Tales of Monsters and Angels

Vampie Fruit

I didn't have a good head for wine. Really, it was no head at all, and at my ripe old age of seventy-two, I ought to know better than to agree to help my bachelor brother Bob finish off the last bottle.

It must have been during the second Christmas movie (The Muppet's Christmas Carol—I can never get enough of Dickens during the holidays, but between my youngest great-nephew and my oldest brother, this was as close to culture as we ever got) that I dozed off because one moment I was tucking my blanket around my feet and watching Scrooge tear up at the missed opportunities of his youth, and the next I jerked awake, hitting my empty glass of wine on the floor.

Where was I?

Overstuffed chair. Christmas lights on the tree winked and blinked. The fire had died, but the furnace was blazing away. All was right with the world. I lifted on stiff leg from the foot rest and tried to work some heat into my old bones and popsicled joints.

"Aunt Mildred?" a sweet voice asked.

My great-nephew Timmy had crept to the living room arch and was standing with his back to me, so as to not peak into the room. I told him Santa would leave without filling the stockings if Timmy came down and spied. I also told him to leave dark chocolate and wine instead of cookies and milk, may the angels have mercy on my soul. Just because I don't have a good head for it, doesn't mean I can pass up a glass of red for a special occasion.

"Yes, sweetheart? Are you all right?" His parents, my nephew and his darling wife had left the boy with us to go to another party and should have been home soon. He was wearing Star Wars pyjamas, from the original trilogy, thank you very much, which were a gift from myself last year. I could see his ankles and wrists poking out of the cuffs clearly.

"Did Santa come yet?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I see the chocolate and wine." Good thing for me, my early bedtime had slowed me down. Imagine trying to explain why I was in the middle of scarfing the midnight treats when the stockings hung as deflated as my boobs.

"I heard a noise in the kitchen, though," he whispered.

I beckoned him closer and pulled him on my knees. "Well, Santa hasn't stopped here yet. It must have been your Uncle Bob looking for some turkey for a sandwich." Honestly. I invited my brother over once a year and he stole enough turkey for a month of sandwiches. I shook my head, snowy wisps fell in my eyes and tickled Timmy's nose.

"Are you sure? It sounded...like rats."

"Rats?" I asked. "Let's go look. You can lead the way." With much groaning and creaking, I pulled myself upright and began the indoor-shoe shuffle to the kitchen.

We were at the end of the hallway when a low growl and scratching slithered from behind the swinging door. Timmy's grip tightened around mine.

"Was that rats?" he asked. His eyes were Americano coffee-cup sized.

I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. "More like raccoons. In my kitchen. In the middle of a snow storm on Christmas. Maybe I should call the fire department."

He shrugged.

"We'll just take a quick peek. You stay behind me." My wide bottom should protect him from any wild animal, that was a fact.

With the little seven-year-old firmly in a position of safety, I continued my careful waddle to the door. I pushed it slowly open, Timmy leaned from around my hip to peer with me into the kitchen.

Scritching sounded from under the sink.

My recent trip to the market came to mind. The stalls, the frosty air, the vendor even more ancient than me. I had bought a small bag of Cherimoya fruit—green and completely inappropriate for the non-adventurous group of family members the holidays always blew to my door in search of their annual home cooked meal.