NOS4A2(139)

Wayne said, “I slipped with a putty knife, and it gave me a scar right here.” He held up his right hand, but when he looked at it, he could not find the hairline scar that had always been on the ball of his thumb. It mystified him what could’ve happened to it.

“The road to Christmasland removes all sorrows, eases all pain, and erases all scars. It takes away all the parts of you that weren’t doing you any good, and what it leaves behind is made clean and pure. By the time we arrive at our destination, you will be innocent not only of pain but also of the memory of pain. All your unhappiness is like grime on a window. When the car is done with you, it will be cleared away and you will shine clear. And so will I.”

“Oh,” Wayne said. “What if I wasn’t in the car with you? What if you went to Christmasland alone? Would the car still make you . . . younger? Would it still make you shine?”

“My, you have a lot of questions! I bet you are a straight-A student! No. I cannot get to Christmasland alone. I cannot find the road by myself. Without a passenger the car is just a car. That is the best thing about it! I can be made happy and well only by making others happy and well. The healing road to Christmasland is just for the innocent. The car will not let me hog it all for myself. I have to do good for others if I want good to be done to me. If only the rest of the world worked that way!”

“Is this the healing road to Christmasland?” Wayne asked, peering out the window. “It looks more like I-80.”

“It is Interstate 80 . . . now that you are awake. But just a minute ago, you were dreaming sweet dreams and we were on the St. Nick Parkway, under old Mr. Moon. Don’t you remember? The snowmen and the mountains in the distance?”

Wayne would not have been more jolted if they had hit a deep pothole. He did not like to think that Manx had been in his dream with him. He flashed back, briefly, to a memory of that deranged sky filled with static. Sky false a is that. Wayne knew that Grandma Lindy was trying to tell him something—trying to give him a way to protect himself from what Manx and his car were doing to him—but he didn’t understand her, and it seemed like it would be too much effort to figure it out. Besides, it was a little late for her to start giving him advice. She had not exactly strained herself to tell him anything of use when she was alive, and he suspected her of disliking his father just because Lou was fat.

“When you drift off, we will find it again,” Manx said. “The sooner we get there, the sooner you can ride the Sleighcoaster and play stick-the-blind with my daughters and their friends.”

They were in a trench slicing through a forest of corn. Machines stood over the rows, black girders that arced in the sky like the proscenium above a stage. The thought occurred to Wayne that those machines were sprayers, full of poison. They would drench the corn in a lethal rain to keep it from being eaten by invasive species. Those exact words—“invasive species”—rang through his brain. Later the corn would be lightly washed and people would eat it.

“Does anyone ever leave Christmasland?” Wayne asked.

“Once you get there, you will not want to leave. Everything you could ever want will be right there. There are all the best games. There are all the best rides. There is more cotton candy than you could eat in a hundred years.”

“But could I leave Christmasland? If I wanted to?”

Manx gave him an almost hostile glance in the mirror. “Then again, maybe some teachers felt you were badgering them with all your questions. What were your grades like?”

“Not very good.”

“Well. You will be glad to know there is no school in Christmasland. I hated school myself. I would rather make history than read about it. They like to tell you that learning is an adventure. But that is a lot of hooey. Learning is learning. Adventure is adventure. I think once you know how to add and subtract and can read suitably well, anything else is likely to lead to big ideas and trouble.”

Wayne took this to mean that he would not be able to leave Christmasland. “Do I get some last requests?”

“Look here. You act like you have been sentenced to death. You are not on death row. You will arrive at Christmasland better than ever!”

“But if I’m not coming back, if I have to be in Christmasland forever . . . there are some things I want to do before I get there. Can I have a last meal?”

“What do you mean? Do you think you will not be fed in Christmasland?”

“What if there’s food I want that I can’t get there? Can you get whatever you want to eat in Christmasland?”

“There is cotton candy and cocoa and hot dogs and the candy on a stick that always hurts my teeth. There is everything a child could want.”

“I’d like an ear of corn. A buttered ear of corn,” Wayne said. “And a beer.”

“I am sure it would be no trouble to get you some corn and—What did you say? Root beer? There is good root beer out here in the Midwest. Even better is sarsaparilla.”

“Not root beer. A real beer. I want a Coors Silver Bullet.”

“Why would you want a beer?”

“My dad said I’d get to have one with him on the porch when I was twenty-one. He said I could have one on the Fourth of July and watch the fireworks. I was looking forward to it. I guess that isn’t going to happen now. Also, you said it’s Christmas every day in Christmasland. I guess that means no July Fourth. They aren’t very patriotic in Christmasland. I’d like some sparklers, too. I had sparklers in Boston.”