Disclaimer: What you are about to read is a very silly, often very cheesy, Carnivale Christmas story. You have been warned. Oh, and Dan and the people at HBO (damn them) still own everything.
Christmas with the Crowe's
Justin Crowe towered over his sister as she knelt at the oven, carefully taking out a pan of gingerbread men. She put the pan on the cutting board to cool and pushed at him with the other oven-mitted hand, "Stop hovering. Go. Mingle."
"I don't mingle," he declared curtly. "And would you mind explaining to me what all these people, if you could call them that, are doing here?"
"It's Christmas Eve."
"That's your answer?" he asked incredulously. "It's Christmas Eve. That's why you invited my nemesis—the boy I am destined to battle in the final war between good and evil—and his circus freak cronies?"
"Uhm-hum, it's Christmas Eve," she answered. "And I love Christmas."
He stood petulantly, glowering. "I'd be careful of that face and those thoughts. You don't want some kind of Dickensian visitors do you? Lord knows, you don't want all those ghosts to come out of your past," she warned.
She took his hand and shoved the sticky bag of icing into it, guiding him over to the waiting cookie men. "Here, help me decorate these so we can get them out to our guests."
Iris popped her head into the living room to check on the early arrivals. Norman sat on the couch listening as that delightful little Samson man told another animated story. Off in the corner, Varlyn Stroud was crowding some poor woman with lots of tattoos. Iris grimaced distastefully. She'd have to keep an eye on Stroud and make sure he didn't do anything untoward or vulgar as he was want to do. Then there was Ben Hawkins, the dirty young savior who so occupied her brother's mind of late. Looking at him now, staring confusedly at his own hand, it was hard to believe he was supposed to take on her formidable brother. Ben flopped down on the sofa and Iris fought back the urge to go and put a newspaper down under him; she was sure he would leave a big dirty spot in his wake.
Satisfied that things seemed to be in hand so far, Iris went back into the kitchen, humming snatches of "We Three Kings." She smiled as she watched Justin working on decorating the cookies. She put her arm around his waist and cuddled up to him, looking down at his work.
"Justin! What have you done to them!"
There on the cookie sheet sat grotesque little gingerbread men, their sugary chests tattooed with merry green and red branches. And then there was the one with the head broken off that had the name "Ben" prominently scrawled across its torso.
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"Sooo, here we are," Ben said.
"Yes. Here we are," Sofie answered. Some conversationalist, this kid.
"Yep." 'Bout as talkative as Momma was. She looked around the room for someone else to talk to.
"Underneath the mistletoe," Ben said meaningfully, glancing up at the bundle hanging above their heads in the doorway.
The nerve. "I'm sorry do I know you?" Sofie asked bluntly.
Ben looked confused and somewhat hurt. "Well, yeah, we kinda—you know," he whispered suggestively, elbowing her in the ribs.
Sofie's eyes widened—surely not. "You must be thinking of someone else," she ventured. " I'm a baptized, born-again Christian now that I work for the Crowe's. And I assure you, nothing like that goes on in this house."
"Amen."
Sofie and Ben's heads shot around to see Miss Crowe near by.
As Miss Crowe walked away, Sofie could have sworn she heard her mutter, "unfortunately."
"But Sofffieee," Ben wined as soon as Iris was out of earshot. "Don't you remember the truck and the rain and the . . . other stuff."
A shadow passed over Ben and he found himself staring up into the face of Brother Justin, his reluctant host. "Are you bothering my daugh—domestic help?" Justin's mouth curved up at the corners, proud of his smooth save.
"I ain't botherin' her none," Ben stammered.
"Good," Justin replied in warning.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Ben asked. Justin cocked his head for a moment, formulating an appropriately biting retort, but let it go, figuring it would be lost on the boy anyways.
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"I'll just get that, shall I?" Justin muttered to no one in particular as the incessant knocking at the front door continued. Despite his usual iron resolve, Justin's mouth dropped open cod-fish-like at the sight that greeted him on the other side.
There stood Rita Sue, in all her buxom glory, clad despite the chilly weather in what could only be described as a bit of tinsel and some strategically placed bells.
"Merry Christmas, everybody!" Rita Sue sang out, bouncing into the middle of things, setting off a chorus of jingle bells.
"Rita Sue. Stumpy. Bought time you all got here," Samson called.
"We brought presents," Stumpy declared, following on his wife's heels, shoving at the beat up Santa hat that drooped down into his eyes and hoisting a large gunnysack over his shoulder.
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"And then I told that ol' plow jockey, that I could still buck a bull off a bicycle but he wasn't about to butter my biscuit, and I didn't give a good tinker's dam."
Justin paused beside Stroud and the Snake Woman, Ruth—Ruthie—Naomi—whatever her name was, amazed at how the words kept flowing out of mouth but none of them made any sense.
"I don't know what she's sayin' either," Stroud laughed, chewing on a toothpick, "but I'm not interested in her for her conversation, now am I?"
"How charming, Brother Stroud." Justin wondered idly how far down that snake tattoo of hers went. He patted his chest, thinking of his own foray into the land of body modification. He was still pleased with the mystical tree that adorned his torso. And he had been more than pleased with his sister's reaction to it. He caught Iris's eye across the room and looked pointedly over at the wall. At the flush that crept up her neck, he smiled smugly.
"Is she speakin' in tongues?"
Justin glanced down at the little blonde standing at his elbow. She was just a little slip of a girl, and so was the dress she was wearing, he noticed, finally feeling a nigh bit jolly.
"Hello. And what's your name?" Justin asked, smiling down at her sweetly.
Libby giggled and batted her doe eyes at him, "Libby."
"Let's get you some punch, Libby," Justin offered, putting his hand on the small of her back to usher her off to the punch bowl.
"Have you ever considered dying your hair red?"
Libby giggled again.
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"How many more of these people did you invite, Iris?" Justin asked distastefully. The most recent additions to their "happy" gathering were an elegantly dressed blind man being led about by a woman who would have been considered attractive had it not been for the rather prominent beard adorning her chin. Judging from the way she sat perched on the man's lap, they must be a couple.
"I think everyone is almost here," Iris said giving the room a quick once over.
"Iris, honey, you've got to tell me what's in this here punch," the bearded woman yelled across the room in her Southern drawl, raising her cup in toast to her hosts.
"Oh, it's just lemonade with red food coloring actually," Iris answered.
"And that bottle of rum I tipped in there," Stumpy added merrily.
"I thought it tasted better than usual," Norman said, downing yet another glass with shaking hands.
Justin and Iris's eyes met and they both mouthed "Norman?" incredulously.
"Time for presents!" Rita Sue announced, stepping up onto the coffee table. Stumpy dug through the sack and brought out a small square gift, as everyone gathered around.
"This one is for . . . Ben . . . from Ruthie," Rita Sue announced.
Ben shuffled up to the table, looking uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. Rita Sue handed the gift to him and kissed him on the cheek for good measure. "Open it up now, quick."
Ben tore the paper off and was clearly touched by the gift. "Ahhh, shucks. Thanks, Ruthie. I've never had any of this before," he sniffled holding up a brand new bar of Ivory soap.
One word rang through everyone's mind—"obviously."
"This one," Rita Sue declared, "is to Miss Crowe from Samson."
"You shouldn't have," Iris said. "Thank you." She untied the bow and took the lid off the box peering in.
"We heard yours got broken," Samson explained.
"Yes," Iris said, unconsciously pulling the hem of her dress down over her knees. "It's . . . lovely." She grimaced despite her best efforts and held up a large square mirror with "Dogs Playing Poker" etched on it.
"Yep, that's a nice one," Stumpy called. "That'd cost ya at least ten, fifteen dollars to win on the midway."
Ben looked over her shoulder, studying it. "Hey, the bulldog's cheatin'. How come I never noticed that before?"
The gift giving proceeded and almost everyone had gotten something, except for Libby who sat pouting at her mother's feet.
"Ain't cha got something in the bag for me?"
"Let me see," Stumpy said, digging way down into the sack, and finally pulling out an oddly shaped present. "Nope, this one is another one for me." Libby's face fell. "Nah, it's for you."
Libby tore through the wrapping, then glared at her parents. "A bottle of peroxide? What kinda Christmas present is that?"
"Lib, honey, those roots have got to go," Rita Sue admonished running her hand over her daughter's hair. "I mean, it ain't like they aren't gonna see you're no natural blonde, but'cha don't have to go advertising it with those two inch roots."
"Ma-ah, you're embarrassing me," Libby whined.
"What were you expecting anyways, little girl? A pony?" Stumpy teased.
"Who has a pony anyways?" Samson asked, a bit tipsy. "I always did hate a person with a pony."
"I had a pony in Russia!"
Everyone looked up to see Jonesy pulling Management through the door in a shiny new Radio Flyer wagon.
"I rode it everyday," he continued. " It was a beautiful pony."
"Well, I'll be damned, Lucius Belyakov at a party!" Samson cheered. "Will wonders never cease."
"Dad!" Justin and Iris asked, eerily in unison, stepping closer to the strange visitor.
"Clayton, you came back to me!" Libby squealed, tears starting to stream down her checks as she ran and threw her arms around his neck, bringing his face down to hers to cover it in sloppy kisses.
Jonesy pulled back for air. "Why do you say that every time I'm gone outa the room for more than five minutes?"
Justin stepped closer to his sister and whispered in her ear: "Is it just me or do you remember Dad being taller?"
Iris shook her head trying to make some sense of recent events.
"Say, are you the Russian?" Ben asked, approaching the man in the wagon. "Belyakov," he said to himself. "That sounds Russian. Or maybe Spanish."
The man in question looked at Ben then at Justin. "Alexsei, son, that's," he said nodding towards Ben, " almost too easy . . ."
"Son!" Ben yelled. "You're Spanish too!" he asked Justin.
"Really, one hand tied behind your back . . ." Belyakov continued. He turned his attention then to his long lost daughter. "And Irina, I'd ask you to sit on my knee like you did when you were a little girl, but," he swept the small blanket from his lap, "I don't have knees anymore."
This time Iris pulled Justin's head down to whisper, "Is it just me or do you remember dad having legs and two arms?"
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"Hey, there's more presents under the table," Libby announced. "Maybe I'll get somethin' better." She plundered through the small stack of gifts. "Not for me. This one's for the Professor. Professor!"
"Now where'd Lodz and Lila get off to?" Samson asked. Everyone looked around them but the pair was conspicuously absent. The lull in conversation allowed the entry of other sounds. Namely the rhythmic beating of leather against something soft. Iris blanched and Justin gulped.
"Oh, daddy!"
"My little clarinet!"
Everyone stood frozen, casting their eyes towards the ceiling, following the sounds.
"Did he just say clarinet?" Belyakov asked Samson. "I know it's been awhile since I did anything like that, but clarinet?"
"How'd they find that?" Justin asked through gritted teeth.
"I've told you not to leave it lying around," Iris scolded.
"Humph," Libby sighed. "Feels like socks anyhow." She threw the present down behind her.
"Why don't we turn up the radio?" Iris suggested, rubbing at her throat, drawing attention to the embarrassed red flush covering it. She stepped over Libby and clicked the dial. A hiss sounded then the end of a cheesy jingle before a familiar voice filled the room.
"On the road again, just can't wait to get back on the road again," the voice slurred. "Hey that's kinda catchy—Somebody write that down. Yes it's me, Tommy Dolan, back again. Where was I? Hiccup. Oh, yes . . . so let me just say that for a good time call area code 555, extension 666 and ask for Iris. But if her brother answers, hang up."
Without a word, Iris turned the dial off and smiled at the wide-eyed faces staring back at her. "Who wants fruitcake?" she asked before retreating to the kitchen.
Stumpy chuckled, watching their prim hostess practically run for cover. Nice legs. He turned to the men beside him: "Five dollars says the preacher winds up with his sister under that there mistletoe."
Belyakov looked shocked. "My children? Absolutely not. Just what are you insinuating?"
"Trust me," Norman cut in. "I've got five in favor too."
"Here we are. Fruitcake," Iris offered, now collected, laying down a monstrous platter of everyone's favorite Christmas cake. "Eat up." Everyone dug in. Except for Justin and Iris herself.
"I don't like fruitcake," Justin pouted.
"I know you don't," Iris soothed, "but you have all those gingerbread men in the kitchen to eat, now don't you?"
Iris sat down another dish. "Now who's in the mood for pigs in the blanket?"
Snorting, Libby burst out, "Yeah, who's in the mood for pork!" Several people—namely Stumpy and Sofie—broke into fits of laughter. Rita Sue swatted at her daughter to shush her.
"I don't get it," Iris said, confused, looking to her brother for an explanation. Stroud was suddenly at their side.
"Want me to explain it to her?" he offered lasciviously.
"Shut up, Varlyn," Justin bit. "I'll explain it to you later, dear."
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"Do me the honors, Miss Crowe?"
"Excuse me?" Iris asked, confused, looking down at the little man standing before her.
Samson tapped his cheek with a finger and nodded up to the mistletoe.
Iris, blushing, bent down to his height and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
Justin snickered behind her and she turned on him before he had time to react, standing on her tiptoes and giving him a quick, but loud, smack that just missed his cheek and landed on the corner of his mouth. They stood staring intently at each other until the sound of Samson's gleefully laughter broke the spell.
"Pay up, Lucius!" Samson yelled, trotting back across the room, pleased that he could still con the marks with the best of them. Granted it hadn't taken a lot of conning this time to get the desired results.
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Continuing her search for a better present, Libby fished out two more from under the couch. "Damn! Not for me either." She shoved a present into Iris's hand and crossed the room to deposit another, much larger one, into Justin's arms.
Justin turned the strangely shaped gift over and read that it was from Norman. He really had no idea what this could be. He caught site of Iris out of the corner of his eye; she was tearing the paper from a smartly wrapped red box, the one he had wrapped three times before he had gotten it right. His mouth suddenly went dry. "Iris! Don't open that one now."
"Why not?" she said laughing.
"Open it later. Later," he warned.
Too late. She opened the box—her mouth parted in an "O"—then slammed the lid down on it again. Her cheeks burned until she was sure they matched her hair.
"What is it?" Ben asked.
"Ummm," Iris searched. "A new bible cover," she lied.
"When did they start making those out of black lace?" Sofie asked to her left.
"Maybe you got mine," Libby complained to her right.
"Yes, well, someone else's turn. What did you get, Justin?" she asked pointedly.
Unable to look anyone in the room in the eye, Justin concentrated on opening the gift. It was exactly the present he had dreamed of—35 years ago. "A Red Rider B-B gun."
Belyakov looked concerned. "His mother and I never let him have one of those. You'll put your eye out with those things."
"Rose and I felt the same way when he was growing up," Norman answered and shrugged, "but now I figured what the hell, maybe we'll get lucky and he'll hit an artery."
"Wow!" Ben exclaimed, clearly in awe of the little gun. "Let's go outside and shoot it."
Justin furrowed his forehead as if in pain at the very thought.
"Go ahead, Justin. Go outside with the boy and try it out," Iris commanded.
"Sure," Justin said tartly. "Come on then, boy." He glared at Iris again before slamming the door in a huff.
"Anyone for more fruitcake?" Iris began.
"How about some Christmas limericks, folks. There once was a woman named Iris. She—"
"Sofie! Turn off that radio!" Iris snapped.
"Ahhh! My eye!"
Iris ran to the door just in time to open it for a very irritated Justin, holding his hand up over his left eye.
Muffled chuckles sounded around the room.
"See, I told you so," Belyakov said.
"It wasn't the be-be," Justin cried. "It was . . . an icicle . . . no, no it was fire and brimstone, raining from heaven!" he declared vehemently.
"Sure it was, just come in the kitchen with me and I'll clean that cut for you," Iris offered.
"Ah, he'll be all right," Samson said.
Despite his misgivings, Belyakov agreed, "You'd be surprised what kinds of body parts and appendages you can learn to do without."
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The clanging of a pot. The clattering of silverwear. And something that sounded like a chair thudding against the wall.
"Should we just leave?" Lila asked, having finally rejoined the group with Lodz in tow. "That seems to me the only proper thing to do."
"They have been in there for over 20 minutes," Rita Sue added, craning her neck to look at the kitchen door again.
"Hey, Ben. Why don't you go in there and see what they're doing?" teased Stumpy.
Ruthie caught Ben's arm as he got up to do just that, pulling him back down to sit beside her. "Stumpy don't tease the boy like that. Walkin' in on somethin' like that could put him right off relations for good."
"You really think that's what they're doin'?" Libby asked, screwing up her face.
All eyes returned to the kitchen door at the sudden cessation of noise.
"Oh, I get it. Porked!"
"Let's just leave them a nice note," Samson exclaimed jumping up from his perch on Justin's favorite chair. "Everybody out."
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Justin, thoroughly exhausted, yet infinitely relieved to see all of their guests gone, sat in his chair, his head buried in his hand.
He felt Iris's knees bump against his and looked up.
"Thanks for helping me clean up the kitchen earlier."
"I couldn't stand to be in the room with those people for another minute." He sighed.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Don't you have a Christmas present for me?"
At his expectant look, Iris put her hands beside his on the arms of the chair and leaned down closer to him. "You mean besides wearing the present you gave me?"
"Ahhh." Laughing, he pulled her down into his lap.
"Yes," she finally answered. "The fruitcake."
"You know I don't eat that."
"I know. And neither do I," Iris explained. "But everyone else does. Between them, they ate the whole cake."
"Yes, I'm sure it was lovely, but what does that have to do with anything?"
"Let's just say," she gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead, "that I added a little something special to my recipe this year."
"You . . ."
"Poisoned the lot of them?" Iris finished. "Yes. Merry Christmas." Another kiss, this time at his right temple.
"But Stroud was on our side."
"He was a groper." She kissed him again—playfully on the tip of his nose.
"And Norman?" Justin asked.
Iris pulled away to look at him. "Justin, our Christmas card from him this year read, 'To the Antichrist and his harlot of a sister.' I hardly think he was on our team." She leaned back in to put her lips softly against his cheek.
"But what about sweet little Sofie?"
"I stopped that train before it left the station," she said meaningfully.
He nodded, admitting the truth of her statement. But still he had hoped . . .
"Besides, judging from the way she was looking at that Libby girl tonight, I think Sofie might have been a lesbian, and therefore not interested in you." Justin's eyebrow quirked at what that suggested. "And before you ask. No," she admonished, "there was never any chance of that happening."
The clock chimed out midnight.
"It is now officially Christmas day," Iris said. "So Merry Christmas." This time the kiss was anything but chaste. When she tugged on his lower lip with her teeth, his hand tangled in her hair, and he kissed her back soundly, the way he had been dying to do all night, since that that little peck under the mistletoe.
She squealed when he stood up, lifting her in his arms, and starting for the stairs.
"Time for my present," he teased.
"And just what present would that be?"
"The one I'm about to unwrap."
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