The Santa Society by Kristine McCord

Lyric and Justin.”
    The children stare at me with varying degrees of interest. They seem to be lined up by order of age. The smallest, Justin, looks to be about four years old. I can’t help but wonder about his name. Did they run out of ideas by the time he came along? Or maybe they just lost the muse by then.
    The oldest girl, Star, has ruby streaks in her hair and regards me with a bored expression. Her smoky-eye technique—a continuous waxy circle of black—disturbs me.
    “Moon and Gypsy own the gun store downtown, on Moorhead and Franklin.” Reason locks eyes with me and grins.
    So that explains Moon’s black swat-style fatigues.
    “Nice to meet you.” I smile politely.
    “Same to you.” Moon and Star speak in unison.
    “Erin, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll just take a quick look around.” Reason nods at me.
    “Sure.” I retreat to my chair. My book lies open, face down on the table. I grab it and sit back, trying to act disinterested.
    The Lawless family follows Reason to the kitchen. They crowd through the door after him all at once, kids bumping and pushing back against each other. A muffled round of bickering ensues. Moon silences it with a gruff, “Knock it off.”
    I search the page, looking for where I left off last night, after I got back from our walk. As soon as I find my place, I hear: “They can hardly fit through the door, Moon. We’ll just have to knock out the wall there—make it a great room.”
    Then I hear Reason, “Yes! A great room would give you an eat-in kitchen that flows through to the living space.” I hear two slaps on the wall. I look and see his back in the kitchen door. He smacks the wall a third time. “Good news. I don’t think it’s load-bearing. You could demolish it completely in less than a day.”
    I shift in my chair and force my eyes back to the book.
    “It’s a shame the cabinets are so tacky. I’d hoped for more updates than this. New cabinets are just too expensive.”
    The words on the page suddenly run together. I restart the sentence again.
    “Think low budget.” Reason again. “I’ve seen people do amazing things by working with what you have. It wouldn’t take a lot to refinish or paint them.”
    “Hmm.” Gypsy sounds unsure.
    Moon sides with Reason. “He’s right, Gyp. It’s just cosmetic. I can always rip them out and get some something better. Salvaged would be good—something vintage. We can burn these at the summer camp.”
    I see my mother, in my mind, kneeling in the kitchen floor, washing the cabinet doors with Murphy’s Oil Soap.
    “Gross, what is that? Looks like something chewed it. You don’t think they have rats, do you? I don’t do rats.”
    I mentally count the number of chinks I know are on the side of the broom closet. My father made them with his pocket knife to mark my growth.
    “No, Star. Those are knife marks, not teeth marks.”
    I steal a glance at Klaus in the corner. He lies on his back on the floor, legs up. His ears move like he’s listening too. Reason leads everyone through the backdoor for a peek at the yard.
    I pull my feet into the chair and tuck them beneath me. I never sit like this. It’s a recliner, but I’m not thinking straight. My thoughts spin everywhere. I occasionally manage to turn a page like I’m actually reading. In my mind, I see this house, the backdrop for my childhood and my parents, savagely torn apart and hauled off piece by piece in wheelbarrows.
    The muscles in my neck begin to ache.
    The herd of footsteps returns, moving through the living room. Jackets rustle and people whisper. I suddenly feel like a ghost, trying to carry on as usual despite the new occupants. My eyes lock on one word, out of all the many others on the page: debauchery. My vision tunnels as I stare at the black letters. The rest of the page grows whiter. Figures of people hover around me, speaking in whispers.
    “Christ, look at the fireplace. Three people could fit in it, side by side. What an eyesore.