Barbie was dead, to begin
with. This has to be completely
understood, or nothing wonderful will come of the story I’m about to
relate. Berton attended Barbie’s burial
and sent a card to her only living relative—a great nephew from Frankenmuth who
didn’t even come to her funeral.
For that reason, Berton, who inherited the Programmer in Chief title, never had Barbie’s name removed from Iron Town Arts’ front door. Year after year, there it stood in flaking gold letters: Barbie Bradley, PIC. Sometimes artists still left voice messages for her, seven years after her passing. Berton never corrected them, and he never touched Barbie’s cluttered desk, leaving it as she had left it the night she died.
Berton also inherited something else from his long-dead partner in art: the annual Tiny Timathon. Another brainchild of Barbie (the first, as a matter of fact, in her 40-year reign), the Timathon belied its nom de plume. Rather than an inspirational amble through a forest of decorated Christmas trees, the Timathon had morphed into what Berton privately referred to as “World War Tree.”
Yet, Berton had never seen Barbie lose her yuletide cool ever, even when the Fraternal Order of Caribou threatened to pull their financial support of the Tiny Timathon because of the inclusion of a tree by the Christmas Queens, a local posse of drag performers. Berton had watched Waino Riintala, Exulted Ruler of the Caribou, lecture Barbie about family values for over 45 minutes. Then Barbie folded her hands on her desk, smiled, and said sweetly, “Isn’t Miss Ginger Ale, the head of that group, your nephew, Waino?” Barbie 1, Caribou 0.
Berton didn’t have Barbie’s patience or Christmas spirit. His first years as Programmer in Chief, Berton tried to convince Iron Town Arts’ Board of Directors to discontinue the Tiny Timathon. He wanted to replace it with something younger, hipper.
“I’m thinking an Eggnog Dash,” Berton argued, “a 10K race with spiked eggnog stations along the route.”
“I think,” Board President Alma Henderson said, “it’s a bit premature to discuss chloroforming the Tiny Timathon. Barbie’s only been gone two months.”
“Plus,” Dr. Bingley, another board member, cleared his throat, “people love it. It’s a tradition.”
Berton saw the writing on the wall. He was fighting a losing battle. He gave it one more shot, though. “You know, slavery was a tradition in this country until Abraham Lincoln came along.”
Alma pressed her lips together and sighed. “Let’s table this discussion until next year.” Alma 1, Berton 0.
And next year came and went. And the next. And the next. And the next.
Seven tabled-discussion years later, Berton sat at his desk on Christmas Eve. He was exhausted. The Tiny Timathon had occurred two days prior, with its expected array of petty squabbles, broken ornaments, and bruised feelings. But the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back for Berton: the “Hallelujah Chorus” played in four-part harmony on kazoos by Iron Town’s fifth grade chorus under the direction of Theta Creed. Berton had gone home with a migraine, put a frozen pizza in the oven, fallen asleep, and woken to a firefighter pounding on the door of his smoke-filled apartment at 2 a.m. Berton made his decision that night.
The programming office was adjacent to the Barbie Bradley Salon, and Berton had just strolled through the Christmas trees (57 in total this year), unplugging lights, flipping switches, sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray tinsel. He was looking forward to his one week of vacation between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day, his time to take a long winter’s nap devoid of trees, lights, banjos, accordions, and kazoos. (Berton hadn’t put up a Christmas tree in his place for almost ten years. He was simply Christmas tree-ed out.) On January 2, he would send an email to the Board of Directors: either the Tiny Timathon goes, or he does.
Berton sighed, logged off his computer, and turned off his desk lamp. He noticed a strange glow creeping under the doorframe into his dark office. Because he’d just made a sweep of the Salon, the entire building should have been black as the grave.
Berton got up, crossed to his door, and opened it.
Directly outside his office stood the Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree. The Board of Directors purchased the tree seven Christmases before to keep Barbie’s spirit alive for the Timathon.
Berton clearly recalled tapping the toe button on Barbie’s tree that night, plunging its branches into darkness. It was always the last thing he did before going home.
The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him.
Berton glanced around the gallery. “Hello?” he called out, thinking a board member had stopped by without telling him.
Silence.
He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he’d forgotten to turn off the lights due to CTSD (Christmas Tree Stress Disorder); he tapped the tree’s button with his toe, and the faux evergreen blinked to darkness.
Berton went back into the programming office, shutting the door behind him.
The lamp on Barbie’s cluttered desk, which hadn’t been used for seven years, was switched on, casting a moon of light onto a stack of reports.
Berton walked over to the desk, stared down at the spotlighted papers. They were just spreadsheets of budgets several years out-of-date. He looked around to make sure he was alone. He was. Shaking his head again, Berton reached down and turned off the lamp. As he headed back to his desk, his gaze returned to the office door, and he froze.
A strange glow was creeping under the doorframe.
Berton held his breath, calculating his next move. Grab his winter coat and run out the back entrance? Lock the door and call the police? Or march across the room to confront the practical joker?
Berton was not a person who indulged in flights of fancy. Right before her last Tiny Timathon, Barbie said to him, “Christmas is a time to be haunted by love.” Berton had laughed and said, “The Taco Bell I ate last night is the only thing that’s haunting me right now.”
He crossed the dark office and opened the door.
The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him.
Berton took a step back, jaw slack with surprise. Glancing around the dark Salon, he called out, “Whoever is doing this, it’s not funny. I’m calling the police.” He leaned over and unplugged the tree from the outlet. Darkness ate its branches again.
Berton slammed the door and spun around, intent on dialing 911.
The lamp on Barbie’s desk was back on, casting the same moon on the same pile of papers. However, now sitting on top of the pile was a box no bigger than Berton’s fist. Berton approached Barbie’s desk, fingers of dread squeezing his throat.
The box was wrapped in brown paper, and Berton could see lettering beneath a thick layer of dust. He picked up the box and blew on it. The dust fogged the air briefly then settled. Berton squinted at the writing.
It was an address. Barbie’s address. Each letter was blocky and large, as if traced onto the paper by a kindergartner. Instead of her name, however, the sender had just written “Auntie Barbie” above the street number, in the same clumsy script. In the lefthand corner was a name (Tim Bradley) and a Frankenmuth return address.
“The long-lost great nephew, I presume,” Berton said under his breath.
Berton paused a moment, feeling as if he was back in high school spying on girls changing in the locker room. He tore the brown paper off the box and opened its lid. A photograph tumbled out.
In the picture, a man about 45 years of age was sitting on Santa’s lap, his smile so large it looked like it was eating his face. The man’s eyes were almond-shaped; his ears, small and low-set. Berton could tell the man had Down Syndrome. On the back of the photo, in the same block letters, was an inscription: Timmy loves Santa!
Berton set aside the photo and reached into the box, removing a plastic Christmas tree ornament. Someone had drawn a green triangle on the ornament and peppered the triangle with shiny gold star stickers. On the ornament’s opposite side was another handwritten message: Tiny Tim ♥ Auntie Barbie!
Berton stood holding the ornament in his palm. Understanding flushed his cheeks and forehead. “Tiny Timathon,” he whispered. He heard, or thought he heard, Barbie’s words again, softly, like snow falling in the night: Christmas is a time to be haunted by love.
Berton looked back at his office door.
The strange glow was again creeping under the doorframe.
Berton carried the ornament across the room to the door and opened it.
The Barbie Bradley Memorial Tree blazed before him. It was still unplugged, but all the lightbulbs in its branches were glowing like winter constellations.
Berton walked to the tree and hung Timmy’s ornament on it. He stood there unmoving. One by one, all the trees in the Salon blinked on until the entire room looked like it was on fire.
Berton watched all this happen calmly, as if he was waiting for a traffic signal to change. When the final tree came to life, Berton nodded his head almost imperceptibly. He opened his lips to speak, but then closed them again without saying a word, as if he didn’t want to break the spell.
Finally,
he took a deep, deep breath. “I
surrender,” he said. “God bless us,
everyone.”
