Christmas Cranberries: A Cruel Child, Santa’s List & a Blood-Red Baseball Bat

Story transcript, edited from an automatic transcription. Minor transcription errors may remain; not checked word for word against the audio. Separate host segments and advertising omitted.

Christmas Cranberries by L.F. Falconer Ronnie was no longer content with pulling the legs off of crickets. That bored him anymore. As did wingless dragonflies and tailless lizards So today, it was Fluffy, the long-haired tabby with the blue collar that jingled softly with the cat's subtle movements To protect the birds, Fluffy's owner, Mrs. Kent, from the neighboring house was often known to say Fluffy was Mrs. Kent's favorite, and Ronnie did not like Mrs.

Kent, for Mrs. Kent was mean Her mouth was always turned down in a frown, and her eyes glinted like a pirate's. She never missed the opportunity to complain to Ronnie's mom when he'd picked the apples from Mrs. Kent's tree off the single branch that overhung the back fence, and she refused to return any balls that accidentally ended up in her yard. Yes, Mrs. Kent was a mean old bitty. So this day, Ronnie thought, when he caught Fluffy trespassing, was to be Fluffy's last.

Ronnie's eyes gleamed as he firmly held the writhing cat beneath the water of his wading pool. He imagined the cat to be Mrs. Kent as he kept holding her down, tighter and tighter, until she was quite dead beneath the shallow water. He smiled. A sweet tang like cranberries filled his mouth. He savored the taste as he shoved the wet, dead cat into a garbage bag and stuffed it into the trash can in the alley.

For a long time, Ronnie stared at the trash can, reveling in satisfaction, relishing the taste of cranberries. In all of his six years of life, he could never remember feeling so good. That was in June. By the first of September, just one week before his seventh birthday, Ronnie was beginning to hunger with the need to feel good again. He began to crave the cranberries. For his birthday, his father brought home the puppy.

A happy, eight-week-old lab border collie mix. At his mother's suggestion, the boy named the dog Susie. And within a few days, Susie was fetching the ball Ronnie would toss. Very few were lost to Mrs. Kent's yard anymore. At night, Susie would curl up in her crate at the footboard of Ronnie's bed, and she rarely woke before daylight. In the morning, she would follow Ronnie like a shadow and wait patiently outside the closed bathroom door until he would let her out in the backyard to tend to her own duties.

When Ronnie would come home from school, Susie would brim with joy and exuberance, wagging her entire hindquarters. Four weeks after Ronnie's birthday, Susie disappeared. Ronnie knew where the dog had gone. Though Susie had done nothing to set Ronnie into a fit of anger, the boy had simply wanted to feel good. He had been hungry. He'd wanted to taste the cranberries. He had taken his father's claw hammer out of the garage. He'd bashed it against Susie's head.

He'd bashed again and again, each blow feeding his hunger filling his mouth with tang until cranberry drool overflowed and dribbled onto his chin. The hunger was sated. He'd tossed the hammer behind the rosebush unlatched the alley gate and shoved Susie's little body into a box in Mr. Phipps' trash can at the end of the block. He would be full for a while. Ronnie felt good. Ronnie's mother and father posted the reward flyers around the neighborhood in hopes of inducing the return of the missing pup.

Five days after he'd put them up, Ronnie's dad took the flyers down, even though the lost puppy had not been found. A week before Halloween, Ronnie was blessed with a new sister. His mother had gone to the hospital and came home two days later with baby Elizabeth wrapped in her arms. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Sig and Grandpa Paul all came for the Thanksgiving holiday dinner with much fuss and ado over baby Elizabeth.

Grandma Rose clicked her favorite photo, so she said, of a smiling Ronnie lovingly holding his new one-month-old sister in his arms. Little did Grandma Rose know that when she posed the children for that shot, how hungry Ronnie was growing. How Ronnie's bright smile was merely instigated by his inner anticipation and his knowledge of how to feel good, how to taste more cranberries. He tried to fill his hunger at the Thanksgiving feast, but the ones from the can were too sweet.

They weren't the same. They did not make him feel good. After dinner, the women gathered in the kitchen for the cleanup and the men retired to the living room in front of the TV. So Ronnie, Grandpa Paul asked as he settled upon the sofa, what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas this year? Ronnie scooted forward in his seat. A baseball bat would be nice. He had no desire for a ball or a glove.

A shiny red baseball bat. Red, like cranberries. His grin was as wide as his eyes. It made Grandpa Paul smile. I always loved baseball as a boy, Grandpa Sig said, loosening his tie. Grandpa Sig always wore a tie. You never know when you'll need to make a good impression. he always said. Ronnie's dad, Jim, leaned back in his recliner. Santa might not come this year. Why not, Jimmy? Grandpa Sig asked. He's not short of cash, is he?

No, but sometimes it's just best if he stays away. Ronnie's dad muted the TV and set the remote aside. Dad, why don't you tell ronnie about the santa you knew as a boy are you sure grandpa sig ran his tie back and forth through his fingers times are different and here in america santa claus has changed his mo a little he's changed his mo a lot dad so indulge me and help me teach the boy a little folklore from his heritage.

My Ronnie's old enough to know there's more than one Santa in the world. He looked over at his son and winked. Aren't you, son? Ronnie sat up proudly. Yes, I am. And the boy listened in rapt awe as his father's father began the tale. Well, here in America, Santa Claus might come accompanied by a red-nosed reindeer, Grandpa Sig intoned. But back where I come from, Santa, or Samiklos, as he's known, makes his rounds with Schmutzi.

Ronnie giggled at the sound of the name, spoken in his grandfather's residual German accent. Is that a Swiss reindeer? he asked. Grandpa Sig shook his head solemnly. No, Schmutzli is Samiklaas' evil altar While Samiklaas wears a red cloak and a tall red hat Schmutzli dresses in sooty grey Samiklaas has a long white beard And Schmutzli is black as coal Schmutzli's face, too, is black as an inkwell And his eyes glow red as embers in a fire Samiklaus leaves treats in the shoes of good little children, while Schmutzli beats the naughty children with his broom.

And with those boys and girls who've been truly, truly bad, he sweeps them into his sack and spirits them away deep into the wilderness to be eaten and never seen again. Ronnie stared, wide-eyed. Why are you telling the boy that horrible tale? Grandma Rose asked, coming out of the kitchen with a handful of fresh-washed china for the cabinet. There's nothing wrong with Ronnie knowing the folklore of his heritage, Mom, Jim said.

After all, I grew up with it, and look how sane I turned out. Well, I didn't approve of your father telling you those stories then, and I don't approve of you scaring my grandson with them now. it's too late jim said reaching for the tv remote the tale of schmultzy has been told i'm not scared grandma ronnie lied after all this is america santa's changed his mo grandpa sig and grandpa paul both laughed grandma rose shook her head and returned to the kitchen Ronnie stared at the TV.

The sound was reinstated, but Ronnie didn't hear it. All that filled his mind was the picture of glowing red eyes on a black face, and the hunger for cranberries faded into the background. When Ronnie relayed the story of Samiklaus and Schmultzy to his friend Jason at school, Jason just laughed. It's not real, Jason said. there's no such thing as santa anyway it's only your parents and that is what ronnie wanted to believe or at least that in america there was santa not semi-closs and certainly no schmultzy and maybe he hadn't been that naughty though he wanted to be he was craving the cranberries but it would have to wait he couldn't take any chances before christmas Two days before Christmas, Ronnie watched, licking the taste of cranberries on his lips as his mother bathed baby Elizabeth in the infant's tub upon the tabletop.

Can I help? He tentatively asked. After a moment's consideration, Mother nodded. Of course, Ronnie. She handed the boy the soft washcloth when he stepped close. Just gently wash her body, okay? Mother held Elizabeth securely in the tub. Ronnie rubbed the cloth over the baby's soft shoulders and belly and imagined grabbing hold of the baby's ankles, whirling her around and flinging her against the wall, then jumping up and down on her body once she hit the floor.

He imagined skewering her with the fireplace poker And roasting her like a marshmallow He imagined taking his fingers And poking them into Elizabeth's wide blue eyes And cramming the soaking wet washcloth down her throat He licked the tang of cranberries away Here, Mother interrupted his thoughts Hold her steady for me while I lay out the towel Ronnie's hands were placed his mother's beneath Elizabeth's arms He looked up into his mother's eyes They were smiling The tang in his mouth sweetened Mother leaned over to unfold the towel beside the infant's tub Ronnie began to release his grip Elizabeth slipped a bit Could she slide all the way down until she drowned?

Ronnie wondered not likely but perhaps she could slip fast enough that were he to try to catch hold of her again her tiny little neck might snap in the process her tiny little neck so skinny in its frailty trying to hold up her big bobbling head and maybe her big bobbling head just might pop right off in his hands. Pop! The cranberry tang caused a slip of drool to dampen Ronnie's chin.

His eyes grew wide as he stared at his sister. He let go his grip. Elizabeth started to slide. Whoa! Mother quickly caught the baby before she slipped into the shallow water and laughed nervously. She can be a little wiggle bug, can't she? almost got away from you you have to be more careful with your sister ronnie his father spoke from the doorway as he entered the room yes ronnie agreed taking a step back relieved mother had been so quick christmas was close he couldn't be naughty before santa came but afterwards afterwards he could feel good again on Christmas Eve he could not sleep his stocking was hung but would it be filled? was Santa real? would he come? and what about Schmultzy? but this was America of course Santa would come Santa and a red-nosed reindeer to leave presents under the tree not red-eyed schmutzley.

He had been being oh so very good even though the hunger for cranberries was unendurably strong. Elizabeth was sleeping in her room across the hall. Mother and father were sleeping in their room at the end of the hall. Ronnie stared out the dark window to the starlit night beyond. Please let Santa come, he whispered. He only had to wait until after Santa came. He couldn't be bad before Santa came, but afterwards, everything would be alright, and he could feel good again.

After all, this was America, and in America Santa wanted little boys to feel good. Santa rewarded good with presents. Ronnie stared at his bedroom door. Elizabeth was across the hall. Mother and father were at the end of the hall. At the other end of the hall, around the corner in the living room, the brightly lit Christmas tree cheerfully winked, awaiting its yearly night-stalking visitor. Every year it was Santa who came. Not Samiklaus.

Not Schmutzli. This was America. Ronnie pulled the blanket up to his chin and stared out the dark window. The tang was in his mouth. He just wanted to feel good. That's all. He didn't want to be naughty. And there was only one way to feel good. And here in America, Santa brought presents to the good. Maybe even a baseball bat. Bright, shiny, and red. Thunk. He could hear the metallic sound of the bat's impact.

Thunk, thunk. Hollow and resonant. Red, gleaming, slick. Gosh, he was so hungry. He wanted to feel good, to feel good for Santa. Elizabeth was across the hall. He sat up in bed and stared at the door. Was there truly a Santa? If so, was he American? or was he Swiss and had he come yet? Ronnie laid back down. It was getting hard to breathe. His mouth was full. He needed to feel good.

When would Santa come so he could feel good? He needed to know Santa had come before he could feel good. He sat back up and dangled his feet over the side of the bed. He stared at the door. Elizabeth was across the hall. Had Santa come yet? Ronnie was so very hungry, starving. He could taste the cranberries. He needed to feel good. Bare feet hit the floor. He crept to the bedroom door, peeked into the hall, looked to his parents' closed bedroom door.

Then, to Elizabeth's. His hands began to sweat. Ronnie eased his way into the hall without squeaking the door hinges and padded for the living room. He peeped around the corner into the room, awash with twinkling colored lights, and gasped. Santa was real. He had come. The stockings were bulging, filled to the brim Beneath the tree, under a big green bow, was a shimmering red baseball bat The color of cranberries He crouched to his hands and knees and crawled for the tree Hesitantly, his hand touched the cold aluminum that gleamed beneath a barrage of twinkling lights He slowly lifted it up and gave the bat a loving caress In America, Santa wanted little boys to feel good In America, Santa rewarded the good He rewarded the good with shiny aluminum baseball bats to enable the good never to stop Ronnie wanted to feel good He had waited for so, so long The sweet tang of cranberries filled his mouth as he hugged the red baseball bat and eased back down the hall.

Turning the knob to Elizabeth's bedroom door, he gently pushed it open. He stepped inside. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. In a gleam of red, the bat hit the floor. The flyer Ronnie's father tacked to the electric pole featured the smiling face of a seven-year-old boy. A reward was being offered for any information leading to the missing boy's whereabouts. But Jim knew no reward would ever be paid out. Jim knew Ronnie had been a bad boy Jim had found the bloody hammer matted with dog hair and gore He knew Ronnie had lied about the puppy running off through the open gate and Jim feared what Ronnie would do with a shiny new baseball bat Yes, Ronnie was certainly a very bad boy and very bad boys had to be whisked away forever.