Black Cat Weekly #69

Chapter 5

by“There’s nothing better than a white Christmas,” J.B. Black said wistfully as he looked out the window of his Lincoln Limousine for clouds that might portend snow. Spying one promising cumulus, the burly man tugged his wife’s sleeve and pointed between the skyscrapers of downtown Chicago. “Does that look like a storm cloud?”

Beside him, Charity Watkins Black didn’t bother to hide her yawn. There was one cloud all right, defying the otherwise clear twilight sky; but it was far away and rather puny, like a breeze from Lake Michigan could blow it away. She checked the forecast on her phone and said, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s zero chance for snow.”

“You’re not sorry,” J.B. said. “You may look like a modern-day Betty Grable on the outside, but inside, you’re all Grinch.”

“You and Bing Crosby can have snow and icicles; I’ll take surf and sand.” Charity took a sip of her Scotch and tried to forget what alcohol was doing to her figure.

J.B. frowned at the drink. “We’re picking up our daughter,” he reminded her.

“My daughter,” Charity said. “Until the adoption is finalized. And if I’m seeing Woody, I need more of these.” She rattled the ice in her highball for emphasis.

My“You’ve had enough,” J.B. said.

Charity tried to slap his hand away, but he grabbed her wrist easily. J.B. squeezed his sausage-like fingers, and pain lanced up her arm. With a cry, she relinquished the glass.

“That’s better.”

Charity rubbed her wrist. “Says who?”

“Says your husband. That’s good enough, right?” J.B. downed the rest of the drink himself and fixed his keen eyes on her.

Charity tried not to wither beneath the heat of his glare. Mild-mannered Woody had never laid a finger on her, even when she flailed at him in her temper tantrums. She’d always thought of her first husband as weak because he refused to stand up for himself, to fight. Six months after their divorce, she wasn’t so sure anymore.

neverJ.B. Black was a different sort of animal. Where Woody was quiet and predictable—an engineer who approached everything via the scientific method, including the bedroom—J.B. was boisterous and mercurial. Both men were handsome, but the difference was J.B. knew he was.

knewAnd the big man acted like it. Charity knew women found her new husband attractive, with his broad shoulders and dark hair swept back like a young Clark Gable. And he was rich; somehow, J.B. actually smelled like bundled hundred dollar bills fresh from the bank. Coupled with his Italian suits and gold Rolex, he was a walking aphrodisiac, though the effect was spoiled by a gaudy fraternity ring worn where his wedding band should be.

“Am I right?” J.B. repeated.

“Yes.” Charity blinked first and turned away from J.B.’s stare. He returned to cloud-gazing, a satisfied smirk on his face.

He’s under stress, Charity thought. And was it any wonder, when his business “associates” depended on him for seemingly everything? Those tough-looking men didn’t as much as sneeze unless J.B. gave the word.

He’s under stressCharity didn’t like the odd hours they kept, much less the guns they carried and tried to hide from her. But the money and alcohol flowed freely, with enough dough from her allowance for acting lessons. So what if J.B. bent the rules? What powerful man didn’t to get what he wanted?

The limo passed by Broadway Playhouse’s marquee for It’s a Wonderful Life, and Charity sighed with longing. She was pretty enough to be famous and would be one day—that’s what her psychic-s***h-hairstylist always told her, with her long blond hair and still-girlish figure. Fortunately, having a child hadn’t wrecked her body, as she’d feared when Jasmine was born. When Charity made it, when her name was listed as a top-billed attraction on a marquee like the one disappearing behind the limo, she’d leave J.B. Black.

It’s a Wonderful Life, “I will,” Charity said aloud.

J.B.’s head swiveled on his corded neck. “Will what?”

“Nothing.”

As if reading her thoughts, J.B. took her hands in his with a tenderness that reminded her of when they’d first met in his nightclub. “I’ve made you happy,” he said, as if he’d followed some recipe and she were a fresh-from-the-oven Christmas cookie he planned to eat. “Today, you’re getting Jasmine back from that p*****t husband. Full custody.”

Charity stifled a groan. Full custody. She’d left Woody to get away from domestic life, and now Jasmine was being dumped on her doorstep 24/7, with no visitation rights? J.B.’s stupid lawyer said ask for the moon, but nobody said the judge would actually give it to her. If only those damn pictures hadn’t popped up and ruined everything!

Full custody.“What’s so funny?” J.B. asked.

Charity covered her mirthless laughter with red fingernails. “Woody. He’s many things, but he’s no pervert.”

J.B. gave a long whistle. “His work laptop says otherwise. Nasty overseas websites. He’s lucky those teenage girls were legally adults, or he’d be in jail.”

“Woody’s not like that. There must’ve been some mix up at his work. Some double-cross.” She looked at her husband meaningfully.

J.B. twisted the fraternity ring on his finger, an involuntary habit when he lied. “How would I know? I still say we should’ve taken Jasmine the moment Judge Cash signed the order.”

“And take her to the Caymans? That would’ve been the vacation from hell.”

J.B.’s eyes narrowed. “You having second thoughts?”

The lie came easily to her lips. “Certainly not. Are you?”

J.B. paused. “To be honest, your daughter’s always given me the creeps.”

That was the last thing Charity had expected him to say. “Don’t tell me the great J.B. Black, feared from Chicago to New York, is afraid of an eight-year-old girl?”

“I said creeps, not willies. There’s a difference.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the creeps?”

Her husband shrugged. “It’s that feeling you get when you walk into a room with a dead body, and you think maybe it twitched a finger. I’m talking about funerals,” he hastily amended.

“Sure you are,” Charity said.

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but Jasmine’s a dead ringer for that kid from Poltergeist. You know, the blond girl who puts her hands on the television and says, They’re here.”

PoltergeistThey’re hereCharity shivered. The resemblance was uncanny, at that. “Didn’t that actress die young?”

“And under mysterious circumstances, as did other people in that movie. Jasmine could be that girl’s twin.”

“What are you saying, J.B.? That we should hide the kitchen knives and lock the medicine cabinets when we bring her home?”

“You said it, not me.”

Charity giggled. “Maybe you’ll wake up in the middle of the night, and the last thing you’ll see is Jasmine aka Carol Anne with a butcher knife. If she gives you the creeps, it’s because you’re a superstitious mental case.”

J.B. took a rabbit’s foot charm from his pocket. “I’m a mental case who packs protection against the bad juju floating around the universe.”

“Do you want to adopt Jasmine or not?” Charity challenged, almost hoping he’d say no.

J.B.’s face was a frozen mask, his superstitions now submerged under a layer of ice. “A kid should be with her mother. Look how I turned out.”

“You’ve never met my mother,” Charity muttered as she reached for the Scotch.

J.B. put away his charm and took the bottle from her. “You’re gassed like the Goodyear Blimp.”

“So what? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“No.”

Charity placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed. “I have a present for you to unwrap tonight. Or do you want it now?”

“Now’s fine.” J.B. flipped the intercom and said to the driver, “It’s your life if you hit any potholes, Ted. And keep your eyes forward.”

“Yes, boss.”

When Charity was finished and enjoying another Scotch, J.B. took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “After New Year’s Eve, you’re laying off the stuff. And not just the booze. All of it.”

Charity pulled away. “What for?”

J.B. grinned. “Jasmine needs a baby brother.”

The words landed with the force of a blow. Charity sat in stunned silence while her husband informed her of his plans for Jerome Bryce Black, Jr. Little Jerome would have the best of everything, play college football, and join J.B.’s old fraternity. After graduation, he’d take the reins of the family business while dear old dad enjoyed a well-deserved retirement.

Charity belted the Scotch while J.B. rambled about how he’d be the father he never had. Outside, the one dark cloud from earlier had multiplied like a virus, blotting out the sunset and now the stars with a low-lying fog. Despite the threatening weather, crowds of last-minute shoppers jammed the downtown streets.

To Charity’s annoyance, J.B. poured himself a drink. Apparently, what was good for the goose wasn’t good for the gander. He said, “Let’s take Jasmine on our next trip to the Caymans. We’ll build sand castles, and I’ll teach her to swim.”

Charity snorted derisively. “Take Princess Jasmine to the beach? If we take a battery-powered DVD player, she might go.”

PrincessJ.B.’s eyes bulged. “She’s still calling herself that ridiculous name?”

Charity nodded. “And still watching Disney’s Aladdin at all hours, according to Woody. Even at school, she won’t answer to anything but Princess Jasmine. The guidance counselor says it’s a phase.”

Aladdin“Phase or not, it’s time for her to grow up.” J.B. patted the belt encircling his waist meaningfully. “Or else.”

Charity laughed at the thought of this powerful man trying to engage in a battle of wills with Jasmine. Her daughter was a force of nature, a little tornado who couldn’t be tamed. “She won’t listen to you.”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“You’ll break before she bends. Besides, if you lay a finger on her, she’d call CPS and your high-priced lawyers would be useless to help. Excuse me.” She took out her buzzing phone and frowned.

“Who is it?”

“See for yourself.” Charity angled the screen so J.B. could watch a video. It was Woody’s living room, where Jasmine sat by a fat Christmas tree and unwrapped a present.

J.B. inched closer. “Who’s the skirt with nice legs?”

Charity punched him in the ribs. Next to Jasmine was a pretty, dark-haired woman Charity didn’t recognize, and she felt an unexpected pang of jealousy. Who was this interloper?

Suddenly, Jasmine squealed and held up a golden lamp with a long snout. Daddy! I love it! The video ended.

Daddy! I love it!J.B. was apoplectic. “A genie’s lamp? This is Woodrow’s revenge on you. On us.”

“Woody doesn’t have a vengeful bone in his body. Listen to this.” She read aloud a text, doing a spot-on impersonation of Woodrow William Watkins: Charity, thanks for letting me have Jasmine for Christmas Eve. She loves her new lamp; her first wish was for a white Christmas. Isn’t that sweet? I hope you’re well, and I hope the three of you are happy together. Take care of her, J.B., and yourself. See you at 8PM. Best, Woody.

Charity, thanks for letting me have Jasmine for Christmas Eve. She loves her new lamp; her first wish was for a white Christmas. Isn’t that sweet? I hope you’re well, and I hope the three of you are happy together. Take care of her, J.B., and yourself. See you at 8PM. Best, Woody.“What a complete sap,” J.B. said. He crunched ice between his teeth and spat it into his glass.

Charity agreed; Woody was a sap. A decent, kind-hearted sap. She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost seven. Uh-oh. She’d promised Woody he could have Jasmine until eight, and the limo was nearly there. “Let’s stop somewhere, J.B. Do some shopping.”

wasUh-oh. “Shopping on Christmas Eve? No thanks.”

“We’re an hour early. They might be having dinner.”

“I have a holiday party tonight,” J.B. said.

“Your poker night isn’t a holiday party.”

“Drop it, honey.”

Charity fell silent and tried not to gnash her teeth. She’d discovered honey was a code-word, a signal J.B. was about to go beyond his normal state of angry. She folded her hands in her lap and fumed quietly.

honeyToo soon, the limo entered a sleepy neighborhood of modest homes. They passed inflatable decorations, sleighs pulled by plastic reindeer, and blinking lights hung in all directions. Kitschy and garish, yet it pulled on her heartstrings.

When the limo turned on Buttermilk Lane, Charity felt her insides lurch. Once upon a time, she’d thought of these homes as beautiful; later, as cookie-cutter prisons for frustrated housewives, overworked fathers, and spoiled children.

And now, what did she feel? Nostalgia? So soon after her escape? There was Mrs. Perry’s plastic nativity scene, with half the bulbs burned out as always. And there was Bobby walking his energetic golden retriever, the one who wanted to be friends with everyone. No, Bobby was the dog’s name.

The limo pulled over.

“Will you look at that?” J.B. said appreciatively. “Looks like the freakin’ North Pole.”

Charity gaped at the decorations covering her former home. It must’ve taken days for Woody to string lights between the trees and put an actual sleigh on the roof. When had he found the time? Then she remembered; he’d lost his dream job testing circuit boards.

J.B. opened his car door. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You go, dear. I’ll stay.”

“Like hell.” J.B. exited the limo and came around to her side. She tried to lock the door, but he threw it open before she could. “Get out, honey.”

“It’s cold.”

J.B. pulled her up forcefully, his nose inches from hers. “Your last name’s Black now.” His words emerged as a fog in the chill air. “You’re a strong woman who’ll raise strong sons.”

Charity shook her head and turned away, not wanting to see this house and the family she’d abandoned. Woody would be wearing one of his ugly Christmas sweaters. For Jasmine, something sky-blue, her favorite color, to match the princess in Aladdin.

Aladdin“If you aren’t the woman I thought you were,” J.B. spat, “then pretend. Those acting lessons I’m paying for should be useful for something, God knows.”

Charity fell in beside him. The walk to the front door seemed like a thousand miles, and with every step memories of her old life flooded her mind. As she rang the doorbell, snow began to fall.

“I’ll be damned,” J.B. said.

“I’ve no doubt,” Charity said under her breath.

If J.B. heard the remark, he gave no sign. He gawked like a child at the fat snowflakes drifting down. “It’s snowing and it wasn’t supposed to snow. Zero chance, you said.”

“So?”

“Jasmine’s first wish came true.”

Three hours earlier, Woodrow Watkins was drizzling honey on a Christmas goose. He slid the bird into the oven, brought his fingertips together, and kissed them.

“C’est parfait, Riya,” he said, doing his best impression of a French accent and failing miserably.

C’est parfaitThe woman dicing vegetables at the kitchen island rolled her brown eyes. “Perfection is unattainable,” Riya Zahir said. “It’s the asymptote the curve of our lives may never touch.”

“Au contraire,” Woodrow countered. “Have you seen this house? It’s Christmas personified.”

Au contraireRiya’s hand swept the air, a motion that seemed to encompass not only Woodrow’s over-decorated home, but his entire life. “These grand gestures aren’t what Jasmine will remember about today.”

“No? Then what’ll she remember?”

“Her father’s love.”

Woodrow’s harrumph fogged the oven’s window, then evaporated. “This recipe’s an approximation of the goose served in Bob Cratchit’s home. And the lights festooning this house—”

“Festooning?” Riya interrupted.

“Yes, festooning. Add some snow, and this would be a perfect Christmas Eve.”

festooning“Very impressive,” Riya admitted. “Is that real holly along your stairwell?”

“Everything’s real this year. See that monster?” Woodrow pointed into his living room, where a blond girl sat next to an enormous Christmas tree and watched a movie. Sky-blue luggage matching her clothes was stacked by the front door like an impatient guest eager to leave, putting a catch in Woodrow’s throat.

Riya blinked in confusion. “Monster? I see only Jasmine.”

“Not Jasmine. My tree; it’s real this year. Unless you’re implying my only child’s a monster?”

“Perish the thought,” Riya laughed. “Is a real tree significant?”

Woodrow nodded. “I’ve had them since I was a kid. Then I married Charity.”

Riya held up a hand, but Woodrow launched into another story of his ex-wife. On their first Christmas together, the majestic pine he’d brought home had made Charity’s skin itch and her eyes gush. Between sneezes, she’d commanded Woodrow to haul it away, even though he’d spent all night decorating it as a surprise for baby Jasmine.

“That’s a terrible story,” Riya said. “Almost as bad as your sweater.”

Woodrow affectionately patted the mishmash of green and red snowflakes covering his middle-aged paunch. “My mother knitted this, God rest her soul. And it’s a terrible story because Charity’s a terrible woman.”

Riya said, “Forget her. Let’s concentrate on making Jasmine’s last Christmas Eve here as near perfection as possible. Where’s your cinnamon?”

The words last Christmas Eve chilled Woodrow’s soul like a wintry wind. He glanced at his watch; a mere four hours until eight o’clock. Four hours until Charity and J.B. Black whisked Jasmine away to their suburban mansion.

last Christmas EveRiya touched Woodrow’s arm. “Be in the moment. Don’t think about that doorbell ringing.”

“Are you an engineer or a mind-reader?”

Riya’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I have many talents. I possess a djinn who peers into your brain and whispers your secrets to me.”

“No more genies,” Woodrow groaned. “We have those in spades around here.” He looked again to the living room, where Jasmine watched Aladdin for the second time today.

Aladdin“Djinn,” Riya corrected. “I speak of spirits created before humans, magical beings capable of good or evil and appearing throughout the Quran. Not the lamp-dwelling variety of Scheherazade’s Arabian Nights or sing-along Disney movies.”

Arabian Nights“You can’t be serious.”

Riya placed her fists on her slender hips. “If you believe in virgin births and angels heralding your Messiah’s arrival, you must also believe in their counterparts.”

“Counterparts?”

“Demons and other spirits,” Riya said gravely.

Woodrow’s retort died in his throat. Movement in the living room flashed in the corner of his eye, something large and dark. He turned his head, but there was only Jasmine in the blinking lights from the Christmas tree, talking to herself.

Foolish man, he chided silently. There weren’t any spirits lurking in the shadows of his home, no horned devils with forked tails. Not even the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future. “Riya, there are troubles enough in the real world without throwing spirits into the mix.”

Foolish man“Like your ex-wife.” Riya reached up and cradled his grizzled chin, her deft fingers tracing the outline of twin dimples discernable underneath his graying beard.

Woodrow sighed beneath her touch. But for Riya’s friendship, the shocking change in his parental rights would’ve destroyed him. Unfit to parent any child, the custody order declared. The inexplicable, disgusting images on Woodrow’s work computer had cost him Jasmine and his job of fifteen years. He’d no idea how they got there, and his protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. At the hearing’s conclusion, Charity, in a rare act of grace and against the judge’s advice, agreed Woodrow could keep Jasmine through Christmas Eve.

Unfit to parent any childRiya tugged Woodrow’s beard as if to pull him back to the present. “Jasmine loves you; no judge’s decree will change that.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He poured two glasses of egg nog, added Jack Daniel’s to his, and handed the other to Riya. “To the spirit of Christmas. May it comfort all in need.”

“Hear, hear. To time with loved ones.”

Loved ones, Woodrow thought as Charity’s mocking face rose before him. For nine years, she’d played the role of the seemingly content housewife. Then one evening, with Jasmine tucked snugly in bed, Charity threw out the script. She personally served him with divorce papers, packed her bags into the family car, and drove away.

Loved onesHer response to his bewildered questions: I need to chase my dreams, Woody. Before I’m too old.

I need to chase my dreams, Woody. Before I’m too oldOn lonely mornings staring into his coffee cup, Woodrow wondered if Charity had found her dreams in the arms of J.B. Black. Her former club patron certainly had the money and connections to give her what she wanted, but would stardom make her happy?

These thoughts were interrupted by a loud, riotous song from the living room. Woodrow jumped, nearly dropping an orange. “Sweetheart,” he called to Jasmine, “please turn down the volume.”

“But Daddy, it’s my favorite song.”

“Jasmine,” warned Woodrow.

“I’m Princess Jasmine, thank you.”

Princess“If you’re a princess, then I’m your sultan. You must obey me.”

The little girl screwed up her face as she considered this, a brass lamp in her hands. She c****d her head to one side, then nodded.

“Genie says your logic is,” Jasmine fumbled over the next word, “in-es-cap-a-ble. Carpet agrees.” She affectionately patted the square of carpet beneath her, then turned down the volume.

“Thanks. Don’t fly away before dinner.”

Jasmine groaned. “My carpet can’t really fly, silly. That’s pretend.”

“Good girl.”

“Unless I wished for it to fly.”

wished“You’re the silly one,” Woodrow chuckled, though a scowl crept over his face at her matter-of-fact tone.

“What’s wrong?” Riya asked.

“This movie. Jasmine watches it, over and over, since the divorce.”

Riya shrugged. “She’ll grow out of it.”

Woodrow’s zester rasped faster against an orange. “Last year, it was Mulan, The Little Mermaid, and a dozen other princess films. Now, six straight months of Aladdin, with no signs of stopping.”

Mulan, The Little Mermaid, AladdinRiya took the orange from Woodrow; the zester had penetrated the fruit’s skin and juice was leaking on the counter. “I suppose it doesn’t help that her name’s Jasmine, like Aladdin’s girlfriend.”

Woodrow took the towel Riya offered and wiped his hands. “Princess Jasmine. She even calls herself that at school. Charity and I can’t make her stop.”

Princess Riya scraped diced dates into a mixing bowl. “Where’d you get the lamp?”

“Some eBay dealer in India.”

“With that long snout, it looks like something from One Thousand and One Nights.”

One Thousand and One Nights“Yeah,” Woodrow agreed. He spread his hands and waved them ominously. “There’s a powerful genie living inside.”

“Jasmine’s right. You are silly.”

Woodrow lowered his hands. “I shouldn’t have bought the thing; it’s only reinforcing her obsession with magic.”

“She’s eight. Young children like Jasmine need imagination to process negative emotions.”

As if speaking her name once too often had summoned her, the little girl appeared in the kitchen doorway with her lamp. “I’m ready to make my first wish,” she proclaimed.

Though skinny, there was a straightness to Jasmine’s back that made her look bigger than she was. With her blond hair and pretty mouth, she was a Charity in miniature, down to her unblinking blue eyes.

“What’s your wish?” Woodrow asked.

Jasmine’s lips compressed into a line. “I don’t want to live with Mommy.”

“Sweetheart, we’ve been over this.”

“She’s a bad Mommy and left without saying goodbye. I wish I could live with—”

Before she finished the sentence, Woodrow rushed forward and put a hand over her mouth. He bent down until he was face-to-face with his daughter, while Riya stood at a respectful distance.

“Don’t say things about Mommy,” Woodrow said. “And don’t make wishes about changing what you can’t change. Not even in pretend. Promise me?”

For a long moment, Jasmine stared at him defiantly; but then her expression softened, and she kissed his hand.

“I promise.”

Woodrow hugged her. “Good girl. Let’s think of a good wish that’ll help people. Riya, suggestions?”

“How about wishing away climate change?” Riya offered.

Jasmine brightened. “My teacher says the world is getting too warm, too fast. I know what’ll fix that.” She held her lamp aloft and cleared her throat. When she spoke, her voice seemed to grow in stature. “My first wish is for snow. That way, we’ll have a white Christmas and fix the Earth.”

andAs Jasmine’s words died away, some joint impulse made the two adults glance out the kitchen window. Through Woodrow’s zigzag of Christmas lights, they saw a dome of brilliant blue sky. To the east, above the churning waters of Lake Michigan, was a single dark cumulus cloud. When they turned back to Jasmine, they found she’d returned to the living room as silently as she’d come.

Riya said, “I’m afraid the forecast calls for sunny skies all week.”

Woodrow took off his apron. “At least there’ll be no snow to shovel or icicles to dodge. Let’s finish the movie with Jasmine while the goose cooks.”

They retired to the living room and sat on the couch, Jasmine at their feet. When the evil wizard was defeated and Aladdin’s last wish was granted, Woodrow brought out board games. Jasmine wanted to watch the movie again, but Woodrow reminded her they had a guest, and the guest wanted to play games. Jasmine reluctantly agreed when he told her princesses were always courteous to guests.

“What should we play?” Riya asked.

“Mouse Trap,” Jasmine said.

“You always say Mouse Trap. How about Yahtzee?” Woodrow shook the box invitingly, but his daughter was unmoved.

“Mouse Trap.”

“Engineering can be fun,” Riya said.

Sighing, Woodrow unboxed the game and they began to play. Jasmine relished trapping the “nasty” mice, shouting with glee whenever the cage fell. When the game was over, she took the last mouse in her hands and dangled it by the tail.

“I’m going to feed you to a cat.”

Riya and Woodrow exchanged a worried look. Her father said, “What for?”

“Because they’re vermin,” Jasmine declared. She looked to her left and said, “Genie says mice carry diseases. There was a big plague, a long time ago. Rats and mice had fleas that killed people.”

“The Black Death?” Riya whispered to Woodrow.

“Things not good for anything should be dead,” Jasmine said, apparently agreeing with Genie. “Like vermin.”

Woodrow cleared his throat. “Anybody for Candy Land?”

Jasmine twirled the plastic mouse above the tabletop. “That’s for babies.” Woodrow reached for the mouse, but Jasmine wrapped her arms around it like a cat protecting its kill.

“I made candy canes,” Woodrow said nonchalantly.

Jasmine’s arms relaxed a fraction. “Big ones?”

“We’ll have some if we play Candy Land.”

Jasmine gave up the mouse, admonishing it to stay in its box or become a cat’s lunch. They played more games, ate too many candy canes, and giggled at Woodrow’s endless dad jokes. Throughout the afternoon, the lamp was never far from Jasmine’s grasp, nor was the invisible genie she sometimes addressed during their play.

At seven o’clock, Woodrow rushed them to the dining table for his perfectly planned meal. As Riya and Jasmine took their seats, he retrieved the goose from the oven and carefully placed it on the table.

An awed silence fell. Along with potatoes, stuffing, applesauce, and Christmas pudding, the meal was exactly as described in Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

A Christmas CarolWoodrow, savoring the moment, scraped a knife along a sharpener. As he carved the goose, the delicious smell of sage and onion stuffing filled the room.

“Woodrow, you’ve crossed the perfection asymptote,” Riya said with a wink. “What do you think, Princess?”

Jasmine’s smile revealed small white teeth. “Genie couldn’t have made it better if he tried.”

Woodrow took his daughter’s hand. It was perfect, just as he’d known it would be. As he sat down at the table to begin a heartfelt prayer of thanks, rehearsed painstakingly the night before, the doorbell rang.

was

The next morning, J.B. Black drew back the curtains on his bedroom window and whooped like a kid. A white Christmas! A thick blanket of snow lay over his estate, glistening brightly under a blue sky. It must’ve snowed all night, and the icicles hanging from his roof were as thick as baseball bats.

“Baby, come look at this,” he called to Charity.

His wife stirred fitfully, then turned over. “Go away.”

J.B. yanked the covers off. “Get dressed. I want Jasmine’s first Christmas morning in my house to be something special. Better than anything Woody ever did.”

“Better than Woody at Christmas?” Charity scoffed. “Good luck.”

J.B. threw a pair of pink slippers at her head; fortunately for Charity, she’d just bent down to look for them.

“Hey! Watch it.”

“I don’t need luck when I have my own elves.”

Charity eyed him curiously. “Elves? Did you hit the good stuff during last night’s poker game?”

J.B. chuckled as he slipped on a sweater. “I sent the boys on some errands. Like Santa, they worked all night. Oh yeah, this looks good. Woody, eat your heart out.”

“What looks good?”

J.B. was scrolling through pictures on his phone of his estate transformed into a winter wonderland. Downstairs, his men had put up not one but three fully decorated trees. Each had a bounty of presents under their boughs, all for Jasmine. Real holly lined his hallways, and colored lights outside blazed like Times Square.

“The boys really outdid themselves,” J.B. said triumphantly. He held up his phone to show his wife.

“Is that a live tree?” Charity groaned.

“Of course. They threw the artificial one out. And there are two more live trees: one in my study, and another in the den. You okay?”

“Peachy.”

J.B. eyed her askance, then shrugged. He headed for the door and said, “I instructed Chef to cook a breakfast fit for a king. Don’t take too long to put on your face; I got a ton of presents for Jasmine, and I want to watch her open them.”

Charity sat on a couch with a cup of coffee, trying not to sneeze. Beside her, J.B. was a block of ice in a blood-red sweater embroidered with, “My wife went to the North Pole, and all I got was this stupid sweater.” He was staring daggers at Jasmine, who sat placidly holding her lamp.

Behind her, the live tree sparkled with tinsel and multicolored lights. Next to this was a mountain of wrapped packages, all unopened.

“I don’t want your stupid gifts,” Jasmine said. “I want to go home.”

“Sweetheart,” Charity began, then stopped. That was what Woody always called her. “Darling, this is your home. And J.B. spent a lot of time picking out these gifts.” It was a lie, of course. His “boys” had done all the shopping, and who knew what those knuckleheads had bought for a young girl.

this“I sure did,” chimed in J.B.

“I don’t want them.” Jasmine sniffed and rubbed her nose on her sleeve. “Why won’t you take me home?”

With an effort, J.B.’s jaw unclenched and he heaved a deep sigh. “That’s okay, Jasmine.”

“Princess Jasmine.”

“Princess Jasmine,” he said soothingly.

Charity frowned; this wasn’t J.B.’s oily voice, the one he reserved for coaxing Charity into bed when she had a headache, or for putting worried business associates at ease when they owed him money and feared for their limbs. No; this was the charming voice she’d heard when J.B. had first courted her.

oilycharming“You don’t know me very well right now,” J.B. was saying. “One day, you’ll think of me as your friend and this as your home.”

Charity could hardly believe her ears. Who was this man sitting beside her?

“I’ll tell you a secret,” J.B. continued. “I know what it’s like to miss home. When I was small, a lot younger than you, my father left one night and never came back.”

Jasmine scooched forward, interested. “Really?”

“Really. That was my first home, and it was special to me. But me and my Ma, we had to leave because we couldn’t pay the rent without Dad. Then one day, we went to a new house, and I had a new Dad. He became my friend, and his house became my new home.”

Jasmine shook her head. “We’ll never be friends.”

Charity watched as J.B. slumped his shoulders, a deflated Christmas balloon. It was too much; the lamp, the ludicrous name her daughter insisted upon, and worst of all, the ingratitude. Woody had indulged Jasmine too much, and it was time to put a stop to this nonsense.

“This is your home!” Charity yelled. She sneezed loudly, then slammed her coffee cup on the table. “Your name is Jasmine Anne Watkins. You’re a spoiled brat from Chicago, not a princess in a fairy tale, and your lamp’s a cheap piece of junk.”

Jasmine clutched the lamp to her chest. “You’re wrong, Mommy.”

“There are no genies. No magic. Just a miserable world that will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.”

J.B. gawped at his wife while Jasmine’s eyes shone with a fierce, defiant light.

“I want to go home.”

homeCharity roughly wiped tears from her cheeks. Damn that live tree! “Then use your precious lamp and make a wish. You made it snow, didn’t you? Wish yourself back to 513 Buttermilk Lane. Go on.”

Jasmine’s head drooped. “I can’t.”

“Why not? You have a genie. Is the wish too big for him, poor thing?”

The insult brought Jasmine’s chin up. “I promised Daddy I wouldn’t wish for that.”

“Really? I think it’s because your genie doesn’t exist.”

“He does so.”

“Lay off, honey,” J.B. said darkly. “You’re ruining my Christmas.”

Charity ignored her husband and the underlying threat. “Prove it. Here’s a wish for you: why don’t you wish you’d never been born?”

J.B. grabbed Charity’s arm. “That’s a terrible thing to wish for. Princess Jasmine, don’t wish for that.”

Jasmine wasn’t paying attention to him or Charity. Instead, her head was tilted to one side as she stared at a point up and to her left.

“What’s she looking at?” J.B. asked.

“They’re here,” Charity mocked, though her eyes shied away from the space where a shadow hung just at the edge of her vision.

They’re here“Genie says I can’t wish for that, either. He says it would create a temporary paradox.”

J.B. sat up straighter. “A what?”

“Excuse me. He said a temporal paradox.”

temporal paradoxCharity was about to speak, but the anxious expression on J.B.’s face quieted her. His hand was in his pocket, no doubt clutching the rabbit’s foot. The creeps.

The creeps“Temporal paradox,” J.B. muttered.

“What’s that?” Charity asked.

“Like freakin’ Star Trek, when Captain Picard was vacationing on that planet with the hot aliens, and there was this weapon from the future he was predestined to find and destroy, but if he’d already destroyed it, how could it come back in time? Temporal paradox.”

Star TrekCharity stared at him blankly.

“Never mind.” To Jasmine, J.B. said, “Why don’t you go outside and play in the snow? We’ll open presents later.”

“Can I take my lamp with me? It’s been a long time since Genie’s seen any snow.”

Over Charity’s resounding No, J.B. interrupted his wife and said, “Run along, Princess Jasmine.”

The afternoon sun was casting long shadows on the ground when Charity and J.B. Black went outside to bring Jasmine in for a Christmas dinner. After some searching, they found her behind their three-story mansion building a snowman. His base was shoved against a wall, a large ball of packed snow, and the golden lamp was on the ground beside her.

J.B., eyeing the lamp as if it were a snake, gave it a wide berth. “It’s dinnertime.”

Jasmine didn’t respond.

“Chef cooked macaroni and cheese. Your mom says that’s your favorite.”

Jasmine picked up the snowman’s head, stood on her tiptoes, and set it on his body. “I’m not hungry.”

Charity stepped forward, but a stern look from her husband forestalled her.

“Let me handle this.” J.B. bunched up the muscles of his arms as he folded them across his chest, a tactic he sometimes used to intimidate business rivals. “We’re not asking. We’re telling you.”

“Leave me alone, if you know what’s good for you.”

J.B. cracked his knuckles.

“She’s a girl,” Charity said. “Not some degenerate gambler behind in his payments.”

J.B. ignored her. “You’ll come inside, or I’ll take you over my shoulder. Your choice.”

Slowly, Jasmine turned to face them. She bent down and picked up her lamp, stroking it like a puppy. “I’m ready to make my second wish. Do you want to hear it?”

J.B.’s snigger couldn’t hide the slight tremor in his voice. “Go ahead. It, ahem, won’t change anything.”

Jasmine took a deep breath. “I wish you’d leave me alone, forever.”

The laughter died on J.B.’s lips. He felt a strange sensation steal across his body, a sense of unraveling, like the knots of his tangled life had been severed with a sharp razor. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he looked up.

Something overhead flashed in the sun’s dying light. It was beautiful whatever it was, sparkling like the star of Bethlehem must have, some two thousand years ago. As he opened his mouth to scream, the tumbling icicle from the third story pierced his right eye and sank deep into his head. He staggered backward into the snow, a look of utter surprise forever frozen on his face.

A gibbering Charity flung herself on top of her husband and clutched desperately at the thing protruding from his head, as if removing it would make him right again. The thick icicle slipped from her grasp after she pulled it out, her lips quivering in a shriek that wouldn’t come.

Jasmine watched impassively. “J.B. was vermin. I don’t know how, but he hurt Daddy.”

Charity scrambled away from her daughter on all fours, backing herself against her home’s brick wall until she couldn’t go any farther. Her eyes were so wide the whites were visible all the way around the irises.

Jasmine took the icicle—now tinged with red—and stuck it into the snowman’s head for a nose. Satisfied, she picked up her lamp and said, “I have one more wish, Mommy. Remember that.”

“One more wish,” Charity echoed dully.

“After we call the police, you’re going to take me home.”

Charity looked up. “Take you home?”

“Yes.”

“Take you home!” With new vigor, Charity stood and looked at the mansion behind her, the dead man in the snow momentarily forgotten. “I’m free,” she whispered. “No more J.B., no more Jasmine. I’m finally free.” Like proverbial Christmas sugar plums, visions danced in Charity’s head. With J.B.’s money, she’d go to New York—no, Hollywood—and start the life she’d always dreamed of. She’d do some modeling between acting roles, just to keep herself busy, date a director or a rock star, and keep a cabana boy or two around for fun. The life she’d always deserved was finally within her grasp.

“Free?” Jasmine said. “You’re not free, Mommy.”

Charity turned to her daughter, a look of animalistic terror building on her face, a tigress that senses the ground giving way above a hidden pit. Her gaze flicked to the ancient lamp, then back to Jasmine.

The little girl folded her arms and smiled. “Daddy will take you back, though you don’t deserve it, and we’re going to be a happy family again.”

“No. God, no.”

“We will,” Jasmine declared. “No more drinks. No white powder or parties or stupid acting lessons. You’re going to have more brothers and sisters for me, and you’re never leaving us again. Or Genie promises you’ll end up worse than J.B.” For effect, Jasmine kicked the dead man at her feet. “Understood?”

In the space of a few moments, Charity Watkins Black seemed to grow smaller, an old woman with her shoulders hunched and her face downcast. Dreams of the theater—of fame, money, and freedom—evaporated as quickly as her ragged breaths in the chill wind.

“Yes, Princess Jasmine.”

An Edgar Award nominee for Best Short Story, James A. Hearn writes in a variety of genres, including mystery, crime, science fiction, fantasy, and horror. His work has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Mickey Finn: 21st Century Noir, and Monsters, Movies & Mayhem.

Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery MagazineMickey Finn: 21st Century NoirMonsters, Movies & Mayhem