529 lines
18 KiB
Plaintext
529 lines
18 KiB
Plaintext
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THE BIRDLOVER'S HOLIDAY
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Copyright 1991, Andrew P. Varga
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It was just before dawn. Tom began another vigil,
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staring through the snowstorm at the dark shape in his
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back yard.
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It had been a pleasant morning ritual for a year, give or
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take a few days. He smiled, remembering his delight at
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unwrapping the package from Alice and the kids. It was
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the biggest bird feeder he'd ever seen. He'd chipped the
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hole and forced the post into the frozen earth that very
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day.
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Every morning since, he'd come down to the den extra
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early, before Alice and the kids got up. He'd sit in his
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favorite chair, sip the day's first cup of coffee, and
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wake up to the variety of birds that came to feed.
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There were many sparrows, of course. A small group
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that seemed to keep pretty much to itself consisted
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entirely of a rare English variety. There were two
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regular pairs of bright red cardinals. One pair Tom had
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traced to their nest in the big oak that grew in the
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Burke's front lawn, three houses down. A family of
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nuthatches had made a home in a small hollow in the old
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maple out behind the garage. Numerous robins and
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red-winged blackbirds had come and gone throughout the
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summer.
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His favorite had been a big old bluejay he'd
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affectionately named Sam. Sam came to the feeder
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regularly twice a week, Monday and Thursday mornings
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between six and six-thirty.
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But something changed. For nearly two weeks the feeder
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sat, full and untouched. Winter had come early and with
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enthusiasm. He could think of no reason other than maybe
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squirrels were trying to help themselves to the seeds.
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Tom wallowed through the drifts to check the feeder every
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morning as he left for work. If there had been any
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tracks, he hadn't seen them.
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He'd found a clue the morning before. A frozen drop
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of blood and a blue feather lay in the snow at the base of
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the post.
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That very evening, after the children had been put to
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bed, he loaded his .22 caliber rifle and carefully hid it
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in the closet by the back door.
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Suddenly, Tom stiffened in his chair. Something moved
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out there in the morning twilight!
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There it was again! Something was moving in the
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shadow under the bush by the bird feeder!
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Hurrying through the kitchen and into the back room,
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Tom yanked his boots on over his bare feet and hurried
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into his coat. He felt in the pocket for the flashlight
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he'd tucked away there to keep the kids from swiping its
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batteries. Taking the rifle from the closet, he snuck out
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the back door.
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The snow was drifted deep and billowed over the tops of
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his boots, melting against his thin pajamas. The icy wind
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made his eyes water.
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Crouching, he searched for a sign of the concrete
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walk. He slapped the flashlight against the side of his
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leg a few times before it came on. Someone had traded
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batteries. He made a mental note to have a talk with Tom
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junior.
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Tom pointed the yellowing beam toward the bush. He
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thought he could just make out a shape underneath.
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Suddenly there were two glowing reflections shining back
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at him.
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As he raised the rifle, the flashlight went dead and
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the reflections disappeared.
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Tom took aim in the general direction of where they
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had been a moment ago. The rifle made a soft "Putt," the
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sound muffled in the wind.
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He wallowed toward it through the drifts. He squinted
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hard as he crouched low beneath the winter-burdened
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branches.
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Tom's face was only inches away from it when a violent
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sneeze sent him reeling back into the snowbank. He knew
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what it was. Crawling back under the bush, he felt around
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for something that resembled fur.
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It was Puffy, the next door neighbor's white Angora.
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Puffy had a dark wet spot just over one eye. "Glad the
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Randolfs are visiting her parents for the holidays," he
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muttered.
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As he stood and turned toward the house, he saw his
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bedroom light go on. "Damn!" he said to himself. "Alice
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is up. Now what am I going to do?"
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Tom hurried through the snow toward the garage holding
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Puffy at arms length before him. Under different
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circumstances, Tom would probably have missed the bulge in
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the snow that hid son Randy's neglected skateboard.
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Puffy flew one way and the rifle the other as Tom
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landed. He wallowed among the drifts on all fours,
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searching. Finding both with numbing fingers, he slogged
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his way to the garage.
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He grabbed the handle to the overhead door. Locked.
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His keys were in the pocket of his pants, upstairs in his
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bedroom.
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Kicking a small grave in the snowdrift by the garage,
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he dashed as best as he could back into the house. Yanking
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off his boots, he returned the rifle to the closet and ran
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through the kitchen and around to the stairs. He listened
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carefully as he snuck up them.
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Peeking around the corner at the top, he smiled to
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himself. The bathroom light squinted around the closed
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door. He tiptoed past it and down the hall to their
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bedroom. Finding his pants on the chair, he silently
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withdrew his keys.
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Turning to go, he stubbed his toe hard on the edge of
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the dresser that he'd helped Alice move the day before.
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Fighting against the need to scream in pain, Tom limped
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back along the hallway and down the stairs.
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Returning to the back room, he gingerly stepped into
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his house slippers. His toes had already swollen too much
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to fit into his boots.
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Again outdoors, he hurried to the garage. The snow
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stuck to his already wet pajamas and started to freeze.
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It was a few long minutes before he found Puffy. He
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opened the garage door, slung the dead cat inside, closed
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it, and hurried back to the house. Alice was waiting for
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him in the back room.
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"Your face is flushed, Tom. Are you coming down with
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something?."
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He got as far as, "No, I'm fi . . . fi . . ." before
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a sneeze seemed to shake the house.
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"You've got a cold. I'll make some hot lemonade."
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Tom flinched. He hated hot lemonade.
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"And what did you expect, running around out there in
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your pajamas. Did you stoke the furnace?"
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"I was just about to, Dear." Tom replied, his mind
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scrambling for a plausible excuse. "Coal! We're running
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low on coal. I thought I'd get some firewood, to sort of
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stretch it out."
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Alice's eyes widened. "Okay, so where is it?"
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"Oh, I forgot," He quickly turned to the door.
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"Tom!" she called after him. "What were you doing in
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the garage?"
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Tom slowly turned to her and forced a smile, again
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scrambling for an answer. "It's too close to Christmas to
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ask."
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"Oh, okay," she smiled. "Well hurry up with the
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furnace, the children will be up soon. Breakfast will be
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ready when you're done."
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Tom had a little trouble bringing in the wood. The
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legs of his pajamas had frozen stiff, making it difficult
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to bend his knees. He had even more trouble getting the
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furnace going, there were no embers left from the night
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before.
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Mid-morning found him breakfasted, bathed, and
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relaxing in his favorite chair to the morning newspaper.
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"Hey Dad," Tom Jr. asked as he and his brothers and
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sisters filed into the den, "can I have the keys to the
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garage?"
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Tom didn't look up. Nothing could budge him from his
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paper. If he had looked, he would have seen five large
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bundles of clothing. At a glance, it was impossible to
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tell that each held a now sweating child.
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We're going sledding," eleven year old Stacy
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announced.
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"Yeah, Dad," Tom Jr. said, talking louder with each
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word. "And the sleds are in the GARAGE - "
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Tom was halfway through the kitchen before his paper
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hit the floor. "I'll get them, kids," he called back over
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his shouldering. "Its cold outside. You all stay right
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here."
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He dashed into the garage and began a desperate search
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for Puffy's remains. Just as he pulled the stiffening
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form from where it had landed in the corner behind Alice's
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stack of planting pots, he heard a voice call from the
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house, "Having trouble Dad?"
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Desperately searching for a way to dispose of Puffy,
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Tom jammed it into one of the plastic ice cream tubs that
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Alice always saved.
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"Yeah, I'm having a problem," he said to himself as he
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fought to snap the stiff plastic lid.
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Hearing the back door slam, he just managed to tuck
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the frozen container inside his shirt as all five children
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waddled into the garage.
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"Whatcha got, Daddy?" four year old Jenny asked.
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Tom stood in the corner, trapped.
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"Don't ask!" Tom Jr hushed his sister.
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Tom's face turned stern as he fought to collect his
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dignity. He slowly walked toward the door, and his five
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children. He heard "Christmas presents!" whispered among
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them as he passed and sighed with relief.
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Once inside, Tom ran in circles through the kitchen,
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searching for a safe place to hide the tub.
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"Creak" went the floorboard in the living room. Alice
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was coming.
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Tom put Puffy in the only place he could find, the
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freezer. He'd just closed the door as Alice entered.
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"Stay out of the goodies," she smilingly scolded.
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"All that stuff is for tomorrow's Christmas dinner."
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At lunch all the children were excitedly chattering
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about what they'd seen in the back yard. The boys decided
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that pirates had come in the night to dig up their
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treasure chest, uncovered Randy's skateboard instead, and
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got into a sword fight. Tom Junior had found frozen drops
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of blood as proof.
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Tom noticed oldest daughter Julie frowning.
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"Hey, Jewel," he said, "looks like something's
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bothering you, yes?"
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She nodded in affirmation.
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"Well out with it, Honey. I can't help if I don't
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know what it is."
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"She can't talk," Stacy explained.
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"Whatsa matter," Randy teased, "cat got your tongue?"
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Tom flinched.
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"Shut up, Randy," Julie told her brother, "or else."
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Randy fell silent, not from his sister's threat but
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because of the look Tom shot at him.
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"It's the Randolfs," she told her father.
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"But they're not even home," Tom replied. "How can
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they be a problem?"
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"You like the Randolfs," Alice added. "They're very
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nice people."
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"I know they are, Mommy," Julie replied. "That's why
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I offered to feed Puffy for them while they're gone."
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Tom gulped.
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Julie continued, "I went over to feed her a little
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while ago but I can't find her anywhere. And her food
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dish is still full from yesterday."
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"Don't worry, Dear," Alice comforted. "I'm sure
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Puffy's around somewhere. Right Tom?"
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"Ugh, yes, yes, I'm sure." Tom started to sweat.
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"Cats like to wander around, Jewel. But I'm sure that
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little Puffy hasn't gotten very far away."
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"Promise, Daddy?" Julie's worry started to dissipate.
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"I promise."
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The rest of the day went well with everyone laughingly
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wrapping presents and whispering Christmas secrets.
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Evening found the family happily relaxing in the
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living room.
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"Mommy," Stacy asked, "can we have some ice cream
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before we go to bed?"
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"Yeah! Please? Can we?" the others chimed in.
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Tom was in the kitchen before Alice could answer.
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"I'll get it," he called.
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He quickly reached into the freezer and, grabbing the
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plastic tub, dashed to the basement. He tossed it into
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the coal bin before running back upstairs.
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Alice was in the kitchen when he returned. "Since
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when do we keep ice cream in the basement?" she asked.
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All Tom could do was put on his `I don't know what
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you're talking about' smile and shrug his shoulders.
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Alice went to the freezer and removed a plastic tub
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identical to the one Tom had just disposed of. He gasped
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as she pried open the lid.
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"What's wrong with you?" she asked, scooping vanilla
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ice cream into the dishes. Tom only sneezed, and was
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given another dose of hot lemonade.
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It took longer than usual for the children to get to
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sleep, what with it being Christmas eve. It was almost
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four in the morning by the time Tom and Alice, having
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finished their Christmas preparations, trudged wearily
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upstairs for bed.
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Alice stopped at the top of the stairs. "Oh darn, I
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forgot to put the turkey in the oven."
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"Can't it wait?"
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"It can if you don't want Christmas dinner until seven
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thirty at night."
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"I get your point."
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"It won't take but a couple of minutes. Why don't you
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stoke the furnace while I'm putting it in? That way the
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house will be warm when the children get up."
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Tom trudged to the basement. He opened the door to
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the coal bin and jumped in fright as the white container
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rolled out.
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"Damned cats are more trouble," he muttered as he
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stoked the furnace.
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"I'll fix you," He threw the tub on top of the pile
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of coal and slammed the heavy furnace door. He waited to
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be sure he wasn't going to sneeze before going upstairs.
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The next thing Tom remembered was Alice shaking him.
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"Come on, Tom," she was saying, "the children are up."
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"What time is it?"
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"A little after six."
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"Tell them to wait."
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"Come on, Tom, its Christmas morning!"
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"All right, all right."
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"I'll get them to wait until you've got a fire started
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in the fireplace."
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"The fireplace?"
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"It looks so Christmassy with a fire in the fireplace.
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We do it every year."
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Tom stumbled downstairs and got the fire going.
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"All right," he called. "Its all ready. Merry . . .
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ah-CHOO . . . Christmas!"
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The children bounded down the stairs, followed closely
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by Alice.
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Packages were excitedly ripped open amid peals of
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laughter and joy.
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"What's that funny smell?" Randy asked. Everyone
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paused.
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"Smells like something's burning!" Tom Jr. exclaimed.
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"Oh my, the turkey!" Alice raced to the kitchen.
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"Sure is a funny smell," Julie said.
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"I don't smell anything," Tom said, searching faces
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for support.
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Alice came back from the kitchen with a puzzled look
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on her face. "Its not the turkey."
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"Smells like burning hair," Stacy said seriously.
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Jenny began to cry.
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"What's wrong, Jen?" Tom asked.
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Jenny sobbed something to Randy, whose face instantly
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took on a most serious, worried look. "She thinks that
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Santa Clause got stuck in the chimney and Dad put him on
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fire."
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"That's impossible," Tom Jr. scoffed. "Santa Clause
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is . . . "
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"Santa is magic," Alice interrupted. "And because
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he's magic, its absolutely impossible for him to get stuck
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in a chimney."
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Jenny gradually stopped crying.
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"Okay," Stacy agreed, "so what's that smell?"
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"I don't sbell anything," Tom stifled a sneeze.
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"You need some more hot lemonade," Alice told him.
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"Please no, Honey. I don't need any bore lemonade.
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Please Alice, it's Christbus. I just deed a kleedex."
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Tom stood slowly and shuffled into the den. Slumping
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into his favorite chair, he held a tissue to his nose.
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He smiled as he turned to see the birds flocking to
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his feeder.
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