Chapter Ten

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

“Christmas Day”

T
he water was warm as I plunged my hands into the kitchen sink to finish the last of the early morning breakfast dishes. As I stood there, I was thinking how lovely it was, at last, to sleep in a real bed—Oh, you mean I didn’t tell you about that? Well, let me back up a few hours to 4:00 A.M. Christmas morning.

I was sound asleep on my WOODEN bench, when I was awakened by a big tongue licking my lips. As my eyes flew open, the first thing I saw was Andy’s face—close, very close to mine, but the tongue wasn't his; it was Molly's.

“Ellee,” he whispered, “are you awake?” Then he shook me.

“I am now,” I said, my eyes glazed over with sleep.

He continued, “You know . . . ummmm . . . I’ve been thinking . . . this is Christmas and all, and . . . and . . . and goodwill . . . you know . . . to ALL men . . . and EVEN women . . . and . . . well, this bench is awfully hard to sit on. I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it would be to sleep on. I don’t know why I . . . I mean . . . I should have . . . well, that is . . . why don’t you come sleep in my . . . my guest bed?”

I was still a little fuzzy from sleep, but I thought I heard him say I could sleep in a bed—a real bed, you know . . . one with a mattress.

“What?” I asked, trying to force my eyes into focus.

“The guest bedroom . . . the empty one. The other two are occupied by my mother and Harriet."

Why was Harriet sleeping in a guest bedroom? I wondered. She seemed to have a lot of prerogatives as his housekeeper—more than the usual. He then led me to a room at the far end of the second hallway. It was a nice room WITH A BED, and it looked so inviting I wasted no time getting in and falling back to sleep.

So that’s how I came to have a real bed—in a real bedroom. I wasn’t sure why all of a sudden, at 4:00 A.M., Andy would wake me up to make this offer. I knew I didn’t have any points at all, considering all the upheavals I had caused the previous day, and by all measures I should have been shipped back immediately—and yet, I wasn’t. What was the significance, if any, of all that, I wondered?

As I was mulling these things over in my mind, I was also gazing out the bank of tall windows spanning the entire west wall of the kitchen overlooking Manhattan, when my attention was redirected to a bird, which had just taken flight from the top of the building, and was enjoying a free ride on a rising air current between this building and the neighboring one. It had spread its magnificent wings, catching every available cubic square inch of air to keep it airborne for as long as possible.

Upon further inspection I saw that this was a Crenshaw, also known as the Christmas bird because of its red plumage and green underbelly. And according to legend, anyone spotting this bird on Christmas day was sure to have good things happen to them in succeeding days. Was this a lucky break flying my way? A good omen of things to come? I could only hope so. I needed any kind of help I could get.

As I looked out the windows, I saw such a perfectly, beautiful Christmas day. The winter solstice had ushered in winter overnight, laying down a blanket of pristine snow, obviously to celebrate the season. And the world below me looked pure, all dressed in white, and was accentuated with snow diamonds glistening in the late morning sun.

The warmth in the kitchen radiated not only from the sun streaming through these windows, but from the oven as well, which was baking my Christmas stollen for the brunch that would soon follow. The scent wafting through the room was taking control of my senses, and carried me away to nostalgic places; the choir in the background was singing,

“Still . . . still . . . still . . . it is the night of the . . . .”

and Molly was sleeping at my feet in the column of sunlight that was spilling onto the tile floor from the tall windows.

I was feeling a sense of peace, for the first time since coming here. And then, all at once a loud scream coming from the library pierced my ears and Molly’s, causing her to jump to her feet as adrenalin alerted her to some unknown danger, her head jerking left, then right, eyes peeled for what was to come. Then we heard Glo crying; then heavy footsteps en route to where we were; then,

“ELLEE!”

It was Andy! I knew at that instant, from the incensed tone of his voice, I was in trouble—again. And I also knew it was most likely one of two things, or possibly BOTH—but I also took comfort in knowing that FedEx doesn’t work on holidays.

When he entered the kitchen I recognized the look—I had seen it so many times, practically hourly, over the past few days; there was no mistake—Andy was furious! He didn’t say a word, but grabbed my hand and yanked me out of that kitchen and out that reverie faster than a mother yanking her kid away from a speeding car, pulling me through the parlor and into the library where everyone was standing around gasping in horror at . . . well, from the look of everyone’s expression . . . at the absolutely unthinkable! And there, in the middle of it all was Glo, sobbing frantically, hardly able to get the words out of her mouth by that time,

“Nooo . . . *sob* . . . oooo . . *sob* . . . it’s not . . . *sob* . . . possible! . . . ooooooooh. . . . wh, wh . . . whyyyyyyy . . . Anderrrrrrrrrrson . . . how did . . *sob* . . . this . . . haaaaaappen? *sob*”

And finally, these sobs multiplied to the point where they plugged up her windpipe altogether, successfully blocking the escape of any more words. All that was left to her now was to stand there and shake her hands, which she was doing when we arrived on this most unfortunate scene.

Once there, Andy jerked me to a stop, causing my long, thick hair to flair out and slap him in the face, filling up his mouth at the very moment he opened it to make the accusation. He immediately began combing at this hair clog with all ten fingers trying to clear it from his mouth, blowing through his lips and even spitting, in hopes of dislodging it from his tongue, which had become so entangled by that time, that when he cried out for me to do something, I was at a loss. I wasn't sure WHAT to do.

“Hold still,” I commanded. “The more you struggle, the more entangled it becomes!”

But he didn’t hold still; instead he continued to fight it, so that within only moments, we were both inextricably bound closely and firmly to one another—his tongue, to my head.

The guests all gazed on in total amazement, unsure what to do or say, not having had experience in such a social situation, but they did start whispering among themselves. Andy's mother was shaking her head, and going red in the face from not being able to speak. Tears were pouring from her eyes like torrents from a seasonal monsoon! Harriet, unlike her boisterous, opinionated self, could utter nothing. And Molly . . . well, she was yapping excitedly, jumping up and down, and then running around and around in circles, herself, unsure what to do. This whole scene reminded me of yesterday’s nightmare before Christmas. But that was yesterday; it was supposed to be over. Or were we somehow caught in a loop and it was re-playing once again?

Seconds later, I noticed a flash of silver come between Andy and me. And then I heard a loud SNIP and felt my hair released from the grip of Andy’s tongue. When I turned around to see what had happened, I saw Harriet standing there, one large hand planted on one large hip, and the other hand brandishing her “weapon of choice”—a large pair of lethal-looking scissors! Then as she drove her evil gaze into me, she held up her weapon, and rapidly clicked them together several times, making a slicing noise as the two blades collided with each other, as if to indicate that she had just severed the link between Andy and me for good!

At that the whole room fell silent; actions were suspended in mid-air; Glo had stopped sobbing, her left hand was covering her mouth, her eyes showing disbelief at everything; the dog was sitting on her haunches, eyes darting from person to person; the guests, unsure what was socially proper to do in a situation like this, didn’t move at all, and Harriet’s evil gaze was sunk so deeply into me, she was unable to retract it, so she just stood there, motionless, too. And Andy and I . . . well we weren't moving, either. The entire Christmas entourage was immobilized by everything that had just occurred. It had all come to a screeching halt! NO ONE MOVED A MUSCLE; NO ONE UTTERED A SOUND.Christmas day had suddenly become a virtual freeze-frame.

[Author’s Note: Usually in a situation of this nature, there is a fade-out or a dissolve into the next scene, which, after some consideration, I realized had to be the case here—I mean, what else can be said at this point? Except, I was thankful I had washed my hair that morning in Bubble Gum Flavor-Scented Shampoo]

When Andy finally recovered his composure, after pulling the remaining hair from his tongue, he continued with his delayed accusation,

“ELLEE,” he said, the stern tone picking up where it had left off, “do you know anything about that?”

He was pointing to what I just knew he would be pointing to—that crummy, old armchair which looked like it had seen better times, upon which I had stood, and to which I had caused massive damage when the seat had ripped from front to back under the weight of my foot, when I used it as a footstool to reach the top of the Christmas tree.

You remember, don't you, that potted tree I broke in half when I fell from this very chair and landed on its branches, breaking it in such a manner as to render it useless as a live tree? I was waiting for Andy to mention that, too, but he didn’t. Hopefully, he still didn’t know about that. What he did mention was,

“This chair you see in front of you, Ellee . . .” his irate eyes were now boring right through mine, his finger ridged as he pointed to the now infamous chair, “ . . . the one with the ripped seat . . ."

He paused to let the realization of what he was saying sink deeply into my conscience, probably to harrow up great guilt, and I have to say—IT DID!

When sufficient time had lasped he continued with, ". . . is a priceless, antique family heirloom from my great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather, who got it from Louis XIV as a gift when Grandpa visited Sunny, or rather Louis at his Versailles palace. There is absolutely no way to put a price on its value, because it remained, and I emphasize remained, untouched through all these centuries—until now. It was, and again I emphasize WAS, in the exact same condition as when Louis gave it to him! Nothing has EVER been done to it to alter it in ANY way!—until THIS happened! Do you now understand the significance of that tear, and what it means to the value of that chair!!?”

Like a ton of cement that had just been dumped on my head, came the realization of that one statement! And to think I had thought it was just an old, dumpy chair that should have been hauled off to the Salvation Army for the Christmas rush!

I instantly sensed something familiar as I looked around and saw all the eyes in that room descending on me. Those eyes belonged to most of the people who were there for the kitchen-Glo incident only hours before. I already knew what they were thinking—I didn’t have to wait for their loathing and disdaining to begin. I was one step ahead of them.

And then Glo began choking and coughing and gasping for air as the built-up sobs were ready to break loose, like a big earthen dam that had finally absorbed all the monsoon rain run off it could handle.

“Well . . . I’m waiting !” Andy continued, his foot tapping impatiently on the hardwood floor, arms folded firmly across his chest in an authoritative manner. “How did that gaping rip come to be there?”

He bent his head down slightly so his eyes could glare up at me in a frightfully accusing manner. I really hated lying to him, but I also really hated admitting that it was I who had done that totally, DASTARDLY thing to that priceless piece of antiquity, causing so much pain to his poor mother at that very moment. I was truly sorry and felt absolutely sick about it, but it was quickly becoming apparent that I would NEED to lie. Harriet was tapping her foot, also, which, if you had seen Harriet’s foot, you would understand when I say that it was putting undue pressure on me, accelerating my resolve NOT TO MAKE ANY TRUE STATEMENTS CONCERNING MY GUILT IN CONNECTION WITH THAT CHAIR.

“Well . . . ” I began, not really knowing where I was going with my statement, “is it possible . . . that . . . ummm . . . could it be . . . uh . . . ?”

“Yes!” he said curtly, waiting impatiently for the rest of my guilty plea, “go on . . .”

As I looked around the room, I could see that everyone else was waiting for that same plea, ready to unleash the full measure of their hate and displeasure on me.

“Uhhhh . . . ohhh . . . ” I continued, not putting much faith in what I was saying, “is it possible that uhhhh . . . Molly could have . . . well . . . jumped up on the chair and . . . and possibly caught her nails in the delicate fabric, ripping it when she jumped off?”

[Author’s Note: Just for the record, I didn’t give this much hope in alleviating any of my guilt, but it was all I could come up with under the extreme and unusual stress I was placed under.]

There was an immediate and collective intake of air as everyone considered this idea! But, after only a split second, Harriet barked,

“Yeah, RIGHT! You expect us to believe that? Molly would never, ever do anything like that! She is a well-behaved dog, and has been trained NOT to jump on the furniture.”

Just then, as if on cue, Molly jumped right up on that valuable piece of priceless, antique Louis XIV furniture, right before everyone’s disbelieving eyes, sinking her doggie toenails deep into those delicate fibers of antiquity. Looking back and forth from Andy to me and me to Andy, her tongue was hanging out one side of her mouth, sloughing off slobber with each panting movement, as her tail was wagging back and forth in a playful attitude, completely oblivious to the drama being played out at that very moment—or was she? Incredulous gasps were heard throughout the room, as the realization of Molly’s actions sank into their accusing minds, kicking aside their heretofore preconceived notions about my guilt.

Oh, Molly, I thought, My Guardian Angel Dog Molly! I Love You! I wanted to run to her and shower her with a thousand hugs and kisses. But it would have to wait. How could I ever thank her? She had saved me not only from admitting my guilt, but also from being forced into the fabrication of a true lie. I would be forever in her debt! My Guardian Angel Dog, Molly.

[Author’s Note: And Glo . . . well . . . the dam finally broke allowing the sobs to spill out unhindered. She felt much better after that.]

Bye for now,
Love,

Ellee