On the Twelfth Daze of Christmas,
John Ryan gives to us. . .
John Ryan gives to us. . .
Escape Clause by John Ryan
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The upper story of
the house creaked as the wind redoubled. Thumps sounded as a raccoon or some
night creature leapt to the roof from a low-hanging tree branch.
Other noises,
deeper thuds in staccato rhythms, like a herd of fearsome creatures stamping to
keep warm, troubled the sleep of the youngest child. No visions of sugarplums
in her dizzy dreamscape, just creatures with glowing eyes. Enormous candy canes
in the hands of ghouls rending her stuffed toys, and her father weeping
helplessly in a corner on a tiny chair.
The oldest boy was
awake, listening intently, convincing himself that every sound he heard had a
reasonable explanation. Too old to believe in superstition, he nonetheless
could not fall asleep in the eerie soundscape, the false sense of expectation,
the holiday mirth he knew concealed adult secrets. He, too, imagined his
father, only not as helpless but as spineless, distant, even absent. He would
only drift off, finally, when his mother came to bed.
The middle child
persisted in sleep as she did in waking life. In her private, inscrutable,
speechless world. Incapable of dressing herself, sluggish in her movements, she
had the unstable gait of a one-year-old though she was in fact many years
older. She could smile, and she smiled often. Encouraged by that, her family
doted on her. In public, strangers threw pitying glances at her and her mother.
She still smiled as she slept, and then the smile took on a dimension of
sinister knowledge. It was difficult for the father to imagine her his own.
Downstairs, the
fireplace was empty of flame, a concession to this special night, though it was
cold and snowy. Red, scented candles provided the only light throughout the
den, and an unsuspecting observer at the window would call it the very picture
of a cozy holiday scene. Hidden from view by the overstuffed couch, two figures
lay atop the thick crimson carpet in intimate embrace.
The man who always
wore red sighed as he ejaculated.
Sated and
exhausted, the children’s mother smiled up at him. She gripped his sturdy
forearms, then felt along to his biceps; hard even beneath the soft, fluffy
material of the coat he never removed.
“Darling,” she
murmured.
“Yes, my pet?”
“What time do you
leave?”
“Midnight. Of
course. Why?”
“He’ll be back
before then.”
“I’ll be long
gone.”
“Oh, and I suppose
you can stop time?”
He said nothing,
just grinned as he wiggled against her before pulling out.
“But, what if—?”
“You know I do
this every year. I’m a pro. Pass me a cookie.”
She reached
carelessly behind her and fumbled until she encountered the plate on top of the
coffee table.
“Some milk?”
He chuckled. “Sure.”
“Carrot?”
He grunted. “For
my team. You know that.”
“Oh, right.”
“Merry Christmas,
babe.”
After standing up,
the man who always wore red re-materialized on the hearth as though in one step.
He crouched and scuttled into the chimney, taking care not to dislodge his hat
and expose his horns like that one unfortunate time in Madrid…so hard for
people to understand.
Laying his finger
aside his nose, he winked at the mother.
She giggled.
With a swoosh, followed by a hollow gulp of air, he was gone.
She giggled.
With a swoosh, followed by a hollow gulp of air, he was gone.
Atop the roof, his
team of hellions stretched forth enormous dirty wings and, as the chains
harnessing them stretched taut, flapped him away in his black hansom. The
occasional jingle of the links could be mistaken for sleigh bells.
Back inside, the
mother washed and dressed, then took care to replace the logs in the firebox
and ignite the starters beneath them. She checked her cell phone. Her husband’s
flight had landed on-time. He would be back from the commuter train in less
than an hour.
Upstairs, the
youngest child’s nightmares abated some. The oldest, struggling to maintain his
vigil but hearing nothing, succumbed to sleep.
The middle child, eyes wide, stared through the uncovered window at the flying, retreating shape against the starscape, and murmured one word: Papa.
