Have You Been Bad Or Good?

“I don’t understand why we’re going to visit her,” Izzy says.

“She’s your grandmother, and she invited you to share Christmas with her,” Joel replies.

“She didn’t even come to our wedding, and she’s never met Izzy,” Cherie notes. “Maybe she feels guilty.”

“Maybe she’s about to croak,” Isabella adds.

“Show some respect, Isabella,” Cherie scolds. “Your grandmother Jolie was a world-famous model.”

Izzy dismissively rolls her eyes. Dressed in black, her dark hair streaked blonde and pink, their sixteen-year-old Goth daughter sports a ring in her nose and a line of five small earrings through each ear. Having been rebellious teens themselves, Izzy’s thirty-five-year-old parents are treading lightly through her combative stage.

“How is she these days?” Cherie asks.

“I googled her. Apparently, she’s as cantankerous as ever. But physically…”

“She’s only sixty-seven. A woman her age shouldn’t be bedridden.”

Joel nods, trying to steer both the car and his emotions safely.

“She’s sixty-eight. The stroke is payback for her wild lifestyle.”

“She had you when she was nineteen,” Cherie replies. “She was still a kid. It’s like your grandmother said. Having you and losing her husband the same year unhinged her.”

“More like freed her. She dumped me and became one of France’s top models while I ended up playing Canasta with a bunch of blue hairs.”

“Your grandparents did a good job raising you… Jolie never told the world she had a son. It would have killed her career. I know that bothers you...”

Joel hesitates, fighting back the tears. “…I just want my mother back…”

                                               ***

Izzy whistles at the mansion’s opulence and the message carved in French above the doorway.

“Paradis?”

Joel huffs. “It’s French for Paradise.”

“You should have made up with Grandma a long time ago,” Izzy says. “Are we going to inherit this palace when she dies?”

“Don’t be morbid, Isabella,” Cherie scolds, whispering to her husband, “It would be nice, though.”

A dour-looking, bald butler answers the door.

“What brings you here?”

“You do. We got an invitation to have Christmas dinner with Miss Kensington.”

Cherie starts to walk inside but is blocked by the butler.

“Do you have your invitation?”

“He’s her son, Lurch!”

Chesterton holds out the palm of his gloved hand.

“My name is Chesterton. And it’s my job and pleasure to serve and protect Ms. Kensington.”

Cherie fumes, brushing back her blonde perm.

“All right, Joe Friday,” Cherie replies. Foraging through her handbag, she pulls out a gold embossed invitation.

Chesterton gives way, pointing toward the drawing room.

Izzy gawks at the hallway’s crystal chandeliers, intricate plasterwork, and the stunning marble staircase leading upstairs.

“Hayden Borgia and his family are already here,” Chesterton says.

“Who’s that?” Izzy asks.

“My cousin, the classical pianist. We were as close as brothers up until we were eighteen.”

“What happened?”

“He betrayed me.”

The drawing room’s rich mahogany paneling and plush furnishings reflect Jolie’s affluent taste. A portrait of a bright-eyed, boyish soldier in a gilded gold frame hangs above the fireplace.

Izzy stifles a snicker when she spots two perfectly coifed blonde girls in puffy party dresses perched on a velvet divan.

“Izzy, these are your cousins, Beatrice and Capucine, and their mother, Circe,” Cherie says.

Circe gives Izzy a bird-like wave. Her cousins stick their noses in the air.

“…She’s creepy looking…,” Capucine whispers to Beatrice.

“Look in the mirror, Goldilocks,” Izzy shoots back.

Joel and Hayden’s eyes lock in a determined tug-of-war. His kind features framed by curly hair and a bristly mustache, Joel possesses an athletic build but seldom gives into anger. Insanely handsome with misty blue eyes, a tidy mustache, and a prominent hook nose, Hayden radiates a suave, cultivated presence but is keen on keeping his flawless features intact.

The tense silence between them is interrupted when Jolie says, “You two want to blink once in a while?”

Joel clenches his teeth. “How’s the driving skills these days?”

“I’ve had to bear the guilt all of my life.”

“I’m the one who did the time!”

Both families stare at Joel in amazement.

Cherie’s blue eyes widen. “You were in jail?”

“Two years for vehicular manslaughter. I wanted to be a doctor. I wound up being an insurance salesman.”

A jolly voice distracts them.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Santa’s here, bringing gifts for all!”

                                               ***

“Great disguise, Chesterton!” Joel says, tugging on Santa’s beard.

Chesterton appears in the doorway behind Santa, who lets out a pained yip.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was real. You look familiar. Who are you?”

“Santa! And I brought a gift for Izabella!”

“Me? You want to give me a present? Okay, I’ll play along.”

“Great. Can I use the library across the hall as the North Pole, Chesterton?”

“Knock yourself out, sir.”

                                               ***

Literary treasures line the library’s bookshelves alongside chic pictures and posters of Jolie.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Saint Nick,” Izzy says. “I’m not sitting in your lap. I'm not a ho-ho-ho, understand?”

“Understood. Have you been bad or good?”

Izzy hesitates to answer.

Santa reaches into his bag, producing a box he hands to Izzy. She eagerly rips the wrapping paper off.

“A laptop. Nice, but I’ve already got one.”

“This one’s special. Open it.”

“Bet there’s no Wi-Fi out here.”

Izzy grunts at the blank screen.

“Like I said, no Wi-Fi.”

                                               ***

The expensive leather chairs, books, and posters are replaced by lockers and classrooms.

Two boys approach her.

“Look, Herbie, it’s Jumbo,” one says. “I heard lunch is canceled because you went to the cafeteria for a snack.”

Laughing, the two boys move on.

“…What was that all about? I thought they were my friends?...”

A snippy voice answers, “Friends? You don’t have any friends, Jumbo. You ate them all.”

Izzy turns, confronting herself.

“I got some new jokes for you, Jumbo. What’s an elephant's favorite sport? Squash! And this one's so appropriate… What do you call an elephant that hates taking baths? A smellyphant!”

Izzy remembers tearing into Agatha “Jumbo” Belcher a few days ago with the same insults.

A very noticeable two hundred thirty pounds with braces, acne, a lazy left eye, and noxious body odor, Agatha is easy pickings for the bullies and the cool kids in school – especially Izzy.

She looks down at her size fourteen shoes, tube socks, and baggy, wrinkled moo moo dress.

She looks at her ham-hock-sized hands and the nails she’s bitten down to the skin.

Izzy realizes she’s in Agatha’s body and is facing herself at one of her most caustic and abusive moments.

“What’s the matter, Jumbo? Fats got your tongue? Someone steal your peanuts?” Izzy taunts.

“What? Why are you saying these things to me? You shouldn’t make fun of people who are overweight.”

“Why? Have you got enough on your plate already?” Izzy snaps back. “You’re so fat that when you go to the zoo, the animals try to feed you! You’re so fat the only scale anybody can use to weigh you is the Richter Scale!”

“Stop it!”

Agatha covers her ears, running away.

“Don’t run, you’ll cause a Tsunami!”

“How can you be so cruel?” Agatha blubbers.

“Aw, you can take it, Jumbo! If someone calls you fat, ignore them. You’re bigger than that!”

She runs past her giggling classmates and doesn’t stop until she gets to Agatha’s house.

She goes into the kitchen, crying as she wolfs down a box of Devil Dogs. She cuts herself, and when that doesn’t stop the pain, she drinks half a bottle of bleach.

                                               ***

Izzy gasps for air. Checking her surroundings, she sees Santa studying her.

“…Agatha tried to kill herself because of me…”

                                               ***

Izzy wobbles across the hall to the drawing room.

“You look pale, Isabella,” Cherie notes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m going to call Agatha Belcher and wish her a Merry Christmas.”

“I thought you hated her?”

“I am her… Or at least I was…”

“That’s nice, dear. What did Santa give you?”

“Empathy.”

                                               ***

Joel and Hayden stand at attention at the foot of Jolie’s canopy bed.

Bedridden after a stroke, her raven hair aged to a witchy silver, the woman once called “the most beautiful creature on earth” is a leathery, wrinkled facsimile of herself. But Jolie’s topaz blue cat-like eyes still radiate energy and malice.

“You wanted to see us, Mother?”

“Did you two feuding fools bury the hatchet?”

“In each other’s backs,” Joel replies.

“Hayden, you were like a son to me. I paid for your private schools, music camps, Ivy League education, and most of those grand pianos you play because you visited and looked after me.”

Hayden smiles triumphantly.

“But if I wanted a suppository, I would have asked my maid Rita for one, you cash-eating, suck-up snob.”

Joel snickers.

“Still playing the role of the martyr, Joel?”

Joel gives Hayden a withering look.

“Did you tell her?”

“No. I swear.”

“Whose lawyer did you call for help, Joel? Mine. Of course, I knew about the accident.”

“Take a hike, Hayden. The Mother of the Year and I need to talk.”

Hayden gives Jolie a worried look as he exits.

“One Christmas dinner doesn’t erase a lifetime of neglect. Mother.”

“I didn’t invite you here. But I’m glad you came… You have your father’s kind eyes.”

“Don’t try to butter me up.”

“When I first started modeling, when you were still a baby, I visited you often. Do you remember Miss Crabtree?”

“The blonde woman. She was kind. Grandma said she sang, ‘Que Sera, Sera’ to me. I still have some faded pictures of her.”

Jolie smiles placidly.

“That was you? But Miss Crabtree was a blonde.”

“It was a wig I used to hide from the paparazzi… Then you began to talk, and you broke my heart. You said you hated your mother because she’d deserted you. So, I did.”

“Just like that?”

“I sent money. I never missed a birthday.”

“I didn’t want presents. I wanted you.”

“I know. I was a good provider but a horrible mother. But staying away from you was the best thing I ever did for you. I was a high-paid mannequin, and I loved it. I couldn’t get enough champagne or drugs. That’s not the kind of world for a child to grow up in… All the parties, romantic scandals, and fame couldn’t wipe away the memory of your father. And the older you got, the more you reminded me of him. It took me a long time to realize there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Joel rushes to his mother’s bedside, holding her.

“It’s nice to have a family again. I’m still giving Chesterton and Rita the mansion, though. They deserve it. They’ve been with me for over twenty years. They’ve tried to hide it from me, but I know they’re in love.”

                                               ***

Rita enters the drawing room with a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

“How did your talk with your mother go?”

Joel takes a canapé from the tray. “Must be the spirit of Christmas. After all the years I spent hating her, I found it surprisingly easy to forgive her.”

“Good, because she needs you now more than ever.”

“Having a Santa on hand is a nice touch, Rita.”

“Bah humbug. I didn’t hire him. I thought you did.”

“Maybe Hayden did.”

“Party boy? You know better than that. So, who is Santa?”

“I didn’t get his name,” Joel replies.

“Keep an eye on him,” Rita says. “Maybe he wants to steal your mother’s jewelry.”

Santa takes three gifts out of his sack, handing them to Circe, Capucine, and Beatrice. The girls go into giddy overdrive when they tear off the wrapping, revealing new high-tech phones.

Santa takes a canapé from Rita’s tray.

“Don’t worry, Rita. I’ve got something for you, too. Or more precisely, Jolie does.”

Rita pulls Santa aside. “Okay, con man, what’s your game?”

“Easy. No wonder Jolie calls you the ‘Nigerian Nightmare.’”

“I’m from Jamacia! Wait a minute… She’s the only one who calls me that. How do you know that?”

“I’m Santa, baby.”

“No, you’re a shyster with an agenda. What is it?”

“Why would I harm an invalid who’s already dying from renal failure?”

Rita moves closer. “I haven’t even told her son that yet.”

“Santa knows when you’ve been bad. I know when you’ve been good. It stands to reason I’d know everyone’s state of health, too. If you’ll excuse me, Rita, I’ve got a gift for Joel and Hayden.”

Joel and Hayden stand before Santa, their arms crossed, their expressions marred by mutual disgust.

“Have you been bad or good?”

Neither man answers.

Reaching into his bag, Santa produces a small box, offering it to them.

Joel takes the box. Ripping off the paper, he reaches inside.

“A set of keys?” Hayden asks. “Did you get us a car? Because I’m not sharing with him.”

“Look at the logo stamped on the keys,” Santa says.

The cousins stare at the keys, mesmerized.

“That car you wrecked was a Triumph, wasn’t it, Hayden?”

                                               ***

Hayden steps on the gas, pushing the Triumph to ninety miles per hour.

“Slow down, knucklehead. This highway isn’t the Grand Prix, and you’re not Mario Andretti.”

“…You said that the last time, Joel. This time, it’s all under control.”

“SLOW DOWN!”

A shadow appears in the roadway. It glances off the bumper, bouncing onto the shoulder.

The car skids sideways, slamming off a guard rail and screeching to a halt.

Smoke pours out of the hood as Joel and Hayden bail out.

“We had a chance to make things right, Hayden! You did it again!”

The cousins shuffle toward the highway’s shoulder, knowing what they’re about to see.

Bloodied and crumpled in a fetal position is the body of Monford Mott, a homeless alcoholic who’d finished a bottle of muscatel and decided to cross the highway.

Hayden backs away.

“Go on, punk out on me again,” Joel says. “You know what happens. You run off. I take the rap. I get two years for vehicular manslaughter. You stay in my mother’s good graces. She helps finance your career, and my dream of being a doctor dies with Mott.”

“I can’t… I can’t face it!”

Hayden runs away, hiding in the woods, just as he had when they were eighteen.

The police arrive moments later.

Joel holds his hands out, waiting to be handcuffed.

Joel is stuffed into the backseat of the patrol car.

Hayden jumps in front of it.

“Wait! Joel didn’t kill that poor man… I did.”

                                               ***

Joel lowers the set of keys, shaking his head.

“You did it, Hayden… You took responsibility…”

“And that changed both your lives,” Santa states.

“It was ruled an accident. I got a year’s probation,” Hayden recalls. “Since then, I play a concert every year to aid the homeless.”

“As for you, Joel… or should I call you Doctor Kensington? Your dream came true.”

                                               ***

Chesterton opens the bedroom door.

“Santa would like to see you.”

“Carlos Santana?”

“No. Santa Claus.”

“What? We may have to cut the dosage of my medicines, Chesterton.”

Santa gently slides by Chesterton.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, Jolie!”

“What do you want? An autograph?”

“I brought you a gift.”

Santa pulls a chair next to Jolie’s bed.

“Have you been bad or good?”

“Oh, I’ve been really bad, and I loved it! Even underneath that white beard and those granny glasses, there’s something about you that’s familiar. Is that you, Brad Pitt?”

Santa reaches into his bag and pulls out a small box, handing it to Jolie.

Curious, she opens it.

“My wedding ring. Where did you get it? I lost it after my first…”

“Your first suicide attempt.”

“How do you know that? Were you one of my attendants at the sanitorium? You want to blackmail me, don’t you? The famous former model, the prettiest creature on earth, who was so sad she kept trying to kill herself.”

“…Look at the ring, Jolie…”

Jolie gasps when she looks back at Santa.

“Paul? Is that you?”

“Yes, Jolie.”

“But you died in Vietnam.”

“I’m here now. Care to dance?”

                                               ***

Chesterton and Rita listen to the music coming from Jolie’s bedroom.

“She’s playing their song, ‘Time in a Bottle,’” Rita notes. “You know what that means.”

“Suicide watch,” Chesterton replies.

Jolie’s laughter rises above the music.

“Sounds like Santa Claus has come to town,” Rita comments.

“She hasn’t laughed like that in years.”

“That doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”

“Doesn’t it?” Chesterton asks.

He knocks on the door, swinging it open.

Santa and Jolie dance past them.

“She’s on her feet! That’s impossible!” Rita exclaims.

They rush to the landing in time to see the couple descend the stairs and continue their dance across the hallway and into the drawing room.

Hayden drops his hors d'oeuvre as Santa and his aunt glide past.

“She’s a cripple. She can’t stand, let alone dance!”

“Another Christmas miracle,” Joel says.

Santa sits Jolie on the divan, gently kissing her cheek.

“Thank you for another great Christmas present.”

The guests gather around Santa.

“How did you get her to do that?” Cherie asks.

“It’s a Santa secret.”

Chesterton hands Santa his bag.

“Well, I have other places to visit, other miracles to perform.”

“You performed a big one here by bringing this family together again,” Joel says.

They follow him out into the hallway, waving as he leaves.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!”

“That was a good thing you did, Joel,” Hayden says.

“That guy? He wasn’t my doing.”

“Me neither. Who was he?”

“Santa,” Cherie says.

Laughing, everyone walks back to the drawing room.

Joel glances at the portrait of the soldier hanging above the mantlepiece.

“That’s him! Take away the beard, and that’s Santa.”

“Who is it?” Cherie asks.

“Paul Kensington. My father.”

Rita’s wail draws their attention.

Jolie is stretched out across the divan.

Joel rushes to her side, taking her pulse.

“She’s dead...”

“Look at her expression,” Cherie says. “Why’s she smiling?”

“She’s with my Dad.”