Free The Boy With Penny Eyes by Al Sarrantonio Page B

eyes, two kinds of pears—skinny pale and fat green—figs on strings like necklaces, grapefruit ready to explode.
    They stuck their heads in a little farther, past the kitchen smells, past the fruit . . .
    There. From the family room just to the left, an odor that slapped at them, made them dizzy. Their fingers buzzed with anticipation at the smell of . . .
    The tree. There, in the darkness, it looked like a sentinel over Christmas, with a smell like nothing else, grabbing the nose like outdoors, indoors. Outside, a balsam was a tree; inside, it was Christmas.
    "Can you see anything?" Bobby said anxiously. He was behind his two older siblings, pushing against them, trying to peer into the room.
    "Wow," Potty said, still lost in the smell of the tree. But his eyes were beginning to adjust to the outlines of what lay in the treasure room.
    Outlines. Silhouettes, piles of dark boxes set against the barely dawning sky that leaked through the big windows. His eyes ran over this mountain range of Christmas presents: odd angles of the unknown, the faintly made-out profile of an asked-for gift, a contour that might be the sled Potty had asked for, or the wagon Bobby wanted, or might be something else entirely, wonderful on its own.
    They stood in the entranceway, three short steps down into Wonderland—three abreast with their eyes straining, noses still sniffing tree smell. Still, they wouldn't take that step. Still, Potty wanted it all to go on.
    Dawn grew a little bit lighter, sent the mysterious mountains into almost three dimensions, made faint letters appear on boxes, gave corners to others, made the sled into what had to be a sled, runner nearly visible.
    "That one's mine!" Bobby cried suddenly, running past the other two, jumping down the short steps to run across the room to where his presents lay stacked on a stuffed chair.
    "That's for me!" Marian shouted a moment later, then she, too, was down into the room, slippered feet hurrying her to another stack on the couch and to a neighboring rocking chair, with recognizable Marian-type things on it.
    Still, Potty hesitated. Why does it have to end!
    He stepped down.
    And then the sun came up, and the coffee went on, and sleepy Mom and Dad were there, and everything was opened, and . . .
    The magic bled away.
    Bottles chimed one against the other.
    Potty smiled. He pulled his wire rack from the truck, thinking about how lucky he was to be a milkman, one of the few left. Milkmen coming with glass bottles was something else he remembered from his youth. He knew he was a romantic. Actually, being a milkman was pretty tedious, but the fact that he worked at a time of day when he could think about all these things, and was not bothered with other people, made it bearable.
    He felt something cold and wet on his neck. He looked up, and it was . . .
    Snowing.
    "Holy cats." This was not just a chance dusting. There were big fat flakes coming down, dancing around one another and laying themselves like sleepers on the ground around his feet. And suddenly there was a smell in the air like snow—not like the first snow of the year but as of a particular snowfall, a special one, and suddenly it smelled like . . .
    Christmas.
    "Jumping cats," Potty said. The sky was now filled with snow. It was building up around his feet. Unbelieving, he stepped back and sat on the bumper of the truck, putting the milk bottles down. They clinked. He watched as snowflakes clung to the sides of the milk bottles, white against white. A few melted, running down the glass, but the others kissed the bottles, sticking to them.
    There was a lot of snow falling, and Potty tried to remember if the sky had been clear when he'd set out on his rounds. After all, it was only the beginning of October. It wasn't even Halloween yet. Had they ever had a snow this early? He couldn't remember it ever happening. Usually the first snow came around Thanksgiving, and usually it was a powdering that he would watch from his