In spite of her newfound hatred for this bogus holiday, the naive glass shards of her heart longed for him to be the real-life Ebenezer Scrooge. She wanted his smiles and his warmth to be real.
But it wasn’t. And when she examined things more closely as Clark picked up small children and spun them around or joined in carols, Kate realized she didn’t care for this at all. The spectacle was just that: a spectacle. Fake. Phony.
He had an angle. All of this was part of some plot. To humiliate her or to make fun of her or to stomp on her one more time… She didn’t know. But he was working a fix and she wouldn’t fall into its trap. With that, she folded her arms across her chest and resolved to give off the most unsympathetic, hateful, grumpy vibes she could manage.
Basically, she channeled him from one day ago.
“Can you show me the way to Bob Cratchit’s house?”
All at once, he was there, directly in front of her, asking for directions to Bob Cratchit’s house. Oh, yes. He was real. And so, so unfairly handsome. She’d never seen his eyes catch the light like this or his smile relax into an effortless assurance of his goodwill.
Kate urged herself not to give in. And she didn’t. Something was going on here, and she could indulge it for the sake of her festival family, but she didn’t have to invest herself in it. Blindly, Kate nodded and took the arm he offered her. Soon, she found herself leading a parade of Victorian-dressed characters carrying presents and goose, pies and wreaths like some kind of out-of-place drum major. Behind her, they sang in unison, a feature of their penultimate scene. They did it every year. This was the ending of A Christmas Carol. Clark, somehow and for reasons passing understanding, brought the end of the festival into his home and let it take life there.
The doors to the Cratchit House stood closed, and, against her will, a familiar rush of joy fluttered in Kate’s stomach. Whether or not Clark knew it, this was her favorite part of the entire story. The beauty of the tale and the reversal of fortunes for the Cratchits made the entire journey worth it. In the novella, the confrontation between Bob and Scrooge happened at the office, but for the sake of bringing Tiny Tim back for one final “God Bless Us, Every One,” they transposed the encounter to Bob Cratchit’s house instead.
As Scrooge always did—Kate would know, she’d trained six different Scrooges—he waved away the crowd, they feigned hiding, and he settled an angry scowl upon his brow before knocking upon Cratchit’s door. Boom! Boom! Boom! Goosebumps raised the hairs on her arms.
She just hoped she wouldn’t break and cry. She always cried at this scene.
The Cratchit family generally consisted of a real-life husband and wife and whatever children could sit still the longest and memorize the most dialogue, but when the Cratchits appeared today, Mr. and Mrs. Isaacs were not standing there in their costumes, ready for their close-up. Kate’s breath hitched.
There, framed by the holly-lined doorway, stood Michael and Emily, dressed up in the poor clothes of the clerk and his wife, while the usual suspects of children cowered behind them at the mean ol’ Uncle Scrooge. The last time Emily got in front of a crowd, she picked up the lid of a piano and vomited into it, so her appearance here caught Kate off guard.
If she had a heart any longer, it would have warmed and stretched with love for her friend’s courageous appearance, made all the more amazing by her genuine acting chops.
“Bob Cratchit!” Clark-as-Scrooge boomed. “You did not come in to work today.”
Michael cowered, his knees shaking in a mockery of knocking together.
“But it’s Christmas.”
“I never gave you the day off.”
“You did, sir.” To his credit, Michael appropriately stammered and stuttered over the words forcing them out between his teeth with all the joy of poisoning himself. He even wrung his hands. Kate couldn’t have directed this scene any better. The children in the back did their part, too, huddling together as their mother grew in anger. “You just said to be in earlier tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m going to throw the book at you, you lazy layabout!” Scrooge shouted, shaking his walking stick for emphasis. Kate would have directed against that particular choice, but hamming it up seemed to be Clark’s style of the day, a noted change from the man who wouldn’t even smile at a little boy yesterday after he begged him to do so.
“Lazy layabout!” Emily charged forward, her thick curls shaking under her bonnet. She shoved up her sleeves as if to instigate a fight. Kate almost laughed. Almost. “I’ll have you know—”
“I’m going to give you everything I’ve got!”
“Please don’t! I’ll come in now! I can—”
Scrooge cut him off.
“I’m going to raise your salary.”
“Pardon?” Emily and Michael said at once, a unified explosion of shock.
“I’m going to raise your salary and take care of you and your family for the rest of my days. And,” Clark waved his hands, calling the crowd from the shadows, filling the room with rich aromas and colors the likes of which contrasted deeply with the Cratchits’ costume design, as was Kate’s plan when she helped pick
