Read Online Santa Steps Out: A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups by Robert Devereaux - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Devereaux
Ads: Link
the way that sounded. It made her skin shiver, that word. Seeing him turned her ravenous; she wanted desperately to devour him. But then, fighting that urge had always been the most harrowing part of the copulations of nymphs and satyrs. She recalled the old community, roused by the smell of blood, circling about and egging on a thrusting couple who had lapsed into total anarchy and died feasting on one another's innards, the green moss beneath them drenched red.
She sighed. Tears of rain, rolling down her cheeks, depended from her nipples. She knew, because he'd told her so often enough, that Santa Claus did not love her, not in that way. No, it was lust alone, he assured her, full-throttle lust and nothing more, that tore him from the side of his wife. More rhizome than root, his feelings for her.
A chill rippled through her.
Her eyes clamped down upon a glare.
There had to be a way, she thought. A way to unseat Mrs. Claus, to swivel Santa's head forever away from her, from his elves and reindeer and his blasted beloved brats.
A way to claim him exclusively for herself.
*****
Good Friday, 1990. St. Mary's Cemetery and Mausoleum on 21st Street in Sacramento. A young woman in black held her daughter's hand and watched her husband's coffin sink into the earth.
Time had not stood still for Rachel Townsend. Now nearly thirty, she had lived a full mortal life, joyous and painful, zesty and bland by turns. Of that special night twenty years past, when Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy tussled naked upon her bed, she remembered nothing.
"Mommy?" Wendy looked sadly up at her. "My legs are getting tired."
Rachel stroked her daughter's braided hair. An image came and went of Frank holding a baby spoon in his hand, bending intently toward the high chair, his eyes smiling in disbelief at his daughter's loveliness. That loving look stayed with him through the years since, and Wendy had loved her father as fiercely. It was a shame Easter had been spoiled for her this year.
So few years, so quickly lived.
"Be patient," Rachel told her. "It won't be much longer."
"Can you lift me up?"
"Later," she assured. Rachel rested her hands on Wendy's shoulders and listened to Father Doyle intone the words of the burial service.
She liked Father Doyle, though she felt nothing but indifference for his Church. But Frank—or Francis Xavier McGinnis, as the reverend father now referred to him—had been raised a Catholic and had remained devout to the end. Frank would have wanted Father Doyle to give him the complete Catholic sendoff.
A light breeze stirred the treetops. Her husband had been a huge man, with a love of life and a sense of humor as expansive as his girth. He'd brought joy to everyone he touched in his fifty-seven years. Little wonder, then, that the funeral party numbered nearly three hundred, and that its mood was not so much funereal as celebratory—of Frank himself, of his caring heart, of the privilege they had shared in knowing him.
Rachel expected that Frank's friends would drop away. The lecherous ones—George Seacrest of the wayward wife, and Harold Stamm who sported a gold tooth—would hit on her once or twice, then take the hint and be gone. The others might hang on a bit longer but she'd be glad to see them go. It was time for her to think about a new life, and that was easier to do without the flotsam of the old floating past.
The sole exception was Mrs. Fredericks from next door, dear old Ellie Fredericks, eighty years young and still full of fire. She couldn't imagine that feisty old woman ever giving up the ghost, let alone abandoning her "little Rachel." She'd been Rachel's pretend granny for as long as Rachel could recall, and now she was Wendy's as well.
She glanced down at her daughter. It had been a rough year for both of them, a year full of death. First Frank's parents. Then Rachel's, a boating accident out on Folsom Lake that also claimed her brother Billy and his wife. Frank had questioned the
She sighed. Tears of rain, rolling down her cheeks, depended from her nipples. She knew, because he'd told her so often enough, that Santa Claus did not love her, not in that way. No, it was lust alone, he assured her, full-throttle lust and nothing more, that tore him from the side of his wife. More rhizome than root, his feelings for her.
A chill rippled through her.
Her eyes clamped down upon a glare.
There had to be a way, she thought. A way to unseat Mrs. Claus, to swivel Santa's head forever away from her, from his elves and reindeer and his blasted beloved brats.
A way to claim him exclusively for herself.
*****
Good Friday, 1990. St. Mary's Cemetery and Mausoleum on 21st Street in Sacramento. A young woman in black held her daughter's hand and watched her husband's coffin sink into the earth.
Time had not stood still for Rachel Townsend. Now nearly thirty, she had lived a full mortal life, joyous and painful, zesty and bland by turns. Of that special night twenty years past, when Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy tussled naked upon her bed, she remembered nothing.
"Mommy?" Wendy looked sadly up at her. "My legs are getting tired."
Rachel stroked her daughter's braided hair. An image came and went of Frank holding a baby spoon in his hand, bending intently toward the high chair, his eyes smiling in disbelief at his daughter's loveliness. That loving look stayed with him through the years since, and Wendy had loved her father as fiercely. It was a shame Easter had been spoiled for her this year.
So few years, so quickly lived.
"Be patient," Rachel told her. "It won't be much longer."
"Can you lift me up?"
"Later," she assured. Rachel rested her hands on Wendy's shoulders and listened to Father Doyle intone the words of the burial service.
She liked Father Doyle, though she felt nothing but indifference for his Church. But Frank—or Francis Xavier McGinnis, as the reverend father now referred to him—had been raised a Catholic and had remained devout to the end. Frank would have wanted Father Doyle to give him the complete Catholic sendoff.
A light breeze stirred the treetops. Her husband had been a huge man, with a love of life and a sense of humor as expansive as his girth. He'd brought joy to everyone he touched in his fifty-seven years. Little wonder, then, that the funeral party numbered nearly three hundred, and that its mood was not so much funereal as celebratory—of Frank himself, of his caring heart, of the privilege they had shared in knowing him.
Rachel expected that Frank's friends would drop away. The lecherous ones—George Seacrest of the wayward wife, and Harold Stamm who sported a gold tooth—would hit on her once or twice, then take the hint and be gone. The others might hang on a bit longer but she'd be glad to see them go. It was time for her to think about a new life, and that was easier to do without the flotsam of the old floating past.
The sole exception was Mrs. Fredericks from next door, dear old Ellie Fredericks, eighty years young and still full of fire. She couldn't imagine that feisty old woman ever giving up the ghost, let alone abandoning her "little Rachel." She'd been Rachel's pretend granny for as long as Rachel could recall, and now she was Wendy's as well.
She glanced down at her daughter. It had been a rough year for both of them, a year full of death. First Frank's parents. Then Rachel's, a boating accident out on Folsom Lake that also claimed her brother Billy and his wife. Frank had questioned the
Similar Books
