Henry met my eyes as we sat on the floor. “Nola is the host. She can be the one.” I smiled before sliding the box in front of me. The paper appeared old fashioned. Maybe reused, with all the white creases covering it. The tape appeared yellowed and ripped, not cut with scissors. The print was of different types of birds with a snowy background. They were woodland birds including crows.
Something inside shuffled when I ripped the paper. Puzzle pieces? The burning fern tree candles smelled stronger, the air thicker. Everyone looked on with curious expectation.
“Whoa. That is a strange one.” Robin pulled away from the table as she said this.
I lifted the simple cardboard box and twisted it every which way to find out where it originated. No barcode. No toy company logo. Nothing that could identify where it was from. The picture that appeared hand-painted on the front could only be described as hideous. In the center of the image was an old crone. Her clothing was haggard, filthy. The scarf tied around her head and beneath the chin looked speckled with blood. One of her feet peeked from under her skirts. It was webbed with thick claws curled into the ground. She held a basket filled with wailing cherubic children. A dead body hung from the rafter of a hut. A jagged seam of leather thread from pubis to neck held in tufts of straw which were poking through. Bowels and organs spilled onto the floor beneath the body. The grin on her face relished the slaughter. The pupils were a mere single dot of black. Hideous.
“May I have a look?”
I handed Henry the box. He adjusted his glasses. Henry had that Indiana Jones thing going on when he concentrated hard on a puzzle. He only wore glasses with puzzles or reading. His mouth and jaw tensed and released as he searched. His cheeks slightly flushed as we neared the end. Many times, I wrote a text to him about something random and then immediately deleted it. I shook off these thoughts.
He adjusted himself on the floor. “This reminds me of an old folktale. You ever hear of Perchta?”
“Who?” Carlos scrunched his nose.
“The Perchta witch. My family is from Austria. Hence the name, Gruene. This area was settled by German immigrants. Maybe someone had this in their family and handed it down. Basically, she stalks people who are not doing as they are told, children and adults. She disembowels them and then stuffs their bodies with garbage and straw.”
“Well good thing we have our own bruja, too. And it is Las Posadas. I like to think we are protected.” Carlos looked at me and then the altar I had set up.
“It’s ugly; I’d prefer puppies in Santa hats, but I will give it a go. Plus, the cake Carlos brought smells amazing,” said Robin.
Henry opened the box, which possessed another surprise. The pieces were made from wood. Perfectly shaped with smooth grooves and edges. The paint did not appear old or chipped. Whoever created this had to be a master craftsman.
“This is gonna be so hard. I can’t wait! Next to Christmas, I love Halloween.” Carlos let out a belly laugh and began to sort through the pieces. One side had the image, but the other side something else. Black markings. I wondered if it was a double-sided puzzle. Everything about it felt deliberate.
As we worked our way through the puzzle, I could feel that little niggle of longing again. Each of the pieces different in shape, part of this bigger picture. But not all fit together. A piece locked perfectly with another. Made for that shape. They shared a small corner harmoniously. So many nights I looked to my left wanting someone to read my script. Laugh at it, cry with me. A squeeze on the thigh, hugs when times were low. Just a piece that understood what my edges needed. I glanced towards Henry. Maybe.
“Shit. I’m so sorry Nola, I cracked one.” Robin had knocked over a glass bauble from the tree as she returned to the coffee table after refreshing her eggnog.
“No problem. I’ll get rid of it.” I scooped the bauble from the carpet. A piece broke off in my hand. The pain ripped through my fingers. “Fuck!” I moved my hand to the coffee table to avoid getting blood on the new cream carpet. Henry immediately placed his hand beneath mine. “Fuck!” he shouted. A shard pierced his palm. His hand held mine as our blood comingled and dripped on the puzzle.
“That’s really weird.” Robin stared at the puzzle with her hand midair holding a Santa head-shaped napkin. We looked at the puzzle. The blood no longer remained on the surface. It was as if the wood drank it all. Henry removed his hand from mine. He passed me a napkin before grabbing one for himself from the coffee table. With his left thumb applying pressure to the cut, he picked up one of the pieces, holding it up to the light of the chandelier above the dining table. His fingers ran across the piece.
“This wood . . . it makes me think . . . it reminds me of something I found when I moved here. But that is ridiculous. Let’s finish this weird thing.” ...
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