The Santa Society by Kristine McCord Page B

of her singing mouth gleams with a greasy layer of black lipstick. She looks as if she’s kissed a pot of hot tar.
    I stomp across the room and snatch away the turban. It’s one of my father’s old shirts, I think, because it’s way too big to be my mother’s. Instinctively, I use it to wipe the lipstick from the angel’s mouth, resulting in a gruesome black smear. It sickens me. I glance down at the soiled fabric as tears begin to burn my eyes. I’ll never get the stain out. What was I thinking?
    I turn and stumble out of the room. I can hardly see anything as I drift down the hall. Shock thickens my thoughts. But I try to stay focused: I need stain remover. And some all-purpose cleaning spray. By the time I reach the kitchen, I know I have to choose which to save first: the angel or the shirt. I decide on the shirt. It just seems more immediate.
    Like a blind drunkard, I feel along the laundry room shelf in the dark, searching for stain stick. But my arm presses too hard against the bleach bottle. It tips and comes crashing down on top of the washing machine where it bounces off the edge and plummets to the floor. An ugly dent now mars the washer’s lid.
    Pungent fumes begin to fill the air. I flip on the light. It’s the bleach…leaking out through a crack in the plastic bottle. It pools all around me. Hot tears stream down my cheeks as I grab a folded towel and throw it on the puddle.
    My gaze drifts to the shelf where, like a miracle, a tube of stain stick has rolled to the edge. I grab it and smear it on the shirt, not stopping until the stick is nothing but a plastic nub. On my way through the kitchen, I toss the bleach bottle in the trash and grab the spray cleaner and paper towels.
    Reason bursts through the front door, just as I reach the hallway.
    “Good News,” he announces.
    I brush past him without acknowledgment and head for the Christmas room. My head pounds, my neck aches, and I care only about cleaning the desecrated angel. The Lawless’ can stick their offer right—
    “What—” Reason follows me. “Oh.”
    I tear off a paper towel, spray it, and begin dabbing at the angel’s mouth. Black lipstick has filled the web of tiny crackles in the surface of the enamel. Wiping won’t cut it. I spray the cleaner directly on her mouth. Maybe it’ll seep in. I hear movement behind me as I wait for it to dissolve.
    When I wipe again, the paper towel drags and clings. I peel it off. Small bits of wet paper fuzz remain stuck to her. The cleaner has not only stripped the shine from her mouth, but the black webs are still there too.
    “She has whiskers,” my voice cracks as I speak.
    I feel his presence just behind me. “I’m sorry. I should’ve watched the kids better. I’m sorry, Er.”
    He says it like “air.” My chest tightens.
    I turn and move past him. I need my chair, my mother’s chair.
     
    Reason has taken the angel outside and loaded her in his truck because he’s promised to fix her. Now, he sits on the sofa across from me, trying to explain the terms of the offer.
    “It came in at sixty thousand below your asking price. But they’ve made the offer official. It’s signed. If you accept, we’ll move forward with the inspections and closing.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    “You can counter, maybe come down a little and see what they say. I don’t know how much wiggle room you’ve got to play with or how bad you want to sell it.”
    “I have the entire price. The house is paid for.”
    “I see. Well, it’s your call. It’s a question of how fast you want to sell it. Right now, you have a very real possibility of closing by Christmas.” He stares at the floor as he speaks.
    The moment presses me. I could accept, sign, and seal the deal. I could leave. I imagine myself stepping off the plane in New York…but then I just stand there, not knowing where to go or what to do even in a daydream.
    The idea of going back feels just as bizarre as a hairless cat puking in the Christmas