White Elephant

white elephant

/,(h)wīd ‘elaf(ə)nt/

noun

A possession that is useless or troublesome, especially one that is expensive to maintain or difficult to dispose of.

They both stared down at the box, the snow scrolling uncannily to the ground as if in a vacuum, falling on the shallow drifts that glowed iridescently under a cloudless sky and full moon beyond the rails of the porch. 

The box, a nearly perfect cube about the size of a big basketball, was neatly wrapped in red and gold and white paper, an ornate Damascus pattern. The lid independently wrapped, lay to the side in the pool of blood that oozed from the bottom of the box.

Sheriff Johns, and his deputy, who also happened to be his son-in-law, Billy, had jumped back after Johns had opened the box. He had seen the blood, which he had mistaken for dirty motor oil, and not wanting to soil his hands, bent and lifted the lid. After the initial shock set in, they both simultaneously recoiled in horror, Billy reaching for his missing pistol out of habit—they were both out of uniform attending Mrs. Johns’ annual white elephant Christmas party.

They leaned forward peering over the edge of the box. Johns took a step toward it and tapped it with his toe, then a second time a bit harder. The head fell to the side, exposing the top side of its face.

“I think that’s Mister Stubber.”

Johns grumbled in agreement.

Mister Stubber’s lid flew open. A milky eyeball rolled up to stare at them, the eyebrow bent in an angry leer.

“Good lord.” Johns jumped back pushing Billy behind him as he did.

They stood that way, frozen as the snow fell until the music and the murmur of jubilant conversation leaking through the gap in the front door brought Johns around. “Close the door, Billy.” He issued the command as a marble statue, even his lips seeming not to move. Billy was also frozen. Johns brought him to life with a slight turn of his head. Billy closed the door with a slow, smooth automatic motion and a click, the noise of the party muted behind the heavy oak door. They exchanged a flashing glance before Johns toed the box hard, sending it sliding halfway to the porch steps. They waited for the box to settle and cautiously flanked it, being careful not to step in the thick trail of blood seeping through the gaps in the deck boards. 

They stood on either side of the box staring down at Mister Stubber’s head as his angry eyeball rolled back and forth between them.

“Is he alive?” Billy quietly asked.

Mister Stubber’s head’s eye shot to him in scornful surprise.

“It kind of looks that way doesn’t it.” Johns shot Billy a quick shake of the head to let him know that his question wasn’t as stupid as it sounded. 

Mister Stubber began to grow tired and lulled back into a docile state, the muscles in his neck slackened and his head sagged to the side. The silver lining embossed onto the velvet-red envelope glinted in the moonlight.

Johns gave his deputy son-in-law a nod. “Looks like there’s a card.” 

Billy squinted at the card, for a moment not quite understanding what it was.

“Why don’t you pluck that up out of there, Billy boy.”

Billy stared up at the sheriff with a look of dismay.

Johns rolled his eyes at his endearingly inept deputy and exaggerated a groan as he bent to pick the card from the box, being as careful as his rough hands were able so as not to stir Mister Stubber. He straightened with another groan and held the card out at reading distance. 

“Who’s it from?” Billy whispered with a mysterious wonder.

Sheriff Johns chuckled in disbelief and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Signed, Elim.”

Billy slapped his forehead. “Mister Dugger wasn’t lying.” 

Stubber’s head stirred at the mention of the name.

“Kind of looks that way,” Johns agreed and smirked as he admired the cheerful irony of the festive correspondence of a man whom he’d written off as functionally insane; someone to be politely placated until they presented a more tangible threat or at least a semi-coherent story. 

“Well?” Billy waved a hand at the ornate envelope.

Johns huffed, only now realizing that he knew everything the card was going to say.

“Are you going to open it?” From his tone Johns could tell that Billy was open to disregarding this whole affair and rejoining the party inside, forgetting everything they had seen and chalking it all up to the eggnog.

Johns turned an eye to the front door. Behind it in the muffled distance he heard the approaching steps of his lovely wife, a sound he had grown acutely attuned to over the years. The latch of the door clicked. As it slowly creaked open Johns gave the box a final kick, sending it tumbling down off the deck and into the snow. You could almost hear Mister Stubber grumble as it sunk into a soft drift, its corner protruding, red against the bright blue snow. 

The door cracked open, the glow and the warmth of the festivities spilling out into the cold. Mrs. Johns pulled her sweater tighter at her shoulder, guarding herself against the chill as she playfully scrutinized her husband and their deputy son. “You fellas aren’t smoking, are you?”

“No, Ma’am.” Billy shook his head like an eight-year-old in trouble.

Johns smiled patiently, hiding the card behind his back. “Nadine, I’m not smoking. I promise.”

She assessed him with a suspicious twist of her lips and narrow eyes before deciding to believe him and let the entire thing go with a shrug. Her eyes fell to the trail across the deck toward the stairs. “What’s this mess?”

Johns thought quick. “Broke a few jars of preserves.” He was always breaking jars of preserves and so his wife thought nothing of it.

“Well, make sure you clean this up before it freezes and half our guests break their necks trying to leave.”

“Yes, darling.”

She shot them a suspicious squint before slowly closing the door.

Billy pulled his hair back with a nervous hand and let out a cloudy sigh of relief. “Whew. That was a close call.”

Johns grumbled in agreement as he brought the card from behind his back and frowned at it. 

“You gonna open it?”

Johns held the card out to Billy with a sly smirk. “Why don’t you read it to me? I seem to have misplaced my spectacles.”

Billy stared at him, confused. He had no memory of the sheriff ever wearing glasses. After a beat too long, He got the joke and smiled dumbly as he took the card from Johns and fumbled to open it. He started scanning the words and mumbling.

“Out loud, Billy.”

“Right. Sorry, sheriff.” He cleared his throat. “To Sheriff Johns and Deputy Numbnuts.” Billy sneered. “That’s just… not very nice.”

“No, it isn’t,” Johns agreed strongly, barely chuckling at all.

Billy cleared his throat again and continued. “In the giving spirit of the holidays I want to assure you that this gift was not given out of spite. Even considering all of my warnings and making me damn near plead for you to believe that Farmer Stubber was some sort of demon ghoul responsible for all the tragedy that has befallen our community over generations. I realized that I wouldn’t have believed me either, and so this gift comes with my forgiveness.

Drastic matters had to be taken. I hope that the fact that Stubber’s head is still alive is enough to absolve me of murder, although knowing you two, you will probably spin your wheels pursuing charges. Assault, destruction of property, possibly kidnapping. Knock yourselves out. Feel free to ask him his side of the story (he is able to blink once for ‘no’), although I encourage you to temper your initial response to his answers with scrutiny. He may be a bit wonky without his body, but he is still very clever.

This gift does come with a responsibility. Hide it away where it will never be found. It cannot be destroyed. You can either trust me on that or waste your time burning it and crushing it and trying to blow it to pieces and come to the same conclusion I have. It must be locked away. I’ve got his body and it’s not going anywhere. You’ve got the head. Good luck, sheriff. Please don’t make me do your job twice. Merry Christmas, Elim Dugger.” 

Billy stared at the letter with an open mouth. “Does this mean that everything Elim said was true?”

Johns stuck his lip out. “It sure seems to add some weight to his argument, doesn’t it?”

“I’ll say.” Billy flapped the letter across his palm.

Johns took a breath and looked on his deputy with a patient smile. “Why don’t we just deal with the task at hand? Grab that snow shovel over there and scrape this walkway clear. I’ll deal with Mister Stubber… ‘s head.” 

“Yep, ok.” Billy sped off to retrieve the shovel, grateful for the task.

Johns watched him go with a grimace and took a breath before sauntering across the deck and down the stairs and bending down to fish the ornately wrapped box from the drift. Stubber tumbled out of it, landing with his cheek against the walk. His eyes sprung open and searched for him. Johns knelt, grabbed Stubber by the hair and scooped and scraped his head back into the box. He stood and held it out at arms-length as he began to walk it out to the barn. “Well, Mister Stubber. I guess we’re going to have to have a talk.”