Shirley Rousseau Murphy
Cat Deck the Halls
Book 13 in the Joe Grey series, 2007
For Patrick
I think, you know, it is the innocence. A violent dog-eat-dog world, a murderous world, but one in which the very young are truly innocent. I am always amazed at this aspect of creation, the small Eden that does not last, but recurs with the young of every generation… We lose our innocence inevitably, but isn’t there some kind of message in this innocence, some hint of a world beyond this fallen one, some place where everything was otherwise?
– Loren Eiseley, All the Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life
1
H E REACHED THE village half an hour before midnight, cutting over from San Jose to Highway One, on the coast, the child tucked up warm in the seat behind him. She slept soundly, her faded doll clutched close to her, one of its angel wings tucked beneath the seat belt. He had made a wide nest for her, had filled the floor well with the cheap pillows he’d bought in the first drugstore he came to, and with their two duffel bags. With the blanket laid over, the backseat of the rental car was just like a regular bed. She had a new drawing pad and crayons and a picture book back there, but she hadn’t touched them much. Any other six-year-old would be raging for action, bored out of her mind, wanting to run and work off steam-as she once had, he thought sadly, seeing a sharp picture of her when she was smaller, laughing on the park swings and chasing a ball in their walled garden.
Above the highway, the night sky was black, he could see no stars, no moon. The only illumination came from flashing car lights racing north on the freeway as he and the sleeping child headed south from the airport. The car was rocked periodically in bouts of wind and rain, the storm raging and then easing off only to return every few miles. He was worn-out from the trip, from the long waits going through security, the delayed schedules and plane changes. He’d made the call from San Jose but had to leave a message, said the flight was delayed, that he’d just swing by and if he saw no light he’d get a motel and they’d be there in the morning. It was too late, tonight, to get anyone out of bed.
He was hungry, though. Their simple supper seemed ages past. He hoped the child would be hungry-if she woke at all. At last, heading downhill into the small seaside village, he left the heavy traffic, passing only three cars, all coming uphill as if maybe going home to the hillside houses behind him. The streets were slick from rain. He rolled his window down and could smell the sea. With the wind easing off, he could hear the surf, too, crashing half a mile ahead; that would be at the end of Ocean Avenue, he remembered from the map.
Driving halfway through the village, he turned up into gentler hills among close-set cottages. Molena Point had no street lamps, its narrow streets were dark beneath the trees. Shining his headlights on street signs, he found the house he wanted, but not by an address, there weren’t any house numbers in the village. He wasn’t able to see much on the dark streets, but he found his destination by its description and he slowed, looking. Yes, everyone was in bed. He started to get out, to see if there was a note on the door, but something made him pause.
Parking for just a minute, studying the house, he thought he saw movement in the shrubbery, something dark and stealthy. Puzzled, he watched uneasily, then decided it was nothing, just shadows. What was wrong with him? Tired. Tired from the trip, and from tending to the child. Her malaise dragged him down real bad. Though the shifting of shadows was not repeated, still he felt edgy, and did not leave the car; he didn’t feel right again until he’d moved on, made a U-turn in the black, empty street and headed back down to the village.
Even in the small business section, the streets were lit only by the soft illumination from shop windows shining down onto the wet sidewalks, and by the softly colored lights of motel signs reflected on the slick, mirroring surfaces. He saw two motels with their vacancy signs lit, but first he moved on, looking for a café. Each shop window gleamed like a small stage set with its own rich wares, diamonds and silver, expensive leather and cashmere, imported china, Italian shoes, oil and watercolor paintings and bronze and marble sculpture, a feast of riches for such a small village. Windows stacked with children’s books, too, and with toys, and brightly wrapped Christmas boxes to entice a child with imagined surprises. The quaint restaurants were all closed for the night, their windows dark, nor were there any moving cars on the streets, though it wasn’t yet midnight. Just parked cars, maybe left overnight by tourists already asleep in their motel rooms. On this stormy night, even so near Christmas, the whole town had buttoned up early, and he thought of bed with longing. He really was done in after the long flight and then the drive down from San Jose, bone tired and achingly hungry. But most of all, he wanted to get some food into the child before he checked in to a motel and put her to bed. He had not expected all of the village to be closed, not a restaurant lighted, not even a bar, and he passed only a couple of those. Cruising the narrow, tree-sheltered streets not finding what he sought, he parked beside a small shopping plaza and got out. Stood listening, hoping to hear the echo of voices from some unseen café within. He was eager suddenly to hear another human voice, but he could hear nothing but the surf, and the dying wind-as if he’d stepped into some kind of time warp, as if everyone on earth had vanished except himself and the child, as if all the world was suddenly empty.
No voices. No canned Christmas music. No sound of another car on the streets until one lone vehicle turned on to Ocean and approached, moving slowly toward him and then speeding up and going on, the dark-clad driver invisible within the dark interior. A bicycle swished past, too, and turned left, and that made him feel less isolated.
But then, only the surf again. And the constant drip of water from the roof gutters and the branches of the oaks and pines that caressed the roofs of the cottagelike shops. Lifting the sleeping child out of the backseat, he tucked her doll in the crook of her arm, knowing she’d wake without it. Snuggling her against him, he turned in to the small but exclusive-looking shopping plaza hoping to find a coffee shop open, catering to late-night tourists. He had hardly entered when he saw the Christmas tree.
He stopped, longing to wake her, longing to see a gleam of delight kindle in her somber eyes. A two-story Christmas tree, brilliant with colored lights and oversize decorations and a tangle of large toys jumbled beneath the laden branches. It stood in the center of the plaza surrounded by flower gardens and brick walkways, the gardens enclosed on four sides by two stories of shops, in a rectangle that must fill the whole block. The colored lights of the lavishly decorated tree cast a phantasm of brilliant reflections across the windows of Saks and Tiffany and the small boutiques and three small, closed cafés. Nothing moved, not a soul was there. Standing among the deserted gardens, he wondered, if he woke the child, if the sight of the wonderful tree would bring her alive, would be enough to stir her blood and excite her, maybe stir her hunger, too? Thin as a little bird, she was, frail and infinitely precious. And there was no medicine that could help this condition.
Around six this evening, he’d gotten her to eat half a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich and drink half a small carton of milk, and that was a victory; then soon she’d slept again. He longed to see her dark eyes wide with wonder, as they used to be-wonder at the magical decorations and the fairy lights and the brightly painted toys and the rocking horse beneath the laden branches, longed to hear her laugh with pleasure and reach up to the magical tree.