Don't Call Me Christina Kringle (4 page)

“Here you go.” Christina placed the cup on the ground. “Happy Day After Thanksgiving. Hey—maybe next year we'll carve a tuna instead of turkey and I'll bring you the leftovers.”

The cat lapped up the milk. Snow started to fall.

“Enjoy,” Christina said. She locked the back door to the shoe repair shop from the outside and headed up the alley, past all the garbage cans and dumpsters, out to where the narrow lane met the street.

Snow was swirling around the streetlights now. Christina had to admit it looked pretty—but the first snow of the year always did. Tomorrow, however, it would turn to slush. Cold grey gunk sloshing around in the gutter just waiting to soak your socks. Snow always did. And then dogs would start pooping and peeing on the shoveled piles lining the sidewalks, turning the white blanket yellow and brown. Nothing sweet or pure like snow could last long. It always turned to slush and muck.

Christina walked up the street and reached the corner.

She stuck out her tongue and focused on a single spiraling snowflake she spied way up high when it first hit the bright light beneath the street lamp. She knew this single flake was unlike any other ever created. All the science books said so. She watched it tumble and flutter down like a floating fairy dancing in a million-member corps de ballet. Moving a single step to the left, Christina stuck out her tongue—and caught her flake! She felt it melt away almost instantaneously, turning into a miniature droplet of cool water. She smiled.

The first snow always made her smile—even if it was destined to be a mess before morning.

She walked a few more blocks, turned a couple corners, and reached the 23rd Engine Company's firehouse. It was a five-story building with a big red garage door. The firefighters slept upstairs. If an alarm came in, they would slide down the shiny brass pole at the back of the building and jump into their turnout gear—that's what firefighters called their uniforms. Christina knew. Her dad used to be one.

Almost a year ago, people in the neighborhood had set up a small shrine near the firehouse's big red door. They'd kept it going ever since. It wasn't much: just a couple white buckets of flowers and about a dozen flickering candles sputtering against the snow melting inside their votive glasses. The flowers and candles were clustered around a framed photograph.

It was picture of Christina's dad in his “23 Engine” helmet. He was smiling his big goofy grin. Christina's father was always smiling. Made his cheeks look sort of chubby. Like a squirrel hiding two huge walnuts.

Christina loved the photograph. It was the same one her Grandpa kept displayed on the shop counter.

She hunkered down so she could look the photograph in the eye.

“Hey, Dad,” she whispered. “We missed you yesterday. We did the whole turkey thing. I kind of cooked. Sort of.”

This was the only way Christina had left to talk to her dad. She came to this same spot whenever she had something important to tell him.

“So,” she said, “bad news. I think Grandpa is about this close to losing his shop.” Her finger and thumb approximated an inch. “He's way behind on his mortgage payments and the bank wants its money but Grandpa doesn't have any money because there aren't any customers coming into the store anymore except the ones who come in to complain about how Grandpa has totally ruined their shoes. He's getting too old, I guess. I figure all he'll get for Christmas this year is an eviction notice. …”

“Christina Kringle,” cried out a merry voice from behind her. “How you doin'?”

Christina rose and turned around.

It was Captain Dave, one of the firefighters at the house. He also used to be Christina's father's best friend on the job.

“Hey, Captain Dave,” she said.

“You have a good Thanksgiving?”

She shrugged. “I guess. We did the usual. You know. Turkey and stuff.”

“Yeah. Too bad the pilgrims didn't invent pizza. Then we could all chow down on a big pepperoni pie. Much easier to carve than turkey.”

Christina smiled. “I guess.”

“No doubt about it. You just need one of those rolling pizza cutters. Wouldn't even have to make mashed potatoes or yams. Who wants yams on their pizza? Mushrooms, maybe. But yams? Forget about it. So, you comin' to the holiday party?”

“I don't know. …”

“Hey, c'mon—we need cookies. You want me to bake them? If I do, they're gonna be so burned on the bottom we'll have to hose 'em down. Might have to use one of the pry bars to scrape 'em out of the oven. …”

“Okay,” said Christina. “I'll be there.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.” Captain Dave looked down at the framed photograph surrounded by the flowers and candles.

“We all miss him,” he said. “Even more, this time of year. You know?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Captain Dave rested his hand on Christina's shoulder.

The two of them stood there on the sidewalk, each one silent, each one staring down at the picture. Captain Dave remembering his smiling buddy. Christina remembering her best friend in the whole world.

Neither one would ever let the other one know it, but at almost the exact same second, they both had to blink back the single tears that welled up in their eyes.

“I'll bake those cookies,” said Christina, sniffling a little.

Captain Dave didn't say anything. He just nodded and sniffled, too.

“Allergies,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Christina. “I get 'em, too. Especially around Christmas.”

The chauffeur piloted Mister Fred's limousine into a circular driveway swooping up to the front of one of the city's poshest homes.

The stately mansion looked like a marble monument with windows. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the whole property. The fence posts had spiked tips, as sharp as spears, to discourage any neighbors from climbing over for a friendly visit. To get inside the property, the limousine had to pass a guarded gatehouse and wait for a menacing steel barrier to slowly grind open. The gate closed behind the limo with a heavy
thunk
. Wrought iron will do that. It'll thunk.

“Here we are, sir,” said the driver as he held open the rear door of the limo for Mister Fred. “Right on time, sir.”

Mister Fred didn't step out. He was too busy wrestling with his pet carriers.

“Stop it, you two!” he cried.

“Is there some problem, sir?” asked the driver.

“Just these two wiggle worms! Honestly! They're wrinkling their bag! Making it look rumpled!”

Finally, Mister Fred climbed out of the backseat, clinging to his jumpy pet carrier, almost crushing it against his chest. Judging from the nasty bumps and lumps popping up all over the ballistic nylon fabric, the creatures inside were thrashing and kicking and generally misbehaving.

“I said stop it!” Mister Fred snapped. He unzipped the front flap. “Look at you two! You've got your new sweaters all turned around and twisted into a jumble.” He reached in and attempted to make adjustments. “Hmmm. Sweater seems awfully snug and tight around the belly. Has someone been lapping up too much creamy-cream? Hmmm?”

Mister Fred stopped in mid baby-talk babble. Pulled his hands out of the pet carrier.

“Ice cream!” he said to his driver. “I told our hostess we would pick up ice cream!” He sounded like he might faint. “Did we forget?”

“Not to worry, sir,” said the driver, clicking his heels so hard the wood splintered. He'd probably wear the heels out in another five months or five thousand clicks—whichever came first. “I purchased ice cream earlier in the day. Chocolate and vanilla, sir. And mocha. Mocha chip, actually.”

“Well done, Jenkins!”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jenkins stood beaming. Mister Fred stood staring.

“Well?” asked Mister Fred.

“Sir?” replied the puzzled driver.

“Where is this ice cream?”

“Ah! Excellent question, sir. If I may say, sir, without sounding too toadyish—you have quite a knack for asking precisely the right question at precisely the right time. Yes, indeed, you do. Well done, sir. Well done, indeed.”

“Well?”

“Sir?”

“The ice cream, you boob! Where is it?”

“In the trunk, sir.”

“The trunk?”

“Yes, sir. That is what we drivers call the storage compartment typically situated at the rear of our vehicles. The Trunk. In England, they call it the Boot. I'm not certain why but I intend to find out, especially since you, sir, sell shoes and boots. The next time I'm in London, I'll ask a few questions, that's for sure.”

“You put the ice cream in the trunk?”

“Yes, sir. Or the boot. If we were in England. It would be the boot.”

“Jenkins, just how stupid are you?”

“Well, sir—opinions vary. However, in a recent intelligence test …”

“The trunk is hot! The ice cream will melt!”

“Yes, sir. It surely will. Melting is one of the things I love about ice cream. I prefer my ice cream semi-soft. Therefore I consider melting—”

“Oh, be quiet you nattering ninny!”

Mister Fred set his pet carrier down on the asphalt driveway.

“Open the trunk! Open the trunk!”

“Yes, sir, sir.”

Mister Fred and the driver scurried around to the back of the car to rescue the ice cream before it became little more than waxy boxes filled with syrupy puddles of goop.

They probably should've paid more attention to the unattended pet carrier sitting there on the asphalt driveway with its front flap unzipped.

As soon as they heard the trunk lid pop open, the two creatures trapped inside the cat carrier took off.

Well, first, they took off their holiday sweaters. Then they ran!

They ran for the fence.

They didn't have to worry about the spiked spear tips up top.

These two wouldn't be scaling the fence or climbing over it.

They'd be running right through it because they were certainly small enough to slip through the six-inch spaces between the fence's wrought-iron posts.

“Come on!” cried one of the creatures in a gruff voice as soon as they slipped through the fence.

“I'm right behind you, chum,” said the other, sounding much more refined.

The creature taking the lead tripped when his comrade stepped on his heel.

“Yo, pal—don't be
that
right behind me, okay?”

“Sorry. My glasses are somewhat fogged.”

“So wipe 'em off on your sleeve.”

“I prefer to use my pocket hankie.”

“Whatever.”

They heard a faint voice calling out behind them.

“Fellows?” It was that half-wit shoe salesman. Mister Fred.

“Quiet,” said the tough one. In tactical situations, such as escapes and cage breaks, he usually took the lead.

“Rightie-o,” said his former bag mate. He sounded smart, like he'd been to college. Several times.

“Fellows?” Mister Fred called out again, sounding like he might weep. “What's wrong? Didn't you like your holiday sweaters?”

“Keep 'em, pal,” muttered the tough guy.

“Shhh!” said the other. “Don't forget, Mister Fred has a pistol.”

“It's decorated with silver sequins.”

“Still, it is a pistol nonetheless. The handle may be made of pearl, but I am quite certain the bullets are made of lead. We would be wise to remain incognito.”

“Huh?”

“Undetected. Stealthy. Quiet.”

“All right already. C'mon. We need to skeedaddle.”

“Indubitably.”

“What?”

“Indubitably.”

“What's that one? French or something?”

“No. Simple English, actually. Means ‘obviously or definitely true; not to be doubted.' ”

“So why don't you just say that?”

“Because I prefer the efficiency of a frugal vocabulary.”

“Hunh?”

The educated one sighed. “We need to hasten our exodus.”

“Do what?”

“Run!”

And so they took off.

They raced across the busy street, scurrying underneath the parked cars at the curb and dodging the rolling tires of a delivery truck lumbering up the road.

“It's all in the timing, Professor!” said the tough one as they scampered out on the other side of the truck unscratched.

“Indubitably!”

They hopped over a crumpled paper cup lying in the gutter on the far side of the street, climbed up the curb, and raced down the sidewalk. It was dark and they were low enough to the ground that nobody noticed them running underfoot.

Until a dog rounded the corner on its leash.

“Dog!” shouted the tough one.

The two creatures darted to their right, slid behind a downspout, and narrowly escaped the snapping teeth of a fluff ball tethered on some sort of beaded string to a large lady with very thick ankles who was currently blocking their path.

“Move it, sister!” the tough one yelled up to the lady.

“Sorry, ma'am,” said the other. “But if you could kindly step to one side or the other—”

The lady said very little. She stared down at her toes. Stared at the two little creatures. Then, she started to scream.

“Rats! Rats!”

The two creatures resumed their running, the dog its barking.

In fact, what the lady and dog had seen weren't rats.

They were brownies.

But neither the lady nor the dog knew that because very few people (and even fewer dogs) knew what a brownie was or that they existed anywhere outside fairy tales and folk legends.

They didn't know brownies are similar to elves and dwarves and gnomes and what the Scandinavians call
Nisse god-dreng
. Brownies are small, maybe nine inches tall, the size of a doll or a circus dog standing on its two hind legs. And because they're so lightweight, they can move very fast, so all you see is a blur streaking past your ankles.