A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 9

 

Chapter 9: Penance and Exhaustion

Holly Winters had hired a lot of help over the years—teenagers, retirees, one guy who claimed to be “between pilgrimages”—but never anyone quite like Nick Kramp.

He showed up right at dawn, punctual as a Swiss clock, wearing black gloves, a pressed coat, and an expression that suggested this was not a “side gig,” but an assignment of cosmic importance.

Max poked his head out from the back room. “Hi, Mr. Nick!” he shouted with an excited wave.

“Hello.” Nick waved back then looked at Holly cradling her coffee. “Shouldn’t he be in school and why do you look so exhausted?"

“He’s doing penance,” she groaned. “We were at the police station last night.”

“I heard about that,” Nick said, because he had indeed heard about Max’s latest escapade.

“I’m sure you have,” Holly countered. “It’s the talk of the town.”

That is not how Nick heard the news. Instead of the usual gossip around Tinsel Bluff, he had received a notification on his Naughty List Tracking Device. According to the report, Max had somehow learned a hack into local vending machines and swiping the snacks.

“What am I going to do with that kid?” Holly threw up her hands before pouring herself a cup of hot coffee. “I have to pay for that inventory and Max is looking at doing some community service. I just don’t get it. He’s not a bad kid.”

Nick opted not to point out that his records might suggest otherwise. Mainly because he didn’t want to upset Holly more than she already was. Also, one of the HR sensitivity classes he was forced to take emphasized emotional intelligence as a valuable skill. As such, he was learning to read the room.

And then there was Max himself. Nick’s field observations confirmed Max’s penchant for mischief, but Nick sensed something else was afoot.

“I’m just so tired, ya know?” Holly continued, sipping her coffee like it would bring healing.

“Every day, I’m juggling Max’s latest madcap adventure and trying to convince his principal why he shouldn’t be expelled. I’m running a business that—surprise!—is somehow both adorable and barely profitable. And trying to convince myself that being a single mom isn’t the trainwreck my dick of an ex Greg thinks it is.

“I’m tired of smiling at people in the grocery store like everything’s fine when last week my son accidentally created a chemical reaction that ate through my mop. I’m tired of pretending I don’t hear the whispers about how I should ‘get him under control’ or how I should ‘lean in’ or how my life would be easier if I gave up this ‘little bakery dream’ and took a ‘real job.’ I’m tired of ‘helpful suggestions’ about how parenting works from people whose biggest crisis last week was that their elf-on-the-shelf fell behind schedule.

“I’m tired of juggling bills like a circus act. I’m tired of fighting for scraps of joy because the big joys feel too expensive. I’m sick to death of being told by men in business casual—hi, Greg—that my exhaustion is actually an opportunity for them. That if I just step aside, they’ll fix everything by replacing my life with something that looks good on a brochure. I’m so tired Greg’s shitty co-parenting. Usually finds an excuse to skip out on his weekends with Max. Offers little to no support other than child support, which he bitches about. But, boy, does he try to make up for it with gifts.

“And you know what else? I’m tired of acting like I don’t want help. I do. I want someone to show up. Not to rescue me, not to ‘take over’ or mansplain. Not to bulldoze the things I’ve built. But to stand next to me and say, ‘You’re not crazy. This is hard. You’re doing your best.’

“Because I am doing my best, goddamnit. And my best is messy and imperfect and sometimes held together with duct tape and Hail Marys. But it’s mine. My life. My bakery. My tree farm.” Holly choked back emotion. “My son. My hope for something better. So, if it looks like I’m tired, it’s because I am. But I’m still here. Still fighting. Still baking. Still trying. And that has to count for something.”

Nick stood in clueless silence. He had faced hunters, storms, bureaucracy, old magic, and one very angry reindeer with a grudge going back to 1843. But nothing leveled him like Holly finally speaking her truth out loud. Not the polite version she hands out at school meetings or the breezy one she uses at the bakery. This was the raw, beating-heart version, the kind you only say when you’ve run out of places to hide.

She looked exhausted, yes. But also fierce. Like someone who’d been carrying the world on her back and just dared it to fall. He’d seen it before in battered warriors of old who refused to surrender.

And all he wanted—the only thing—was to lift some of that weight.

“I know life’s been unfair,” I went on. “I see how hard you fight for Max, for the bakery, for yourself. And I don’t mean ‘I see’ in the way people say just to nod along. I mean—I see you. All of you. And you’re doing better than anyone else would in your place. Including me.”

She let out a breath, shaky at the edges.

“And listen,” I added, stepping closer, careful—always careful—“I’m not here to fix your life. I couldn’t if I tried. But I can stand beside you. I can help carry things. Even if it’s just the little things. Even if it’s just being someone who doesn’t ask you to smile when you’re too tired to breathe. So, what can I do to help?”

Her eyes met mine then, and something warmed in my chest. A heat older than the snowstorms I command.

“All right, Mr. Consultant. You can start by grabbing some snickerdoodles from the walk-in and putting them in oven for twelve minutes on 350. Not a minute more, not a minute less.”

 The back alley behind Holly’s bakery was quiet except for the soft plinking of melting icicles and the occasional hum of the ancient HVAC unit that only aspired be operational.

Max sat on the back steps, knees pulled up to his chest, jacket zipped to his chin. He wasn’t crying—Max rarely cried—but his shoulders were slumped in that way that said everything.

Nick stepped out carrying two bags of trash for dumpster and spotted him immediately. Even without supernatural senses, he would’ve known something was wrong. Max usually radiated chaotic energy like a quasar. Now he looked dimmed.

Nick tossed the bags into the dumpster. “Permission to join?”

Max shrugged, which in Max-speak meant yes, but don’t make a big deal out of it.

Nick sat beside him, keeping a respectful distance. “Your mother is worried about you.”

“I know.” He scuffed his boot against the concrete. “I heard her talking earlier. She’s stressed because of me. It’s like everyone says. I’m a bad kid.”

“Look, Max.” Nick turned to him, making direct eye contact with the boy. “I’m kind of an expert on the whole good kid/bad kid thing. I’ve seen a lot. You’re not bad.”

“Are Santa or something?” Max asked with too much cynicism for a kid his age.

“No,” Nick said. “I’m no Santa Claus.”

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!