Acre Under a Green Sky

School started and in the months leading up to Christmas we went through six blue-haired old ladies my father called day housekeepers. I seem to remember they were all named Ethel, but that's not likely, is it? One of them blackened our eggs with pepper and stole sheets. Another did nothing but read the Bible. Most of them left because they couldn't deal with me. Most of them left because I wanted them to leave.

Janet's murder became the stuff of myth except to Will Mosko, who admittedly was obsessed with the case. The sad truth was that with Irene gone there were very few people to care. Their house was put up for sale and soon became derelict. When the subject came up, it seemed like an ancient tale from a book. I couldn't tell you what Janet looked like anymore.

I tried to be perfect in school and when I failed, I gave up caring and school took its rightful place in the scheme of things –– something to be endured like having to wear a suit on special occasions. Sled riding took the place of swimming. Knit gloves froze and toes stung.

One night, I rolled over in bed to fall asleep and I wondered what my mother was doing at that moment and I began to cry uncontrollably. It was the first and last time I cried over the loss of my mother, and I have no idea where it came from except that I must have been saving it up until that moment. I know that it felt good, and I was glad that it had happened in the privacy of my bed and not on Sled Hill where everyone breathes out clouds. We shoveled snow and we shoveled coal for the furnace in the basement. The large square grate in the living room floor became our favorite place after sled riding. We stood over it and basked in the inverted shower of heat. It was nearly always littered with thawing mittens and scarves and knit caps –– sweaters and boots set upside down to dry the insides. The whole house smelled of baking wool. It was wonderful.

Christmas was coming and I was as greedy as ever. I wanted everything. I poured through toy catalogs that came in the mail, and I made a long, detailed list noting the item numbers that were often as long as today's zip codes. The spell was broken only once when Danny asked me if we were going to build a fort from discarded Christmas trees in Luka's back yard like always. The Luka house was now the property of the state; and apparently, no one wanted to buy it. Ledge Avenue had the distinction of having two haunted houses within a few doors of each other. I told Danny we would build the biggest and best fort ever and call it Fort Luka.

My father always got lots of Christmas cards –– most often from clients. We were allowed to open each and every one as they arrived, and after my father read them at the end of the day, we scotch taped them to the picture window overlooking the porch. Opening those cards was about as close as I could get to opening presents before Christmas morning.

I rarely ever knew the senders, but their handwriting always intrigued me. Being a documented failure at penmanship myself as witnessed by my report cards, I took an understandable interest in the penmanship of others. One Christmas card we received that year would result in my father getting a gun.

It was a large picture of Santa Claus on the front, looking exactly like your every dream of the real Santa Claus. But the message inside was anything but jolly.

It was a childish scrawl, but too heavy-handed to be the work of a child. This was the hand of a very disturbed adult. I thought it was funny; but when my father read it, he blanched and called Will Mosko over to the house immediately.

Together they studied it in the living room, while I listened from the kitchen table. There was a Waterstop postmark; and of course, no return address. The card was unsigned.

"Maybe I should send the kids to the farm until after the holidays," my father said.

"Too desolate. They're safer here with neighbors all around."

"I could send them to their aunt's house in Baltimore?"

"Let's not get overexcited here. These things usually end up being nothing."

"I'm sure you're right, but you know what I'm thinking."

"Yeah."

"Maybe I should buy a gun?"

"With small kids in the house? I don't think so. I'll have a car out front."

"What about inside? How do I protect my family inside?"

"I could lend you a gun for a day or two, but I'm against it. It's Christmas, for Christ's sake. If your kids are anything like mine, they're searching the rafters for gifts. A gun is a mighty attractive present to a boy."

"I'll sit them down. I'll explain."

"And scare the shit out of them! No, let's not overreact, okay?"

"You don't think this has anything to do with Janet's murder?"

"I'm not going to kid you. It just might."

"But what's that got to do with me? What connection do I have with Janet?"

"It's your connection with Luka, I think. We've always known these two cases were linked somehow."

"Great! When can I have that gun?"

"You're upset. Let's sleep on it. We'll know better what to do tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll just take the card if you don't mind."

"My God, you still have the killer's prints, don't you? You want to see if they're on that card."

"I'd be a damned fool if I didn't. Now, relax Josh! And let me do my job."

"When will you know? About the prints, I mean?"

"I'll call you tomorrow."

As it turned out, only our prints were on the card. None other.

Here's what the card read:

"I'm coming down your chimney like Santa Claus to get your kids."