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BENJI

The jingle of bells woke me from my sleep, and I sprang out of bed with more boing and bounce than a jack-in-the-box tearing through its gift-wrapping on Christmas morning. Yes sir, the most wonderful time of the year was here, and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face… that is, until I looked at the cuckoo clock on my wall and gasped.

“Oh no, look at the time! I’ve slept the whole way through Christmas Eve, and now I’m going to miss the parade!”

The Christmas Eve parade was the most beloved yearly ritual in all of Mulligan’s Mill. Just about everyone in town spent weeks, even months preparing for the parade. Floats were built, costumes were made, decorations were hung and as the sun went down and the Christmas lights lit up the night, the entire population of Mulligan’s Mill would line the streets to wave the parade through town, beginning with Santa’s workshop and ending with the unveiling of each year’s Mr. and Mrs. Claus— as chosen by the town’s Christmas committee.

Every year, someone different won the title of Mr. and Mrs Claus.

Every year, the people of Mulligan’s Mill nominated their neighbors and friends and even themselves in the hopes they might don the coveted suits and spectacles.

Every year, whoever received the honor was a tightly kept secret until the final float in the parade made its way down Main Street.

Hurriedly, I wrapped myself all snug and warm in the fluffy robe I’d bought myself as an early Christmas present, schnoozled my toes into my matching slippers, and raced out onto my bedroom balcony overlooking a spectator-packed Main Street, with not a second to spare.

As soon as I stepped up to the snow-capped balcony railing— sparkling flakes fluttering down from the sky like perfect butterflies made of ice— the parade approached my BnB.

As was the annual tradition, the town’s brass band led the parade. Only this year, the town band had really stepped up its game. Instead of the usual ragtag musicians, this year’s offering was a 1940s big band spectacular, their trumpets blasting, cymbals clashing, drums drumming and flugelhorns flugeling as they razzle-dazzled their way through Andy Williams’ “ It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. ” In unison the band stepped to the left and did a little kick, they stepped to the right and did another kick, and all the horns pointed to the sky and sent a brassy blast to the heavens as the crowd went wild.

I clapped frantically, thrilled by the prospect of what was next. I was not disappointed.

The first float was decorated like Santa’s workshop, busy with Elves building toys with brightly colored hammers and wrapping presents with ribbons and bows.

“Well look at that,” I said to myself. “We got real Elves for the parade this year. I’m impressed. No expense spared.” I waved to the little Elves, and they all waved back, their faces filled with joy. “Oh, bless their peanut-sized hearts.”

And standing over the Elves, supervising their work and checking on their progress, was the Mill’s own hardware expert Harry Dalton, posing as head toymaker and dressed in coveralls and knitted sweater with a woollen beanie on his head.

He waved up to me and boomed, “Merry Christmas, Benji!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Harry! I like your Elves!”

“Oh, they’re not mine. They have to be back by midnight. Don’t ask.”

I shrugged off his answer, like the Elves’ schedule was none of my concern.

As the workshop sailed by through the dancing snow, the second float came into view.

My jaw dropped in wonder at the sight of a giant snow globe. Inside it, Mitch Winton and Gage Channing skated on a small frozen version of Lassiter’s Lake, gliding across the ice with Ginny Channing in her winged wheelchair. The three of them spun and pirouetted around like ballet dancers in a music box, all to the applause of the crowds lining the street.

As they skated figure eights, Mitch, Gage, and Ginny caught sight of me on my balcony and waved, shouting through the glass, “Merry Christmas, Benji!”

I cupped my hands around the sides of my mouth and shouted back, “Merry Christmas, Mitch and Gage! Merry Christmas, Ginny! How on earth did you build that snow globe?”

Ginny gave a casual shrug. “A little bit of science. A little bit of hope. And a lot of determination.”

I gave a thumbs up. “Nailed it!”

As the second float glided by, the third float came into view. It was a cute-as-a-button replica of Pascal’s patisserie shopfront on one side, and Bud’s flower shop on the other. From the miniature doorway of his shop, Pascal handed out macarons and profiteroles to the crowd, while Bud threw flowers to the thrilled spectators.

“Hi Bud! Hi Pascal!” I waved from my balcony.

Together, Bud and Pascal called back, “Merry Christmas, Benji!” before tossing me a strawberry macaron and a rose. I managed to catch them both.

The rose smelled heavenly.

The macaron tasted divine.

“This is the best Christmas Eve parade ever!” I said to myself, unaware that things were about to get even better.

As the fourth float came into view, my heart swooned and my mouth watered. From a wonderland of icicles and ice cream, Clarry and River— both dressed in penguin suits— handed out ice cream cones to all the children in the crowd, while a team of real-life penguins waddled busily about helping them, putting cherries on the top of each ice cream with their floppy flippers.

“Oh wow,” I gushed. “This is the best Christmas Eve parade ever.” I leaned over the balcony railing and called down to them. “Merry Christmas, Clarry! Merry Christmas, River! Say, you got any Merry Berry Tinsel Toffee cones left?”

“We sure do,” grinned Clarry.

Beside him, River hurled an ice cream cone high in the air toward me.

I caught it with poise, quite unlike me, and lapped up the cold creamy goodness. “Mm-mmm, that’s one of your best yet, Clarry!”

“Thanks! I had help from River and some of the penguins.” A couple of the black-and-white birds snuggled up to him. “Isn’t that right, Waddle-Toes and Wiggle-Butt?”

As Clarry and River’s winter wonderland sailed by, I jiggled with excitement.

I knew the final float would be the big unveiling of who had been chosen to play Santa and Mrs. Claus. I held my breath as the front of Santa’s huge sleigh came into view, when suddenly I felt a pair of warm arms wrap themselves around me from behind.

I felt a strong body press hard against me and quivered at the touch of lips against my neck.

My heart galloped at the kiss.

My eyes teared up at the scent of him.

My throat let out a whimper of joy as I heard his voice. “You gonna stand out here on the balcony and watch the whole parade? Or would you rather be back in bed with me?”

I spun about to see Bastian’s smiling face.

He was back.

He was standing here with his arms around me… at last.

He was mine… just as he was always meant to be.

Until I realized—

“But I don’t even have a balcony.”

Suddenly I was falling.

I gave a sharp yelp as my entire body jerked me out of my sleep, too late to stop myself from tumbling over the side of my bed and onto the cold floorboards, landing with a thunk and a grunt.

“Ow! Fucking ow!” I scowled as I rubbed my shoulder, angry at the bruise yet to form and the dream that had apparently lured me straight off the edge of my own bed. “Elves? Penguins? How the hell did I fall for that?”

On the wall, the cuckoo popped out of the clock, his bird call wonky and well off-key.

I looked up at him and muttered, “At least you’re real. Even if you are in need of a fine-tune, or some Prozac, perhaps even some therapy. Join the club.”

He warbled another weird cuckoo, as if agreeing to the idea, then disappeared inside his little ticking birdhouse once more.

Bleary-eyed I read the time.

The clock told me it was just before seven.

Contrary to my dream, it was not late in the day on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t even Christmas Eve yet. It was morning, and outside my bedroom windows I saw a flurry of snow, the mistletoe-adorned streetlamps still aglow waiting for the sun to rise. As my senses caught up with reality, I realized that Christmas was still five days away.

“Five days,” I murmured to myself. “That means…”

Instantly my phone blurted to life, buzzing with such urgency that it vibrated itself off the bedside table.

I caught it before it hit the floorboards like I did.

I knew it was my mother before I even looked at the caller ID, and took the call to hear my overly excited mother announcing, “Five days to go, Benji! It’s T-minus five days till Christmas morning. The clock is ticking, but don’t panic. We’ve drawn up the schedule, everyone has their jobs to do, and I just know this is going to be the most perfect Christmas ever.” She ended her sentence with a high-pitched squee that forced me to hold the phone away from my ear for a few seconds.

“Mom, you say that every year.”

“And every year it is the most perfect Christmas ever. Your father and I just keep raising the bar, don’t we?”

“Except for the Christmas when that snowstorm shut down the power and we all almost froze to death,” I reminded her.

“Oh, but how lovely it was to sing carols by candlelight.”

“And what about the time Dad brought a Christmas tree home and there was a family of woodpeckers living in it?”

“And weren’t they just the cutest?”

“And let’s never forget the Christmas when Uncle Bernie choked on a sugar cookie and died.”

“Well, yes, that was unfortunate.”

“Mom, he was still dressed as Santa Claus! Do you know what that does to a six-year-old?”

“Like I said, we’ve raised the bar since then. Now are you coming for breakfast so we can go through the family roster? I’m making waffles, your father has mastered Excel bedsheets and worked out the family job roster, and your cousin Connie will be finished her tantric yoga any minute.”

“Spreadsheets, Mom. Excel does spreadsheets, not bedsheets.”

“Oh potato, potarto, what do I know. That’s why your father’s so clever. He’s nailed it, you know.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“That’s the spirit, sweetie. Christmas is all about believing. Now get a shuffle on and get yourself over here before the waffles go cold. And be sure you turn up with a chipper smile on that handsome dial of yours. Tis the season to be jolly, remember?”

To say that my parents, Lonnie and Ronnie, were fans of Christmas was something of an understatement. They were the type of people who looked forward to it all year round. Mom usually had all her Christmas shopping done by July, and cards written and ready well before the snow began to fall, although Mom didn’t like to deliver them to the people of Mulligan’s Mill until just before Christmas Day. She had a theory that the cards which arrived just before Christmas always received the best spot on the mantle, while cards that had arrived days or weeks earlier always got shoved to the back. Meanwhile, my dad put up the majority of Christmas fixtures the same day he took the Halloween decorations down, replacing ghosts and goblins with elves and reindeer. In a matter of minutes, the cobweb-covered tombstones in the front yard became a nativity scene, white-sheeted ghosts were replaced with inflatable snowmen, and the pumpkins lining the front porch were turned into pie, making way for angels with trumpets and signs that read Santa Stop Here and Grinch-Free Zone!

And then there were the lights that adorned the house, blanketing the roof and spiraling up and down the porch posts. Every morning Dad insisted on checking every single bulb in case any of them had blown, threatening to short-out the entire tapestry of twinkling lights.

I sighed over the phone, wondering what jobs I would receive on this year’s Larson family Christmas job roster. The thought of it was almost enough for me to make an excuse to skip breakfast. I was a terrible liar, but it was worth a shot.

“Actually, Mom. I can’t make it this morning.”

“Why on earth not, dear?”

“Because… um… because.” I remembered Maggie was all by herself, since Mitch, Gage, and Ginny had been invited to Washington DC for some fancy Christmas shindig, while Bud and Pascal had already left to spend Christmas in the south of France. “Because Maggie needs my help closing up the flower shop for the holidays.”

The fib seemed rather authentic, until my mother laughed down the line. “Oh Benji, don’t be silly darling. I know you’re making that up.”

“How?”

“Because I invited Maggie to join us here for breakfast. She’s at a complete loss without Mitch and Gage and Ginny, not to mention how desperately she wanted to join Bud and Pascal in the south of France. She practically broke her neck trying to squeeze into their suitcase so she could smuggle herself away with them. The poor dear needs family around her at this time of year.”

“Maggie is spending Christmas with us?”

“Yes.”

“But she’s not family.”

“She is this year, dear. We’ll just pretend.”

“Can’t some other family pretend? Why us?”

“Because we offered.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s what you do at Christmas time. You open your home up to the homeless.”

“Mom, Maggie’s not homeless. And since when have you ever opened your home to the homeless? Name one person.”

“Your cousin Connie.”

“Connie’s not homeless. She could have a place of her own if she could be bothered to get a job.”

“Oh darling, promise me you’re not one of those people who tells the destitute to get a job. You don’t kick over their cups full of coins, do you? I raised you better than that.”

“No, Mother, I do not abuse homeless people.”

“Good, because Christmas is all about being kind to your fellow man. And that includes Maggie, not that she’s a man, but she does need something to distract her right now. Which is why your father and I decided to add her to the Christmas job roster. We’ve already found the perfect job for her.”

“What is it? Please don’t let her near any electrical sockets.”

“All will be revealed over waffles, now get a wriggle on, would you?”

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way.”

I knew all too well that the sign referring to Mom and Dad’s house as a “Grinch-Free Zone” was my parents’ way of telling me to cheer up for the holidays. But while I had no intention of ever competing with the constant level of cheer and happiness that radiated from my parents like rainbow sparkles emanating from a baby unicorn galloping through a field of daises in spring, I was also pretty confident that I wasn’t the grumpiest human being to ever walk the earth.

Was I?

Sure, I could admit there was a certain air of gloom and despondency about me some days… or most days… but hell, I deserved to be glum after you-know-who up and left me precisely three years, four months, and six days ago.

But who was counting?

Nevertheless, even the darkest shadows of the past couldn’t dull the glimmer and shimmer of Mulligan’s Mill during the Christmas season. Despite all my moodiness and broodiness, despite everything that had happened to me in the past, there was no denying that this tiny town in the middle of the woods always managed to transform itself into the picture-perfect vision of a snow-capped Christmas village worthy of any “Seasons Greetings” postcard.

Pine trees adorned with fairy lights, and brightly colored, life-sized Nutcracker Princes carved out of wood, lined the pavements. The streetlamps had been turned into giant candy canes. Wreaths with large red bows hung on every door. And in the middle of the town park, a short distance from Winnie’s Wishing Well, stood the town Christmas tree. It loomed large, no less than three-stories tall, and was decorated with tinsel and twinkling lights, as well as ornaments representing the first eight items from the twelve days of Christmas— eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and perched at the very top was a partridge… not in a pear tree, but a pine tree. Harry Dalton— being the head of the town Christmas Committee, not to mention head of the Volunteer Fire Department and owner of Harry’s Hardware — was in charge of adding the other items from the song to the tree, one day at a time, until twelve drummers would finally be positioned in a ring around the base of the tree on Christmas morning.

Yes, Mulligan’s Mill was a sight so pretty at this time of year that I decided to sling a scarf around my neck and walk the short distance through town to my parents’ house. I even embraced the merriment by searching for a Christmas playlist on my phone, slipping on my headphones— which conveniently doubled as earmuffs— and playing Sia’s catchy Christmas track “ Candy Cane Lane .”

I passed along the riverbank where the ice shelves forming along the sides of the river competed with the cold flowing water for dominance.

I wandered by Raven’s General Store where a week earlier Old Man Raven and his son River had fixed a dusty old sleigh to the roof, as the old man did every year, proud of his efforts to join the town in celebration, even if the sun-blistered Santa dummy in the sleigh looked more like a red-suited scarecrow from some cornfield of death.

I strolled along the edge of the park where I saw Harry checking on his prized tree, its branches powdered with snow.

I momentarily slipped the headphones down around my neck. “Morning, Harry. The tree looks swell.”

“You think so? Thanks, Benji.” Harry grinned and scratched his bushy brown beard. It crossed my mind that he’d make a mighty handsome Mr. Claus if that beard ever turned gray.

It also crossed my mind that instead of wallowing in the misery of my ex-boyfriend leaving me, perhaps I should be putting myself out there more. You know, meeting guys. Going on dates. Seeing if there really was life after Bastian. Harry was a good-looking guy. Maybe in some parallel universe I was happy snuggling up to him in his log cabin on the outskirts of town.

Then again, I reminded myself, Harry wasn’t even gay.

At least, he’d never done or said anything before to indicate he was that way inclined.

Then again, I never really thought Mitch was gay either, until he came back to town and got together with Gage, who I also hadn’t pegged as a friend of Dorothy.

Then there was Bud, the ex-mechanic-turned-florist. He wasn’t exactly on my bingo card either, nor was River, the town’s wartime hero.

“Geez, is my gaydar on the fritz?” I asked myself. I glanced back at Harry who winked back at me and gave me a little farewell salute with two fingers. “God, I’ll never get another boyfriend if I can’t figure out who’s gay and who’s not.”

Slowly my chipped and cracked heart sank a little, because the sad fact was, I didn’t really want another boyfriend. I thought I’d found “the one.”

The problem was, my “one” simply didn’t feel the same about me.

I slipped my headphones back on to try and drown out my woes. I picked up my pace and within minutes I was standing at the white picket fence outside my parents’ house. I pulled my headphones down around my neck again. In the front yard I waved “hi” to Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus, then gave a nod to Frosty the Snowman who needed a little more air blown into his butt. At the front door I untied my bootlaces, slipped my woolly-socked feet out of my boots, pulled my key out of my pocket and opened the front door.

“Hi, I’m here,” I called into the house.

I was instantly greeted by excited shouts from within.

“He’s here, everyone! Benji’s home!” called my mother.

“Benji’s here, everyone,” echoed my dad. “Here’s Benji!” He appeared first around the living room doorway, a big grin on his face. “Aw, come here, son. Bring it in.”

“Hey Dad.” He pulled me in for a hug. “How’s everything going?”

“Busier than ever, what with the Christmas roster and the bedsheets—”

“Spreadsheets.”

“Spreadsheets. Yes those. Busy, busy. Thank goodness Pascal decided to close the patisserie for Christmas. I’m not sure your mother and I could have coped holding down a part-time job and getting everything ready for Christmas at the same time. We would have had to quit one, and Santa stops for nobody, right?” He laughed loudly. “Am I right? Nobody quits Christmas, right?”

At that moment, Mom appeared wiping her hands on her apron. “Who’s quitting Christmas?” she said, a tone of devastation in her voice.

“Nobody, dear,” Dad told her. “Nobody quits Christmas. Am I right?”

“You’re right, Ronnie darling. Nobody quits Christmas.”

Dad finally released me so that Mom could have her turn at a cuddle. “Benji, sweetie. You’re all snowflakey. Did you walk here? What’s the matter with your car? Does it need fixing? Are you having trouble paying your mechanic bill because nobody’s checked into the BnB these holidays… again?”

“Mom, the car’s fine. My bills are fine. It was such a beautiful morning, and the snow was falling so light and delicate, I thought I’d walk.”

Mom looked happy… and impressed. “Well, look at you, embracing the holiday cheer. Good for you, darling. Now come on through, breakfast is almost ready, and Connie should be well and truly done with her yoga.” Looking up at the ceiling, Mom shouted to the void upstairs. “Connie! Your cousin Benji is here! Come on down, sweetie!”

I heard the pounding of Connie’s feet on the stairs and braced myself, trembling a little on the inside as she let out a loud and squealy, “Cuzzzzz! Oh, look at you, you’re cuter than an Elf on a shelf! Is that the Christmas sweater I bought you last year? I’m pretty sure that’s the one I gave you.”

“Connie, you’ve never given me a sweater for Christmas.”

“Sure, I did. I made you take off your shirt in front of everyone and try it on, remember?”

“That never happened.”

“It didn’t? Huh. I must have dreamed it then.” She winked and gave me a hard slap on the ass that made me squeak like a rubber toy. “Maybe this year.”

While Mom and Dad were also wearing Christmas sweaters— Dad’s read “Santa, I’ve been naughty,” and Mom’s read “It’s a good thing I’ve been nice”— Connie herself was dressed in her usual hippie style, wearing faded bell-bottom jeans with a knitted shawl draped around her shoulders and a tie-dyed scarf wrapped around her blonde Farrah Fawcett locks.

She gave her hair a flirty toss with one hand and took me by the forearm with the other. “Come on, Cuz. Help me choose another record. Your Mom’s been playing Bette Midler’s Christmas album all morning. If I hear ‘ Mele Kalikimaka ’ one more time…”

“Oh, that’s my favorite Christmas song ever!” Mom exclaimed, swiveling her hips as though she was wearing a hula skirt. “Maybe we should all go to Hawaii for Christmas one year. Wouldn’t that be fun, everyone? Oh, do you think we’ll see Santa on a surfboard? Imagine that.” By now, we had followed my hula dancing mother into the living room. “I could make pina-colada eggnog and your father could do a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth. Poor little dear, we can pray to the Hawaiian gods that it lived a happy life. Speaking of which…”

Mom spotted Great Nan sitting in her oversized armchair in a corner of the living room, motionless in the glow of the colored lights blinking in the Christmas tree that towered beside her.

Great Nan’s head was slumped on her chest…

Her arms had gone limp, dangling lifelessly over the padded arms of the chair…

And her dead, wide open eyes stared vacantly across the room at the record spinning on the player, while Bette sang merrily to a chorus of strumming ukeleles.

I gulped with dread. “Mom? Dad? Is Great Nan…?”

Mom swatted my unfinished question away with a wave of her hand. “Oh darling, of course not. She’s just sleeping with her eyes open again.”

With a snappy stride, as though she had other more important jobs to cross off her list, Mom walked over to Great Nan, reached for the lever on the side of the chair, and gave the leg rest a good ratchet up and down until Great Nan’s head bobbed awake with a start and a splutter.

“Great Nan!” said my mother with the volume turned way up. “Are you still with us? You were sleeping with your eyes awake again.”

Great Nan’s eyes blinked with surprise. “I was? Well shit, I must have dozed off. I dreamed that I was floating toward the light, only it wasn’t just one light, there were lots of them, all of them calling to me.”

Mom jangled a branch on the tree beside Great Nan. “It was just the Christmas lights in the tree, Great Nan. You were practically staring straight at them.”

Disappointment washed over Great Nan’s face. “I thought it was the lights of Heaven?”

“No, Great Nan. These are the lights of Walmart. Now, no more dozing off, we’re about to have our annual Larson Family Christmas Planning meeting.”

Great Nan shuddered visibly. “I think I’d rather clean my ears out with a shovel.”

Mom ignored her and helped Great Nan out of her chair and over to the dining table.

Connie meanwhile dragged me over to the record player and pulled me down into a kneeling position beside her like we were kids again, mesmerized by the spinning record on the turntable. That was the thing about Connie; despite the fact that she was almost forty and a good ten years older than me, she had never lost the kind of childish charm that had dimmed inside me long ago. While her libido and sexual energy had well and truly matured, her carefree nature and love of all things fun and cheerful made me wish I’d inherited the joy gene in the family like her… and Mom… and Dad. As I glanced at my family, it seemed the only thing that got passed down to me was Great Nan’s cantankerous sarcasm.

Of course, it wasn’t always that way.

I was once joyful too, seeing nothing but the bright side of any situation.

That is, until three years, four months, and six days ago.

But that’s another story.