The Christmas Closet

By Richard P. Alvarez

Troubled young teen Trampas Elliot discovers a mysterious closet where Christmas goes the rest of the year. As the holiday season approaches, he fights to save the old house from destruction and salvage a last chance to reunite with his missing mother.

A coming of age Christmas story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990021940

Book preview

adventure.

CHAPTER ONE

The last day of summer doesn’t fall on the equinox. It isn’t computed by celestial time and ordered by the stars. It’s heralded by an endless litany of back-to-school flyers and commercials. And with any luck, it goes out with a blazing fast ball.

Jenny Baker stood on the improvised pitcher’s mound and eyed the heavy hitter from high school. At five-foot-two and change, ‘Jay’ had a mean curve ball she honed in practice sessions between her swimming and karate lessons. Mostly arms and legs, her twelve-year-old body was just beginning to rebel against her father’s well-crafted vision of the son he never had. The only person she allowed to call her a tomboy was her mother.

The grass on Aurora Street’s vacant lot was trampled from the incessant foot poundings of endless games of pick-up baseball, red rover and dodge ball. A few strips of faded green clung near the curb and along the borderlines of the neighboring yard. For the most part, however, the neighborhood kids claimed the sandlot as an open field for their playground. It was a perfect setting for escaping the adult oversight that hounded them in the organized leagues held by the city parks department.

Come on, Jenny, give me a girlie pitch, Marcus taunted.

She responded with a blazing fastball that stung through the catcher’s mitt as Marcus fanned the air.

Nice girlie swing, muttered Sam as he lobbed the hard ball back to Jenny. Hey, Jay, slow it down to light speed, huh? Maybe Marcus here will see it this time. Jenny smirked at the older boy and spat at the ground.

On this last day of summer in Seabrook, Texas, the humid breeze from Galveston Bay hung like a steamy blanket over the ball players. It left the sweat on their necks full of dirt and dead gnats.

Hey, Jay, if you make the team in school, you gonna dress with the guys? Marcus took a few practice swings. Sam moved his mitt to the outside and Jenny whirled her curve ball past the end of Marcus’s bat.

Dude, Sam discreetly shook the sting out of his hand, I would not get in her face if I were you. He tossed the ball back to Jenny. She caught it with an easy, lanky grace and scanned the lot around her.

In the sparse corner of the lot designated as right field, Trampas Elliot sat in the shade of a brick wall. He chewed on a piece of spear grass and stared off at a small cumulous cloud that drifted slowly toward the horizon. The thick matt of cool green ivy that clung to the wall behind him cushioned his back against the late summer heat. Its ancient roots went deep into the gumbo soil, sucking at the moisture trapped there by a layer of clay.

Hey, Trampas! she shouted.

The thirteen-year-old jolted back to reality as he jumped to his feet, dusted his butt and looked around the field. When he realized nothing was happening, he jogged toward the mound.

Are we done? What’s the score? The rest of the team groaned at his remark.

It’s the bottom of the ninth—two away—the bases are loaded—and the count is two and two! She placed one hand on her hip and cocked her head at him in annoyance.

That’s good, right? Trampas offered.

She shook her head and pointed at Marcus. "He’s left-handed!"

Marcus could not resist another taunt. Why don’t you draw your boyfriend a picture? He turned to enjoy the laughter from his teammates, and almost missed seeing the fastball Jenny aimed at his head. He ducked the throw by falling flat on his back. As Sam chased the ball down the street, Marcus sprang to his feet and looked around the field for backup. When no one else protested the throw or came to his defense, he charged the mound, growling, All right, let’s see if you can fight like a guy you little bi—

Jenny’s tiny sneaker connected with his mouth in a flying front snap kick. The older boy’s head popped back, and for a moment, he teetered in place like a drunken sailor. He settled down on his butt, grasping at his nose as blood trickled through his fingers.

Jenny stood over him. You want some more? Or would you like another ‘girlie’ kick? Trampas joined the tiny terror on the mound.

Now we’re done, right? He asked her.

Sure, we’re done. And we win cause this jerk’s not man enough to stand up for my final pitch.

Marcus searched again for moral support or some show of outrage from the rest of the neighborhood. Most of the kids looked away, or kicked at the dirt in the lot. A few of them stifled smiles. Marcus wiped his nose and looked at the blood on his hands. He smeared it across his white t-shirt like a logo and then blew a wad of bloody snot at Jenny’s feet. That all you got? He walked back to the make shift home plate and took his stance.

Sam returned with the ball. Dude, I warned you, he whispered to Marcus.

Shut up.

Sam lobbed the ball back to Jenny. She caught it backhanded as she turned to address Trampas. What are you doing?

I was just watching the game.

"Don’t watch the game, you’re in the game!" She looked up at him with exasperation.

Okay, okay. I’m sorry. He shrugged and jogged out to right field as Jenny turned her attention back to home plate.

Marcus spat another wad of blood onto the plate and took a few more practice swings. Sam signaled for another curve, but Jenny shook it off. She took a quick glance at the players leading off their bases.

Trampas worked his fist into his stiff fielder’s glove. He never oiled the mitt as he hardly ever used it. He smiled to himself as he imagined drawing a comic strip panel illustrating Jenny’s beautiful flying kick with the word SNAP blazoned across Marcus’s face. His eyes took in the older boy’s features—the better to remember them for when he sat down to sketch the scene later.

Behind Marcus, in the blazing sunlight of the street, a dusty blue Volkswagen Beetle rolled slowly down the pavement. Inside, a woman with long red hair and sunglasses turned her face away from the kids on the field.

Okay, Jay, taunted Marcus one last time, "Lez see what you got."

Jenny whirled a slider in and Marcus connected with a sound like a rifle shot. The ball popped up high into the afternoon sky. The runners slowed to watch the ball as it arced slowly into right field, where Trampas was still staring at the woman in the car.

Trampas! shouted Jenny.

He snapped back just in time to notice the fly ball and back-pedaled furiously, reaching high into the air with his glove. His shoulder slammed into the ivy as the ball hit the tip of his glove, and rebounded over the brick wall. The sound of breaking glass chimed in the summer silence before Marcus shouted, Home run!

He danced around the bases as his teammates cheered. They met at home plate and slapped high fives all around as Jenny and the team stared at Trampas still huddled against the wall.

He kept his face buried in the ivy for a moment, enjoying the cool respite of the dark green leaves. He did not want to see the look on the other kids faces. But most of all, he didn’t want to see disappointment in Jenny’s. Finally he turned back to see the other kids mounting their bicycles or wandering off down the street. Jenny stood glaring at him from the mound.

After a moment, the lot was empty but for the two of them. She paced slowly up to him and looked up into his face. You could have caught that.

I know.

You should have caught that. He flinched. What happened?

I thought I saw... He couldn’t bring himself to finish.

What? You thought you saw what? A ghost? Her spite stung him and he recoiled from her comment, burying himself deeper in the ivy. She scratched the sweat from the back of her neck, and pitched her voice in a softer tone. I’m sorry. What did you see that was so amazing?

I thought I saw my mom. She drives a blue V. W.

Oh, Jenny sighed and nodded her head. Okay. Well, it’s just the last game of summer. School starts tomorrow and it’s not a big deal. But could you get my ball back?

Trampas nodded and dared to look into the deep ivy green of her eyes. Yeah, I’ll get it. I promise. I’m sorry. Really, really sorry.

Her eyes sparkled as she smiled up at him. From down the block, her mother’s voice floated to them both. Jen–NEE. Din–NER!

She grabbed his wrist and smiled again. Hey, bring it over at dinner? We’re having lasagna—baked from scratch. She pulled the glove off his hand. I’ll oil this for you too. You don’t want it to dry up over the winter.

He watched her take the glove and tuck it under her arm. Um, I can’t come. I have to make dinner for my Dad. But I’ll bring it over later, okay?

JEN–nee, DIN–NER... her mother’s voice reminded Trampas of a street vendor from some far off exotic land. It left him with a deep sense of longing.

Jenny turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice, gave a deep sigh, and then turned back to look at Trampas. Okay, see ya later then! She flashed a smile, pivoted and disappeared in a blur of speed that was all elbows and knees but somehow still graceful.

Trampas turned to examine the ivy-covered wall. With a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching, he scaled the vines and scrambled over the top.

CHAPTER TWO

Trampas swung his legs around and pushed off the top of the ivy-covered brick wall. He dropped down onto the overgrown lawn and took quick stock of his surroundings.

He stood on forbidden ground.

The Morgan Mansion, or ‘The Old House’ as it was called in the neighborhood, was something of an anomaly in the quiet world of cul-de-sacs and ranch homes. A faded wood and brick Victorian structure that must have been something in its heyday, the old house now resembled nothing so much as a backdrop for a horror movie. The cupola roof was falling in, the stained glass window lights long ago removed. Someone said it had been whitewashed after the war, but Trampas wasn’t sure which war that was. The color was now faded to a dull grey, wherever any paint remained at all. The house had seen its share of hurricanes over the years, leaving the slate roof with gaps of missing tiles.

The ivy covered brick wall that surrounded the yard was a formidable barrier to most of the kids in the neighborhood. Some of the older kids however, had bragged about breaking in over the years. As a result, the neighborhood watch committee had hired someone to board up the windows and doors. Entry to the house was restricted to the padlocked front door.

Recalling the sound of breaking glass, Trampas scanned the façade facing him. Not a windowpane in sight. He kicked around in the high grass, thinking that perhaps the ball had landed on a bottle or loose pane of glass.

Once he was satisfied that the ball was not in the high grass, he crossed the short distance from the wall to the house. Trampas stood for a moment, looking up at the old house. He couldn’t shake the impression that the building held some sort of spirit. Despite neighborhood tales of hauntings, he didn’t get a sense of evil, or malevolence. It was more like one of age. An old spirit, perhaps. A sleeping one.

A promise was a promise, so he shook off the vague sense of unease and moved closer to the house. When he was standing at the base of the wall, he realized the house was sitting on a brick foundation; A foundation that had a basement window in it.

Oh crap, he muttered.

He pulled away the high weeds, yanking them out by their roots, revealing a small window with a row of three panes, each about ten inches square. The center pane was broken, the other two frosted with dust, or perhaps painted over—it was hard to tell which. He looked back to the wall and the setting sun. He pulled a few more weeds and lay down on his stomach to peer into the basement through the broken pane.

The cool air pouring out of the basement chilled his face, and Trampas suddenly realized he was covered in sweat. He gave a tentative sniff, checking for the rank smell of mold or mildew. Even dust could sometimes set off his asthma, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a serious attack. Surprisingly, the air was sweet—with just a hint of mint.

Finding the latch on the lower interior edge, he reached in and gave it a twist. With a bit of resistance, it finally yielded and swung free. He pulled on the handle swinging the sash up and out towards him. There was no brace built into the window, so he searched around in the grass until he found a stick to prop it open.

He shimmied forward and thrust his head inside to look around. He blinked twice, adjusting to the dim light offered by the window. He could just make out Jenny’s ball lying against a door some ten feet away.

Trampas pulled his head out and took one more look around. Every kid in the neighborhood knew the house and its grounds were off limits. Hopping the fence for a stray ball or wayward Frisbee happened on occasion. Going into the basement however, would definitely be crossing a boundary. One that made him nervous.

Wriggling around, he eased himself, backward, feet first, through the window until his feet dangled short of the floor. He searched about with his toes but found nothing for support. He eased back