Polterheist(38)

He explained, "My mother remembers me hyperventilating and then passing out, I was so overcome with fear of the red-clad menace. My father is still guilt-ridden about the visit because he remembers me crying until he thought I might need to be tranquilized. And my brothers remember me throwing a screaming tantrum and deliberately ruining their visit to Holidayland."

"What do you remember?" I asked curiously.

"I remember finding Santa Claus suspicious and threatening, and then asking to leave."

"Yes, that does sound like the way you would remember it," I said.

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, look, we're in luck," I said as we approached the food stand. "Chili dogs."

"I am a very reasonable person," Lopez insisted.

"But between this tight costume and the difficulty of getting away from Santa's throne if nature calls, I'd better not risk it. So I'll just have a hot dog . . . Oh, what the heck, with cheese, please." I added to Lopez, "I thoughtfully left my purse in my locker, so your colleagues could paw through it at their convenience-"

"Esther, we don't paw-"

"-so you'll have to pay."

"If you want me to buy your dinner, you should be a lot nicer to me." He pulled out his wallet and told the vendor, who was ladling cheese over my frankfurter, that he'd have a chili dog. We also got bottled water, one order of fries, and some napkins, and then we found an empty bench-which wasn't a challenge, despite how crowded the whole area was tonight, since it was too cold, really, for sitting outside. But in his company, I scarcely noticed.

"So was the visit to Holidayland the experience that cemented your Santa phobia?" I asked.

Lopez gave me a frosty look for using that word. "Christmastime at our house was a little tense that year. And the year after, my father found me asleep by the chimney on Christmas Eve with my brother's Jedi lightsaber in my hands."

"Of course," I said before biting into my deliciously messy cheese dog.

"By the following year, when I was six, Michael was nine and Tim was eleven, and they didn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. So my parents decided we could dispense with all the Christmas trauma now, and they told me the truth."

"That doesn't seem to have resolved your Santa issue," I noted.

"No, I was furious. They had lied to me my whole life. They'd scared me into believing a suspicious, weirdly dressed perp was infiltrating our house annually. They had even forced me to meet someone who was impersonating that character! And now they were telling me they'd made it all up?"

"You know, I didn't exactly hit it off with your parents tonight-"

"Oh, I'd say my dad thought you were okay." He offered me this faint praise as if it were rubies beyond compare.

"-but as this story unfolds, I feel the most profound sympathy for them," I said.

"Hmph. Anyhow, I realized I could never trust anyone in my family again, and I didn't speak to them for . . . Well, the stories vary there, too. My brothers say this lasted about a day. My mother claims it was at least a week. My father just gets teary-eyed and can't talk about it."

"I'm starting to feel a little sorry for your brothers, too," I said.

"Those bastards," he grumbled.

"And ever since then . . . ?"

"I just find Santa . . . startling. It's not a big deal. So can we drop it now?"

"Of course not," I said. "You know, it's unusual to carry this fear into adulthood-though you've obviously changed so little since earliest childhood that I guess I'm not that surprised in your case. But Rick says quite a few kids have a negative reaction when they first visit Santa. And I certainly see it in the throne room every day."

"Who's Rick?" he asked.

"Super Santa. The psychology grad student."

"Oh, right." Lopez rolled his eyes. "The self-proclaimed good listener."

"He was trying to be nice," I chided.

"Aren't you supposed to be a student of human nature?" he said critically. "That guy was not trying to be nice, Esther. Your friend Satsy was trying to be nice. Rick was trying to play on my insecurities."

"No," I protested. "I think you've got him all wrong."

"He's not a healer, he's an opportunist."

"What makes you say that?"

"I've spent plenty of time interrogating people like him. I've learned to spot them."

"I think you just feel defensive because he zeroed in on your . . . thing."

"He's a psychology student?" Lopez asked, backtracking. "I thought all of the Solsticeland staffers were actors."

"Mostly, but not all. I don't know what Eggnog does, really, but if you're in the same room with him for five minutes, you find out that he's-"

"Got a master's degree in literature from Princeton." Lopez did a fair imitation of the way Eggnog said it, which made me laugh.

"And I think Twinkle studies computer science."

"Well, that fits." He added, "Is it just me, or does Twinkle seem like he's still in the closet, despite wearing red leotards in public?"

"You think he's gay?"

"Sure." Lopez shrugged. "What straight guy would agree to being called Twinkle?"

"That's what I said! But Rick thinks Twinkle's being ironic with that name."

"And Rick, being a grad student in psychology, must necessarily be right in all things."

"No, I didn't mean that, I meant . . . I think he seems insightful."

"Hmm." Lopez didn't say anything else, just sat frowning absently at his half-eaten chili dog as if it might contain the secrets to the human heart. I was familiar with that expression and knew that it usually meant something had triggered a thought or connection in his mind, and now he was examining scattered pieces of information inside his head, trying to figure out how to fit them together into a coherent picture.

Maybe he was thinking about the hijacking case. Or maybe he was thinking of asking Rick if I thought Karaoke Bear had grown claws and fangs because I was still traumatized by yesterday's enchanted tree attack. Would I think I saw something supernaturally spooky every time an electronic device malfunctioned at Fenster's? And so on.

Whatever it was, I decided to let him think about it while I finished eating, since I had to go back to Fenster's soon. So we sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. I ate while Lopez stared blankly at his dinner, his thoughts turned inward.

"Don't you like your supper?" I asked at last, picking at the French fries now that I'd finished my cheese dog.

"Huh? Oh. No, it's fine." He took another bite and relaxed again.

We talked some more about my fellow Solsticeland employees, Fenster's, and my various experiences there.

After we both had finished eating and drinking, he threw away our garbage, then sat back down on the bench with me as he commented, "That many people have just stopped coming to work? It seems like a high attrition rate even for a seasonal job with bad pay and obnoxious policies. I mean, I can tell you're not happy working there, and I can understand why-"

"I am so glad Stella will have steady shifts for me after the holidays," I said with feeling.

"-but is it really that bad?"

"Well, I much prefer being a singing waitress for a nice boss in a restaurant where the clients tip well, and where I rarely get mistaken for a hooker or a figure skater."

"A what?"

"But I've had worse jobs than Solsticeland." I shrugged. "Maybe the employees who quit without even giving notice or returning their costumes-which means no final paycheck-just don't need the money as much as I do. Or as much as Jeff does-boy, does he hate this job! Actually, he's been so down lately, I'm a little worried about him. But he keeps coming to work, just like I do. Because no one pays our bills for us."

It wasn't really an explanation, though, since I had chatted with at least of few of the AWOL employees and knew they actually did need the money as much as I did. Had they all gotten better job offers on the spur of the moment? It didn't seem that likely, only days before Christmas. Certainly there was no new acting work being offered between now and January, let alone enough to account for the exodus from Solsticeland.

I checked Lopez's wristwatch and said, "I should go back. Miles will be looking for me."

"Wait. Stay a little longer." He slipped his hand into mine and stroked my knuckles with his thumb. "I'll tell him I detained you on police business."

Feeling his touch, sensing the shift in his thoughts, my heart picked up the pace.

"I'll be late." My voice was faint.

"Don't go yet." So was his.

I saw the look in his eyes. And a moment later, I knew he saw the look in mine.

My voice shook a little as I said, "No, I should go . . ."

"Stay," he urged softly. The streetlights shone on his black hair and shadows shifted across his face as he leaned closer to me. "This is nice. You. Here . . . with me."

I was breathing faster, aware that his gaze had shifted to my mouth. Aware of what he wanted. What I wanted, too.

Lopez's hand tightened on mine as he leaned very close, so that his breath was tickling my lips as he whispered, "I miss you."

His lips were warm, full, and soft. I fell into his kiss like I was tumbling into a dream, losing all sense of reality and my surroundings as soon as his mouth touched mine. I could have been floating in outer space or sinking underwater, rather than sitting on a hard park bench in a public place, surround by people and traffic. I wouldn't have known the difference.