A Moonlight Christmas Carol, Ch 2 (PG-13)
Posted: Sun Dec 13, 2009 7:37 pm
A/N: I’m guessing since this is chapter two, you’ve already seen the author’s note beginning chapter one. If for some unknown reason, you didn’t read the first chapter first, you probably should.
As far as the formal stuff goes, I guess I owe apologies to Mr. Charles Dickens, and the disclaimer that as usual, I don’t own Moonlight, or any of its characters, here is…the second part of my version of:
A Moonlight Christmas Carol
Chapter 2
Christmas Eve, 1984
“Mick St. John.” The voice calling my name woke me, and I started up, surprised. I knew the voice, but she wasn’t usually so formal. I think the nicest thing she’d called me the last time we spoke was “ungrateful son of a bitch.”
Coraline Duvall. Or as she sometimes signed it, Mrs. St. John.
As you’ve gathered, we don’t always get along so well. It had been a couple of years since I’d seen her. 26 months, two weeks and three days, not that I was counting.
She was wearing some complicated white flowing dress, not like her usual style, which ran to tight, black or red, and revealing. She looked a lot like she had the day we got married, back in 1952.
“Aren’t you going to say hello, Mick?”
“Hello, Coraline.”
Her scarlet mouth curved into a smile. “I’m not Coraline.”
“Oh. Changed your name?”
She shook her head, that damned teasing, bewitching smile firmly in place. “I’m not her, Mick. I just look like her.”
I cocked an eyebrow. This was a little strange, even for Coraline.
“I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” she said, a little annoyed that I hadn’t asked.
I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Okay, I really should have known better. Laughing at Coraline, or even a reasonable facsimile of her—never a good idea.
“You always were the stubborn one,” she said. She floated over to me, that white dress moving like something in a dream. “Touch my sleeve.”
“What?”
“The sleeve, Mick,” she said impatiently. “We don’t have all night. Just touch it.”
Well, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever asked me to do. I put a hand out and laid it on her arm.
I’m not sure how to describe what happened next. Closest I can come is that it was like being pulled through a waterfall, out of reality, and then being dumped back into it with a jolt. Thing was, it wasn’t the same reality.
We were standing on the sidewalk in front of a row of old houses. After a second, I recognized the neighborhood where I grew up. I’ve got to say, the place looked exactly the same as I remembered. I hadn’t even driven down the street here in years, thinking someone might see me. For all I knew, Ray and Lilah still lived in his family’s old house, just down the block.
Now here I was, standing out in full sunshine across the street from where I used to live. It was winter sunshine, weak, but it was still too much. It should be, anyway. I started to put a hand up to block the light, and the Coraline-spirit laughed.
“Sunlight can’t hurt you here,” she said.
“So tell me what we’re doing.”
She cocked her head to one side, the way she always did when she wanted something from me. “Oh, come on, Mick. You know the story. Use those detective skills of yours.”
“We’re in the past?” I checked the street again. There weren’t many cars moving, but the ones I could see were all early ’30s vintage. Some older than that.
I was about to comment when the screen door across the street squealed—apparently I’d remember that noise forever—and my mom’s voice floated out into the morning. “Michael, don’t you let that screen door—“ Bang! The door slammed as a boy darted out onto the porch, a baseball glove on one hand. He was ten, maybe eleven, tops.
“Sorry, Mom,” he called out, and I knew from the careless tone of his—my—voice that he wasn’t sorry at all, as he galloped down the front steps into the yard.
I couldn’t hear Mom’s sigh, but I remembered it well enough. I’d heard it often, growing up.
Three doors down, another kid was hitting the street.
“Ray! Hey, Ray!” my younger self called out.
The other boy waved, then shoved his empty hands into his pockets as young Mick ran up to him.
“Hey, Ray, Santa—well, Pop—got me this swell glove. He said he guessed my hands would be growing soon, and I—“ He noticed for the first time that his friend’s expression was sober. “Your mom?”
Ray nodded. “She’s sick again.”
“Aw, gee, Ray, I’m sorry. And on Christmas, too.”
“Yeah, well, my dad says I’m getting too old for this Christmas stuff anyway. It’s just another day. I s’pose he’s right.”
The boy I used to be, nodded and looked thoughtful.
I’d been concentrating on the boys, and didn’t notice the girl skipping down the sidewalk to them. Mick and Ray noticed, though.
“Hey Ray, hey Mick,” she said.
Ray gave her a smile. “Hey, Lilah.”
“We’re busy,” Mick said. I wasn’t always so gracious as a kid, I guess, and I wondered about the point of all this. The Coraline-spirit seemed to read my mind.
“Just keep watching,” she said.
Young Mick seemed to make a decision, and turned his glove over to show a large red apple tucked into the palm of it. “My mom gave me this apple. You want to share it?”
Ray nodded. “Lilah, too?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s Christmas. Lilah, too.”
And I watched the three of them walk up to the front stoop, and sit on the steps while Mick pulled out his pocketknife, and started to cut the apple into thirds.
I could hear Mom coming to the door, and had a sudden flash of memory of her bringing us Christmas cookies, her special ones decorated with red and green sugar, but before I saw her, the day grayed, and shifted.
“Wait!”
“Can’t do it, Mick. You need to see some other Christmases.”
We were standing in the middle of the living room, beside a Christmas tree, and my mother was crying while a version of me somewhere between the boy and fully grown stood in front of her, looking defensive.
“I had to do it, Mom. I had to enlist. It’s war.”
1941, then.
Mom sagged into a chair. “And you chose to tell me on Christmas?”
“I report for basic training tomorrow. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her. “Mom, it’s going to be all right. I’ll be in the same outfit with Ray—we’ll take care of each other.”
“Ray, too? He’s leaving Lilah?”
“It’s the right thing to do, Mom. And I’ll come back to you, I promise. I’ll always come back.”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed. “It won’t be Christmas again, until you do.”
I couldn’t look anymore. I turned to Coraline, or the ghost, whatever she was. “I’ve seen enough. Get me out of here.”
She nodded. “One more stop, and I’ll take you back home, Mick.”
Somehow I wasn’t even surprised when the final stop on this tour turned out to be a house I recognized too well. Coraline’s glass castle, dominating the landscape from its hilltop. There was a fire in the open fireplace, and soft jazz playing in the background. Coraline was pouring drinks at the sideboard, and I—my age now, as I would be forever, but still mortal—was sitting on the couch, legs crossed awkwardly. It made me a little crazy, just to see the way my mortal self was watching Coraline. But I was like that, in 1951. Before I knew the real Coraline.
“I still don’t see why you couldn’t come over to my folks’ place for Christmas dinner,” past Mick was saying. “I know, it’s a little tame, but they’d like to meet you.”
Coraline shrugged, looking beautiful as always in one of those fancy hostess/lounging get-ups rich women used to wear back then, her hair curling around her face in a way that still made me want to sweep it aside and cover her with kisses. “It’s just not the right time, Mick,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal.”
Then-Mick smiled at her, willing to forgive anything. “I want to show off my best girl,” he said. “Can’t blame a guy for that, can you?”
I’d forgotten the effect the sight of her with flames making the highlights of her dark hair dance used to have on me. She handed then-Mick a drink, then nestled down beside him on the couch. “There now,” she said, “isn’t this cozy? Do we really need anyone else?”
He laughed down at her, and put his untouched drink aside. “Yeah, it’ll be Christmas again before I know it. Mom and Pop can wait.”
The Coraline-spirit shook her head. “You were so easy, Mick.” And there wasn’t even that gray gap, this time. We were simply back in my apartment, in 1984. Or I was. Coraline was nowhere to be seen.
I was alone.
As far as the formal stuff goes, I guess I owe apologies to Mr. Charles Dickens, and the disclaimer that as usual, I don’t own Moonlight, or any of its characters, here is…the second part of my version of:
A Moonlight Christmas Carol
Chapter 2
Christmas Eve, 1984
“Mick St. John.” The voice calling my name woke me, and I started up, surprised. I knew the voice, but she wasn’t usually so formal. I think the nicest thing she’d called me the last time we spoke was “ungrateful son of a bitch.”
Coraline Duvall. Or as she sometimes signed it, Mrs. St. John.
As you’ve gathered, we don’t always get along so well. It had been a couple of years since I’d seen her. 26 months, two weeks and three days, not that I was counting.
She was wearing some complicated white flowing dress, not like her usual style, which ran to tight, black or red, and revealing. She looked a lot like she had the day we got married, back in 1952.
“Aren’t you going to say hello, Mick?”
“Hello, Coraline.”
Her scarlet mouth curved into a smile. “I’m not Coraline.”
“Oh. Changed your name?”
She shook her head, that damned teasing, bewitching smile firmly in place. “I’m not her, Mick. I just look like her.”
I cocked an eyebrow. This was a little strange, even for Coraline.
“I’m the ghost of Christmas past,” she said, a little annoyed that I hadn’t asked.
I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Okay, I really should have known better. Laughing at Coraline, or even a reasonable facsimile of her—never a good idea.
“You always were the stubborn one,” she said. She floated over to me, that white dress moving like something in a dream. “Touch my sleeve.”
“What?”
“The sleeve, Mick,” she said impatiently. “We don’t have all night. Just touch it.”
Well, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing she’d ever asked me to do. I put a hand out and laid it on her arm.
I’m not sure how to describe what happened next. Closest I can come is that it was like being pulled through a waterfall, out of reality, and then being dumped back into it with a jolt. Thing was, it wasn’t the same reality.
We were standing on the sidewalk in front of a row of old houses. After a second, I recognized the neighborhood where I grew up. I’ve got to say, the place looked exactly the same as I remembered. I hadn’t even driven down the street here in years, thinking someone might see me. For all I knew, Ray and Lilah still lived in his family’s old house, just down the block.
Now here I was, standing out in full sunshine across the street from where I used to live. It was winter sunshine, weak, but it was still too much. It should be, anyway. I started to put a hand up to block the light, and the Coraline-spirit laughed.
“Sunlight can’t hurt you here,” she said.
“So tell me what we’re doing.”
She cocked her head to one side, the way she always did when she wanted something from me. “Oh, come on, Mick. You know the story. Use those detective skills of yours.”
“We’re in the past?” I checked the street again. There weren’t many cars moving, but the ones I could see were all early ’30s vintage. Some older than that.
I was about to comment when the screen door across the street squealed—apparently I’d remember that noise forever—and my mom’s voice floated out into the morning. “Michael, don’t you let that screen door—“ Bang! The door slammed as a boy darted out onto the porch, a baseball glove on one hand. He was ten, maybe eleven, tops.
“Sorry, Mom,” he called out, and I knew from the careless tone of his—my—voice that he wasn’t sorry at all, as he galloped down the front steps into the yard.
I couldn’t hear Mom’s sigh, but I remembered it well enough. I’d heard it often, growing up.
Three doors down, another kid was hitting the street.
“Ray! Hey, Ray!” my younger self called out.
The other boy waved, then shoved his empty hands into his pockets as young Mick ran up to him.
“Hey, Ray, Santa—well, Pop—got me this swell glove. He said he guessed my hands would be growing soon, and I—“ He noticed for the first time that his friend’s expression was sober. “Your mom?”
Ray nodded. “She’s sick again.”
“Aw, gee, Ray, I’m sorry. And on Christmas, too.”
“Yeah, well, my dad says I’m getting too old for this Christmas stuff anyway. It’s just another day. I s’pose he’s right.”
The boy I used to be, nodded and looked thoughtful.
I’d been concentrating on the boys, and didn’t notice the girl skipping down the sidewalk to them. Mick and Ray noticed, though.
“Hey Ray, hey Mick,” she said.
Ray gave her a smile. “Hey, Lilah.”
“We’re busy,” Mick said. I wasn’t always so gracious as a kid, I guess, and I wondered about the point of all this. The Coraline-spirit seemed to read my mind.
“Just keep watching,” she said.
Young Mick seemed to make a decision, and turned his glove over to show a large red apple tucked into the palm of it. “My mom gave me this apple. You want to share it?”
Ray nodded. “Lilah, too?”
“Yeah, sure, it’s Christmas. Lilah, too.”
And I watched the three of them walk up to the front stoop, and sit on the steps while Mick pulled out his pocketknife, and started to cut the apple into thirds.
I could hear Mom coming to the door, and had a sudden flash of memory of her bringing us Christmas cookies, her special ones decorated with red and green sugar, but before I saw her, the day grayed, and shifted.
“Wait!”
“Can’t do it, Mick. You need to see some other Christmases.”
We were standing in the middle of the living room, beside a Christmas tree, and my mother was crying while a version of me somewhere between the boy and fully grown stood in front of her, looking defensive.
“I had to do it, Mom. I had to enlist. It’s war.”
1941, then.
Mom sagged into a chair. “And you chose to tell me on Christmas?”
“I report for basic training tomorrow. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew for sure.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her. “Mom, it’s going to be all right. I’ll be in the same outfit with Ray—we’ll take care of each other.”
“Ray, too? He’s leaving Lilah?”
“It’s the right thing to do, Mom. And I’ll come back to you, I promise. I’ll always come back.”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and sighed. “It won’t be Christmas again, until you do.”
I couldn’t look anymore. I turned to Coraline, or the ghost, whatever she was. “I’ve seen enough. Get me out of here.”
She nodded. “One more stop, and I’ll take you back home, Mick.”
Somehow I wasn’t even surprised when the final stop on this tour turned out to be a house I recognized too well. Coraline’s glass castle, dominating the landscape from its hilltop. There was a fire in the open fireplace, and soft jazz playing in the background. Coraline was pouring drinks at the sideboard, and I—my age now, as I would be forever, but still mortal—was sitting on the couch, legs crossed awkwardly. It made me a little crazy, just to see the way my mortal self was watching Coraline. But I was like that, in 1951. Before I knew the real Coraline.
“I still don’t see why you couldn’t come over to my folks’ place for Christmas dinner,” past Mick was saying. “I know, it’s a little tame, but they’d like to meet you.”
Coraline shrugged, looking beautiful as always in one of those fancy hostess/lounging get-ups rich women used to wear back then, her hair curling around her face in a way that still made me want to sweep it aside and cover her with kisses. “It’s just not the right time, Mick,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “I don’t know why it’s such a big deal.”
Then-Mick smiled at her, willing to forgive anything. “I want to show off my best girl,” he said. “Can’t blame a guy for that, can you?”
I’d forgotten the effect the sight of her with flames making the highlights of her dark hair dance used to have on me. She handed then-Mick a drink, then nestled down beside him on the couch. “There now,” she said, “isn’t this cozy? Do we really need anyone else?”
He laughed down at her, and put his untouched drink aside. “Yeah, it’ll be Christmas again before I know it. Mom and Pop can wait.”
The Coraline-spirit shook her head. “You were so easy, Mick.” And there wasn’t even that gray gap, this time. We were simply back in my apartment, in 1984. Or I was. Coraline was nowhere to be seen.
I was alone.