The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [76]
For my last birthday, she hatched a surprise party. Knowing I wouldn’t go for such a thing, she kept it top secret, never even hinted that there were big doings going on. Turning older leaves me kind of grumpy because I tend to dwell on how many birthdays I wasted having that half-empty look on life. I was worse than half-empty because I was also sure that what liquid was in the glass was poison, so I kick myself for being stupid for so long. When I came home a few weeks ago for my birthday, I was happy to hear Rosebud upstairs pecking away at another mystery so I could sit down, relax and shake off my bad mood.
But before I could get good and settled, the front door opened and in walked Chauncey, the Farsighted Otter, a Misfit from the old days. I hadn’t seen him in years, but there he was with a big bucktooth smile on his mug and his paws—all three of them—wide open. “Happy Birthday, Gumdrop!” he said and squeezed me like he was making Gumdrop juice. Before I could even ask him what was going on, a Chatterbox Wall Flower Doll came in and slapped me on the back. “Fifteen hundred years, huh?” she said. “You don’t look a day over a thousand! Gosh, that’s my little joke. You really don’t! If I had to guess, I’d say you were about 700. Or 750. No more than 762 and three months, eight days. Do you like my hair? Maybe we can dance later? What do you think? Huh? Wanna dance later?”
Behind Chatterbox came another old Misfit, and then another. Pretty soon, the house was full of them, all laughing and talking, pumping my hand and giving me kisses. “I can never thank you enough for helping me find a kid that would play with me,” they’d say. “Every day there’s some new adventure!” “I’ve been passed down to three generations of youngsters,” another would shout. “Once I was a Misfit, now I’m a family heirloom! Family! Can you believe it? Thanks for that, Gumdrop!”
I didn’t think I deserved the goodwill surrounding me, but I actually caught myself smiling. That’s when I saw Rosebud and Dingleberry up on the stairs looking down at the scene with big smug grins on their pusses. The big sneaks. Dingleberry pointed a finger at my bride and shouted, “Her idea, buddy! Don’t look at me! Happy Birthday, friend!”
I blew Rosebud a kiss to let her know that it was safe to come over. When she got close, I could see she was trying not to cry, so I pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “I ought to wring your neck, doll face. But I think I’ll kiss it instead.” I did and the crowd cheered.
“I just thought you should be happy on your birthday for a change,” Rosebud said. “You haven’t wasted your time, Gumdrop Coal. You’ve made the most of it! Just look at these friends!”
I did and they were beautiful, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling I could have done more if I had gotten smarter sooner. “Really?” I asked.
Before Rosebud could answer, all the Misfits started cheering again at whoever was coming through the door. The crowd parted and there stood none other than Sherlock Stetson.
The old cowpoke detective had been stitched back together. His stuffing was a little uneven and he was still as ugly as homemade sin, but that cockeyed grin of his beaming at me was almost more beautiful than I could stand. “Gumdrop, Gumdrop, Gumdrop, my good man!” he roared.
“Howdy, Sherlock,” Rosebud said. “I’m glad you came, because I’ve got a bit of a mystery on my hands and I need your help.” She jerked a thumb at me. “Hard head here wants to know why he deserves all this.”
The clueless look on Sherlock Stetson’s mug was the same, but since he had been the plaything of a very logical little girl, the little cowboy had picked up some elementary thinking. “Well, sir,” he said. “Let me give you one clue.”
Tiny Tim—who did not die—was standing in my door. He was a little boy again, with a shriveled leg and leaning on a crooked stick, but the light from his eyes made the stars jealous. Tiny Tim came back to us. The little boy