The Giving Season
by Colin Alexander
Something unseen lived in Charter House, wordlessly dispatching residents, leaving it empty until the window displays on 5th Avenue filled with Christmas decorations and the barometer plummeted. New York wasn’t like California, where the worst weather would only break your spirit. Tinsel and holiday music were a warning: get off the street or the cold will turn your blood into jagged crystals overnight.
At sunset, everyone lined up with plastic bags and patched roller suitcases outside churches and converted flop-houses.
But there was never a line outside Charter House. They had free beds long after sunset, and some that were filled appeared empty come morning, though the windows were barred and the doors locked past 9.
Sandy was five dollars short for her motel, but knew the skinny man in the corduroy suit was good for ten, maybe even twenty, so she played her lungs out, focusing on the classics for a man in his seventies. She wheezed out a bluesy “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on her harmonica, swaying back and forth on the sludge-filled pavement, judging the man’s reactions. When she finished “Here Comes Santa Claus,” the sun had dipped below the high-rises, but the man’s hand kept time on his thigh, and she knew she had him.
When he stepped into the light of the department store window, she realized she’d misjudged him. His shoulder-length white hair was greasy, his suit thin and patched. Still, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a plastic-wrapped reindeer cookie.
“An offering to the goddess of music,” he said half-bowing. “The day-olds keep forever, ‘cause the butter.”
She gave him a tight smile, pouring cold coins into her hands, hoping she had enough but knowing she was screwed.
On her way to the motel, she avoided patches of black ice, wondering about offerings and donations. You gave offerings at church, donations to the scraggly Santa ringing the bell outside Bergdorf’s.
She remembered leaving milk and cookies out for Santa, how they always disappeared by morning.
“Offering or donation?” she asked aloud, kicking a soot-colored ball of snow so it splattered against the neon-dappled exterior of the motel.
“Five short,” said the motel manager.
“I’ll get you ten tomorrow,” said Sandy.
The manager gave her a stony look so clear his words were just echoes of the expression.
“Not a charity,” he said.
Sandy knew where she’d land this late in the day, sure as a man leaping from a penthouse window understood where he’d eventually find himself.
Everywhere was chock-full, save for Charter House.
Sandy shoved her duffle under the coiled spring mattress, low-hung fluorescents buzzing and crackling.
A large man, frame unthinned by winter cold, sat on the bed opposite, smiling with sharp yellow teeth.
“You’re that harmonica girl,” he said. “Play us a song.”
Sandy shook her head. The sour musk of the man’s cologne made her eyes water, and she wondered why a man who couldn’t afford a room would splurge on cologne.
“All played out for the night,” she said.
“Bet I can get you to change your tune,” he said, winking.
Sandy forced a tight smile, making her way towards the soup line.
Every shelter smelled like mold and sweat, but at Charter sweet rot breathed behind the walls.
That living smell made her believe the rumors, making her aware of every flicker of periphery movement.
She got chicken soup, an apple, a pudding cup, and a cardboard box of milk like the ones in grade school with kids’ photos.
The winking man sat down across from her, snatching her pudding cup, tearing off the plastic top and squeezing the contents into his open mouth.
Sandy worked hard not to recoil.
“You’re sweet enough,” said the man, mouth half-full with thick chocolate.
Sandy moved tables, making sure not to turn her back on the man.
When the lights turned off for the night, the heaters kicked on, growling like a giant dog, angry at being disturbed.
Though smoking wasn’t allowed, a red glow appeared from the winking man’s bunk, followed by the acrid smell of smoke.
The feral smell in the walls, the awareness on the edge of her vision of something shifting in the darkness, made her heart beat as if she were scaling stairs.
Lying in bed she put her hands in her pockets, unfamiliar plastic crinkling in response to her touch.
The reindeer cookie. Food wasn’t allowed in the sleeping area, but she’d missed dessert. As she raised the cookie to her lips, she paused, detecting the glow of Christmas lighting outside the barred windows.
She felt childish slipping the plastic-covered cookie under the bed, wishing she’d pocketed a box of milk, hoping sugar was enough to appease the thing in the walls.
She stared at the ceiling, thinking of the day’s donations. The child with the soft red hat, avoiding her eyes. The man in the puffer vest, never taking his phone from his ear. The woman who’d spilled her coffee as she tipped forward, mouthing a curse.
Sandy must have fallen asleep. She smelled sour cologne, then the glow of a cigarette butt divided into a pair of eyes, swallowed by the growl of the heater. The cologne was overpowered by sweet rot, and she froze as dry heat was replaced by an open maw exhaling.
In the dream she closed her eyes, hearing the padded thud of paws, the feral snuff-snuffing along the tips of her toes. Then the breathing stopped, replaced by the crinkle of plastic.
The sweet-rot dissipated, sucked back into the walls.
Sandy woke at first light. The winking man had apparently woken earlier, taking all his things, save for his scent.
Under the bed, the cookie was gone.
As Sandy shuffled out of Charter House, duffle-bag pulled tight along her shoulder, she smelled wood-rot and warm decay behind the walls. Added to the bouquet was the unsubtle smell of cheap, sour cologne.
Before reclaiming her corner she visited the bakery, stuffing her pockets with day-old butter cookies.
The Molotov Cocktail 