It was Christmas Eve and Leonard Hughes was the happiest he'd been in
years. His happiness stemmed not only from the natural joy of the
season, but from the freedom he'd won from alcohol addiction a few years
back, and now his newfound freedom from incarceration. His feeling of
exhilaration was in itself a sort of Christmas miracle; it had been a
long time since he'd had a good Christmas.
Driving along, Leonard couldn't take his eyes off the decorations he
passed. After four years in Reidsville penitentiary, he relished every
blinking light, every monotonous repetition of White Christmas and
Jingle Bells, and each and every plastic Santa. Even DeMario's ceaseless
bragging--which made it sound like he was a city father and not a crack
head on probation--didn't bother Leonard. After Reidsville, which was
kind of like a vacation paradise for coloreds, Leonard had gotten used
to such bragging.
Despite the December cold, Leonard had the driver's side window down,
for the fresh air, and the fact that the old van, used for errands and
to ferry other inhabitants of the half-way house to and from work
release jobs, smelled pretty funky. But that was okay; it had rained a
bit earlier, clearing the air, and the black asphalt was still wet,
causing the tires to sing pleasantly on the road. He watched the signs
pass by: hotels, motels, fast food--liquor stores. The road was a wet,
black mirror, reflecting the neon signs bordering the highway as
electric orange, blue, and green neon squiggles, and giving things an
even more festive look.
For doing this job, on Christmas Eve, he and DeMario got a food
allowance and twenty bucks apiece, both much needed. The food allowance
had already been squandered on Big Macs, fries and shakes. Leonard
would have gladly done tonight's chore for free. He'd been at the
half-way house for two weeks so far and hadn't been assigned to a steady
job on the work release program. It was enough to get out, see the
city, get some fresh air, and enjoy the Christmas atmosphere. He had
jumped at the offer. Besides, he did have another reason for being
out.
There were a lot of things he'd done without in prison.
Last week, as if in answer to his prayers, he'd met Emma Milroy, sister
of one of his roommates. Emma was a low light beauty: the lower the
light, the greater the beauty. Still, she looked a sight more appealing
than all them grinning sissies in Reidsville. She'd flirted openly with
him and made her intentions pretty obvious--rightly confident that her
feminine wiles were considerably increased by his years of
incarceration. Hearing he was to be out and about on Christmas Eve,
Emma gave him her address and told him to be sure and drop by, anytime
after six, after her shift at the Awful Waffle was over.
DeMario would be no problem, he had similar plans of his own.
"Wha' were you in fo, again, man?"
"Arson, mainly," Leonard told him for at least the third time, not
embellishing the essential charge. DeMario's short term memory was
screwed. That was what crack did. Fortunately, crack heads were
generally pretty easy going, provided they didn't carry a weapon and you
didn't tick 'em off. What Leonard was--had been--by profession, was a
house painter--save when times got real bad; then he dabbled a bit in
burglary and fencing hot car parts. The arson was a totally off the wall
thing.
"Shee-it. A pyro? Well, you got to through it to get to it, huh. Who
you burn up?"
"Nobody. They weren't home, thankfully." The "they" he referred to
were his then pregnant ex-wife and her lover. Leonard had wanted to
have kids. Thirteen years of marriage Sheila had been barren. A problem
with her plumbing, she explained without a lot of unnecessary medical
mumbo jumbo. Then, less than a year after the divorce, he'd run into her
and her lover--a behemoth of a carpet muncher named Janice--at the
electronic department at Wal Marts. Sheila was pregnant. Stunned,
Leonard had listened as she explained like it was old home week how,
with a turkey baster and some donated sperm, they'd acheived their
little miracle.
"But you always said . . ."
"Guess I sorta lied. Well," she giggled like the imbecile she was and
patted her stomach, "we gotta go. Lots of shopping to do. Merry
Christmas."
They disappeared into the crowd of Christmas shoppers. Stunned, Leonard
sat his shopping bags on the floor and walked away. After the divorce
he'd been hitting the bottle with everything he had. Fact was, he'd
always had a bit of a drinking problem. As a professional house
painter, that was more or less traditional; something in the paint
caused it, he'd heard an older painter-alcoholic explain once. But the
thing with Shelia really set him off. A contractor he worked for had
finally got him into AA, and he'd got on the wagon just in time for the
holidays. But after seeing Sheila pregnant, the ride was over; he left
the Wal Mart, found a bottle, and jumped off the wagon.
Three days later, after a seventy-two hour binge, he burned their
trailor down. He was surprised, later, thinking about it, that he'd even
been able to find their address, and in the dark, too. The cops found
him passed out in his truck, not a block away, motor running, tape
player blaring Merle Haggard's greatest hits. "She stole my durn life,"
Leonard kept repeating through his tears. One of the cops had a gun
pointed at Leonard. Crying, Leonard suddenly grabbed the cop's hand,
forced the barrel against his forehead, then begged the cop to shoot
him. The cop told him, deadpan and enjoying it, "Sorry, Bud. We ain't
allowed do that kind of thing at Christmas. You'd have to call the
State Patrol for that. It's jurisdictional, you understand, nothing
personal. Hell, I'd be glad to shoot you if it was up to me."
At the trial, he found out that Sheila and her friend weren't even home,
but at a Lamaze class.
Every since, he pretty well hated the holidays. In prison, anyway, it
didn't matter much, though the coloreds, calling it Kwanza, took to
singing and carrying on more than usual. At least he'd dried out in
jail, got a little therapy. So now, things were different. He had
another chance for life, a chance be of service to someone, to help
kids, even. Leonard took in a deep breath, saw the exit sign for
Lakeland Road up ahead and turned his blinker on.
Leonard found the county pound without any problem, turning on the first
road to the right after the water tower just like the instructions said.
A short, middle aged lady, cigarette cocked in her mouth like a
permanent wardrobe fixture, nodded perfunctorily to them as she unlocked
the gate and let them in.
"You guys from the half-way house? You twenty minutes late. I'm Mavis,
the caretaker. Pull around to the back, there." She pointed.
"Puppies? Right?" Each word came out with a puff of smoke.
"Seven of them," Leonard confirmed, glancing at the manifest he carried
because it made him feel important. He had seven colorful bows--in
either red, holly green, or plaid--and seven complimentary boxes of
Puppy Chow some store had donated, already in the truck.
"In here." She opened a door and flipped on a light, and the smell and
sound of dogs hit them.
"Uh, lets see . . ." Mavis walked to the enclosure's end, unconsciously
thumping the ashes from her cigarette onto the cement floor as she went.
"Ned Asher, runs this place. His brother 's on the city council 's how
he got this job. He never tells me crap. Ah, must be them here.
There's nine of 'em, right?"
"Seven," Leonard corrected.
"So just pick out seven you want, I guess. Or if you want extras, I
guess that's okay. Don't much matter to me."
DeMario bummed a cigarette from Mavis and both watched as Leonard got
down on his knees to pick up the puppies and examine them one by one.
Out of the cage, and in the less confined walkway, they were all over
him, furry exuberance, jumping, licking, and barking playfully, or
snapping at each other, or their own, short, stiff little tails.
"Alright," Leonard said, petting head after head, "Which of you needs a
home? Hey, what's your name fellow?" He scratched the dog behind the
ears. "Little Joe?" He'd had a dog named little Joe back in
Tennessee.
"Look, Mac, can't you get your jollies playing with them at home? I'd
like to get outta here sometime before next year."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Ma'am." Leonard stood. "They're not for us. We
delivering them for Christmas presents later tonight."
The director of the half-way house, in conjunction with some social
service agency or another, A Welfare to Work agency, or Women's Shelter,
or some such thing, had arranged for them to go to homes. These would
be mostly section eight housing in the suburbs, for abused or disabled
children who lived with single parent families. Leonard had the names
and addresses, a map clearly marked with a red route, and the whole
thing had already been cleared with the mothers. He and DeMario just had
to deliver the pups between eight and ten-thirty PM.
"You got boxes for 'em?"
"Boxes?" She flicked a cigarette to the floor and ground it out with
her heel. "This look like Macy's to you?"
"That's okay. Come here and help me, DeMario."
Smiling, DeMario picked up a skinny red pup and stoked it. "Say, these
is nice puppies. How much a nice puppy worth, you think? Why don't
we bring a few extra ones along?"
Reading DeMario's mind, Leonard didn't bother answering; he wasn't going
to have DeMario standing on a street corner on Christmas Eve selling
pound puppies for crack money. DeMario was a probation violation waiting
to happen, just a cup full of pee away from being back inside.
"Bet you wanna get high, don't you man?" DeMario addressed the puppy as
his intellectual equal. Mavis didn't seem to notice.
"Just drop me off at the housing project we passed 'bout two miles back,
Holmes. Pick me up when you finished. Okay?"
It was an apartment complex, actually, and a pretty upscale one; but to
DeMario, apparently, all multiple dwellings were equal. No harm, Leonard
figured, since dropping DeMario off--to hear him tell it-- was as safe
as releasing a snake in a swamp. And it was definitely agreeable to
Leonard, as he didn't think Emma would think it too cool if he brought
his erratic helpmate along.
After he let DeMario out, paying him his twenty bucks, Leonard put the
bows on the puppies, talking to each one as he did, and naming it; there
was, as well as Little Joe, Big Joe--who looked the same, brown and
black, some kind of Shepard mix, only bigger--Tawny, Shaggy, Ray--whose
heavy lidded eyes reminded him of a former cell mate of the same name;
Sheila, a female--for obvious reasons-- and Wolf, a lanky pup with
setter in his linage.
He looked at them, short tails wagging with enthusiasm, colorful
Christmas bows on--they would make some kids very happy. Leonard
smiled. He'd missed a lot of good things in life.
The pups seemed hungry. He couldn't open the boxes of puppy food, as
they were part of the Christmas package. He rummaged around in the
truck's pocket, found a pint of liquor in a paper bag, belonging to one
of the regulars on the day crew, and his hand lingered guiltily for a
moment before continuing. Finally, he found two packages of Hostess
Twinkies, which he divided as best he could among the puppies.
On the drive to Emma's, the pups settled down a bit. Little Joe, who
had a keen, intelligent look about him, jumped into the passenger seat
beside him and began watching the traffic, once in a while barking at
the oncoming lights. Soon, however, the pup began shivering. A breeze
was coming from the back of the van where; due to a slight accident, the
doors didn't close smoothly, leaving a crack at the bottom. Leonard
rolled his window most of the way up, which cut down the draft
considerably, then reached over and petted Little Joe with one hand as
he drove with the other.
Emma lived in a duplex on a remote two lane road that could just as
easily have been out somewhere in the sticks. It was only about a ten
minute drive from there to his first drop off point. Leonard hated to
leave the pups alone, in the cold, in the drafty old van, so he checked
the gas tank, then left the motor running and the heat turned up high.
He noted a certain smell, switched on the overhead and confirmed that
one of the pups had a little problem.
Perhaps Twinkies weren't the best thing to feed them. He'd be sure to
bring some paper towels out and clean them up before he began delivering
them. Thankfully, the plaid bow wouldn't show the stains as much as the
solid colored ones.
"Be back in a bit, Little Joe. I'm gonna make sure you get the best
home of all." He scratched the pup playfully behind its ear then locked
the van's doors.
Emma was glad to see him and wasted hardly no time on such formalities
as foreplay, which suited Leonard fine. They were both adults and knew
what they were there for. Besides, he'd had that little performance
anxiety problem after his divorce, so, he believed, once the artillery
was loaded and ready for the front line, the serious maneuvers should
begin at once, before the troops had a chance to go AWOL.
Afterwards, he left Emma snoring in her bedroom and let himself out.
Retrieving his coat from the arm of the sofa, he disturbed some mail
sitting on her end table. He picked the letters up and one caught his
attention. It was addressed to Ms. Emma Milroy and was marked "Urgent"
in bold red letters in the upper left hand corner. The return address
was the Twenty-first Street Health, Life, STD & AIDS Survival Clinic.
Third Notice was stamped below the address.
"Merry Christmas, Leonard" he hissed. "Merry bleeding Christmas! Damn,
damn damn. You just slept with Typhoid Mary, and . . ." He spit
several times then rubbed his shirt cuff against his tongue, wishing he
had some mouthwash. He had noticed some suspicious bumps on her butt,
but she had said they were only psoriasis.
He started to turn around, go back and give her a piece of what for, but
managed to calm himself after a few minutes. What good could it possibly
do him now? He wasn't even supposed to be here. Maybe, he figured,
closing the front door behind him, he should seriously consider giving
up sex altogether. After all, he'd managed to give up booze. He
suddenly remembered the pint bottle in the van's pocket.
"No," he told himself. "Don't even go there, Leonard."
He would visit a doctor next week and see how bad the news was. He
wasn't going to let this nasty turn ruin Christmas for him. He thought
of Little Joe and the other puppies again, and the joy they would bring
those needy children, and smiled.
"Hey, fellows. I'm back." Little Joe wasn't in the front. Leonard
glanced in the back, saw a couple of haunches. The pups were quiet,
napping contentedly in the heated truck. Leonard shut the door
carefully, then started the truck. He'd forgotten the paper towels. He
would stop somewhere before the first delivery and get some. He reached
down into the bag he and DeMario had been given before leaving: a couple
of Santa hats and two fake beards. Leonard put on his hat and beard,
then turned toward the main highway.
Some while later, feeling drowsy, Leonard hit a large pot hole, which
jolted him back into full consciousness. "Sorry, fellows." He noticed
his words were slurred, like he was drunk. Something was wrong.
Leonard pulled into an empty parking lot in a shopping center. He got
out of the truck and walked around, taking deep breaths until his head
began to clear. What was going on?
And how come the puppies weren't yelping? He opened the door and turned
on the overhead light.
The puppies were quiet and still, very still--and would be until
judgement day, when maybe Saint Peter whistled for them. They were
dead: carbon monoxide. Had to be. They all looked peaceful, meaning
they died easy--except for one.
"Ahhh, . . .Little Joe," Leonard said as he reached the back of the van.
The smart pup had made it to the back, and had probably stuck his nose
in the crack between the doors to survive on fresh air. He might even
have made it until Leonard returned, except that he got thirsty. Next
to the pup was a plastic jug of antifreeze, on its side, the top off and
bluish-green glop still dripping out.
The little dog's body was contorted from the convulsions it had gone
through; it's tongue lolled out of its mouth, looking ridiculously long,
and the lips had pulled back, exposing the gums and teeth in a grim
looking rictus.
Leonard went outside the van again.
"Merry Christmas, Leonard! Merry F'n Christmas! This is not good.
This is definitely not good. You stupid, doe-brained . . .." He hit
himself in the forehead with the palm of his hand, then began kicking
the side of the van, and continued kicking it until his right foot hurt,
then began kicking it with his left foot. "Oh, Lordy, what am I gonna
do now? Them poor puppies . . .them poor kids. A great daddy you'd 'a
made."
A car driving by slowed to watch his display of frustration, then went
on. Not even sure how or when, Leonard found the bottle in his hands.
He drained it quickly, then wondered where the nearest liquor store
was. He had to think, and he couldn't think while he was in such
emotional pain. Twenty bucks would buy a significant amount of liquid
pain killer.
After the liquor store, Leonard drove back to the same empty shopping
center, only pulled in the back this time, where there was a huge
garbage bin in the middle of the alley. He carried the pups in two
cardboard boxes he'd picked up at the liquor store.
"Sorry, fellows,:" he sniffed, "end of the line for you." The dumpster
sat in a three-sided walled enclosure with a locked gate; people got
pickier and pickier, like someone was gonna steal their garbage.
Leonard set the two boxes in front of the locked gate. He started to
remove the bows, but decided to leave them on. All in all, the pups
looked peaceful enough--save for Little Joe, laying on top all spastic
looking and with that horrible grin. He wondered for a moment if he
should work him to the bottom of the pile; otherwise, it would probably
give whoever found them a devilish start; but after giving it some
thought, he figured it didn't much matter. Plain and simple, a dead
puppy wearing a bow was a dead puppy, peaceful looking or not.
As he rose to leave he noticed that the back door nearest the bin had a
sign identifying it as the rear entrance to The Southside Women's Health
And Birth Control Clinic. Despite the fancy name, an abortion place was
what it was. Well, he suspected, the day after Christmas, when someone
finally came back here, whether it was one of them abortion workers or a
sanitation worker, come Monday, they would probably be applying to their
insurance for a few therapy sessions.
Not being sure what kind of eulogy was proper for dogs, Leonard decided
to just toast them with another drink instead. That seemed most
fitting. Besides, he'd forgotten how much the bottle helped him think;
and the night was yet young, and he had a semblance of a plan.
The plan had hit him like a inspiration as he stood working on his
second bottle. He was out of dogs--but kids liked cats, too, and, hell,
there were plenty of those running around lose, without homes. He just
had to find the right place where cats would congregate--some place like
maybe behind a restaurant, or a grocery store, where rats or food were
in good supply. He'd simply come up to 'em, talking nice like he
supposed people talked to cats, lure a few to the van using some of the
puppy food. He could even stop at an all night drug store and buy some
of those stick on bows people put on packages. Taming the things, of
course, would be up to the kids after he delivered them. He had enough
problems.
Leonard felt better now. He had a good plan and the bourbon made a
warm, familiar glow in his stomach.
Behind the third restaurant he checked, some kind of Chinese place, he
found what he needed; by the amber glow of a security light in the
alley, he saw several cats feasting on top of and around a large open
dumpster. The Chinese were less picky about having their garbage
stolen. Leonard only knew one thing for sure about felines, and that
was that they were skittish to beat the band, more so than a pink poodle
with a fancy haircut; accordingly, he took off his shoes and moved in
the shadows until he got within coaxing distance.
Leonard stepped quietly from the shadows and gave a shake of the Puppy
Chow box, to get their attention; the half-dozen cats around the
dumpster scattered like they was electrons exploded in a bubble
chamber--an image he had seen on a TV science show once. They neither
paused in their flight nor looked back at him until they were a good
sixty-yards or so away. Coaxing them back, from that distance, would
probably take a few days.
But as he started to turn away, he realized there was a crunching sound
coming from inside the dumpster. Leonard edged closer and peeked in; a
motley looking tom cat was chewing something; Leonard, knowing a bit
about how the Chinese cooked, couldn't imagine what they'd throw away
that would still be tasty, even to a cat.
"Hey kitty. Don't be scared." It didn't flee, nor pause in eating, but
regarded Leonard with one eye and began emitting a low growl. That was a
good sign. "It's just me. Good old Santa. See my hat?" The cat
continued to eye him warily, to emitt its low growl, and to gnaw on
whatever was it was it had.
Leonard opened the Puppy Chow box, dropped a few pellets near the cat.
He continued to soothingly ask it if it wanted to go with Santa and find
a home. The cat sniffled the puppy chow and found it to his liking.
Leonard sprinkled some more, luring the cat closer. Still growling
suspiciously, the cat consumed the steady line of pellets, moving closer
and closer to Leonard.
"Now Kitty, wouldn't you and some of your friends like to get some
regular chow for a change, maybe a bath, and . . ." Leonard reached out
and grabbed the cat by the nape of it's neck, as he'd seen people do.
Suddenly, there was a screaming and screeching like Satan being
baptized; before Leonard could properly react, he was holding a
four-limbed buzz saw; whirring arms and kicking legs struck him a dozen
painful blows before he could drop it.
"Jesus H.! Holy mother of Bob!" Leonard exclaimed as he ran, not sure
if mad cats pursued or not. A safe distance away, alternately clutching
and shaking his stinging, bleeding arm and hand, he looked back. Under
the security light, the cat, already joined by a couple of others, was
dinning on the spilled box of puppy chow. People kept those things as
pets?
Back at the van, Leonard started to poor some bourbon over the cuts as
antiseptic, but thought better of it, and took a swig or two. He looked
at his watch. Time was critical now.
"Dammit. I can't let those kids down." Leonard looked up; the moon was
full, near as he could tell. Leonard leaned his head out the window and
howled. It felt good. He wasn't going to let those kids down.
"Where the hell are you. . . where the hell are you . . . where the . .
. " he knew he'd passed the place somewhere along here. "Ah,
gotcha." There it was, on the corner of a strip mall: Ben And Beth's
Petables, the sign read. Parrots, exotic fish and petables. A hand
painted sign in the front window said: Close out. All stock must go.
Having come unprepared--no flashlight, for one thing--Leonard chanced
turning on the lights. There were lots of fish tanks, a few anemic
looking birds squawking, a large cage full of bunnies and another full
of some kind of hairy rodents. Not sound of dogs barking. And no cats.
Which was good. He rubbed his arm. If he never looked at another cat
again he'd be happy.
Leonard glanced at his watch again, only to find the numbers too fuzzy
to read. Well, it had to be getting late, and he was out of options.
"I'll take a bunch of you," he said as he opened a wire cage and got an
armful of bunnies, brown, white, and mixed; the poor little kids could
have a selection if they wanted. His final trip, for a little variety,
he also grabbed some of the long-haired rat rodents from the cage marked
guinea pigs. Like the rabbits, they proved easy enough to catch, having
no room to maneuver in the cage. Surely, now, he had at least seven
fuzzy looking pets to deliver, plus some spares, which he figured, after
his experience with the puppies, was a good idea.
Back in the van, with colorful bunnies hopping around, and guinea pigs
running under foot, he felt like Santa again.
The first lady took the black and white rabbit and a complimentary box
of Puppy Chow without any hassle, figuring, Leonard guessed, that when
something was free you took it without any questions. She did, after
sniffing the air, ask Leonard if he wanted to come in and drink some
coffee.
At the second house, the woman eyed Leonard suspiciously and said,
"That don't look like no dog to me."
"You are right, Ma'am," Leonard affirmed. "Santa is having a special on
rabbits tonight."
"The lady on the phone says we wuz gettin' a dog."
Leonard, with a surprising inventive turn which was aimed at thwarting
further protest, glanced at his clipboard manifest--which only contained
names and addresses--and asked, "What exactly is yore child suffering
from, Ma'am?"
"Well, let's see," she said, consulting her fingers, "uh, Jerome has the
dislexsis, the ADHD, a behaving disorder, and a mostly crooked right
eye."
"Ah," Leonard said, "I thought as much. That explains it. It's the
behaving disorder: A recent scientific study conducted at John Hopkins
Hospital by a team of British doctors from Yale University has concluded
that children with those get along much better with rabbits than
dogs."
"No, shit," she said, taking the bunny and the box of Puppy Chow.
At the third stop, when Leonard went to the back of the van to select a
Christmas bunny, he said, "Durn," and figured he should have gotten
something to sop up the spilled antifreeze; one of the bunnies had gone
the same route as Little Joe, and was now in bunny heaven, loping around
in fields of clover.
He knew he'd been smart to grab extras.
After getting lost twice, Leonard still managed to give away five
rabbits and two guinea pigs--four at houses on the list, two at a wrong
address where the people took them anyway--before his erratic driving
caught the attention of the police.
Officer, Dale Watkins, a rookie who was ticked about getting stuck with
the Christmas Eve shift and determined to take it out on the first
luckless citizen he came across, exclaimed, "Yahoo!" when he spotted
Leonard's van meandering back and forth across the center line as it
came up the road toward where he and the cruiser were parked.
Officer Dale pulled his cruiser in close behind--the kind of
intimidation calculated to give the van driver the
heebie-jeebies--lighted him up, and laid his night stick next to him in
hopeful anticipation.
When the driver of the van floored it, Dale couldn't believe his luck.
Leonard was so startled by the sudden blue lights on his bumper that he
almost dropped his bottle. "Why y'all do that?" he asked the car in
his outside review mirror. The cop was behind him, dangerously close,
prompting Leonard to increase his speed to keep a safe distance. "Back
off, you idiot," Leonard mumbled, "and I'll stop."
Then Leonard's attention was captivated by something in the sky,
straight in front of him: a heavenly choir robed in white. He could
make out some angels with white wings, and a little manger with people
in robes and animals around it. A stone church, with a tall steeple and
a cross lit by a spotlight, floated just above the manger and heavenly
choir.
"Dang," Leonard said, smiling, feeling better about the evening and not
paying attention to the fact that the road before him took a near ninety
degree turn in front of the idyllic scene.
The van left the road and jumped the ditch with a teeth-loosening jolt.
The nose of the truck hit a wall of green near head on, but rose from
the dirt with the engine racing crazily and continued--gouging a furrow
as it went--it's trajectory on a direct line with the choir and the
manger;
Leonard caught a glimpse of a yellow portable sign down near the winding
driveway which, if he could have read it as his out-of-control vehicle
sped by, announced the Waylon Heights Christian Tabernacle Living
Nativity: Christmas Eve, Choir and Service. Through a blurry haze, he
was dimly aware of Angels screaming, white-robed figures with
horror-stricken faces running this way and that, a tethered donkey and a
goat with panicked looks in their eyes, and wise men dropping
frankincense, incense, and myrrh as they scattered to either side of his
path as the wooden manger disintegrated in an explosion of wood, straw,
and plaster-of-Paris baby Jesus.
After demolishing the manger, the van came to sudden halt, a plume of
hissing smoke rising from it's crumpled front end. The back doors flew
open, allowing the remaining bunnies and guinea pigs to scramble out.
Leonard opened his door and fell to the ground. Getting to his knees,
and seeing a group of angry men in robes advancing toward him, he held
up an empty liquor bottle to show them that it wasn't his fault, and
that he was sorry.
An angel with a broken wing shouted, "Watch out! He's got something in
his hand," and they jumped all over him. Then Leonard was at the center
of a sea of flailing fists and kicking feet.
Leonard had never been kicked by sandals before. It was an interesting
experience.
Epilogue
The death of the seven puppies--with the noted exception of Little
Joe--turned out to be merciful. Mavis, through no fault of her own, had
pointed Leonard to a pen full of puppies suffering from Parvo, and
destined to be put down the day after Christmas anyway. The carbon
monoxide allowed the puppies to simply go to sleep--after a welcome last
meal of Twinkies--a more pleasant and humane method than the pound
used. As for Little Joe, it is a little known fact that death by the
method of poisoning that killed him has the side effect of inducing
hallucinations; so, though he looked pretty grim, Little Joe actually
didn't suffer too much, and was hallucinating that he was full grown and
running through the woods chasing a deer as he lay in the van thrashing
about.
Emma Milroy, who didn't like bad news, had been afraid to open the
envelope from the clinic--so sure was she that its contents would
confirm her mother's negative prognostication about Emma's liberal
sexual habits, which was that they would eventually bring her to ruin.
However, after Leonard left, Emma felt guilty enough to open the
envelope. It turned out that the first notice had indeed informed her of
positive results on her AIDS test.
With positive results, the lab automatically retests. The second letter
was to inform her of the automatic retest; the third letter was to
inform her that the second test cleared her, and that the first test
results had been a false positive. Emma didn't have anything. Relieved,
Emma committed herself to sexual abstinence and decided to approach life
with a new, positive mind set. Though her commitment to sexual
abstinence only lasted four days--due to the charm and availability of a
long haul trucker from Alabama--Emma's positive mind set allowed her to
reach her career peak the following February, when she was selected as
employee of the month.
Wendy Grizzle, a licenced practical nurse working at The Southside
Women's Health And Birth Control Clinic, found the puppies and was so
angst ridden after seeing Little Joe that she soon quit her job at the
clinic and from that day on devoted herself to the preservation of
animal life. Eventually she joined Greenpeace, and now spends her days
harassing Japanese tuna boats in the North Atlantic.
Due to an epidemic which swept through their exotic birds--for which
they had no special coverage due to Ben's lack of foresight--Ben And
Beth's Petables was tottering on the brink of bankruptcy. After
Leonard's burglary--for which they were sufficiently insured--Ben was
able to file a false insurance claim which said all the recently
deceased birds had been stolen. The resulting settlement saved the
business, and Ben and Beth's marriage.
The members of the Waylon Heights Christian Tabernacle were near
ecstatic after Leonard's bizarre interruption of their Christmas Eve
services, since it proved the existence of Satan and validated their
belief system. The following Sunday, from his pulpit, Reverend Billy
Spears was positively ecstatic and openly invited Satan to send one of
his crazed minions around each and every Christmas so that he, the
deacons, and members of the choir, could whip his tail again.
Kisha Edwards, single mom and mother of an emotionally handicapped child
who received a pair of rabbits from Leonard, soon found herself
inundated in bunnies--which her daughter, LaKeeta, loved and doted
over. As a result of the extra expense, Kisha was forced to get her GED
and take extra job training to advance herself. Due to her positive
efforts at self-advancement, she eventually gained some note in her
community and became a member of the city council.
By lying and saying that it was blows from his baton--and not the blows
and kicks to the head from the members of the Waylon heights Christian
Tabernacle--which sent Leonard to the emergency room, Officer Dale
managed to have his status among his peers raised considerably.
After staying out all Christmas Eve and nearly freezing to death,
DeMario was found by two workers for the Salvation Army and rescued on
Christmas morning. Grateful for the life saving intervention, he turned
his life around by subsequently cutting his crack habit in half and
getting a job in the SA's soup kitchen, where he worked for two weeks,
the longest span of continual employment he'd ever experienced.
As for Leonard, he was convicted of burglary, DUI, cruelty to animals,
and disrupting a religious service; his public defender managed to plea
him down to twenty-two months. He was returned for another stretch at
Reidsville; this time--having gained a bit of notoriety as The Christmas
Eve Bandit--with greater respect and perhaps even a touch of admiration
from the coloreds and the sissies. Though he will be eligible for a
parole hearing in November, and stands a good chance of getting out in
time for next Christmas, Leonard has no plans of petitioning the parole
board for early release.
The escaped rabbits thrived and bred prolifically, and there was no want
of rabbits for years to come in the neighborhood surrounding the Waylon
Heights Christian Tabernacle.
As far as the one rabbit that died from the antifreeze--well, what's one
rabbit more or less in the grand scheme of things, since, all in all,
thanks to Leonard, everyone else had a pretty good Christmas.
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