9. Up On the Rooftop

9

UP ON THE ROOFTOP

PATRICK

CHRISTMAS

Quinn is sheet-white and frozen.

I snap in front of his face. Trying to get him back to reality.

This is reality, right? Because it certainly doesn't feel real.

It takes twenty minutes, but we finally get the man onto the living room couch and (mostly) upright. His head is dipped. His lip is a little busted. Quinn's swing wasn't that strong. I think it scared the man more than it hurt him. The frightening thud was purely from the man's sheer mass.

But he's definitely not playing dead. He's conked out.

Which means we're not any closer to answers.

"I'm sorry," Quinn mutters frantically. It's the seventh time he's said it. "I thought he was going to hurt you."

"It's okay. I only knocked him out the first time because I was afraid he'd hurt you ."

Our eyes connect. This would be a sweet moment in our tattered relationship if a man who may or may not be Santa Claus wasn't partially passed out and maybe concussed on our (now that I consider it) ugly suede couch.

Quinn worries his lip. "I know I've asked this a million times, but what do we do now?"

"Wait until he wakes up, I guess." I heave out a breath that barely registers over a sudden, noxious pounding up on the roof. "What was that?" If I really dial in, something lighter and jinglier floats underneath the pounding. "Are those bells?"

One after the other, we rush out the front door and onto the icy lawn. I pitch my gaze upward and, sure enough, my wondering eyes are graced with the sight of a massive red-and-gold sleigh. Eight fearsome reindeer are tethered to it by reins bedecked with bells.

"Seriously? That was reshingled before we closed!" I cry, noticing the damage that the weighty flight vehicle is causing. "Are you seeing this?" Bemused, I turn to look at Quinn. He's on his knees. In the grass. Balling up leftover snow from a storm a week ago and shoving his face in it.

"I'm dreaming! I'm going to wake up! I have to wake up!"

I grab Quinn by the arm. "Stop! You're going to wake the neighbors!"

I scan the street. The houses aren't very close together. But I'm surprised to find that no one has rushed outside to see what the commotion is about. The one time it would be helpful to live near nosy people.

"Wake the neighbors? We killed Santa Claus." Quinn sounds as undone as I felt when I wandered into the bedroom earlier.

"We didn't kill anyone. He was breathing. He was just passed out. Come on. Let's get back inside before we both freeze to death."

Listening to reason or at the very least too cold to protest, Quinn nods and follows me.

Back in the blasting warmth of the house, still unsure what to do, I'm stopped in my tracks by the sound of clomping boots. Not mine. And not Quinn's, either.

At the inlet to the hallway, Santa Claus stands with one hand on his slightly bruised lip. The other holds the frying pan out in front of him.

"Don't come any closer!" he cries in a higher-pitched voice than you'd expect from the storied big man. "I'm warning you."

Instinctually, I step in front of Quinn. I hold my arms up in evident surrender. Quinn mirrors me. "Okay, okay."

"Fuck! You really busted my lip!" Santa or Not Santa shouts.

"That's not a very Santa-like word to use," Quinn whispers behind me. I shush him. He's only going to escalate the situation. This man is already red-faced and steaming.

"I know this was a good gig for a while, but I can't handle it anymore. I have had it up to here with this holiday horseshit!" The pan-that-started-it-all clatters to the ground and with the same hand that had been holding it, Santa audibly snaps his mittened fingers.

A tornado of gold sparkles whips around him. The red suit and the white hair all fall away until, before us, where Santa once stood, there's only a tattooed man with scraggly hair and a stubbly face who couldn't be more than thirty-five. "I quit!" he yells up to the ceiling.

Around his feet is a cloak with a halo of gold dust wiggling around it. It captures my attention until the man walks toward us with intent. Jabs a finger in our direction. "It's your problem now."

The man exits the house. Disappears into the night.

A frantic beat goes by before Quinn yells, "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," I mumble, awestruck. My heart sputters.

This whole night is bending my mind into a glass pyramid that's refracting my thoughts like colorful light in a thousand different directions.

I'm inexplicably drawn to the left-behind cloak. It glimmers there on our floor like it's transported here from another realm. So bright I might even mistake it for a fallen star. As if hypnotized, I inch closer.

"Pat, what are you doing?"

"I just want to get a better look." Why is this glowing piece of fabric somehow calling to me?

"What if it's cursed or something?" Quinn asks, voice pitching up into a scared place.

"We can't just leave it in the middle of the floor!"

"At least go get your gloves!"

"I'll be fine!" I'm bending over. Leaning into the light. Sensing an unexplainable warmth.

Right as I begin to reach for it, someone who is unquestionably not my husband shouts, "Don't touch it unless you're willing to take the job!"