“That means two!”
Javier huffs, his breath fogging in the air, and glances over at me. He’s got on a Carhartt canvas winter coat, a black scarf, and his hair’s down beneath a hunter-green knit hat, like he’s a classy lumberjack or something. Though when I thinklumberjack, I think of big white dudes, but obviously there are other ethnicities of lumberjack, right? Mexico has trees.
“A couple is anywhere from two to nine,” he says, which is factually incorrect, and I tell him so. We go from there tohow many is several. Then he starts making some nonsense argument thata dozenis sometimes literal and sometimes an estimation, and I’m ready to lose my mind about that when he finally points at something up ahead.
“There,” he says of a tall, spindly glowing thing another block away. I was expecting something Christmassy, but this isn’t. It looks like some sort of tree monster had a nuclear accident and escaped from the lab.
“Whatisthat?” I ask, arguments over numbers forgotten.
“That’s Bartholomew,” Javier says, like it explains anything.
There are no cars out and not many people have shoveled the sidewalk since it snowed like hell last night, so we’re walking in the street, the quiet hush of winter all around us. I know it’s Christmas and that means no one is out, but I’m not used to it: even here, right in the heart of Sprucevale, it’s quiet as a church. I like it.
“It’s a Christmas skeleton?” I say once we’re close enough for me to make out the shape. “It’s got a Santa hat.”
“The hat was hard to find,” Javier says, and I’m sure it was because Bartholomew the Skeleton is probably twelve feet tall, and I don’t imagine they sell Santa hats for twelve-foot skeletons just anywhere.
“It’s very festive,” I agree. We crunch up onto the sidewalk—Bartholomew’s owner has shoveled it, so that’s one point for them—stand at the wrought iron fence, and stare. This is a really nice part of Sprucevale, all historic-looking houses with big yards and big trees and planned-out flowerbeds. Not at all where I’d expect to find a giant skeleton.
In addition to the hat, Bartholomew has white Christmas lights wrapped around his torso, head, and each limb. There are giant light-up candy canes stuck in the ground around him,one of those wicker sleds, and two light-up wicker reindeer. Dangling from the fingers of Bartholomew’s right hand, extended toward the gate in the fence, is what I can only assume is light-up mistletoe.
My insides twist instantly and my heartrate spikes. Mistletoe? He brought me to a giant skeleton who’s holding mistletoe? Is that an accident, the mistletoe, or is the mistletoe the point? And which of those things do I want it to be?
“We got a neon sign that saysHo, Ho, Ho, but we couldn’t figure out a way to attach it to his head like a speech bubble without his skull falling off,” Javier says. I make some sort of agreeing noise, still looking at the mistletoe and trying not to think about it. Javi glances over at me. “You okay?”
I want to say no, point at the mistletoe, and demand an explanation. Does he even know it’s there? God, maybe he doesn’t even realize it’s there.
“Ofcourseyou had something to do with this,” I finally say and make myself smile and look over at him. “I should have known from the second I saw it that the big, spooky sculpture was your doing.”
“It actually wasn’t—I just helped.”
“Which Appalachian monster-god is this?” I ask.
He sighs and makes a face. “That sculpture series kinda…floundered,” he admits. “I made the first three, but once I realized I was gonna have to come up with nine more monsters to match Olympian gods, my enthusiasm waned. I didn’t even realize I told you about it.”
“It was on your Instagram.” I keep my eyes on the non-mistletoe parts of Bartholomew, the Christmas lights searing themselves into my retinas because I’m slightly afraid that otherwise Javier’s going to read my mind or something. Following someone—a family member—on their social media is an extremely normal thing to do, so it’s not like he’s going toassume that I immediately went Instagram Sleuth about it and examined every picture and caption for clues about Javier like it was a treasure map to pirate gold or something.
It’s mostly his art—big sculptures, made from whatever he can get his hands on, it seems—plus a few shots of him and friends, some pretty sunsets. Nothing revelatory. Not that I was looking for a revelation about his love life or anything else.
“This could be your death god,” I say, tilting my head. “Bart, ferryman to the afterlife.”
“Bart, collector of souls,” he says.
“Bart, bringer of doom.”
“The Bart reaper.”
We go quiet for a moment, because I don’t have a good riposte toThe Bart Reaper, and I shift my feet on the sidewalk. Our shoulders bump, and I move away but then move back. This is—normal, right? We can be normal together. With this giant skeleton, ablaze with Christmas lights, in the middle of this otherwise staid, conservative neighborhood.
God, I think I love Bart.
“If he showed up at my front door, I’d let him drag me to hell, no questions asked,” I say.
“I can’t fight a twelve-foot skeleton.”
“He wouldn’t even have to drag. I’d probably go willingly.”
Javier looks over at me, grinning. “I’ll have to remember that.”
