WRITING: The Whoville Challenge

(This is for our Narratives writing group—an exercise in writing the story of little Cindy-Lou Who years after her meeting up with the Grinch.)

“It’s been quite a few years, but still I can say That Whoville still haunts me, to this very day. And the evil that crept in the thick of the fare Is as real as it was in that Christmas nightmare.”

Cindy-Lou Who Smith (December, 2004)

It’s true, you know. And I know that you won’t believe me. No one ever did. Even Rob. He won’t let me tell the kids. He insists that we bring them into town and let them visit the Santa at Creary’s each year. Yesterday, I did.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” “No,” I answered the woman’s voice, not taking my eyes off the kids. “Thank you,” I added, turning to her for only a split second; long enough to take in the arched eyebrows, the disdain gleaming evilly from heavy lidded eyes. She knew who I was. If the Christmas spirit had entered her soul at all it came out in concern for Audrey and Jay in their innocence, sitting on Santa’s knee with smiles so big you could stick an orange in each. But my concern was different; she only cared that at least I’d brought them in. I watched them. Watched him. Worried. Squinted and peered above the great white beard that sat like a cloud on his chest to convince myself that it didn’t cover a grey-green wrinkled face underneath. He appeared fine, and thankfully fake. It is the real Santa I am afraid of.

All the way home the kids jabbered on about what they’d asked of Santa Clause, and what he had promised. I listened carefully, making mental notes about costs knowing each item needed to be bought in duplicate. It ran up bills before the 25th, but if another Christmas happened without incident as we’ve been lucky enough to have had so far, I’d be spending several days at the mall returning unwrapped presents. Better safe than sorry. People think Christmas came late that year. I know instead that it came twice.

Rob was waiting for us at home, and had even started supper.

“I’m proud of you, Cin. I think you’re getting better every year and in no time you’ll get over it.” He kissed me quickly before turning his attention to Audrey and Jay who were clamoring for his approval on their decisions whispered in Santa’s ear.

Our trailer always seemed small, especially after the kids came, and Rob desperately wanted us to build a new home. But at night, with the kids in bed, it didn’t seem like such a problem, and it felt cozy and safe. You could see from the kitchen through the double-wide living room and down the hall to the door at the opposite end. And it had no fireplace.

“What do you want for Christmas this year, Hon?” I asked Rob. Snuggled up against him on the couch, I could almost forget that tonight was Christmas Eve.  The bright glow from the treelights dotted the ceiling with colors and spread over all walls in the room.

“Geez, Cindy, kind of late to be asking now, no?” But he knew better. Knew that the small closet held two fishing poles, two copies of Silent Hill II, four pairs of dockers—two navy and two camel exactly alike.

“How about you, Hon,” he went on, “how about that little Cape we were talking about on the edge of town?” He looked so hopeful, a vision of Christmas spirit and wishfulness I wish I didn’t have to destroy.

“We’ll think some more on it,” I said, “maybe next year, no need to rush.”

All night I listened. Outside, it sounded calm; no wind to mask a thud of paws on the roof, nor muffle the screeching of metal skidding on metal.  Rob’s soft snoring was steady, unworried. Four times I went in to the kids’ rooms. They slept as confident and trusting as angels. I stood guard to make sure they could be.

At six in the morning I woke with a start—I’d fallen asleep on the couch! Panicky, I ran down the hall to the closet, noticing that the huge tree in the living room was still lit from last night. Noticing it was still there. And thankful that Rob went along with my getting the biggest one I could find.  I yanked open the closet door, pulled on the light…and breathed a sigh of relief. But I counted because you never could be sure, never could trust him.

One fishing pole wrapped in gay red paper, one still in the Cabela’s shopping bag; A Barbie doll hidden in silver foiled paper—Audrey’s a fiend for sparkles this year—and her twin peeking out of the bag, with another two video games, and two Gameboys, two blue jackets for Jay.  Everything was here, and I pulled out the ones that were wrapped, set them under the tree, filled two stockings each for the kids.

For one more year, I can relax.