The days leading up to Christmas got colder and darker. Near the solstice, with the sun low in the southern sky, not much light filtered down through the trees to their little cabin. The creek remained full and clear from the recent rains and everything was wet, damp, or mildewed. The weather put a moratorium on Marty’s adventures with William and his “pencils” at school, where it was harder to get away from the wet asphalt playground. When it wasn’t raining, a heavy mist still hung over the entire San Geronimo Valley. In the narrow canyons of Lagunitas, the redwoods drank deeply through trillions of tiny mouths after a long, dry summer.
Waking up in the morning was getting to be an ordeal, with the heat turned off all night to save propane. Marty could actually see his breath when he stuck his face outside his sleeping bag! In his own bedroom, no less!! He developed an elaborate technique of curling the blankets into a tunnel so he could breathe fresh air while snuggled deep in his own body warmth. With one eye on the clock, he’d wait as long as he could, then leap out of his warm womb into the frigid air, wrapping his thin bathrobe tightly around his skinny body, and dashing to the barefoot burner in the kitchen. The blissfully warm sensation of spreading his legs over the grill and letting the heat rise into his bathrobe was indescribable.
“Yer gonna cook yer nuts like that,” Otter would say whenever he saw him thawing. He, Rabbit, and Freyja were staying in the living room during the colder nights. Marty didn’t care – the precious warmth felt so good, he could deal with chestnuts roasting on a barefoot burner.
On a strange and stormy night, he learned what it was like to be a dog on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, deep in that narrow canyon where the segmented asphalt tapeworm twisted through the trees. The wind whipped through the open course of the roadway, twisting the young alders and turning their leaves upside down. He was walking on the side of the road after crossing the McAuliffe’s bridge, heading for a neighbor’s house to find his mom, when the roar of a gunning motor startled him from behind. A truck was passing a car on a blind turn, and both vehicles zoomed past him at the same time. The whoosh of air lifted Marty clear off his feet, and threw him headlong into the White Horse’s fence! At first, he just sat there, stunned for a moment; vaguely recalling his short but dreamlike flight, and wondering how he’d gotten tangled in the fence. Suddenly, he realized he couldn’t feel his right arm! Omigod, he was hit!! He picked himself out of the bushes and took a quick inventory of his body parts, but they were all still attached. In startled anger, he waited to see if either driver would return, but the road was silent. The back of his right arm was numb, and while walking the rest of the way to get his mom, he rubbed it gingerly, thanking all the forest gods that it was a chilly night and he was wearing a thick corduroy jacket he’d recently found in an abandoned car.
Marge was astonished and concerned far beyond what was appropriate for the situation, given that 10 minutes had already passed. She wanted to jump in her truck and hunt those drivers down, but they were long gone, and Marty couldn’t describe either vehicle, anyway. He recalled a peripheral glimpse of a large pickup truck with extended mirrors, and one of them must have clipped his arm as it hurtled past. He wondered if they even saw him – but they must have, if only for a moment – and yet neither driver bothered to stop and check if he was okay. His arm wound up with a big purple bruise on the triceps, but thankfully nothing was broken. Being young and active, the pain went away quickly, although it took a long time for the color to completely disappear.
The Christmas season was busy at the pet store, so Marty helped out as much as he could, and enjoyed making a little extra money. Half of it he gave to his mom for a refill of propane, so he could roast his nuts some more over the heater grate. The other half would be for Christmas presents, including the one in the plastic baggie he’d bought from Michael for himself. When school let out for the holidays he could work at the pet store full time, which was an added bonus because it was so warm! Sometimes, after a particularly chilly night at the Rusty Bucket Ranch, all he wanted to do was get inside one of the big tropical fish tanks and soak.
The day before Christmas was the busiest time of all, because many customers had a puppy, kitten, or other critter on layaway, so they wouldn’t have to hide it at home. Marty worked more hours than ever before. It was officially the onset of the affliction known as trading his life for money. Everyone came in to pick up their gifts and animals at the last minute, and the place resembled a liquor store being looted by a mob. Even Susie helped out by being a gopher (instead of a grunion). There was only one cash register, and that was the inevitable bottleneck, because Pat was the slowest at operating “that newfangled thing,” but insisted on being the only one to handle the money.
Late that night, they all drove home thoroughly exhausted and collapsed into bed. The next morning they woke up, rubbed their eyes, and said, “Oh, it’s Christmas.” Otter was celebrating with a beer for breakfast, and he raised his bottle in a Yuletide salute. Tim was there, too, flipping flapjacks and looking quite at home in the galley, as if he was part of the family. Marty could tell he had nowhere else to go for Christmas, and his heart went out to him. They had another tree, decorated in the same free-form style that defied the commandments of G.O.D., but nobody had any presents wrapped yet. After breakfast they all disappeared into their rooms and prepared the few gifts, then reconvened around the tree to open them. Marty got some warm socks (for which he was very grateful), a hunting knife from Otter, and a cool soapstone pipe from Tim. “How many 14-year-olds are getting a pipe for Christmas?” he wondered idly to himself, but couldn’t wait to try it out – just the way boys back in Terra Linda were itching to ride their new bikes.
Good Ol’ Dad called to inform his subordinates that he would pick them up later that day, and Marty waited in the parking area so he could pilot him through the mud puddles. Not out of any sense of duty, mind you. He mostly wanted to see how His Majesty reacted after having to drive his Porsche over the hungry road. It was named “Park Road” on maps, but that was too unoriginal, so Marty referred to it the “the hungry road” because it liked to eat tires, hubcaps, and small vehicles. The county officially listed their parcel on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, because there used to be a bridge across the creek that had washed away, decades ago. The water district thought they lived on Bottini Road, which was the name they used when they phoned to do some work on the water conduit that crossed the Inkwells and ran the length of their property under the old railroad bed. Even the Sheriff and Fire Department knew how to find them, but G.O.D. himself got lost. He arrived over an hour late, and Marty could see through the windshield that he had definitely lost his holiday cheer.
Instead of a hearty “Merry Christmas,” he greeted his son with, “What the hell kind of a place does your mother have, here? Look at my tires!” Even his hubcaps were muddy. Marty stifled the urge to giggle as the cartoon deity surveyed the brown, undulating driveway, with its funky garbage enclosure, and junked cars scattered around in the puddles like a giant child’s forgotten toys. His hyper-critical eye followed the rivulet of runoff from the mud, cascading all the way down the walkway to the dilapidated red shack, and then he turned to Marty in utter disbelief. For one singular moment in the unfolding of the universe, G.O.D. was utterly speechless.
Marty just shrugged, “Welcome to the Rusty Bucket Ranch,” and went down to get his sisters, not caring if his father followed. (He got back in his car.) When they returned to the driveway, he was delicately trying to turn the tiny vehicle around without getting stuck in the muck. Julie waved at him and pointed to back the car up to the gravel so they could get in without tracking mud in his car, but by that time he was furious.
“Just get in the car!” he yelled, with the cords in his neck standing out, and eyes popping from exasperation. The three kids quickly squeezed into the tiny interior, trying hard not to touch anything with their shoes, which was of course impossible. “Wait!” he barked, and spread a newspaper on the floor while Julie lifted her feet.
“Merry Christmas,” she said with prickly sarcasm, but he was oblivious to the mockery. He just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible, and struggled to get the gearshift out of reverse. The gears grinded, and he swore without restraint. Susie withered in the back seat. There was no place at all to hide, so she made as if to shrink inside of her own clothes.
He delicately maneuvered his Porsche around the many potholes and puddles, scraping its bottom in places and gnashing his teeth. When he got to the heavily rutted, tire-chewing part of the road, he stopped and made them all get out because his car was built very low to the ground, and their combined weight might cause them to get stuck. As a general barking commands, he informed his unenthusiastic platoon that he was now driving to the end of the road, and they should all march down and meet him.
“Let’s just go home,” Susie voiced all their thoughts as the little red car crawled slowly away like a wounded ladybug. She turned her hopeful eyes to Julie, to whom they often deferred whenever an unpleasant decision had to be made.
“C’mon, let’s just get our presents,” their big sister said bitterly, and kicked a stone. With a notable lack of enthusiasm, they all trudged down to the end of the muddy passage, past Bug-Eye Bill’s house. The front window was open and a loud, drunken voice was singing too many off-key “Fa-la-la-la-las.” Marty was so filled with the Christmas spirit, he could have cried. Susie was sniffling already, and they hadn’t even left Lagunitas yet!
With the sullen resignation of the condemned, they dragged their feet to where an angry G.O.D. was waiting with the engine running, and sullenly squeezed back into the car. The awkward ride to his apartment in Greenbrae was stiff and silent, except for the jazzy old holiday tunes on his radio. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” crooned sadly, as the poor, mistreated Porsche limped into its concrete carport pad, and the kids gratefully clambered out to stretch their cramped legs. As if to chastise them for being a burden, their dad made them wait, just so he could listen to the rest of the song. It was painfully obvious that he preferred Judy Garland’s company to that of his children.
When they all finally got inside his tacky bachelor’s pad, it projected as a boring home movie of last Christmas on faded celluloid. The dreary film flickered its images of the same old scratchy sweaters, accompanied by an old-fashioned soundtrack. The director was conveying a mood that there was something else he’d rather be doing, like washing his car. They went through the motions of opening their presents, eating greasy hamburgers at Denny’s, and being driven back home in stilted silence; as if they were returning from a funeral. Not even the upbeat Christmas carols on the radio could make their spirits bright. Marty didn’t even mind when they were dropped off at the end of their road to walk the rest of the way home in the dark – the faster to escape the stifling wrath of G.O.D. That was the last time His Lordship ever visited the Rusty Bucket Ranch. They had officially been forsaken.