Manx- Calling from Christmasland

  The phone was on a separate line from the one in the house. It was comically referred to as “the business line.” No one ever called them on it.

  She dropped from the front seat, a good four feet to the concrete floor. She caught the phone on the third ring.

  “Carmody’s Car Carma,” she said.

  The phone was painfully cold. Her palm, clutching the receiver, made a pale frost halo on the plastic.

  There was a hiss, as if the call were coming from a great distance. In the background Vic heard carolers, the sounds of sweet children’s voices. It was a little early for that—mid-November.

  A boy said, “Um.”

  “Hello? Can I help you?”

  “Um. Yes,” the boy said. “I’m Brad. Brad McCauley. I’m calling from Christmasland.”

  She recognized the boy’s name but at first she couldn’t place it.

  “Brad,” she said. “Can I help you? Where did you say you’re calling from?”

  “From Christmasland, silly. You know who I am. I was in the car,” he said. “At Mr. Manx’s house. You remember. We had fun.”

  Her chest was icy. It was hard to breathe.

  “Oh, fuck you, kid,” she said. “Fuck you and your sick motherfucking joke.”

  “The reason I’m calling,” he said, “we’re all getting hungry. There hasn’t been anything to eat forever, and what’s the point of having all these teeth if you can’t use them on something?”

  “Call back and I’ll put the cops on you, you deranged fuck,” she said, and banged the phone down in the cradle.

- The Spirit of Ecstasy: Gunbarrel, Colorado