Halloween #2
I know what she’s thinking because it’s the same thing I thought when I met him just over five years ago.
He was sitting at the bar drinking a pilsner, complaining how the holidays are a time the government takes advantage of large gatherings to steal information.
Between his radical ideals, patchy beard, and shirt tucked into sweatpants paired with sandals and socks, I thought he was nuts.
I still do.
But less than a week later when the normal Halloween festivities of trick-or-treating followed by a Santa welcoming and tree lighting for the town dubbed Christmas Village USA took place—where I would no doubt be annoyed by the crowd and tired of questions about my marital status, life choices, and overall living situation—Marv and I went bowling and The Holiday Club was born.
“You’re a-a club?” She looks from Marv to me. “A bowling club?”
“A holiday club,” I correct, taking my ball from the return rack. I step up to the line, adding over my shoulder, “We get together every weekend from Halloween to Christmas.”
I send the ball down the lane for an eight-two split and mutter a swear.
“Do you bowl every time?” she asks.
“Halt,” Marv commands with a hand in the air. “No more questions until we know she’s safe.” He rummages through his bag and pulls out a security wand.
The woman’s eyes go wide as Marv approaches her, waves the wand around the entirety of her body without asking, and listens intently for a spike of beeps.
When he doesn’t detect a wire or explosives, he gives me an approving nod—like I’m the one who thought this woman was trying to bring down a sleepy bowling alley in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains—and returns the wand to his bag.
“First and last name?” he barks.
“Uh. H-H-Hollis,” she stammers, so wide-eyed I cough to hide my laugh. “Hartwell.”
Marv produces a tablet from his bag, typing her name aggressively into whatever database he uses for his endeavors.
“Jay Randall,” I introduce myself, shaking her hand as she gapes at Marv. “And to answer your question, we bowl on Halloween,” I explain. “The rest of the holidays, we do different things.”
She sits in one of the chairs, tail draped over one thigh, and looks between Marv and me, taking a plastic cup of beer I offer to her.
“Different things?” she asks, thoughtful look on her face before taking a sip. “You’re anti-Christmas?”
I grab the ball from the return with a chuckle.
“Anti-tradition expectation.” I bowl and knock only one of the two pins down, muttering another swear. “I love Christmas.” I flick a dangling jingle bell on my hat as proof. “But it stopped feeling fun.” I shrug. “We started The Holiday Club.”
Her spine straightens, look on her face telling me she doesn’t approve. “You don’t think traditions are fun?”
“Not the ones other people expect.”
She frowns.
“Don’t you miss your family?”
“I see my family plenty the rest of the year,” I say whole-heartedly and with a half smile. “These days are just for us.”
Her eyes go to my hand, no doubt in search of a ring she won’t find.
“You aren’t married?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
That . . . is a loaded question.
“Never got around to it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Never got around to it?”
I take a sip of my beer. “Seems that way.”
She makes a disbelieving sound. “You have to get around to it.”
It’s hard not to laugh.
“According to the fact I’m not married, I’d say I don’t.”
Her eyes bounce all over me.
She doesn’t ask about Marv’s family. She either assumes he doesn’t have one or is too scared of who they are if he does. It’s the right move; she’s not ready for all that.
“There’s no point of Christmas if you don’t have traditions.”
“I have traditions,” I say with a raise of my beer.
She scoffs. “Beer and bowling is not a tradition.”
“It is if you say it is.”
Marv raises his head from his tablet, piping in with, “Traditions were invented by the government as a form of mind control for large subgroups of the population—found her. Hollis Hartwell.” She frowns.
“Age thirty-nine. Born on February seventeenth. Writer for We Women magazine. Four kids, delivered vaginally.” He glances at her with raised eyebrows.
“Impressive. Legally separated for one year—divorce finalized yesterday as mentioned—from one Ryan Hartwell who is a medical doctor and graduate from Duke University. Hollis has one speeding ticket from the early 2000s and two overdue library books.” He puts the tablet back in his bag and says with a satisfied tone, “Clean.”
“Wha—how did you?” Her wide eyes bounce from Marv’s bag to me then back to Marv.
“I know more than them,” he states like it’s common knowledge, nonchalantly taking a sip of his beer.
“Anyway,” she continues, eyes lingering on Marv a second longer.
“Trick-or-treating before the Christmas tree lighting ceremony happening right now four miles away is a tradition. Annual costume contests. Getting married in a white dress in the same church your parents did. Taking vows. Those are traditions. This—” She sniffs. “Is fun. There’s a difference.”
“Ah. So you’re saying traditions aren’t fun?” I counter, taking another sip of my beer to hide my smile.
“Of course they are,” she says, testy.
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “That tradition of matrimony seems to be a real hoot.”
She glares at me. A few strands of hair fall across her stained face. Cute.
“So you just take the holidays and do whatever you want?” she asks, judgmental edge to her voice. “Do you work? Or is holding down a job too traditional for you?”
“I’m a dabbler,” I admit with a grin and lift of my cup. “With a passion for beer.”
Her eyes narrow again. “Like a bartender?”
She doesn’t mask her grow the fuck up expression.
“Beertender,” I correct.
“Okay,” she drawls, flicking her skeptical gaze to Marv. “I’m guessing he won’t tell me what he does?”
Marv looks at her like she’s just pulled a pistol out of her pants.
I chuckle, lifting a bowling shoe–covered foot to a vacant chair and propping a forearm across my thigh. “I’m not sure I even know. What about you? You said you were here for work?”
She nods, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ears.
Now that she’s not hysterical, even with the face paint, I can see she’s pretty.
The light brown hair spilling from the top of her head like a fountain frames a heart-shaped face, full lips, and big blue eyes.
The costume clinging to her slim body doesn’t leave much to the imagination, which I very much like.
“I’m a writer,” she says as Marv steps up to the line for his next turn.
“For a women’s magazine, as your friend so disturbingly shared.
I write articles for the online division.
Tips for vacationing with families, routines to make life easier, summer activity guides, stuff like that.
Every Christmas I write about family traditions.
Now without my kids . . .” Her voice trails off as fresh tears fill her eyes.
The pins explode from Marv’s bowl before he steps next to me.
I pull my foot from the chair and stand upright.
“I don’t know if I can do it. I love Christmas.
Traditional Christmas. The baking of perfect cookies for the bake sale and the parades.
Without my kids, I don’t want to celebrate any of it. ” Her voice cracks and she sniffs.
Beer fills my mouth and I still, holding it in my cheeks until she continues.
“That’s why I’m here. Trick-or-treating was a disaster.
” She looks down at her costume and her lips start to quiver.
“I thought skipping the Santa costume contest and tree lighting to come here would spark an idea on something else to write about. My attorney told me to have fun. I came to the bowling alley.” She starts to cry again.
From somewhere in the bowling alley, actual jingle bells ring, prompting her to groan-wail, “But Christmas is everywhere.” She drops her head with a loud sob.
“My ex-husband got my kids for Christmas along with my will to live, so now I just-just-just—” She finishes the sentence with a cry and whole-body shake, causing beer to slosh over the rim of her cup and onto her catsuit.
I slip the drink out of her hand, set it on the table, and give Marv a now what? look.
He clears his throat. “I need to check the vents.”
The man plotting to take down the government flees from the crying woman. Wimp.
“You know,” I say, sounding a bit like a hostage negotiator. “Holidays are just made-up dates. You could do whatever you usually do with your kids on different days.”
She uses her entire hand to swipe the tears off her cheeks.
“I can’t ask the town to relight the tree to a day more conducive to my ex-husband’s assholish plans.
” She shakes her head. “No. Without my kids, there’s nothing.
What’s the point of doing it alone? Of-of even getting a Christmas tree?
” Her eyes are wide and wild. “I’m skipping it. All of Christmas. You’re right.”
I have never once suggested skipping Christmas.
She reaches for her beer and takes a long sip, a look on her face like she’s formulating a plan.
“I don’t understand why anyone would want a holiday without all the regular traditions,” she continues.
“That’s the whole point. The whole entire point of Christmas is the tried-and-true traditions.
It’s doing the things you’ll look back on to remind you of how loved and special you are because they happened the very same way at the very same time with the very same people every single year.
It’s like morning coffee. It doesn’t work if it happens at three in the afternoon, you know? ”
I consider answering but she doesn’t even give me enough time to open my mouth.