Mukoli

Sleet

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Friday, December 24, 12:21 pm: 

“It’s going to be a long weekend,” Rabbit Burke said to the monkey lamp sitting on the corner of his desk. The lamp was a gift from his sister. Cheap plaster and stained brown, it looked, at first glance, to be old and carved from wood. The monkey was sitting on his haunches, knees slightly spread, and arms resting on his thighs. His face was friendly, expectant. He appeared to be listening, waiting for something to change. 

Rabbit slumped in his chair and released a lungful of air. The desk chair, like almost everything else in the office, was a castoff from one of the former tenants. Initially, the office space belonged to an accountant who met a terrible fate at the hands of a disgruntled client. The actual death took place in another state and had no real connection to this office except that the victim had once worked here. Nonetheless, it lingered in the air. 

Rabbit acquired the office when another attorney abandoned it, rent unpaid and fully furnished. That attorney, Edgar Scott, now managed a prominent boutique firm in the posh part of downtown. Rabbit wasn’t told why Mr. Scott had left, but the landlord had offered it at a discount and threw in the furnishings. Rabbit, who had recently been released by his prior employer, seized upon the opportunity sight unseen. Any port in a storm, they say. 

For a time, when he’d been gainfully employed by a reputable law firm, Rabbit tried to go by “Robert.” “Rabbit” was, in fact, his given name, but as an up-and-coming attorney, he’d decided that “Robert” was more appropriate. He even tried to learn to respond to “Bob” or “Bobby.” It hadn’t lasted, and when he moved into this office, he had his full and actual name stenciled onto the occluded glass of the office door. 

Rabbit Avalon Burke 
Attorney and Counselor at Law 
By appointment

The nearly opaque glass door was one of the many features that Rabbit loved about the office. The space was a second-floor walk-up above a bar and a sporting goods store at the end of a dead-end street.  Besides the oak and glass door, the entrance had a transom, which had proved useful a few weeks ago when he had accidentally locked himself out. Collecting a step ladder from the utility closet down the hall, Rabbit hoisted himself above the locked door and crawled through the opening and dropped inside. Despite a somewhat painful fall to the ground and a bit of dust on the back of his pants, Rabbit was no worse for it and was able to retrieve his file and make it to court on time. This creative way into his office was a small mercy, given that his client failed to show and was arrested a week later for multiple felonies. 

Only two things had been added to the office by Rabbit since he’d moved in. The first was a cheap office desk set he purchased from the discount aisle at Office Max, or Depot, or whatever that one was called. These stores were always a blur of lights and smelled of paper. Rabbit once enjoyed shopping there, but lately, he was rarely in any condition to tolerate the environment—too many people with too much promise. 

The second added object was a mini-fridge he’d had since college. It sat against the wall behind his desk, adjacent to an old black leather couch that now served double-duty as his bed.  In his younger days, the mini-fridge would be filled with beer and chocolate bars. In his last office, he used it to keep bottled water for clients, with and without bubbles. Today, it was stuffed with sandwich meat and Gatorade. Most stores would be closed for the holiday, and now that Rabbit was living in his office, he wanted to ensure he was well-provisioned.   

Rabbit turned his chair toward the office’s sole window and propped his feet up on the desk. The window looked out onto the flat roof of the neighboring buildings. The squalid scene completed a set that included the occluded glass door and the transom.  The whole office was straight out of a Sam Spade story, and Rabbit had done nothing to change the effect. In fact, when he moved in, for fun, he had placed a bottle of whiskey and a pair of highball glasses in the lower right desk drawer. Even though nobody else could see it, he thought it helped complete the vibe of the place. The bottle had sat unopened for six months before a bad beat in court had prompted its opening. The rest of the bottle served him for another month. The next bottle was with him for a week. After that, they were mostly day laborers. 

Rabbit sat upright for a moment and poured himself a tall glass of whiskey from the bottle in the drawer. The highball glasses had been joined by a tall plastic tumbler, which he had taken to using out of a desire for increased volume. The bottle also had company. Rabbit usually only kept one in the drawer, sometimes two. Today, he had six in anticipation of bad weather and the desire not to drive again until after New Year’s Day. 

Feet back on the desk and the tumbler filled to the top, Rabbit returned to staring out the window. Sleet was coming down hard. Sleet is the worst, he thought. It’ll shut everything down. Then, after taking a big sip of the straight cheap drink, he felt a shudder run through him. “Just as well, monkey, nowhere to go.” 

December 24, 4:41 pm: 

Knock-knock-knock! 

Rabbit hadn’t planned to fall asleep in his chair with his feet up, but then again, he hadn’t expected to drink so much this afternoon. Neither fact would be a problem by itself, but he also hadn’t expected the knocking on his office door. Now, the first two unplanned events were threatening a problem for the third.  

With his right foot feeling dead and cold, Rabbit sat up and shoved the bottle and empty tumbler back into their drawer and did his best to straighten himself up. He popped a mint in his mouth and grabbed a pen and notepad to appear to be hard at work as he called out. “It’s open, come on in.” 

When Rabbit was a young boy, around fourteen or fifteen, he often stayed up late eating chips and watching science fiction movies. One night, when the selection was otherwise unimpressive, he stumbled on the film “Gilda” starring Rita Hayworth.  It was one of those pivotal events in his life. From then on, while he still enjoyed sci-fi, when given a choice between alien invasion and a 1940s femme fatale, the Earth was safe, even if a few of the men weren’t. 

The woman who walked into his office was not Rita Hayworth; she bore no resemblance to her. Still, something about this woman brought Rita Hayworth to his mind. Instead of pale skin and dark wavy red hair, this woman’s complexion was a deep brown, and her black hair fell about her shoulders in perfect microbraids. Her dress was professional, relatively staid, and she was far more beautiful than anyone who walked into his office should be. If he’d been perfectly sober and wildly successful, he would have been attracted to her. Maybe even flirted. Less than sober, broke, and living in his office, he was embarrassed and angry that the world would put the two of them together in the state he was in. 

Standing as she entered, Rabbit realized that the foot that had fallen asleep was waking with an increasingly insistent wave of needles, and it was going to make both standing and walking difficult. “Please, have a seat. Rabbit Burke. And you are?” As the guest folded herself into her chair, Rabbit himself retook his seat.” 

“Chen,” She replied with a faint accent that Rabbit was convinced he’d never heard before. 

“Ms. Chen, good to meet you.” A panic came over him suddenly, and his eyes darted about the room. No bottle, no half-eaten food, no dirty clothes. The place was messy, but it merely looked like a dirty office, and not like a washed-up drunken attorney’s office. 

“Chen, just Chen.” 

“Chinese?” Rabbit asked before realizing how potentially racist the question sounded. 

The woman smiled. “Not Chinese. It’s Hebrew.” The woman laid her clutch on his desk and sat back. She also took a moment and scanned the room before speaking again. Her look was neither approval nor disapproval; she gave the appearance of someone mapping her surroundings, checking the exits. “I didn’t know if you’d answer. Most businesses are closed.” 

“Are they?” he asked, momentarily confused. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t entirely sober; the alcohol was slowing his brain, and having just awoken, it took a moment to realize how late in the day it was.  “I’m open until five. Later, if need be.” 

“It’s not the hour I meant. It’s the day. Christmas Eve.” This time, she paused and gave him the same scan she’d given the room. “Though you don’t look like a religious man.” 

Rabbit was taken aback. Her statement was bold and blunt, though not untrue. He looked her up and down. The suit was professional, but with subtle flourishes that hinted at wealth. The white jacket was held closed by a black belt and a gold buckle. The gold looked real, likely plated, but real nonetheless. The earrings were simple studs, but each held a ruby. She had an almost royal look. “Is that why you’re here? A religious mission, seeking a donation? I apologize, but you’ve caught me on a day that I am… well, cash poor.” Rabbit stood and moved to the door, planning to show the woman out. 

“No,” the woman turned in her seat and faced him. “I’m not here for a handout. I have a request. I’ll pay you, of course. It’ll only take a few hours of your time.” 

Rabbit stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t need it to steady himself physically, but there was no need to take chances. “What sort of case is it? Criminal? Domestic? Civil?” As he said this Rabbit looked past her through the window and saw the sleeting coming down even harder than before. 

“Mr. Burke!” A voice suddenly called out from outside the door, followed by a knock. “Mr. Burke, are you in there?” Rabbit turned and opened to door to find his landlady, Margarita Cansino, standing there, soaking wet with a plastic grocery bag in her hand. “Mr. Burke, I was on my way to my sisters, and I saw your light was on. I just couldn’t bear it, a nice man like you working tonight. You always seem to work so late. There isn’t a time I drive by that I don’t see your lights on.” 

“I’m fine, Mrs. Cansino. I’m currently with a client. No rest for the wicked, as they say.” Rabbit made sure to open the door slightly wider so his landlady could see that he was with someone. He was almost a month late on rent, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt if she saw he had a client. 

“Well, I won’t disturb you then, Mr. Burke. I just saw you were in and I had this extra pie.” She shoved the bag into his arms, causing Rabbit to let go of the doorknob. As he did, the door swung open further, and Mrs. Cansino was able to get a better look at his client. Chen had left her chair and was now standing next to his desk holding one of his crystal highball glasses containing two fingers of whiskey.  

Chen gave Mrs. Cansino a big smile and walked over. She took the plastic bag containing a foil-covered pie pan that emitted the distinct odor of mincemeat. “How sweet of you, dear. This smells wonderful.” 

Mrs. Cansino first gave Chen a friendly smile and then gave Rabbit one that was a bit more playful. “I’ll leave you and your ladyfriend alone. Have a Merry Christmas, both of you.” Rabbit thought for a moment about correcting his landlady about what was going on, but the fact that she had failed to mention his unpaid rent made him happy to see her go, misapprehension or not. 

Shutting the door, Rabbit turned again to see Chen standing next to his desk with a second whiskey-filled highball in her hand. “I took the liberty,” she said, stretching her arm to offer him the glass. He took it as he returned to his chair. He thought about asking her how she knew the bottle and glasses were in the drawer. Had he left it ajar? But the bite of the whiskey in his throat felt good, and as its warmth moved through him, he decided not to ask. 

As he settled in, Rabbit asked, “So, you said you had a request. How can I be of service?”  

“A package will be dropped off here. I need you to receive it.” Gathering her clutch, she popped it open and pulled out an envelope. She laid it on his desk in front of him. “That should cover your time.” Then, looking around the room, “I assume you have nowhere to go.” 

Rabbit didn’t reach for the envelope. He never wanted to appear too eager or too interested in the money. Still, it was thick, and assuming it was made up of twenties or better, it would certainly buy a lot of his time. He took another sip. “What’s in it?” 

Chen set her glass down and moved towards the door. “Nothing illegal. Nothing dangerous. Nothing that will be a problem.” Opening the door, she added, “I’ll be back later.” 

If he’d been asked about it, Rabbit couldn’t have explained why he let her walk out without more information. Maybe it was the money on his desk. Perhaps it was the drink in his hand. Or, maybe he wanted to see how this played out. 

December 24, 10:57 pm: 

Rabbit hadn’t opened the envelope and counted the money, but he had kept drinking, and the sleet had kept coming. Andy Williams was streaming over his laptop because Rabbit thought that Christmas carols, while ridiculously bad music, were necessary one night per year. Once upon a time, he’d enjoyed one or two, but that was when he was young, back when he both gave and received gifts. Nowadays, it was just another night. 

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…” Rabbit sang in a half-whisper as he sat, feet propped up on his desk, watching what had turned into a full-on ice storm outside his window. He was officially and formally drunk now, and the sandwich he’d put together a couple of hours ago still sat on his desk uneaten. Honey ham annoyed him for reasons he couldn’t put into words. Of course, in his current state, everything annoyed him. Everything except the storm. He loved the storm. 

A couple of hours ago, after putting together his unwanted meal, Rabbit had turned out his lights and started watching the ice come down. The roof of the neighboring building was now covered with an inch or more of it. Power lines from poles that lined the street each stretched down and connected to various metal boxes affixed to the buildings. They were all glistening as the streetlight reflected off the growing icicles.  

The world outside his window looked frozen and dead. It looked like a world without hope. Rabbit took comfort in this icescape. He liked the idea of a world without hope because he was a person with too much hope. He desperately hoped for a thaw and for life to return to what it had been. He just didn’t believe it would happen. Being hopeless wasn’t a curse; having hope while being convinced your hope is misplaced is. 

Rabbit dozed for a while, occasionally stirring long enough to finish one drink and to pour the next. The fact that the storm extinguished any reasonable chance that there would be anyone out and about should have provoked surprise when he heard a tapping on his door. Instead of being surprised, though, Rabbit dutifully got to his feet and went to the door. His body felt like it was on autopilot. 

Opening the door to the hall, he saw no delivery person, just a track of wet shoe prints and a white paper-wrapped box. He hadn’t thought he’d moved so slowly that the delivery person would already be gone, but the liquor was slowing his body as well as his perception, so he couldn’t judge. Dehydration from drinking was setting in, and he needed to grab a Gatorade from the minifridge. 

Rabbit gathered the package, brought it in, and placed it on his desk. Instead of the sports drink, he opted for another small splash of whiskey. As he retook his chair, he felt a chill come from the window. The whiskey was doing nothing to keep it at bay. 

Sitting in his chair, Rabbit realized not only that he was staring at the box, but also why he was staring at it. In shape, it was a perfect cube. Approximately twelve inches in each direction.  It was wrapped in smooth, glossy white paper. It wasn’t like Christmas wrapping paper, normally colorful and easy to tear. This paper was sturdy. It appeared designed to be cut instead of torn. Yet, despite its sturdiness, it didn’t seem like packing wrap. The gloss would make it difficult to write on. Anything written with a normal pen would leave nothing more than an indent and little ink. A Sharpie would merely smear and smudge. 

Rabbit picked the box up and turned it in his hands. It was perfectly wrapped. Every fold was tight. No creases were visible. The whole thing was taped in only two places, once on each of two opposing sides. Still, despite the lack of any additional tape, the wrapping gave no movement. It showed no evidence that the package could be accidentally opened.  It was perfect. 

Setting the package back on his desk, Rabbit wondered. It was light. Very light. It had the feel of an empty box. As he had lifted it and carried it to the desk, nothing had shifted inside.  There was no change in its center of gravity. Very curious. “It could be drugs,” he told Bing Crosby, who was singing through Rabbit’s laptop with a cocaine-addicted Bowie. It could be drugs, but he didn’t think so. The woman named “Chen” had said it was legal, and he was inclined to believe her. To be accurate, she said it wasn’t illegal, which isn’t exactly the same as legal, but he didn’t think that this nuance was part of her intent. 

He wanted to open it. He poured himself another shot and downed it in a single swallow. He really wanted to open it, and he knew that there was a slight chance that if he continued to drink, he would do so. Meanwhile, the ice storm had decided to add lightning and thunder. With the first crash of noise, the bolt flashed, and the entire room went dark. The street lights were out, and the laptop screen had already gone to sleep. The internet went out, so the music played a few more notes and then vanished. The world felt still and dark. Rabbit closed his eyes and quickly slipped into sleep. 

December 25, 6:14 am: 

The light hurt. It hurt his eyes, and it hurt his head. The door to the office was open, and the electricity had come back on, he realized, because the hall light was on. Rabbit sat up slowly, getting his bearings. He was on the couch. He had been sleeping. At some point, he must have decided to go to bed. During the night, he had grabbed a pillow and blanket from the cabinet, so he must have chosen to go to bed, rather than simply pass out. His head thundered as he felt his too-thin blood pound through the veins at his temples. It was morning, and morning hurt. There was someone in the doorway.

“I see my gift arrived, Mr. Burke. Thank you for receiving it.” The figure stepped through the doorway and over to Rabbit’s desk. No longer backlight and with his eyesight progressing from a blurry smear to a slightly fuzzy model of reality, he saw that it was the woman from the night before. She was dressed differently this time. A coat, long and vinyl-looking. It was white and glossy, just like the mysterious package, but with large red dots. She also wore a wide-brimmed hat that matched her coat, but she removed it and placed it on a chair by the desk as soon as she walked in. “I’m sorry to wake you, but it was necessary.” 

“No… no problem,” Rabbit stammered. “It came just after midnight.” 

“Of course it did, Mr. Burke. As was anticipated.” The woman stood there for a minute with her arms crossed over her chest. If anything, she looked more beautiful than the night before. Rabbit was struggling not to throw up. He was sweating. His body was attempting to disgorge last night’s alcohol by every path available. “You didn’t open it,” she added, “I thought you would.” 

“Ye of little faith,” Rabbit replied, attempting to sound relaxed and witty. His guts churned, and he was going to need to excuse himself to the bathroom very soon. 

“Faith is never little, Mr. Burke, and I have plenty.” With that, she turned and stripped the paper from the box like an eight-year-old on her birthday. Rabbit considered that whoever had wrapped it would probably pass out, seeing the strips and shreds that remained of the prior perfection. A wave of light-headedness passed over him, and the woman seemed to notice. 

Shaking her head and picking up the box, she strode to Rabbit’s mini-fridge and grabbed a Gatorade. She came over and sat next to him on the couch, setting the now-opened box at his feet. She twisted off the cap of the sports drink and handed it to him. “Drink,” she commanded in a voice that seemed innate in all mothers. Rabbit didn’t protest. He knew that state he was in, and she knew the state he was in. Plus, all fight seemed to have gone out of him the moment he’d first opened his eyes.  

As Rabbit sat next to this woman, sipping the pale yellow beverage, he felt a little better. The sugar water slowly worked its way into his bloodstream. A benign sugar replacing the intoxicating one. She smelled of vanilla, Rabbit noted. He thought of turning and telling her that he loved the smell of vanilla and that he wished she would sit there all day so he could smell it as he traveled the road of what was likely to be a nightmarish hangover. He would have liked to, because it was what he was feeling. But he didn’t dare speak, or even turn his head toward her, afraid she would get up and leave. 

After a time, when the bottle of Gatorade was empty, she took it from his hand and tossed it into the box that sat at their feet. The perfectly wrapped box had simply been empty.  Rabbit had noticed it was empty when she unwrapped it, but felt no need to question why. It was merely a perfectly empty box wrapped initially in a perfectly white paper and delivered on a perfectly dreadful evening 

“It’s time,” the woman said, breaking the silence. 

 “I know,” Rabbit said, both a little sad and a little happy. 

“You do understand, don’t you, Mr. Burke?” The woman picked up the highball glass that sat on its side next to the couch where Rabbit had slept. She stood and looked down towards him. 

“No, but that’s ok,” Rabbit said, and he meant it.  

The woman bent down and picked up the box. She then dropped the highball glass into the box and went to his desk. Opening a drawer, she gathered all the bottles, both empty and full, and dropped them into the box. She collected the second highball glass, the one she had herself used, and put it into the box as well. Next, went the tumbler.  

“That’s all?” she asked, but knew the answer. 

“The bookshelf. Behind it.” Rabbit had always kept one back there. An emergency flask. He’d forget about it from time to time, but when he was otherwise out, some part of his lizard brain would remind him about the flask. 

She went to the bookshelf and, reaching behind it, plucked the flask from its hiding place like a dandelion from a lawn. Into the box, it went with a clank. Then the woman returned to the desk and, placing the box in the center, she produced and opened a clutch that matched her outfit. Pulling another wad of bills, she slid them into the envelope from the night before and placed it back on his desk. “Pay your rent, Mr. Burke.” 

Before Rabbit could assure her that he would, and with the queasiness in his gut returning and reaching a nearly unmaintainable level, the woman picked up the box and her hat and started toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Burke,” she said without looking back. 

“Thank you, Ms…” Rabbit trailed off. He couldn’t quite remember her name. 

The woman paused, and with a quick shout over her shoulder, she saved him from his discomfort. “Chen, just Chen. I told you, it’s Hebrew. It means favour. Sometimes translated as grace.” Then she turned and vanished into the hall. As Rabbitt heard her footsteps recede, he heard her call out, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Burke. Merry Christmas.” 

Turning to the window, Rabbit watched as the icicles slowly dripped. 

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