That Time Of The Year

Little Ruthie hid behind the stairs and watched the big red man tinkering beside the tree.

It was a little past 2AM and her parents had been asleep for ages. She'd managed to stay up solely because of the large shot of coffee she'd managed to slop for herself from mommy's espresso maker.

The big red man grunted once and Ruthie shivered with delight - it was true! Johnny had kept on saying Christmas was a big lie but Ruthie knew now; she'd tell him!

There was a soft clump as the big red man overturned the small plate of cookies that had been lying on the table beside the tree.

Ruthie finally dredged up the courage to go up to him.

"Mister Santy Claus, sir?"

The big red man started upright and clonked his head on a heavy ornament hanging from the tree; the branch from which it had been hanging rent into two with a dry crack. He jumped again before finally turning to face the little girl.

"For fuck's sake," he said testily. "Not again."

Ruthie gasped - Santy had just said one of the Big Bads! She opened her mouth to reprimand him when the razor finally caught the glint of firelight.

Ruthie choked a little then.

"Hold still, kid. This won't hurt at all."

"But-but that's what Mister Sandman does!" Ruthie found the glint of the straight edge almost hypnotic. "You're supposed to be a good guy, Santy!"

"Those old myths were badly in need of an update," the big red man said. Up close, his beard was more faded yellow than white, his clothes a congealed red rather than the bright crimson she'd seen from the stairwell. "Besides, this would probably mean one less brat to lose my sleep over next year."

Ruthie tried to scream but the big red man was surprisingly fast.

Then it was over as suddenly as it had begun.

The big red man wiped his razor on his sleeve. The motion bore an easy fluidity that only comes from practice.

Then he set off across the room towards the chimney, taking care to pick up the grubby parcel he'd left beside the tree.

There was a spring in his step that had not been there before, and if you listened closely you could hear him humming the same monosyllable over and over.
"Ho," said the big red man. "Ho. Ho. Ho."

Then he said to a radio clipped to his vest: "What do you mean you're nipping out for a drink? Come back before I skin ye bastards alive."

The radio squawked, after which it said: "Go fuck yerself, Nicky."

The big red man said: "I'm getting you neutered first thing tomorrow, Rudolph."

The cobbled chimney protested as the big red man clambered fitfully in again.

Then nobody said anything at all.

Dénouement

Then he pulled the trigger.

Then he closed his eyes.

Nitin swayed for a moment, dancing to some unheard music, far away from the grotesque tableau of which he was currently a part.

“It is too late for that now, Otto.” He took in a deep breath. “Can you feel it? In the air around you? It is all coming together. The strands are all resolving themselves.”

“It was an honest mistake! We were kids, don’t you get it? We were just kids!”

Otto was babbling faster and faster – his mind was finally coming to terms with what his heart had been screaming for the past five minutes, the past hour, the whole three weeks he’d known Nitin.

“I’ll-I’ll make it up to you! I’ll make it up to her!”

“I happen to be shooting pool with my cousin as we speak.”

“I think I will, Otto. You see, I’m not even here.

He looked back at the pickup but five steps seemed like a billion miles.

“You won’t get away with this!” A thin trail of spittle flew from the corner of Otto’s mouth.

“I know what you’ve done.” Nitin cocked the revolver. “All I am looking for is payback.”

“I’m not here for your confession. I know what you are.

“Get what?”

“You still don’t get it, do you, Otto?”

“Otto, Otto, Otto.” Nitin grinned in the darkness. “I love saying your name. It sounds the same forwards and back, did you know that?

“You can prove nothing,” Otto declared. “I wasn’t even here that night. I was shooting pool with my cousin. I’ve already testified once, and-”

“Her brother was a wastrel and a layabout, Otto. But he was around. Still is, in fact.”

“She wasn’t alone in the world, Otto. The papers said she was an orphan but they didn’t say anything about siblings.

“Where do you figure in all of this?”

“Nothing much. Except she destroyed the rest of her life that night.” Nitin scratched his chin with the barrel of the gun. “You know the details already, Otto. Need we waste our time?”

“And so what if she was?”

“Resisting your advances but too drunk to care too much.”

“I was telling you a story,” he continued. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Party spot. And this was where you first met her, didn't you? Dancing with her schoolmates. Young and hopeless.

Something chrome gleamed in his hand.

“Looking for this?” Nitin said.

He had already began searching in his pockets for the Magnum he always carried on him but it was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Otto whispered.

“Five coyote maulings in eighteen months. But of course, that didn’t stop teenaged vagabonds from coming out here to party.”

“They moved the rest stop a couple miles down the road,” Nitin offered. “This one happened to be located too close to the woods to be safe.

They both knew who the she was.

“Who?” Otto swirled around to face the other man, but his voice belied the fact that the question was a redundant one.

“Neither did she,” Nitin quietly replied.

“I don’t like this place,” he said to Nitin.

Otto shuddered.

The Servo billboard in the background had faded almost completely to white, the lettering and the car barely visible, the eyes of the driver quite deliberately ripped open with a hunting knife that had a four-lettered name scratched upon its ratty scabbard.

The building looked like it hadn’t seen any visitors in decades.

“Yeah. This is it.” Nitin got out in front of the rest stop.

That was the important bit taken care of.

“Are you sure?” He looked doubtful, but he’d stopped the truck.

Otto stomped down on the brakes and the pickup cluttered to a halt.

“This is it,” Nitin said at length.

Otto grunted again, and after that they drove in silence for a while longer.

“I mean the dénouement. You know, the part where all the interweaving plotlines are resolved for the benefit of everyone keeping score at home.”

He fancied he could see the silhouettes of the household sitting down to dinner.

“No, not the ending, per se.” he stared at a dimly-lit farmhouse passing to their right.

“The ending?” Otto hazarded.

“The interpersonal dynamics are all very fine,” Nitin lumbered on, “And I get how it is an organic medium. But it sucks that the good parts are generally held back until the end.”

Intelligent discourse wasn’t exactly his forté.

Otto grunted but kept his eyes on the road.

“You know what I hate about theatre?” he asked suddenly.

Nitin looked at his watch again (9:24PM; hardly after hours) and wished for some divine intervention, some deus ex machina that would let him skip forward to the end of their journey.

Otto chuckled.

“I’m fine,” he finally responded through gritted teeth. “Mind if I stick my head outta the window?”

This just happened to be Otto’s idea of a joke.

They were both sitting in the front, like they had been for the whole four hour duration of the ride.

“All right back there?” Otto asked for the fifth time, and Nitin fought off a wild urge to rip his throat out.

His hands trembled slightly in his lap, but that was about it.

To give him due credit he kept his composure.

He was too old for that, for one; and the guy behind the wheel was too damn large to be ignored anyway.

He could hardly pretend he was alone in the car, could he?

Nitin stared out of the window for a bit but then it got old.

They drove in silence for a while.