He stepped into the empty landscape, hoping to catch sight of the figure, but it had vanished. A sudden patch of sunlight brightened the rocks and sand, throwing momentary shadows until the clouds passed by and erased the fine detail. Glancing over his shoulder, Tim saw the boys standing side by side in the frame of the bay window. Jip’s head was turned to the northeast, as though he was watching something, trying to direct his father’s attention. Tim followed his son’s gaze, spying at last a flash of white movement, quick as a breath. He raced toward it, coat flapping in the wind, bootlaces lashing his shins, sinking in the sand, and scrambling across the rough rock.
It was impossible, he told himself, for the naked man to have outrun him, even with such a head start, but after that one glimpse, he saw him no more. Only the illusion of movement, the desire of the chase. On a promontory, he stopped to catch his breath and surveyed the sighing sea, the desolate rock, and realized how the world had swallowed them both. He was panting, his chest pounding, and feeling a bit dizzy. Exhausted, he bent over, resting his hands upon his knees, allowing his head to hang down. Between his feet, fresh wet drops had darkened the ground, and at first, he wondered if the thing he was chasing had passed this same way, wounded and bleeding. A bright red coin splashed on the rock, and then another. He raised a cold hand to his warm throat and felt the slick where he had cut himself earlier, shaving, and when he drew back his hand, he was surprised to find it covered in blood. At the sight of it, he fell to the ground in a dead faint.
iii.
The first thing Nick saw that morning was a swath of red velour stretched tightly across the drum of his father’s belly. From his bed, his faced muffled by a pillow, Nick blinked to focus, and the red balloon in his field of vision swelled and receded. He rolled over to get a better look.
“Ho, ho, ho. Something wicked this way comes.”
Nick rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His father wore his annual Santa Claus outfit, sans beard and cap.
“Sure you don’t want to come with? It’s going to be a real fun party.”
“Dad—”
“Had to make sure the suit still fits. One of these years I’ll be too fat.”
“—do I have to?”
“Too old, are we? Where are the sons of yesteryear? How our childhood swiftly passes. Once around the block in a little red wagon and then you’re all grown up. Now look at you. Can’t get out of bed in the morning. Even when it’s snowing.”
His father pulled up the blinds. A few flurries danced across the sky. In the light from the window, motes of dust caught in the draft drifted and fell. Nick wanted nothing more than to sink into the warmth of his bed.
“Your mother will take you over to the Keenans. But you better hop to. She’s already in the bathroom, working her magic. Mirror, mirror, on the wall.”
Nick sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his bare feet. “Do I have to go over there? Can’t I stay home by myself?”
“Not unless you want to see me sent to prison. The law is very clear on this point: you’re too young to be left alone all day by yourself.” His father sat next to him, the mattress sagging under his girth, the bedsprings complaining of the burden. “Imagine what those outlaws would do if old Santa Claus showed up in the holding cell. Destroy their faith in mankind, it would.”
The sleeves of his Santa suit rode up, exposing two inches of pale skin thatched with wiry black hairs. Nick wished he would put on some gloves.
“I thought you liked hanging out with your old pal Jack. Something gone wrong between you two?”
“He’s just weird sometimes.”
“Weird? A bit of an odd duck, but aren’t we all? I’ve come to the firm conclusion that everybody’s got something wrong up there.” He tapped his skull with his middle finger. “Odd ducks, all. But he’s your best friend, Nick, and you’ve got to stick by your friends.”
The door swung open slowly, pushed by a hip, and Nick’s mother came in, a hairbrush in one hand, a coffee in the other. She was wearing nothing but blue underwear and a black bra. “Have either of you seen my red sweater?”
“The one with the tiny Christmas trees on it?” Fred asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Not that one. The nice one.”
“I like the one with the tiny Christmas trees on it. Very festive. Seasonal. Besides, I gave you the one with the tiny Christmas trees on it last Christmas, and you never wear it. You’re naughty, not nice. And you’ll get coal in your stocking this year.”
“Aren’t you going to be late?” she asked.
When Fred looked at his watch, he noticed how the sleeves on his suit rode up on his arms, and he hitched the fabric in vain. “Is it just me, or is everything getting smaller? I must load up the sleigh and hitch the reindeer to it.” As he exited, he recited their names, “On, Comet and Cupid and Vixen and Dixie.…”
“Good grief,” Nell said, pretending to give him a kick in his broad backside. She chased him down the hall, threatening him with the hairbrush, laughing all the way.