You two are not policemen,” said Cowlings. “You don’t do my job. And where did these suspicions come from, Tex?”

“I can’t really remember right now, Detective.” Even though I never felt more clear-headed than I did now, I played up the woozy act. “But when Red fixed my car window earlier this morning, there were a few things he said that sounded…weird.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Oh! I think he asked me if I needed help fixing my car window before I told him it was broken.”

“Uh-huh,” said Cowlings. “You didn’t think he could’ve seen your car in the parking lot?”

“Hmmm, doubt it. He always parked on the opposite side of the school, by his garage.”

Cowlings shook his head. “I don’t believe you, Tex…but whatever…for now.” He stared at both Jensen and me. “The important thing is you can both give me a detailed report, right?”

Mr. Jensen said, “Oh, I’ll be glad to.”

I nodded.

“And you both absolutely, positively, heard him admit guilt of the murders?” Excited at the potential outcome, Cowlings damn near glowed as he probably envisioned a ginormous gold star in his detective work.

“Absolutely, positively,” echoed back Mr. Jensen, with a Cheshire Cat smile. Great, surrounded by two adults who were way too giddy about a serial-murder case. Once again, I nodded dumbly in agreement.

“Okay, I’m going to look over…Red’s…place of work here with a fine-toothed comb and check out his car. If all goes well, we’ll have some corroborating evidence that will seal the deal. I’ll look forward to getting your statements in the morning, all right, fellas?”

“Sounds good, Detective,” said Jensen. And I, of course, nodded like a dutiful little schoolboy.

“Tex, once again, I have to say, nice job. Stupid and dangerous…but nicely done.” Cowlings patted me on the back. Mr. Jensen joined him and clapped me on the back as well as he escorted me out to my car.

Then I went home.

****

The next day, I awoke to a pounding at the front door. I looked at the alarm clock and saw that it read three-thirty p.m. Unbelievably, I’d slept completely through school. Dad obviously knew about it, and let me sleep the sleep of the sleepy.

When I’d arrived home the night before, as soon as I walked inside, I pretty much collapsed right in front of him. Like a babbling brook of an idiot, I explained everything to him as fast as I could, not letting him get a word in edgewise. I didn’t have the time or mood for a lecture. His anger soon dissipated into relief, as he rolled his chair over and hugged me. I didn’t let go. Mutual relief rolled off us like steam in a sauna. A long hug worked better than words at that moment. Maybe now a semblance of normality would re-enter our lives. We may as well’ve cheered, Bring on the mundane and humdrum.

Exhausted, I went to bed. As soon as I hit the blankets, they hit back and knocked me out.

So, now, not only had I slept through school, but the door hammering possibly meant the cops wanted to hose and phonebook me since I missed giving my statement. Or maybe Hastings finally nailed the goods on me for missing detention, two days running.

I groaned and rolled over, wishing the noise away, and attempted to sink back into sleep. Suddenly, stealthy footsteps rushed up the stairwell. I looked around for a weapon and ridiculously settled on a candle from my nightstand. I held it toward the closed bedroom door, shaking in my hand like a very successful divining rod.

Slowly, the door opened on squeaking hinges, followed by a loud high-pitched shriek.

“Where the hell were you today, Tex? And why in the goddamned hell didn’t you text me?” shrieked Olivia. “And are you going to attack me with a candle or what?”

“Sorry.” I dropped the candle. “Force of habit. Paranoia dies hard.”

She burst in, a human hurricane. The door slammed behind her. Arms akimbo, she stood over me, her anger rising like a hot air balloon. “Well?”

“Sorry, O’.” I’ve had to apologize a lot to her lately. “Honestly, after last night, I was so drained and exhausted, I fell asleep. I guess I’ve been asleep for nineteen hours or so.” She paced my room back and forth, shooting me an occasional icy glare.

“I was worried,” she said, calming down. “There’s been so much talk at school I didn’t know what to think!” She spotted my phone next to my bed, grabbed it, and held it face forward toward me. “Twenty-six messages and sixty-two texts! Don’t you ever check this damn thing?”

All I could muster was, “I’m so tired.” While I hoped it might buy me the sympathy vote, nothing could have been more accurate.

“You’re not the only one who’s been through hell lately, you know!” She slipped off her black flats and pulled the blanket down. “Scoot over. You don’t get to have a monopoly on being tired either.” She crawled in next to me. “I’ve heard the stories, but I wanna hear it from you.”

With a deliberate sigh, I explained the entire tale to her from the moment I left school until the time I hit the sack last night. I asked her what happened today.

“Well, apparently, they found a bloodied crowbar in Red’s trunk and remnants of bloodied coveralls down in the boiler…or something,” she sneered. “I can’t believe we were sitting in that…gross place, right next to where that creep was burning his murder clothes! What did I tell you about him, Tex? Gross!”

“Yeah.” Although the thought of everything—especially that it happened and why it happened—seemed so pointless and ultimately sad. I nearly teared up again in my vulnerability. More sleep felt like the antidote I needed.

“And Cowlings was looking for you,” she added.

“Great. I’m going back to sleep… You can join me if you’d like to.”

“Okay. No snoring!”

I smiled, and we both slept for another couple of hours, comfortable at long last in the realization we would awaken once again—relatively speaking—to a safe place to exist.

****

One month later, not much had changed. We were still mourning the loss of Josh while the rest of the student body moved on from the shock of the killer janitor who cleaned up vomit in between murdering people, to preparing for Christmas vacation.

Cowlings finally tracked me down and took my statement. Obviously, he remained skeptical of many things I told him. But he appeared pleased with how things turned out for him, so he took it all in stride. Happy ending and all that. He did leave me with a simple warning.

“Tex, it’s not that I don’t like you,” he told me upon shaking hands goodbye. “I do. But I hope I don’t see you within my professional capacity again.”

“You and me both, Detective.” I grinned and shook his hand. Hooray, no more need for Cowlings in my life. Or so I thought. But that’s a story for another time.

For the first couple of weeks after the ordeal, people treated me differently. Very discomfiting. Some wanted to lionize me as a sort of hero, which I just shrugged off. But most of the students just sort of stared and whispered. Let them. In another month, it’d be forgotten anyway. Then they could get back to the important things in life such as joining the popular kids and wondering who would win the all-important title of Prom Queen.

Johnny Malinowski pretty much ignored me for those first two weeks as well. But soon enough—the Christmas Spirit had overtaken him, I suppose—he reverted to calling me fag and other such enlightened names. I paid him no attention until the third week when he shoved me. I stopped, turned around, and shoved him back, hard. He slammed into the lockers, a stunned look on his face. He didn’t say another word, and I kept on walking as if nothing had happened.

Other students stared at this display, a few smiling, wishing they’d been the ones to do it, I guess. He left me alone for the remaining few days of school, but I’m sure he’d roar back with a vengeance come the start of school in January. Types like him always do attack again, like rabid dogs, acting on gut instinct. Let him come. But he wouldn’t find me sitting back and taking it any longer. Sure, I might receive a few punches, but after everything that’d happened recently, a threat like Johnny Malinowski felt downright laughable. Besides, I had a new Golden Rule to live by—if he, or any of the other Neanderthals crossed the line into violence, I’d directly take it up with a sympathetic ear like Jensen until I got satisfactory results. I’d lived most of my high school life in the shadow of fear and dread. No longer acceptable. If they branded me a rat, so be it; I’ve been called much worse.

Ian still brandished his arm in the ever-heavenward pointing splint, but it was due soon to come off. His Christmas present, he told everyone laughing. We’d join him in his obvious delight, but we also understood that underneath that jolly exterior lurked the highly likely fear he’d never again regain full use of that hand.

Through it all, the three of us adopted Josh would’ve loved this as a mantra, as if he were lurking somewhere within earshot. I say it’s true, as I had definitely become a firm believer that a hereafter existed. Whether heaven, some big ball of energy, a parallel earth, we start over as worker ants, whatever, I had no clue. I didn’t want to dwell on it either. Teenagers shouldn’t be thinking of such things. But we kept Josh alive the best way we knew how.

I remembered what I’d said on the intercom that day, which now seemed so long ago, and accepted my own words as a challenge. I sought out the shadow people, kids I’d never noticed before, and if I didn’t downright befriend them, I made a note to learn their names and say hi.

“Son, one of the most important things you should do with people,” Dad told me once, “is learn their names and always address them by it. People like to hear their names.” As a general rule, Dad nailed it, although there were exceptions. I, for one, still hated to be called “Richard.”

With varying success, I even tried to invite some of the shadow kids into our little tight-knit group. Generally, Olivia or Ian might smirk—not fans of change, I guess—and I’d nudge them and chastise them later. Sometimes, though, the new kids proved obviously too freaky to hang with. But I kept trying.

For some reason, nothing ever came of my missing my detention. Nobody ever said anything; I didn’t get any calls to go to the office for a meeting with Hastings; the hall patrol didn’t shoot me down on sight. Nothing. I didn’t ask because missing out on that fun suited me just fine and dandy. I don’t know if a higher power such as Jensen intervened—or even Cowlings—but I didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Cool. But Hastings still lurked around the hallways like a stone gargoyle, glaring at me every chance he could. One time, he even gave me the silly two fingers pointing from his eyes thing, like he couldn’t get enough of me. Maybe he had an inappropriate crush on me or whatever.

****

Just a few days before Christmas, on the wonderful last day of classes, I gave Olivia and Ian a ride home. Unnaturally mild for a late December day (and even though we suffered through a whiter than white November), it looked like we’d get to enjoy a damn-near balmy Christmas.

They both wanted to hang out, but to their disappointment, I told them I had something important to do. Olivia shot me a look of suspicion, instantly remembered danger didn’t currently lurk around the corner, and let me go with a hug.

Package under arm, I walked down Mickey’s sidewalk. I hadn’t seen Mickey since that night in November and felt guilty for it. Not that I blew her off. Rather, I think she just reminded me of everything that’d happened and all the resultant danger that connected, at least in my mind, with the practice of witchcraft. Utter nonsense, I know—witchcraft had nothing to do with Red’s psycho turn—but it still scared me to think of things like Bellman, his demonic form (of which I still have nightmares), my mother, and especially, the cruel, unjust murder of Josh.

Around the sidewalk, the sunflowers and weeds had finally given up the good fight and gone into hibernation. Sadly, the joyously full of life flowerbed had departed this mortal coil as well.

I knocked on the door, holding the heavy package unsteadily with one hand.

“Who’s there?” she cried out after a seeming eternity.

“Merry Christmas, Mickey,” I yelled. “It’s Tex.”

Rattle, rattle, shake, shake, and the door swung open. Surprised, she smiled, wider than I’d ever seen her do so. She didn’t even seem to mind I didn’t call first.

“Tex, kiddo, where’ve you been?” she cried. “Come in, come in!” She opened the door and waved the cats upstairs.

“Hi, Mickey. Sorry I haven’t been by. I’ve just been sort of freaked out by the stuff that happened last month. I’m sure you heard all about it.”

“Oh, yes, indeed! It was almost as good a tale as my daytime stories.” And this was probably the highest compliment Mickey Goldfarb would ever dole out. “I heard everything about it, kid. Are you some kind of big-time hero now? Too good to come see ol’ Mickey?” She actually looked hurt.

“Well, that’s one thing I came to talk to you about. If it’s okay with you, I know I need to learn more about witchcraft. I need…” I paused, searching for the right word.

“Refinement,” she said. “Yes, you sure do need that, kid.” She smiled again, a very toothy smile.

“I’ve got some time off school. Could we start the day after Christmas? If I’m going to be a responsible witch, I can’t think of a better mentor than you, Mickey.”

“Okay, kid, twist my arm. Just don’t forget the chicken.” She playfully wagged her finger in my face and burst out cackling. “You know I never really expected you to bring me chicken that first time. I was just sort of testing you.” Her throaty laugh turned quickly into a coughing spasm.

“Oh, now you tell me.” I rolled my eyes exaggeratedly. “Hey, here’s the other reason I came by…” I held the package out to her. “Merry Christmas, Mickey.”

She grabbed the package and began to rattle it. I winced, hoping she wouldn’t break it, but I didn’t want to interrupt her obvious joy at receiving the gift. “You didn’t wrap up chicken, did you?”

“No.” I sighed. “Open it.”

“Kid, I didn’t get you anything.” Her lips pushed toward her nose, while the corners of her mouth drooped.

“That’s okay.” I laughed. “The spirit of Christmas and all that jazz, don’t you know? Besides, you’ve given me plenty.”

She ripped open the present with savage ferocity. “’Digital…Video… Recorder,’” she read slowly off the box as if in a foreign language. She stared at it for a long time before she asked, “What the hell is it, kid?”

“It’s a DVR. It’ll make recording your stories a lot easier, and the quality will be better, too. I noticed you were still using a VCR, and I thought—”

She thrust the package back into my chest. “Now, you just take that back right now, Tex. I don’t need to be messin’ with no new electronic gadgets or anything like that.”

“I’ll be glad to hook it up for you and show you how to operate it—”

“Kid, that ol’ VCR has seen a lot of years on it, and I’m betting it’ll see a lot more, too.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink, nudging me in the side. I had no idea what she meant, but I knew you couldn’t argue with her.

“Okay, Mickey, fine.” I didn’t do a very good job hiding my disappointment. I’d taken out a small loan with my dad at his bank to purchase it.

“Oh, kid, don’t get your panties up in a bunch.” She laughed. When I heard this, I had to laugh as well. “I appreciate the thought, but really…save your money for something else, all right?”

“If you say so. Well, I better get home. So…I’ll see you the day after Christmas?” I looked around her house and noticed she hadn’t set up a Christmas tree, nor had she any decorations around. I turned to leave, and as an afterthought, I said, “Hey, Mickey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, kid.”

“Do you have any Christmas plans?”

She turned her head sideways, so I wouldn’t be able to look into her eyes.

I let her off the hook and said, “I ask because every Christmas day, it’s a tradition at our house to invite friends and family to come and go as they please. It’s nothing fancy, but we keep a big vat of clam chowder heated up the entire day. I’d really like it if you could come.”

Her eyes lit up behind her gravity-defying glasses. “Are you actually asking me to come to your party, kid?”

“Yes, I am.”

“To get out in the cold and travel across town on Christmas?” A smile cracked across her face.

“Mickey, it’s going to be about sixty degrees, and I’m only—what—ten minutes away?”

“Okay, kid.” She sighed, unsuccessfully keeping her gruff persona upfront. “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll come if it’s that big a deal to you.” She smiled as giddily as one of Clearwell High’s always cheerful cheerleaders.

“Great! No presents, no fancy dress, just bring yourself. Anytime between ten a.m. to ten p.m. Let me write down my address.” I reached into my coat for a pen.

“I know where you live, kid.” She swatted my arm out of my jacket. “I’ll be there, already”

“Cool. Bye, Mickey.” Before she shut the door, I stole a glimpse at her grinning as wide as a jack-o-lantern.

****

The second I walked in the door, Dad said, “Son, we need to talk about something.” My heart bang, bang, banged at the door of my ribcage. Every time he’d start a conversation like this, it usually was the harbinger of something awful. Surely, his health hadn’t taken a turn for the worse?

“What’s wrong, Dad?” I sat down at the kitchen table next to him. I remember some very hard conversations happening here.

“I don’t know how to say this, Tex, so I’m just going to come out with it.” He cleared his throat. “Son…what would you think if I started to date?”

Flabbergasted didn’t even capture how I felt. At first, relief rolled off me that I wouldn’t lose another parent. Then, a sharp tinge of pain shot through me as if Dad betrayed Mom’s memory by even considering such a thing. Then I realized how ridiculous that sounded. I couldn’t expect him to live the life of a monk. Like everyone, he deserved happiness. His only job shouldn’t be to ensure his kid’s happiness. And I’m sure Mom understood and blessed his decision. Finally, I thought…oh, boy, am I going to have fun with this. Payback time!

“Woooo, Dad, who’s your little friend? Is she someone special? Is she your little girlfriend? Is she a nice girl? You know what I mean, right? She hasn’t been around the block now, has she?” Like an idiot, I grinned.

“So. I take it, you’re okay with this, son?” My God, Dad blushed. Something I thought I’d never see in my life.

“Whatever, Dad.” I cut my silly line of faux-parental inquiry with a laugh. Time to cut him some slack. “I think it’s great. Is she coming to our Christmas open house?”

“Yes, she is.” He looked greatly relieved. “Her name is Ruth Crandall, and she’s a librarian new to the area. I met her at the bank when she took out a loan when she moved here.”

“Now, Dad, isn’t that a conflict of interest?” I assumed my father-knows-best creased eyebrows.

“I’m not a doctor, lawyer, or such. I’m but a mere banker.” He splayed his hands. “I haven’t been on a date with her yet, but I invited her over, and she seemed very pleased with the offer.”

“Father, do I need to…have the talk with you?” I hefted one eyebrow, apparently not done with putting him on the spot just yet.

“Okay, Tex, I think we’re done with this conversation.”

“I’m talking about responsibility here, Dad. One mistake could ruin your future.”

“Shut up, Tex. Go to bed.”

****

The next morning, Dad could barely function, and I assumed all responsibilities for cooking the first vat of clam chowder.

“Tex, which tie do you think looks better?” He held up two gaudy, horrible green and red ties.

“Neither. They’re both terrible.”

“But…your mother always loved when I wore these ties.”

“Oh, no, she didn’t!” I burst out laughing. “She hated both of them. It was one of our little inside secret Christmas jokes.” I wondered how he could’ve been so oblivious to this. “Did you honestly never see her making the throw-up sign when you’d parade those ties around every Christmas?”

He thought about it for a minute. “Is that what she was doing?”

I sighed. “Dad, let me pick out your tie.”

The first guest arrived at ten a.m. sharp, and it was the very aforementioned Ruth Crandall, bearing some sort of casserole. Pleasant and pretty in sort of a bland Midwestern way, she couldn’t hold a candle to Mom’s beauty. I realized that wasn’t fair, as I might be more than a little biased. But I loved the way she doted on Dad and even laughed at his stupid, corny jokes.

Olivia and Ian arrived next. Olivia stared slack-jawed at Ms. Crandall, while Ian batted his eyes behind their backs. Clearly, we had an unexpected burgeoning romance on our hands.

People came and left throughout the day, with our core five staying the entire time. It did my heart good to see Mr. and Mrs. Berillo show up, even though they didn’t stay very long. Mrs. Berillo hugged me and thanked me for being such a good friend to Josh, while Mr. Berillo seemed sort of despondent, just kind of wandering around with his hands in his pockets. Both of them had that hollow-eyed look you get when you’ve lost someone close, and you’re unsuccessfully trying to put your life back together again. I told Mrs. Berillo I should be thanking her for Josh, one of the greatest people I’d ever known. Before the tears began, she said they couldn’t stay and had to go. I hugged her again and shook Mr. Berillo’s hand on the way out, telling them to please stay in touch. I doubted they would, though, as I undoubtedly reminded them of their painful loss.

Mickey showed up around four p.m., looking like the Queen of Bloody England. She wore a jazzy, sequin-enhanced blue dress and even sported a matching hat, complete with a veil. She’d applied make-up either hastily—or by poor eyesight—as it looked rather hit or miss. Either way, she didn’t look like the bathrobe-wearing Mickey I’d grown accustomed to. Regardless, she looked great in her old-fashioned way.

Playing it to the hilt, she extended her hand royally to everyone and clearly enjoyed the attention lavished upon her. To my amusement—and to the obvious discomfort of Ruth Crandall—once the eggnog rolled out, she entertained the troops with some rather bawdy stories from her past. I loved Mickey, and I loved seeing her letting her blue hair down.

As the night drew to a close, I grabbed Olivia and dragged her out onto the front porch. Still in the fifties and unbelievably nice, a perfect full moon lit the sky brightly.

“Remember a month ago, when I said we would have a talk?” I grabbed her hands.

“About damn time, Tex.” Momentarily emboldened, I leaned in to kiss her.

“Who’s your friend, Tex?” an all-too-familiar voice interrupted us. I broke the kiss and saw Mr. Cavanaugh peering at me from his porch.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Cavanaugh.” I withheld the snark, Christmas and all, ho, ho, ho. “This is Olivia.”

“Hi,” she muttered. Obviously pissed he’d disturbed this crucial moment, she turned to me and whispered, “He’s just staring at us.”

“That’s what he does,” I whispered back.

“Does he ever quit?”

I thought about this. “No…no, he never does.”

“Hey, Mr. Cavanaugh,” she yelled. “Would you like a nine by twelve-inch glossy photo or poster size?” She kicked her leg high in the air as if she were punting a football and screamed “Hoo-Yah!” I wasn’t really sure what this meant, but it definitely made me laugh.

Mr. Cavanaugh sputtered something like No manners whatsoever before retreating to his patio chair.

“Come on, O’,” I said, pulling her with me. “Let’s go to the other side of the deck.”

I kissed her again. The memory of how she felt, smelled, and tasted came flooding back to me. A wonderful memory.

This time she stopped. “Okay, this is fun and everything, but you’re not doing much talking. That’s what we’re supposed to do. What exactly does this all mean?”

“Well, I guess this makes you my Witch Bitch.” I smiled. “That is, if you’ll have me,” I added hastily, a little less cock-sure of myself.

“Hold on, hold on! I may be a bitch at times, but the only one who gets to refer to me as a bitch is myself, got that?” She stabbed a finger into my chest.

“Okay.”

“Secondly,” she continued, “what’s with this my crap? I’m no one’s property!”

“It was a joke, Olivia.”

“Finally, I prefer the title Witch Handler because you’re not leaving me out of stuff anymore!” Obviously angry, a sunshiny smile managed to break through her stormy demeanor. “Now, kiss me again, and I’ll make up my mind.”

She stretched up, grabbed the back of my head, and we kissed. After we caught our breath, she said, “Okay, Tex, looks like there’re two romances going on here tonight.”

And we kissed Christmas away.