December 24, 1981
By midday, Willie's hand was the shape of a baseball. He was popping aspirin like it was candy and continually stuck his hand in a bucket of snow to bring down the swelling. He reached into the kitchen cabinet for a stronger painkiller.
If you touch those spirits, I will knock you senseless.
Grumbling, Willie pushed the rum bottle back onto the shelf.
By evening, he could no longer stand the discomfort and drove into town to see Dr. Woodard. There was no need to leave a note for the boss. He would know where Willie had gone. Maybe it wouldn't matter if he tended to the matter quickly and came right back.
"You just caught me; I'm on my way out." Dr. Woodard removed his coat. "Well, let's take a look." Willie climbed carefully up onto the examination table. "How on earth did you do this?"
"Hammer. I missed the nail."
"That's why eggnog and chores don't mix." The doctor chuckled at his own joke while feeling Willie's hand. "You should consider another line of work if you're so accident prone." He pointed to Willie's face. "That needed stitches."
Willie shrugged. He had no idea how to explain where the scar had come from, so he didn't.
"Well, you're going to have to go to the hospital and get this set."
"No, I can't do that. Fix it now."
"That's not how we do things. This isn't a battlefield. You need anesthesia—"
"No, I don't. Just fix it, will ya? I gotta get back. I'll…lose my job."
"I'm sure Mr. Collins will understand."
"He won't. Please. Please."
Dr. Woodard checked his watch. "You're going to make me late; I have to pick up the missus for church." He set Willie's hand on his table, felt around for a second and then pushed. Willie brought his other fist down on the table a few times but he didn't yell.
The doctor rewrapped the patient's hand and fixed him up in a sling. "You should go over to the hospital tomorrow. Well, not tomorrow of course, the next day, get an x-ray and a cast put on this."
"Okay. Thanks, Doc."
"How would you like to do me a favor, young man?"
"Sure. Ya want somethin' fixed?"
The doctor laughed. "Not with your track record. You're going to take it easy for a while. Actually, I was thinking about the house call I made for you at Collinwood—back in October, I believe it was. You had hypothermia, blood loss, among other things." Willie nodded. "Well, I have another patient with similar symptoms, and there's something very strange in her blood, something I can't identify."
Willie's heart skipped a beat. "You're talkin' about M-Maggie Evans. But she's dead, ain't she?"
"Uh, yes, I know. But I'm still studying her blood sample, and I'd like to have one of yours to compare it to."
"You wanna take my blood?" The young man shook his head. "Sorry. No can do. I—don't like needles."
"Come on, it'll just take a minute. You just let me set a bone, but you're afraid of a pin prick?"
Willie slid off the table. "You're gonna be late for church. You better go, and me too." He grabbed his jacket and ran out the door.
Light snow fell as Willie headed back to his truck, his fractured hand tucked in the sling inside his jacket. The church bells rang out O Come, All Ye Faithful. Willie stopped and looked at the holiday lit and decorated church. A chorus of voices echoed from within the building.
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay
On the lawn a towering evergreen twinkled with tiny white lights. Inside the fence was a manger scene with plaster statues and live animals: a cow, a donkey and some sheep.
To save us all from Satan's power
when we were gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy
Willie detested churches, but this one looked kind of friendly, warm and inviting. A sanctuary. He slipped in and stood in the back, near a banner which read "Peace on Earth – Good Will towards Men."
Except for Barnabas Collins, the entire town was in attendance. A few people turned around and gave him dirty looks. There was Burke Devlin with Miss Winters, Sam Evans (who had trouble standing) and Joe Haskell, Sheriff Patterson and his pudgy progeny, and the boardinghouse landlord and his wife. Mrs. Johnson was fussing over a disagreeable-looking young man. Guess ole' Harry got paroled. Willie wondered if the housekeeper would give his job to her son now that he was back. Nepotism was a word he had just learned.
Attention to Willie was diverted by the arrival of the Collins family. Heads turned and whispers rippled across the rows as Roger, Mrs. Stoddard, David, Carolyn and Buzz, his Mohawk tinted red and green for the occasion, paraded up the center aisle to take their places in the first pew.
"Why, look, it's Elizabeth Stoddard. She hasn't left Collinwood for over eighteen years," Willie overheard in murmurs. Mrs. Stoddard was smiling and gracious, nodding to the townspeople as she passed, like she was the queen of England. You must be real happy now that Jason's gone. Well, he won't bother you no more.
Another woman had entered with the Collins clan, but instead of accompanying them to the front, she close to sit with to Mr. Evans and Joe. She was a middle aged lady with red hair, green pantsuit and a shrewd countenance. She surveyed the room while removing her gloves. Her gaze fell upon Willie standing in the back.
He quickly looked away. Why was she staring at him? He had never picked her pocket. Maybe she was in charge of this place and you weren't allowed to come in unless you were a member, like an after-hours club. He turned to leave when from the choir loft came the clear rich sound of a tenor soloist. He sounded like an angel.
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear savior's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Mesmerized by the music, Willie walked halfway up the center aisle and looked up behind him to see who could possibly sing like that. It was Bob the bartender, all dressed up in a dark suit and green tie. Willie closed his eyes as the hymn soared to a crescendo.
O night divine!
"Willie! Sit down; service is about to start." Mrs. Johnson hissed, tugging on his empty jacket sleeve. Willie then realized that he was standing in the middle of the church and the parishioners were glaring at him. Burke Devlin stood and strode down the aisle, looking like he was going to slug the young troublemaker. Willie turned tail and ran out the door.
The Old House handyman knew he was expected at home, but he didn't want to go back to that dark, empty place. Not yet. Willie parked the truck down the path and walked over to the peak at Widow's Hill. He sat precariously near the brink, bringing his knees up close. A cold wind blew in from the ocean. The snow had stopped, and the clouds cleared to reveal hundreds of stars. He inched a little closer to the falloff; dirt and snow fell away beneath his sneakers.
Christmas was a bogus holiday. It was for people with friends and lovers and families and money to spend. Willie had learned from early childhood that it didn't matter if you were naughty or nice; Santa only visited rich children.
Willie's mind returned to those people sneering at him in the church. Good will towards men—what a crock of shit; towards everybody except Willie Loomis. He was reminded of the note pinned to his duffle bag the night those landlords threw him out of the boardinghouse. Your kind not welcome here.
"Who'd wanna go to your stupid church anyway? I hate church." He made a snowball and pitched it over the cliff. He should have picked some pockets while he was in there and looted the collection plate.
It was late. Willie knew he should have been home hours ago, but he was not ready to listen to more lectures and play the happy game with Pollyanna the vampire. He wondered why Barnabas had changed so much recently. He never gave a rat's ass before if his servant was despondent. Personally, Willie found life was more predictable when the boss was just a mean-tempered son of a bitch. Was it because of Maggie?
I have another patient with similar symptoms.
The doctor had said have, not had. That sounded like a slip up. Maybe it meant Maggie was still alive, that she had faked her own death to throw off Barnabas. When you're about to jump off a cliff, do you stop in the hallway to grab your coat? Alive or dead, he would never see Maggie Evans again. Not until she led a caravan of cop cars through the gates of Collinwood—or a mob of angry townspeople with torches. Good. He deserves it. We both do.
The young man closed his eyes and tried to remember her kissing him. She did kiss him, she let him kiss her, and it was so close to developing into something more. Her hands fumbled with his belt buckle, his under her robe. She felt warm and soft—Willie opened his eyes. Who was he kidding? Maggie had never liked him. She just used him to accomplish what she had to do, just like Jason had used him for his purposes. Barnabas was right. If Willie didn't drink so much, he would have realized that a long time ago.
Willie sat at the edge of the world looking into the abyss, without a woman, a friend or a bottle to bring him comfort or joy. He looked down over the brink. One little tip and it would be all over. On Christmas morning his body would wash up on the beach; that would be a present to everybody in town.
"But whatever would I do without you?"
"Light yer own candles."
Willie wasn't startled; he was used to Barnabas appearing silently from nowhere. The vampire wore his wool Inverness coat and sported a new cane. This one had a thicker shaft and a curved silver wolf's head at the crook.
"You know I ain't goin' anywhere 'less you tell me to." I got no rights. I'm nothin'.
"Perhaps someday I shall throw you off this cliff myself, but for now, I am content with things as they are," Barnabas answered casually.
Willie thought that this glib response was to remind the servant that he was being gloomy, which was exactly what the vampire had told him not to do, but he couldn't think of a clever reply, so he said nothing.
I could not have— Barnabas sighed, unable to complete the thought. He tried again. "What I mean to say is you are—"
Willie looked quizzically at the master, who had never before been at a loss for words. "Don't go all queer on me. They talk about us enough as it is."
Barnabas reprimanded him with a tap of the cane. "I want you to know you are essential to me…and to the Old House."
His servant shrugged and looked away, unsure of how to respond to a sincere compliment.
That old house needs a lot more work. It's still a shithole.
It is a work in progress, as we all are.
"Guess so." He took note of the boss's replacement walking stick. "I see ya got a new Willie-beater."
"Don't be daft. This was custom made. I am certainly not about to let you break it."
"Oh. I'll just haveta stay outta trouble, then," Willie replied with a hint of sarcasm.
Barnabas smiled. "A resolution for the new year, to be sure."
"How you treat me is your Karma. How I react is mine."
The vampire's brow furrowed. That was quite profound. "Did you read that in one of my books?" he asked hopefully.
"It was in a fortune cookie."
Master and servant stood and sat at the precipice, listening to the crashing waves and the distant chime of the Christmas church bells playing It Came upon a Midnight Clear.
"Happy birthday, Willie."
Willie was silent for a moment. He was five years old, his beaming face illuminated by a tea candle sitting atop a cupcake at the Capri Garden Lounge, surrounded by Lyddie and a small collection of barflies, singing to him, each in their own key. Charlie toasted him and the hookers kissed his cheeks.
He shook his head. "Whatever. I don't do holidays." He scooted back from the ledge and stood, wiping the snow from his wet pants. Barnabas reached out to steady him when Willie's injured arm caused him to lose balance. Together they walked in the direction of the pickup truck.
"You know," Barnabas said, looking straight ahead. "I can heal that scar if you wish."
Willie considered the matter. "That'd be good—Wait. Would ya haveta lick my face?"
"Yes."
"I dunno." He grimaced. "I'll think about it."
