If Scrooge’s ghost was a bit of undigested meat, why couldn’t Uncle’s ghost be the result of rubbery marshmallows? It makes sense to me.
It all began with a marshmallow Santa from the bargain store’s old stock—the perfect storm for my sensitive stomach. I felt nauseous shortly after arriving home and despite a briefcase full of work, took to bed.
I live in downtown Toronto on a dead-end street in a Victorian manse time forgot. I could easily picture Scrooge turning his key in my front door lock and being frightened by the gargoyle.
I could see him scurrying up my staircase with nightgown flying, running at break-neck speed down the oak-paneled hall to the safety of my own four-poster bed. To tell the truth, I could even see myself as the nephew of the grasping, wheezing, covetous old sinner himself—because in many ways I am.
“You’re a tightwad, Peter. You’d steal the pennies off a dead man’s eyes.”
James Bloor was furious. I foreclosed on his tavern and was now forced to evict him. He sat angry and sullen, staring at me with blood-shot eyes.
“Don’t make me call the bailiffs, James—it’s your own fault—you knew you were over-extended.”
“Give me a break, man—it’s a month before Christmas. Haven’t you any decency?”
“You should have thought of that when you took my money and wasted it. Now I want you out.”
There was a moment when I feared the worst—a dark shadow crossed his features and his eyes filled with blood. He held the shot glass high and flung it full force against the wall behind me, narrowly missing my head.
“I’ll add that to the list of damages,” I said coolly, noting the battered plaster.
“Rot in hell,” he spat back, as he grabbed his coat and stormed out into the snow.
I checked off another property to add to my list. Aided by the weak economy and the incompetency of men like Bloor, I was now a multi-millionaire. My uncle would be proud. He taught me well.
“Buy land,” he told me, “God’s not making any more of it this side of Paradise.”
Archibald Parsimony had made a fortune in real estate—or as some would have it, swindling others out of property. He lived and died a bachelor, friendless, with only me as his heir.
“You’re the one I trust, Peter—you’re even more driven even than me. Keep driving your hard bargains after I’m gone. Fools only learn through affliction—but you, Peter—you’re a man after my own heart. You’re the son I never had.”
I buried him in a modest pine coffin in a soldier’s plot—he fought in the war and was entitled. No sense squandering money on a lavish funeral or monument. Uncle Archibald would have been proud.
Everything worked according to plan, except for one small glitch—Kathleen Montgomery. She was vinegar to my teeth and smoke to my eyes. Why I hired her, was beyond me. Why I didn’t fire her, was one of life’s mysteries.
“You spent twenty dollars on a charitable donation? Preposterous!”
“But Peter—it was for the food bank—all the local businesses have given much more. I couldn’t refuse.”
“Aha, that’s the operative word—You couldn’t refuse. You’re so generous with my money, I’ll have to return the favour and dock your pay.”
She opened her mouth to protest and then wisely thought better.
She was a beauty, Kathleen, with thick, dark hair and huge gray eyes. So many times she’d turn and smile—it made the days go faster and the nights seem longer until I’d see her again.
Still, I couldn’t allow her into my life—it would upset my plans. Besides, it was just feelings and feelings pass.
The truth was all things pass, and although miserly with my money, I wasted my life and little did I know how foolishly I was squandering the little I had left.