Norma’s grunts had now turned into high-pitched squealing, taking Hector away from his daydream. “Look, Cara, mommy wants to play a game,” he said. He placed her softly back down in the baking tray. “She’s the Big Bad Wolf, and if we see her move, we scare her away!”
Norma’s stubby index finger began to twitch.
“Look! It’s the Big Bad Wolf, Cara!” and Hector promptly reached for the 12-inch blade and whacked the finger right off. The squeals got louder, but unfortunately for her, her left foot twitched back, and Hector saw it. He lost no time in hacking the foot off with a relish that consumed him, alternating both knives in the procedure. And he just couldn’t stop smiling!
“There, there, the wolf can’t hurt you now, Cara.” He placed her back over his shoulder and patted her gently.
Norma moaned as the bloody stump swung gently beneath her.
“Shhhh—don’t wake Cara up—she’s sleeping now,” Hector whispered. His eyes were closed, but when he opened them, reality came swiftly back, his face twisting in torment.
“Why, Norma?” he said. “I know you went to a different hospital. Us porters, we all know each other you see…we stick together. My mate Joe—he recognized the name. He got curious, checked the file for an address. I told him to bring it to me. You…YOU…had no right.”
Norma’s pleas halted as a dawning of realization washed across her eyes that were darting between the tray and Hector.
“Yes this…this is our daughter, and YOU killed her. I wanted to love her and take care of her… And are YOU too evil, too selfish to be mother to your own child? IS THAT IT? Did you really think I was going to take this? I owe it to Cara.” Hector was now sobbing for what could have been.
“We’re going to put things right, aren’t we, Cara?”
He picked up the 12-inch blade from the floor by Norma’s foot, picked up the fork from the table. Walking over to her, the squeals became more desperate. Without regret he rammed the fork into her stomach where he thought her womb might be, and proceeded to cut a neat circle with the blade. The blood sprayed and oozed. He carefully lifted Cara, and tucked her gently into the space—her space—her home. It was quieter again now. After Hector took off his spectacles to wipe away the blood, he saw Norma’s eyes had rolled up into her skull.
He turned to Cara, and said, “There, there. Happy Thanksgiving, my darling. Thank you so much for allowing me to be your daddy today.”
WAITING FOR SANTA
by Bentley Little
At first, I thought she was joking.
“What do you think Santa’s going to bring you?”
I looked at her. There was no “cute” look on her face, and she hadn’t said it in a babyish voice. Thank God. There’s nothing I hate more than a grown woman who pulls that baby shit. Still, why else would she say it? “I don’t know. Dog crap.”
She slapped me, laughing. “Come on. I’m serious.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Santa. Santa Claus. What do you think he’s going to bring you?”
Was it possible? Could a person actually have lived twenty-three years and still believe in Santa Claus? I looked at her again. Yes. It was possible.
It wasn’t one of those questions that come up in conversation. Even though I’d known her for six years, and even though we’d been going together for the last three, I’d never thought to ask her whether or not she believed in Santa Claus. Of course, I’d asked her what she’d received each Christmas, but I didn’t think to ask her who’d given what. It didn’t seem to matter.
But now we were married.
I thought briefly of calling her parents and asking them about her belief, but then decided against it. We all have little idiosyncrasies. Hell, I’m afraid of the dark.
I decided to humor her. “What do you think he’s bringing you?”
She smiled and put a finger to her lips. “Can’t tell.”
“Why not?”
“I won’t get it then.”
I shrugged and turned back to the tree decorations. What the hell. So she had a few weird ideas to go along with her unshakable faith.
I put the star on top of the tree. What kind of parents did she have? I wondered. They seemed all right to me; a little conservative, perhaps, but that was to be expected for Orange County. In private, though, with just their daughter they had to be real looney tunes.
I’d have to ask her about it someday.
We finished trimming the tree, then went on to the other decorations. She had several varieties of nativity scenes, a stack full of advent calendars and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Rudolph. In addition, there was a series of green construction paper letters hooked together with string. “Wa-who-voorhees-Da-who-doorhees,” I said aloud. “What’s that?”
She laughed. “It’s from ‘The Grinch.’ You know. That’s the song the Whos sing. I made it when I was twelve. That’s my favorite Christmas show.”
I didn’t remember the song, but then I hadn’t seen ‘The Grinch’ for the past few years. I’d have to check it out.
“Where are your decorations?” she said.
I unwrapped my sole contribution—a little glass sphere filled with water and fake snow which fell on little plastic pine trees when shaken.
She put it on the living room table and shook her head. “Pitiful,” she said. “Really pitiful. You have no Christmas spirit.” She kissed the tip of my nose. “But I love you anyway.”
I kissed her back. “I love you too.”
THE WEATHER WAS COLD, unnaturally cold, and we spent most of December huddled around the fireplace under an afghan. It was our honeymoon, so we were able to fend off the holiday party invitations without too much trouble. It was just as well. I hated parties. And, to be honest, I didn’t want my friends to find out that I’d married a girl who still believed in Santa Claus. At Christmas parties, the main topic of conversation is Christmas, and the subject was bound to come up sometime.
So we stayed home. We talked, read, made and drank a lot of hot tea, fucked a lot. She was good in bed. Damn good. The best I’d had, in fact. She knew some tricks that would make a man’s hair stand on end.
I asked her about her previous experience once, and she surprised me by saying she had none. I asked her how she knew so much, and she just smiled. “It comes naturally,” she said.
As the big day grew closer, she grew ever-more excited. She started whistling and humming Christmas songs under her breath. She smiled all the time. She talked real fast.
It was catching. I must admit.
Christmas Eve we watched Christmas shows. She’d videotaped ‘The Grinch,’ ‘Rudolph’ and all her favorites. Mostly kid shows. She laughed and clapped and giggled through each one like she’d never seen it before.
The tape only had about two hours worth of stuff on it. I wanted to watch another movie after but she insisted we go straight to bed. Santa wouldn’t come unless we were fast asleep, she said.
That was fine by me. I’d bought maybe twenty dollars worth of small items that I planned to stuff in her stocking, and the sooner she fell asleep the sooner I could put it out.
She was too excited to make love, and all my amorous advances were met with slight slaps or giggled “not nows.” So I left her alone. Ten minutes later, she was dead to the world, her sexy lips parted, her mouth half open, almost snoring. I crept out of bed, got the presents from their hiding place under the bathroom sink and filled up her stocking. I put a few token presents in mine as well, just so she’d think Santa had really been there. The things we do for love, as the song says.