Table of Contents [Report This]
Title: “In The Lane Snow Is Glistening”
Author: R.Schultz
Code: M/F
Rating: PG, for some language
Series: The Pretender
Pairing: Jarod/Miss Parker
Disclaimer: “The Pretenders” and all it’s characters are the property of MTM and etc. Especially Miss Parker and Jarod. I’m just playing with them. Honest. Afterwards I’ll put them right back where they belong. Please don’t sue as I will hyperventilate.
Summnary: Miss Parker is waiting for Christmas.
Time frame is after second season, after the arrival of Bunny, and the discovery of Parker’s ulcer. After my stories The Journey and Pickin’ Up the Pieces and Part of "The Journey" series.
Notes: This fiction is 2900 words long, and is mine under Berne International Copyright laws, July 2002.
Comments to: cousindream@msn.com
IN THE LANE SNOW IS GLISTENING
by R.Schultz
Actually it was a rather pathetic little tree.
It stood on top of the side table I’d put under the window. Which at least meant it was visible from out front. Six strings of cheap Made in China lights adorned its plastic branches. It looked colorful enough from a distance, and saved me the bother of buying decorations to put on it. Mr. Bunny ignored it completely.
A single-malt whiskey on rocks was snugly placed between the cushions of the couch. That damned Duncan McCloud had good taste in Scotch whisky. I could grow to like it. For now, my drink was close to hand and not liable to be spilled if my rabbit decided to jump around. For the moment Bunny sat in my lap, enjoying the companionship. I think.
My legs were under me, and my dark brown nightdress lay over me. Relaxing, trying to let myself get mesmerized by the twinkling points of light. Stop thinking about things. Forget. Deny the outside world. All that exists are me, Mr. Bunny and the electric bill for those damned lights.
Bah, Humbug. Christmas Eve was tomorrow night.
Under the table were the presents I’d gotten at the Centre. Broots, at the prodding of his little Debbie, tried to have us do a Secret Santa this year. A hat full of names, you draw one, and you have to get a present for that person. You weren’t supposed to know who was getting you something. Pure cornball.
It failed, of course. The Centre is not a place to find the Christmas spirit alive and well. I couldn’t help remembering when Jarod finally discovered the holiday season. What we’d learned from those people we’d very politely interviewed.
Debbie will probably enjoy her own windfall immensely. I was surprised to find she had never had a heart locket on a chain before. Or a really good pair of Western-style boots. No silver metal toes or tri-color engraving for her first pair. Nothing ostentatious.
She, or Broots rather, had gotten me something large. It didn’t weigh that much, and it looked lumpy. I had a suspicion it was a stuffed plush bunny.
Sydney had given me a lightweight box and told me to put in the fridge until I opened it. Broots I wondered about. Both him and the small flat wrapped box he had given me. He and I were still trying to find ground where we were both comfortable. Maybe we never would. We’d just have live one @&%$# day at the Centre at a time.
Like that wasn’t already the way we managed to get by at the Centre.
Bunny woke up when someone knocked at my back door. I immediately realized I was expecting a guest.
“Unlocked!” I managed to shout. Still stroking Mr. Bunny.
“Ho, ho, ho!” my guest mumbled once he got to the living room. He was dragging a large red bag with white trim. Also wearing a Santa hat with white trim. The little white ball on the end of the hat looked ridiculous trailing down the front of his nose.
“Merry Christmas, little girl. Have you been a good little girl this year?”
I glared at him until he finally dragged himself and the sack over to my sofa. “Sit,” I invited him. “Happy New Year.”
He sat, his bag by his foot. After a moment Mr. Bunny got off my lap and placed himself on my new guest’s. A few tickles and scratchings and the rabbit was content. He’d found his place where he wanted to spend the rest of the night.
Traitorous creature.
“Another damned male,” I complained. “Trifle’s with a woman’s tender heart and then leaves her as soon as he sees a place where he thinks the grass is greener.”
“I’m fine. And you?” he replied.
I pointed a finger at him and told him to hold it right there or I’d shoot. He twitched so I jerked my hand and said “Bang.”
He stared at me for a minute until I managed to say: “I warned you not to move.” When had we gotten to the point where we could play together? Again?
I stared at the tree two minutes or so. That way I wouldn’t see Mr. Bunny with him. I rose to my feet. “Anything to drink?”
“Egg Nog?”
“Store bought?”
“Fine. Did you know you could put Rum in it? Do you have any?”
Every once in a while... I didn’t even shake my head. He surprised me by asking what I was having.
He settled for my new Scot’s Scotch.
When I gave him his drink I got the chance to study him more closely. “You look like hell, Jarod. Been keeping long hours?”
Then I realized he looked....older?
The faded nametag on his old military jacket, his poncho, didn’t register for a second. Then I had to whoop with sudden laughter.
“You’re Claus? Tomorrow is the day before Christmas and your goddamned fucking phony name is supposed to be CLAUS??!!?? This is...” Words failed me.
It felt good to laugh. It had been too long. Eventually I wound down. I took a slug of my Glenmorgaine, daring him with my eyes to explain this newest Pretenmd.
“For all my life, just about, I’ve wondered what sort of a name is Santa.... Care to explain? Sergeant Claus?”
He was happy to explain. “Some think it is a corruption of Saint-a, Saint-e, Sant-e. I prefer to believe it is old Aramaic. Ancient Palestinian. Somewhere, somewhen, Santa Claus really existed.”
I knew better than to argue when he’s deep into one of his Pretends. It came to me who he was Sergeant Claus for. Who it was he was telling his new legend of Aramaic Santa’s to.
“Is it orphans? Or hospital patients in Pediatrics?”
“Just one patient, and he’s adult. And his son. For tonight. Tomorrow I visit a homeless shelter. Do you know how many families with children are in them now?
I shook my head at him to encourage his words. He had a good vibrant voice as a man. I’d never really noticed it before, during those teasing phone calls.
“Hundreds even here. Hundreds of thousands nationwide.”
“And the one patient?”
“The man is a vet’s son. For him and his own son, it’s a form of closure. Finally laying the dead to an earned rest.”
He looked at me, judging whether I needed to know more. Before I could reassure him, Jarod continued.
“When some grunts never came back from Veeat-Naam, their wives and children felt betrayed.”
Listening to him, it struck me veterans of that melancholy war pronounced that name the same way. Jarod was now another one of them. Jarod was in the midst of a Pretend.
“Illogical it might be, but the survivors suffered their own traumas. They demonized their husbands and fathers, a reflex against abandonment. The dead had not loved their children enough to come back for them.”
Jarod smiled at my look. “Tomorrow one of them is going to hear a different story about their father and grandfather. Maybe then both father and son can grow together again.”
We clinked glasses. “That’s lovely, if true,” I said. Staring at him I realized he had done something quite different for one of his Pretends.
“You look like damned hell because you’re an old man. Of course! If you’re a Vietnam Vet you’ve got to be in your late forties at the very least.
Author: R.Schultz
Code: M/F
Rating: PG, for some language
Series: The Pretender
Pairing: Jarod/Miss Parker
Disclaimer: “The Pretenders” and all it’s characters are the property of MTM and etc. Especially Miss Parker and Jarod. I’m just playing with them. Honest. Afterwards I’ll put them right back where they belong. Please don’t sue as I will hyperventilate.
Summnary: Miss Parker is waiting for Christmas.
Time frame is after second season, after the arrival of Bunny, and the discovery of Parker’s ulcer. After my stories The Journey and Pickin’ Up the Pieces and Part of "The Journey" series.
Notes: This fiction is 2900 words long, and is mine under Berne International Copyright laws, July 2002.
Comments to: cousindream@msn.com
IN THE LANE SNOW IS GLISTENING
by R.Schultz
Actually it was a rather pathetic little tree.
It stood on top of the side table I’d put under the window. Which at least meant it was visible from out front. Six strings of cheap Made in China lights adorned its plastic branches. It looked colorful enough from a distance, and saved me the bother of buying decorations to put on it. Mr. Bunny ignored it completely.
A single-malt whiskey on rocks was snugly placed between the cushions of the couch. That damned Duncan McCloud had good taste in Scotch whisky. I could grow to like it. For now, my drink was close to hand and not liable to be spilled if my rabbit decided to jump around. For the moment Bunny sat in my lap, enjoying the companionship. I think.
My legs were under me, and my dark brown nightdress lay over me. Relaxing, trying to let myself get mesmerized by the twinkling points of light. Stop thinking about things. Forget. Deny the outside world. All that exists are me, Mr. Bunny and the electric bill for those damned lights.
Bah, Humbug. Christmas Eve was tomorrow night.
Under the table were the presents I’d gotten at the Centre. Broots, at the prodding of his little Debbie, tried to have us do a Secret Santa this year. A hat full of names, you draw one, and you have to get a present for that person. You weren’t supposed to know who was getting you something. Pure cornball.
It failed, of course. The Centre is not a place to find the Christmas spirit alive and well. I couldn’t help remembering when Jarod finally discovered the holiday season. What we’d learned from those people we’d very politely interviewed.
Debbie will probably enjoy her own windfall immensely. I was surprised to find she had never had a heart locket on a chain before. Or a really good pair of Western-style boots. No silver metal toes or tri-color engraving for her first pair. Nothing ostentatious.
She, or Broots rather, had gotten me something large. It didn’t weigh that much, and it looked lumpy. I had a suspicion it was a stuffed plush bunny.
Sydney had given me a lightweight box and told me to put in the fridge until I opened it. Broots I wondered about. Both him and the small flat wrapped box he had given me. He and I were still trying to find ground where we were both comfortable. Maybe we never would. We’d just have live one @&%$# day at the Centre at a time.
Like that wasn’t already the way we managed to get by at the Centre.
Bunny woke up when someone knocked at my back door. I immediately realized I was expecting a guest.
“Unlocked!” I managed to shout. Still stroking Mr. Bunny.
“Ho, ho, ho!” my guest mumbled once he got to the living room. He was dragging a large red bag with white trim. Also wearing a Santa hat with white trim. The little white ball on the end of the hat looked ridiculous trailing down the front of his nose.
“Merry Christmas, little girl. Have you been a good little girl this year?”
I glared at him until he finally dragged himself and the sack over to my sofa. “Sit,” I invited him. “Happy New Year.”
He sat, his bag by his foot. After a moment Mr. Bunny got off my lap and placed himself on my new guest’s. A few tickles and scratchings and the rabbit was content. He’d found his place where he wanted to spend the rest of the night.
Traitorous creature.
“Another damned male,” I complained. “Trifle’s with a woman’s tender heart and then leaves her as soon as he sees a place where he thinks the grass is greener.”
“I’m fine. And you?” he replied.
I pointed a finger at him and told him to hold it right there or I’d shoot. He twitched so I jerked my hand and said “Bang.”
He stared at me for a minute until I managed to say: “I warned you not to move.” When had we gotten to the point where we could play together? Again?
I stared at the tree two minutes or so. That way I wouldn’t see Mr. Bunny with him. I rose to my feet. “Anything to drink?”
“Egg Nog?”
“Store bought?”
“Fine. Did you know you could put Rum in it? Do you have any?”
Every once in a while... I didn’t even shake my head. He surprised me by asking what I was having.
He settled for my new Scot’s Scotch.
When I gave him his drink I got the chance to study him more closely. “You look like hell, Jarod. Been keeping long hours?”
Then I realized he looked....older?
The faded nametag on his old military jacket, his poncho, didn’t register for a second. Then I had to whoop with sudden laughter.
“You’re Claus? Tomorrow is the day before Christmas and your goddamned fucking phony name is supposed to be CLAUS??!!?? This is...” Words failed me.
It felt good to laugh. It had been too long. Eventually I wound down. I took a slug of my Glenmorgaine, daring him with my eyes to explain this newest Pretenmd.
“For all my life, just about, I’ve wondered what sort of a name is Santa.... Care to explain? Sergeant Claus?”
He was happy to explain. “Some think it is a corruption of Saint-a, Saint-e, Sant-e. I prefer to believe it is old Aramaic. Ancient Palestinian. Somewhere, somewhen, Santa Claus really existed.”
I knew better than to argue when he’s deep into one of his Pretends. It came to me who he was Sergeant Claus for. Who it was he was telling his new legend of Aramaic Santa’s to.
“Is it orphans? Or hospital patients in Pediatrics?”
“Just one patient, and he’s adult. And his son. For tonight. Tomorrow I visit a homeless shelter. Do you know how many families with children are in them now?
I shook my head at him to encourage his words. He had a good vibrant voice as a man. I’d never really noticed it before, during those teasing phone calls.
“Hundreds even here. Hundreds of thousands nationwide.”
“And the one patient?”
“The man is a vet’s son. For him and his own son, it’s a form of closure. Finally laying the dead to an earned rest.”
He looked at me, judging whether I needed to know more. Before I could reassure him, Jarod continued.
“When some grunts never came back from Veeat-Naam, their wives and children felt betrayed.”
Listening to him, it struck me veterans of that melancholy war pronounced that name the same way. Jarod was now another one of them. Jarod was in the midst of a Pretend.
“Illogical it might be, but the survivors suffered their own traumas. They demonized their husbands and fathers, a reflex against abandonment. The dead had not loved their children enough to come back for them.”
Jarod smiled at my look. “Tomorrow one of them is going to hear a different story about their father and grandfather. Maybe then both father and son can grow together again.”
We clinked glasses. “That’s lovely, if true,” I said. Staring at him I realized he had done something quite different for one of his Pretends.
“You look like damned hell because you’re an old man. Of course! If you’re a Vietnam Vet you’ve got to be in your late forties at the very least.
