There was another long pause. The phone line buzzed and crackled.
“Because if she was really so in love with Bobbi, then we know she was capable of love. And frankly, that just hurts.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I fought the urge to tell him that of course she was capable of love, that she’d loved us.
But had she?
I wasn’t sure what to believe. But Ben was right. It did hurt.
“I’ve really gotta go,” Ben said. “Ali?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
ISTOOD ON THE SIDEWALKof Main Street, waiting for the parade to begin. I was right in front of the Book Cellar: a clever tree-shaped stack of what must have been hundreds of books was strung with lights in the front window. Snow was falling hard. White lights and green wreaths were wrapped around all the lampposts in town. And the other store windows held similarly festive holiday displays: the kitchen shop was full of red and green cooking accessories and wreaths made from decorated red Bundt cake pans; the hardware store had a lit tree in the window and signs sayingWE HAVE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS AND BULBS, SNOW SHOVELS, ICE MELT, STOCKING STUFFERS. A large stocking was displayed with tools sticking out of it: a crescent wrench, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a pair of new work gloves. The bagel shop had both a menorah and a Christmas tree in the window—and the tree was decorated with small bagels. Get Roasted advertised their peppermint lattes as “Santa’s Favorite.” I’d just gone in for a black coffee, which I held in my hands, feeling it warm me through my thin gloves. I had my hood up, but large flakes of snow fell down onto my face, collecting on my eyelashes. I shuffled from foot to foot to stay warm. There was a small crowd waiting along the sidewalks of our picturesque Main Street, mostly families of the drama club kids, and other high school students. It was like living inside a Christmas village snow globe, or even, God forbid, like the set from a Hallmark Christmas movie.
“Hey, Alison, I thought that was you!”
I turned to see Marie, one of the owners of the Book Cellar. “I’veactually been meaning to call or email. I was hoping you could come sign some stock for us.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Love to.”
“?’Tis the season. Got a pub date for the next Moxie book?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “It’s not quite finished. Close, though. Very close.”
“Can’t wait,” she said.
Neither can I, I thought.
“I’ll come by in the next couple days to sign stock,” I promised.
She thanked me and headed across the street to join her husband, who had his camera out.
It was ten after six. At last the police arrived, lights flashing as they parked cars at either end of Main Street, closing it to traffic.
I heard the parade crowd before I saw them—the raucous cacophony of a banging drum, the clattering of bells, howling and screaming.
I don’t know what I’d expected—but surely not this.
They came from the north end of Main Street, out of the darkness and swirling snow like creatures from a nightmare or fever dream. There were about twelve of them, all in elaborate and terrifying costumes. They wore grotesque papier-mâché devil masks with horns: large curled horns, small straight ones. One was dressed in layers of burlap. Another sported a torn and ragged Santa suit. One was up on stilts, towering over the others, a long tattered robe flowing behind. Still another wore white robes splattered with blood and carried a small, child-sized human arm, waving it menacingly at the crowd.
The snow fell hard around them as they moved through the downtown, banging the drum, rattling cowbells, shrieking and growling like creatures let loose from the underworld.
Mothers pulled their children closer to them on the sidewalk. Shopkeepers stepped out to look on, eyes wide, like this clearly was not the parade they’d been expecting. Just last week, Santa and Mrs. Claus had led a parade along the same route, ringing bells, passing out candy canes, shouting, “Merry Christmas”—this spectacle couldn’t be further from that.
And then I spotted the figure who had to be my daughter.
She was all in black. A black cape, and a terrifying black mask with long curled horns, an open mouth full of pointed teeth. Her eyes glowed red from LED lights. I only knew it was her from her familiar battered Doc Martens and the video camera she held as she circled the others, running to the front to get a shot of all of them taking over the street, moving to get a close-up as one of the demons left the group and approached a small child, growling at him, making him jump back and cling to his mother.
“It’s too scary,” one of the mothers lining the sidewalk complained.
“Fucking brilliant,” a teenage boy said to his friends.
I stood frozen, watching, holding my breath as the Christmas demons shambled by, clanging, clattering, banging, howling, and hissing like the wild things they were.
