Whale Season by N. M. Kelby Read Free Book Online

gets out of the hospital today. I got to eat and run. Damn. Working on Christmas is a damn bitch.”
    And that’s when it hit her. They’re working, Dagmar thinks. They’d rather be home with their families. She suddenly feels her Buddha heart open to him, and Preacher, and all the rest. She suddenly feels a fleeting moment of happiness to be on The Noble Path—with the plastic Santa and his tiny reindeers all still standing.
    â€œIt’s all good,” she says with a Pep Squad lilt.
    The men look at her oddly. Apparently not Buddhists, she thinks.
    â€œBaby’s okay now?” Dagmar asks. “I know they can do a lot for preemies these days.”
    The father shrugs. “He’s doing. That’s what we say. Doing one day at a time.”
    Onstage, Bernie is tired. Her hair, which is dyed an unnatural shade of red, now sticks up straight in several places. Makes her look like the flame of a match. It’s been a long night. Her elf suit and elfin cap are scattered at her feet, the remnants of a holiday tribute. Her green pasties, no longer in motion, wilt.
    â€œAnybody want to talk dirty? I can be a bad, bad girl,” she says.
    The men shake their heads.
    â€œKnow any Christmas carols?” Preacher asks. “I feel I can use some more singing.”
    In her ten years as a dancer, Bernie can safely say she’s never has a request for Christmas carols before. She looks at Dagmar for guidance.
    â€œUp to you,” Dagmar says.
    Bernie grins. “Well, shoot. I’m a good Catholic girl,” she says. “I know more Christmas carols than the pope, but I don’t want to sing alone.”
    â€œI don’t sing good, but I’ll sing,” says the driver with the photo of his baby. “Gots to practice for the kid.”
    â€œSure,” another says. “We’ll all sing.”
    â€œOkay, then,” Bernie says. She walks to the middle of the stage, a stage on which earlier she did things with cola bottles that made them nonrefundable in several states. She suddenly looks shy and gangly, awkward as a girl.
    â€œGo ahead,” Dagmar says. “Just pick a song and we’ll all join in.”
    The truck drivers put their forks down. Some clap. Some take a sip of coffee. Preacher clears his throat. Bernie adjusts her thong again and smooths the tassels of her wilted pasties. When she finally finds her courage and begins to sing, her voice is pure and sweet. The type of voice one associates with angels.
    â€œOh come all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant.”
    The men, one by one, join in. Their voices shake a bit. Some go flat. Dagmar looks at their faces, softened by the moment, and can, indeed, see their Buddha hearts. Unpolished, yet luminescent.
    She would like to sing along, but finds she can’t. She’s crying. She’s not sure why.
    That’s okay, she tells herself. She has to go to Jimmy Ray’s. He’ll be waiting. Can’t be late.
    She grabs the elf’s cap from the stage and puts it on. Nods good-bye, but nobody notices. Bernie and the men just keep on singing. Each is naked in his way. Each wounded. Each blessed. Their awkward voices are raised together in song honoring a boy who wasn’t born too early like the truck driver’s baby, but died too soon.
    Dagmar knows a lot about babies that die too soon. Too much, she thinks, and pushes away the memory of Cal, her own son. This is her first Christmas without him.
    When she gets into her car, the old Mercedes convertible her uncle Joe left to her, she puts the top down. The cold air feels good against her face, wakes her up a bit. But she can’t stop crying. Her caffeine heart speeds.
    When she finally turns onto the dirt road that used to be paved, used to have a sign that welcomed visitors to Whale Harbor, she is going too fast. Nearly loses her elfin cap. Gravel chews her tires. Christmas presents tumble like dice. Up ahead, she can see