Chapter Text
VI. Saturday
Logan, as the newly acquired cousin, was expected to open the Christmas Eve festivities, and so he took the seat of honor: the big wing chair where he'd slept Thursday night. Grandpa James handed him a small, heavy packet that felt like it held sand.
"Toss that onto the fire when you're ready to start."
Logan refrained from making any drug-related remarks. He chucked the packet into the fireplace. Farley promptly plopped down and laid his head across Logan's socks. As the paper charred and curled away, a shower of grains fell into the flames, which flared up suddenly green and purple. Logan started back in surprise; his cousins clapped appreciatively at the display of holiday pyromania. The flames now popped up cherry red amid the green.
Logan looked at the small circle of his relatives. His cousins sprawled on the floor with Farley. The adults in the living room chairs, which had all been dragged close to the fireplace in a semi-circle. The only absentees were Charlemagne, who had streaked upstairs as soon as Farley thundered into the house — and Logan's mysterious Uncle John. According to Aunt Eleanor, her husband was "detained at the office." She wouldn't say any more. Except he would try to swing by later. Nobody looked upset by this. Logan figured his uncle's absence had less to do with working overtime than it did with underhanded Christmas dealings.
I wish I belonged here, Logan thought.
Feeling incredibly self-conscious, he cleared his throat and began, "When I was a really little kid," he said, "about John Ross's age –"
"Hey!"
"Okay, no. When I was about six. I lived in Bel Air. Naturally. It's expected, for a kid whose parents are movie stars. You'd also expect a kid like that to be spoiled. Don't worry. I was. If I didn't find a giant pile of presents under the tree on Christmas morning, I pitched a shrieking fit you could hear in Santa Monica.
"My pile of presents got bigger every year, and the presents themselves got more expensive. My parents always had to top themselves, and outdo all their friends. They were more concerned about making everybody else look bad, than about their number one son. That was perfectly okay with me, since I raked in all that loot.
"Across the street from me lived a famous director and his third or fourth wife. I'm not going to name-drop. It's not that kind of a story. This story is about how I learned the true meaning of Christmas.
"Anyway, the director and his third or fourth wife had a kid named Billy. That wasn’t actually his name, but like I said, this isn't a name-dropping story. Billy and I hated each other like Klingons and tribbles. He was even more obnoxious than me, if you can believe that."
"No," Jeanette said, right on cue.
Logan yanked the chair's embroidered toss pillow from under his hip and pitched it at her head. She squealed, ducked, and it bopped her on the shoulder.
"Where was I?" Logan said. "Before I was so rudely interrupted?"
"Little Billy," said his grandmother, leaning down to snag the pillow before Jeanette could retaliate.
"Right. Except he wasn't little. Billy was big, fat kid. That's no reason to hate somebody, unless they happen to get that way by beating up smaller kids and stealing their lunches."
"Did he beat you up?" John Ross wanted to know.
"Oh no. I was too fast for him. We were the only two kids on my street, though, so we ended up hanging out a lot. And Christmas rolled around, as it inevitably does, and we arrived — as kids inevitably do — at the question of whether or not Santa Claus existed. I was a practical kid. I didn't believe in Santa. Even though I wasn't a very good kid, I managed to get that tremendous haul every Christmas, and therefore Santa Claus, in his all-knowing glory, did not exist.
"Billy contended that Santa Claus was real, because someone always ate the cookies and milk left out for Santa on Christmas Eve. I pointed out the obvious flaw in this argument. Then, like proper gentlemen, we had a duel at dawn."
"Who won?" John Ross asked.
"I did."
"I don't believe that either," Jeanette said.
"I gave Billy the Indian burn to end all Indian burns. Allow me to demonstrate." Logan started to get up.
"No!" she squealed.
"How about after you're finished with the story?" Aunt Eleanor suggested to Logan.
"Mo-om!"
"I want to hear the story," John Ross said, exasperated.
"All right." Logan settled back in the chair. "Here goes. Billy and I couldn't come to an agreement, and Billy suggested we settle the argument through the empirical method, which means observing natural occurrences and drawing a conclusion. In other words, we agreed to wait up for Santa on Christmas Eve. It seemed logical that since we were both incredibly naughty, Santa would visit both our houses, or neither. Hearts were crossed, and the oath was solemnly spat upon, and then we took our leave of one other.
"Well, I'm a lazy shortcut taker, which I'm sure is extremely easy to believe. I drank a Dr. Pepper right before bedtime. I figured I would hear Santa Claus from my bedroom. If he showed.
"Billy was more enterprising. He waited until his parents went to bed, and wife three or four started busting out the Z's, and don't let anyone tell you women don't snore, because that is a filthy lie. Billy snuck downstairs. There were significantly more presents under the tree than there had been when he went to bed. Billy hadn't heard any suspicious noises downstairs, so he decided his parents bought him a few presents, and then later, Santa came and delivered even more.
"As I've said, Billy was quite the butterball, and the only place he could squeeze himself was behind the chair next to the table where his parents had left out the cookies and milk for Santa. There was a large cut-crystal tray of shortbread cookies, and beside it was an equally lovely and tempting glass of milk. A little of the milk was gone, and a bite taken out of one of the cookies, but Billy chalked this up to his parents. Already, he was coming around to my way of thinking, though I doubt he'd ever admit that.
"Billy crouched down behind the chair, and he waited. And he waited. And waited. And after a while, he got hungry. The cookies were right there, very tempting, very easy to reach from his hiding place. Why go all the way into the kitchen and get more cookies? It was a big house, and a long way to go in the middle of the night, and so Billy ate the entire tray full of cookies, and he drank all the milk, and then he fell asleep curled up under the table.
"This next part is boring, because it mostly concerns Billy being asleep, and me being awake, and so I'm going to digress for a moment, which means go to another subject, as a footnote to the main one. Now, I'm sure everybody is familiar with the phenomenon of things represented one way in fiction, which are completely different in reality. Take bears, for example. Teddy bears. They're cute. Those Coca-Cola bears who party with the penguins. Adorable. But, bears aren't really like that. There's a perfectly good reason why all the polar bears live in the North Pole and all the penguins live in the South Pole, and that reason is: all you can eat penguin buffet.
"There's a reason why, if you're hiking in the woods, you clap your hands when you walk around a corner, and it's not because the bears are plotting to steal your pic-a-nic basket. In fact, if you do happen to meet a bear, one thing it likes to do is put your head in its mouth and bite down."
"Logan!" his grandmother exclaimed, horrified.
"Sorry. Moving on..."
"Wait. Why does a bear do that?" John Ross wanted to know.
"It's to keep you from biting back. That's true. I looked it up."
"What happened to Billy?" Jeanette asked.
"Ah, Billy. Well, I must now cut to an exterior shot of my house, to establish a change of scene. Inside, I was still awake, even though it was long after midnight. Suddenly, I heard tapping and thumping on the roof. And then noises downstairs. It sounded like prowlers. You can imagine my surprise. Santa Claus was in my house. I sat up in bed, debating whether or not to check it out. It might be a situation like Schrödinger's cat, who got put in a box with a can of poison gas and a radioactive nucleus but, you know, I was six, so I didn't really understand quantum theory. Anyway, the upshot is that I was worried if I peeked at Santa, he would disappear. Tricky situation."
"Did the cat die?" John Ross asked.
"I want to know what happened to Billy." Jeanette said.
"Well, Mr. Schrödinger published an article about the cat in the nineteen-thirties, so yeah. The cat probably is dead by now."
John Ross said, "Okay, so Mr. Schrödinger wasn't your neighbor."
Jeanette thumped her head on the carpet.
"Not as far as I know," Logan replied. "Turns out, my quantum paradox resolved itself, because the door of my bedroom slowly creaked open. I lay down immediately and faked being asleep. I kept my eyes open just the narrowest slit, as something smelling like ashes glided into my room and stood over my bed.
"'Logan James Echolls,' it said in a low, hissing voice. It definitely sounded like an It, and not a like a Him. 'I see you when you're sleeping. And I know when you're awake.'
"I opened my eyes. I was scared. This wasn't the Santa Claus I expected. I call your attention to my previous example of the bears.
"The thing was large, and red and furry. Parts of it were white, but those parts were all teeth and claws. It wasn't my idea of a right jolly old elf. Somebody's idea. Somebody who'd gone off their meds, maybe.
"I expected to be shredded like an old credit card statement, but the thing said to me, 'All the cookies and milk left out for me over the years, and even the occasional beer... how I do appreciate these little devotions to an old, dark god like me. I must say I am touched. Especially by the generous offering Billy's parents left downstairs for me this year.'
"Leave it to the famous director and his third or fourth wife to try and outdo my parents in even this sneaky, petty way. I opened my mouth to say my parents had a whole fridge full of catered party food downstairs, but Santa Claus continued speaking.
"'Logan, you're not a very nice child, but you are a lucky one. I'm too full to eat a skinny boy like you, right after a huge meal like Billy.'"
Jeanette gasped, then started laughing.
"Santa Claus put its nose right down to my cheek and inhaled, and that was the most frightening moment, to be so close to it and its many, many teeth; to smell the ashes and bloody meat smell, and something else underneath like rotten eggs. It sniffed me, and memorized my smell. I wasn't anywhere near as fat as Billy, but I certainly was just as naughty.
"Santa Claus said, 'Have yourself a Merry Christmas, Logan. Perhaps next year, your parents will leave you downstairs.'
"With that, the thing was gone, but I stayed awake anyhow, for the rest of the night. Just in case."
Grandma Isabel said with a smile, "After which, you mended your errant ways?"
"Of course not," Logan replied. "Before the next Christmas, my family moved to Malibu. But Santa's out there, somewhere. Hunting for me. Hoping to catch a whiff. And the moral of this story is...?"
"Don't drink soda before bedtime," Jeanette said.
"Exactly."
***
Later, Logan woke up. Of course. Rolled over and looked at the clock. Quarter to two. Not as bad as usual. Maybe if he could fall back to sleep, he would sleep until morning. He lay on his back with his hands laced behind his head, staring up at the dim ceiling and listening to the sounds of the house settling. It had been raining earlier, but now the night was still and windless. He fell asleep again, maybe. He wasn't sure. He was awake, looking at a splash of headlights gliding across the ceiling. It took him a second to realize he hadn't just woken up all by himself. He'd been roused by the crunching of car tires in the old, frozen chunks of snow in the driveway. He tossed off the covers and slipped out of the warm bed, shivering as his feet hit the cold wood of the floor past the edge of the rug. As he climbed onto the window seat, he heard a car door slam. He pushed back the curtain. Behind Grandpa James' black Mercedes, another car had pulled into the driveway. Curls of steam still rose from the exhaust pipe and the hood. A Jag. Santa Claus had traded up, evidently. A figure in a long, dark coat hurried up the walk to the front door, disappeared under the overhang of the house, and then a wedge of light spilled onto the lawn.
Okay. Not Santa Claus. But, expected at two in the morning on Christmas Eve, nonetheless. Logan's imagination flirted with the idea that maybe Archibald Gilman had finally tracked him down. Offered Grandpa James ten bucks and a couple lobsters to take Logan off his hands, toss him in the trunk of the Jag, and drive him to Innsmouth and a watery grave.
Aware he was acting just like the ill-fated Billy, Logan stole to the door of the guest room and eased it open. Lights were on downstairs. He snuck along the hallway to the head of the stairs. From that vantage, he could see down into the front hall. Shadows rippled along the wall.
"I appreciate your stopping by so late," his grandfather said.
"You know I'm not much for sleeping," replied the late night visitor. "Sorry to keep you out of bed, though."
Grandpa James added, "Little pitchers."
The other man laughed. "It's almost two."
"Isabel found him downstairs in the wing chair on Friday morning."
"It's been difficult, hasn't it? Not telling him."
"Yes," Grandpa James said, halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
The other man replied, "You and Isabel will have everything back to normal by Tuesday, at the very latest."
"I think you're giving us too much credit."
"No. I don't think so."
Hey, don't sweat it, that annoying little voice piped up in his head, you'll be back in California before you know it!
God, shut up, he told himself. Anyway, cold sheets or not, I probably won't get any more sleep tonight, since what the hell was that all about?
Well, it was obvious. He was supposed to stay in Arkham through New Year's, but he felt sudden sinking certainty the grandparents would cut him loose a lot sooner. Somehow, he'd screwed up. Royally.
Somehow? he thought. What do you mean "somehow"? They've got hundred reasons to give you the heave-ho. Pick one. Hmmm... let's see. You can't alphabetize or organize for shit — so, you probably fucked up Grandpa James' research notes. Your grandma caught you sleeping downstairs in a chair on Friday morning like a homeless person. You went way, way too far with that Santa story. Oh, and let's not forget you've been either sullen or outright nasty to everybody since the moment you set foot in town. And you made your grandmother cry, for fuck's sake. Gosh, it must be such a treat for them to have you here. Last summer when you wrecked the car and almost killed your cousins? Small potatoes. At least you said you were sorry about that.
They'd ask nicely. But they would ask. By Tuesday, he'd be on a plane to California, and everything would be back to normal.
***
VII. Sunday
Logan rolled out of bed around nine o'clock Christmas morning. He would've preferred to hibernate until at least noon, but the smell of roasting turkey was driving him crazy.
When he came downstairs, Bing Crosby was singing "White Christmas" on the stereo in the living room, and Grandma Isabel stood by the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. Charlemagne lay smack in front of the stove, looking patient and expectant, his long, fluffy tail curled neatly over his paws. Grandpa James sat at the kitchen table reading the Arkham Advertiser. The red-hot news stories in Arkham were, "Town Council Vetoes Re-Zoning of Historic Waterfront," and "M.U. Badgers Defeat Ithaca Bombers 93-82."
"Morning, Logan," his grandfather said. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Logan replied quietly.
His grandmother turned and lightly scooped the tabby cat out of her path with one foot, then came across the kitchen to kiss Logan's cheek. "I thought you were going to sleep all morning."
"Tried to," he answered. "You've turkey-bombed the whole house."
"It's a goose. Turkey is for Thanksgiving. Which you missed."
Logan sighed. "I told you."
"Next year."
He shrugged.
"Never mind. Sit down, sweetheart. I'll feed you."
He'd never passed a Christmas morning at home without dozens of presents. His parents were rich, and he was spoiled, and that was expected. This year, when he'd gone up to bed, there was a much smaller pile under the tree. From his cousins, his aunt and uncle, and his grandparents. He didn't expect or want anything more. He couldn't have hoped for a better Christmas, even if he'd spent his entire vacation pissing off his relatives. Just to be here. That was all. That was fucking great all by itself.
If only.
Maybe you're wrong about last night, he thought.
Not possible. He couldn't be. Okay, his grandparents wouldn't kick him out on Christmas Day. He could open his presents and drink eggnog, and eat goose and all the trimmings, and watch Frosty the Snowman with his cousins; and on Monday, Grandpa James and Grandma Isabel would sit him down and Have A Talk. Now, Logan... you know how much we care for you. We didn't believe it was possible, but you're even less of a delight to have around than you were last summer. I'm afraid we'll have to return you. Don't worry. We saved the receipt.
Grandma Isabel arched an eyebrow at Logan, as if she expected him to be something other than silent and unsmiling. She crossed the kitchen and got a coffee mug down from the cupboard.
"Maybe he'd like to open his presents first?" Grandpa James suggested.
Grandma Isabel asked hopefully, "Would you, Logan?"
"Sure."
She smiled. "Come on, then, grumpy."
Logan got up and trailed the grandparents into the living room. He half expected the pile of presents under the tree to have exploded sometime during the night into a haul of loot worthy of his parents; all those presents, just to soften the blow. Oh, sure. He knew his grandparents loved him. Only from now on, they'd rather show their affection from a safe distance. He didn't blame them. But, the little clutch of gifts under the tree was exactly the same. The only difference was his grandfather had a serious expression on his face. Logan's heart sank.
Grandpa James said, "Logan, there's something we need to discuss." He picked up a manila envelope off the sideboard, and gestured at the couch. "Why don’t we sit down for a moment?"
Please. Don't send me away. I'll try... I'll be...
"What is this?" he asked. "An intervention?"
Jesus Christ. Please.
"Go ahead and open it," Grandpa James replied.
Logan did so, and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. On the top were a few papers he'd seen before: fax copies of emancipation paperwork signed by his father, paperwork for the bond his grandparents had posted, the temporary transfer of custody. Under all that, a fat legal-sized document. He unfolded it. Across the top in Old English lettering, like something inked on the back of Weevil's neck, the paper read, Certificate of Legal Guardianship, State of Massachusetts. Logan skimmed it, seeing his own name typed in at several places, his grandparents' names, their signatures, several places where his grandfather's attorney had attached "Sign Here" tape flags. More paperwork for the transfer of custody. He looked from one grandparent to the other. This merited a special Christmas Day meeting how, exactly?
"We started discussing it last summer," Grandpa James added, although this clarified nothing for Logan. "You're already emancipated, and old enough to decide for yourself. Your father being in prison makes the permanent legalities a good deal easier."
"So... I need to sign these?" he ventured.
"Only if you want to," his grandfather replied.
Logan frowned at him, confused. And then he got it. His throat turned cottony and closed up. He wouldn't say it. They'd tell him he'd misunderstood. They had to tell him that. He couldn't be right. He couldn't be.
The permanent legalities, his grandfather had said. Jeanette's stupid comment about Santa bringing him the perfect gift. His uncle missing the Christmas Eve party; how it had upset nobody. Logan had almost figured it out right then, when he'd assumed Uncle John's absence had more to do with Christmas than with work. And the late-night visitor? His uncle, the lawyer. Working late. Had to be.
No, you're wrong, he thought. This didn't happen. It wasn't happening.
"I know this must seem silly," his grandmother offered. "You'll be eighteen in three months. But, eighteen is still so young."
"Isabel, honestly..." Grandpa James said.
"Well, it is!" She looked like a ruffled sparrow. " Legal adult or not, he shouldn't be alone. He should be with people who love him."
"You want to adopt me?" Logan managed, finally.
"You don't have to make up your mind right this minute," his grandfather said. "Take your time. Think it over. We realize this is a big decision, but it may be easier to —"
Logan dropped the envelope and the pack of papers. Everything turned dreamlike and unreal. He watched the papers fall in slow motion, strike the surface of the coffee table and spread in a fan.
His grandparents wanted to keep him. Nobody ever wanted him. Not even his mother. Not enough to stick around. But, his grandparents wanted him because — because of his trust fund. Except, Logan also came with a murder charge, and so many issues the inside of his head looked like a doctor's waiting room; and his grandfather wouldn't even let him broach the subject of paying him back. They didn't give a flying fuck about Aaron Echolls' money; they had their secret Gringotts vault full of fucking pirate treasure. Every year, the giant pile of presents under his parents' tree, and never the gift he wanted. The one thing. The only thing. To be wanted.
"I can't live here."
Grandma Isabel put her hand on his knee. "We know. That's what we want to discuss with you."
"It's not that I'm not grateful. It's.... I can't..."
"Logan," said his grandfather, gently but firmly. "Listen to me. We understand your situation. We know you can't stay in Arkham. I've resigned from the faculty at Miskatonic and accepted a position at Hearst."
Logan stared at him. He could feel his mouth moving, but nothing came out. Nothing glib; nothing vicious. Nothing at all.
His grandfather shrugged and smiled wryly. "Changing circumstances."
"You can't live on pizza at the Neptune Grand," his grandmother put in tartly. "I won't permit it."
They were packing up and moving three thousand miles, just so he wouldn't have to go back there alone. Not love from a safe distance. Love right at ground zero.
Grandma Isabel touched his arm. "Logan?"
He burst into tears. He never saw it coming. Like one of his father's slaps to the back of the head, one second he was fine, and the next second, he lost it completely, his body curling up tight, holding itself in, his arms clutched around his stomach.
"Oh dear," his grandmother said.
She took him in her arms. He couldn't even hug her back. He crumpled until his head rested in her lap. Too much. Way too much at once. Everything he couldn't say, wouldn't say, wouldn't start, because he could never stop. He broke open and all the black emptiness poured out of him; night on the Coronado Bridge, night in Casa de Killer with Chinese takeout and the glow of the television, night in the Neptune Grand, slinking into his own room, barely tolerated; this dark jigsaw of booze and trim and weed and pills; anything, anything to keep the fear at bay, because he knew this would never, ever change. Sorry nobody ever gave a shit about you, but life's a bitch. Sack up, baby. And now every single thing he knew was wrong. Terrified and too happy, and incredibly shocked and grateful, Logan turned his head, hid his face against his grandmother's terry apron, and cried until he had nothing left.
"Shh..." she whispered, stroking his hair. "It's all right, Logan. Shhh... You'll be all right now."
Logan felt his grandfather lay one hand on his back. He could imagine the look his grandparents exchanged over his head: Ah, crap. What have we gotten ourselves into? Except, they knew exactly what. And they wanted him anyway. He couldn't be dreaming, because he'd given himself a ferocious, pounding headache. Shit. Holy shit. Talk about your fucking Christmas miracles.
The stereo clicked, changing CDs; Tony Bennett softly urged everyone within earshot to have themselves a merry little Christmas.
And who am I to argue with Tony Bennett? thought Logan.
"Would you make us some hot chocolate?" Grandma Isabel said. "And get Logan some Tylenol?"
Grandpa James replied, "Absolutely."
Logan heard his grandfather rise to his feet, but not walk into the kitchen.
"Jamie?" his grandmother asked. "What is it?"
Grandpa James laughed and then he answered, "It's snowing."
THE END
***