The Novel Project: The first five pages of The Accidental Santa Killer, pitch, and synopsis

THE ACCIDENTAL SANTA KILLER
Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.-Edward Young (1684-1765)
1                On the day before Christmas, Rachel Layton breathes in the aroma of baked chicken, buttered baked potato, and corn as she glances out the kitchen window.  She can barely make out the top of the Ever­­green Trailer Court sign arched over the entrance, decorated with blinking Christmas lights, several burned or busted out.  The lights only add to the gaudiness of the place like a drunk foolishly drawing attention to himself.  Since the other trailers all have their Christ­mas decor­a­tions up and their trees lit, it made not having any feel worse, like watching another kid lick an ice-cream cone when your own parents are too strict or too stin­gy to buy you one.  She lets out a prolonged sigh for the seventeen years of lost battles over nearly every­thing related to Christ­mas, especially allowing a Christmas tree inside their trailer.          She notices Lyle's shit-faced grin as he leans, arms crossed, against the refrigerator.  It's like he's mocking her.  Like he knows some­thing she doesn't and is rubbing it in.  She hates that.        "What?" Rachel asks, in no mood for any of his antics.  She and the children, Tara and Eric, sit down at the table.  Lyle continues to grin at her.  He winks at Eric and guzzles the beer and wipes his mouth on his flannel shirt as he sur­veys the food as if it's the furthest thing from his mind.  Reluctantly, he sits down at the table opposite of her.          Ignoring him, Rachel and the kids dig in.  In between bites, she glances at Lyle, knowing full well why he isn't hungry.  He pigged out on the peanut-butter cookies about a half hour ago, after she had pointedly told him to wait until after dinner.  There's still cookie residue on his chin.  Evidence.  His hair, as usual, isn't combed, nor did he bother to wash his oily face.  The longer she looks at him, the more she despises his wide forehead, mis­chievous blue eyes, pointy nose, and jutting chin.        "You're not going to eat, are you?" she finally says, tired of him grinning at her like some simpleton.  At least Lyle didn't hate Christmas in the Scrooge humbug way; no, he just thought that it was all a bit farci­cal:  an old man in a white beard prancing around in a red suit, people haul­ing trees into their homes, strangers popping by to sing Christmas carols, and everyone wish­ing every­one else "Merry Christmas" as if they meant it, when he knew that hardly any­one, even within the same family, really gave a shit—at least not in Sharpton.  He wanted absolutely nothing to do with Christ­mas except, of course, receiving presents.  He isn't that stupid.  Some years, if he got around to it, he'd buy her a present, too, usually gags that weren't that funny, like last year's rubber chicken, or the black dildo.  At least Eric, who was four at the time, got a big kick out of the dildo even if­ he didn't have a clue what it was.  He just thought it looked funny when Rachel pulled it out of a family size box of Colgate toothpaste, no doubt expecting toothpaste.  Or may­be he was laugh­ing at Tara's oh-my-god expression.  Being five years older than Eric, she knew exactly what it did resemble.  Since Christmas is less than a long day way, Rachel can't help but wonder what Lyle got her this year.  Since it isn't going to be mean­ing­­ful, or anything she can use or wear, she prefers nothing at all.        The telephone rings, right on cue.  Rachel grabs Tara and Eric, stopping them from getting up.        Lyle takes another gulp of beer and squares his shoulders.  "Why look at me?"        "Only you get calls during meal times."        "My friends eat at odd times—that's all."        "You mean drink," Rachel replies, "and they drink all the time."        Lyle takes the beer with him as he gets up from the table, no doubt glad for an excuse to get away.  He glances at Mr. Potato Head who's looking down at them all from his perch on top of the refrigerator with an air of superiority matched only by Lyle himself.        "Keep an eye on them until I get back."        "Talking to your toy again?" Rachel asks.  Mr. Potato Head not only belongs to Lyle but also resembles him, par­ti­cu­larly the limited facial expressions.        "At least Mr. Potato Head doesn't talk back like some people I know," Lyle says, and turns the corner before Rachel has time to respond.  He continues past the mahogany gun cabinet containing several well-oiled rifles and shotguns.  Next to it is the yard-sale-bought, chipped and sloppily painted black desk where the telephone is located.  He answers it.        Rachel turns to her eleven-year-old son Eric, who's eyeing her as if she has just com­mitted a crime by crossing words with his father.        "Eat up while it's hot," she says.        "I'm eating," Eric replies, his mouth full of chicken.        "Don't talk with your mouth full," Rachel says, sounding so much like her mother it scares her.  She glances at Tara, whose head is cocked to one side as she fingers her shoulder-length reddish blond hair.  At sixteen, Tara looks older than she is.  For Rachel that means trouble.  At fifteen, she already lost her virginity, the only thing that Tara and she seem to have in common, other than Lyle.        Tara had no say in that matter.  Rachel, most assuredly and regretta­bly, did.        Noticing that Tara is still looking at her, she asks, "What are you looking at?"        Tara rolls her turquoise eyes—eyes that remind Rachel far too much and far too often of Lyle.  Not only the way she rolls them but how they fail to see the world beyond the limita­tions of Sharpton, Pennsyl­vania.  For that matter, Tara's whole damn dimpled-cheeks, thin-nosed, hawkish face is Lyle through and through.  At least Tara keeps her hair neatly combed.  Lyle would rather die than comb his hair, which he only does first thing in the morning or after showering—some­thing else he keeps to a minimum.        Rachel sighs in defeat and glances up at Mr. Potato Head.  "What are you looking at?"  Like Tara, it doesn't bother to reply.          "Told you it'd happen again," Lyle says, returning to the table, a cockiness to his gait from never being wrong despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.  "Someone busted out Sam Taylor's window and broke in.  Took all their presents.  Even swiped some of the ornaments off the tree!"        "Who would do such a mean thing?"  Rachel lays down her fork in protest.  The Taylor's trailer is just around the bend, not far from theirs.        Reclaiming his seat, Lyle glances at the food as though wishing he'd already eaten it.         "That's the second one this month.  Told you it was going to happen again, didn't I?"  He grins smugly to let his genius sink in.  "Let 'em try that here and I'll shoot their ass."        "Shoot first, ask questions later," Eric pipes in, and drinks some milk.        "Got that straight."  Lyle aims his index finger at Eric like a pistol.  "Pow!"  He blows away the imaginary smoke and winks at Eric.        "We should give Sarah something to help out," Rachel says.  "How does fifty sound?"        Lyle picks up the beer bottle by the neck and strangles the idea. "Fifty is a lot of money."        "Just means you got to cut down your drinking and eat more."  She picks up her fork as if to show him how.        "Twenty sounds better," Lyle says, leaving the fork where it is.        "Twenty is barely going to buy a decent present.  She's got three teenagers."        "That Connie's working over at The Diner, so they're not hurting none."        "With Sam drinking away the pay, she doesn't have much of a choice, now does she?"         Lyle doesn't reply, which doesn't surprise her.  Sam's drinking is a touchy subject since he's one of Lyle's drinking buddies.  Lyle finishes the beer, gets up and grabs another bottle from the fridge.        In protest, Rachel adds, "Maybe I'll also give them one of our pies."          "Not the apple pie," Lyle says, eyeing her, reclaiming his seat.                     "Only thinking of yourself.  Like always."        "I happen to like apple pie.  You too, right, Eric?"        "Me too," Eric replies.  He drinks more milk.        "I can bake another."  Rachel looks from Lyle to Eric.  "Eat your potatoes."        Lyle stretches out his arms in a manic pose and says, "Not in front of Mr. Potato Head, please!"        Eric sprays milk from his nose and mouth as he cracks up laughing.        "You're so disgusting," Tara says, still fingering her hair.        "Clean that up now!" Rachel says.                                                                                   *  *  *The Accidental Santa KillerWhat if your son accidentally kills his dad dressed up as Santa Claus?
The Accidental Santa Killer (96,000 words), a short-list finalist for the 2009 Faulkner-Wisdom novel contest (as A Season for Fools), is the first of a potential three-book series.
         While struggling to survive a loveless marriage for the sake of her two children, Rachel Layton finds her fragile world torn apart when her eleven-year-old son kills a burglar who turns out to be his drunken father in a Santa Claus suit.  The shooting sets off a chain-reaction of events that threatens to tear apart a small Pennsylvania town.          Cast as a villain by the media, Rachel is determined to hold her family together, even as her son gets beaten up in school and her teenage daughter moves in with a low life twice her age.  Tired of being on the defensive, Rachel speaks out against hunters buying their children guns or leaving them lying around for them to find.  Despite threatening phone calls and a brick through her window, Rachel refuses to back off until Gordon's Gunshop on Main Street is shut down.          While shopping at the mall for Christmas, Rachel overlooks one important detail.  Santa Claus.  To her dismay, her son gets into line behind the other kids.  Sensing trouble, parents start to pull their children out of the line.  Soon the whole town is watching as her son confronts Santa Claus.  Still trying to come to terms with her deceased husband, Rachel is all too aware that someone in the crowd is stalking her.  One thing is certain:  Christmas in Sharpton will never be the same.
THE ACCIDENTAL SANTA KILLER              Synopsis, Novel 96,000 words            Rachel's 11-year-old son accidentally shoots his drunken father dressed as Santa Claus – setting off a chain-reaction of events that threatens to tear apart a small Pennsylvanian town.
          The day before Christmas, Rachel has a spat with her husband Lyle over the rifle that he bought for their eleven-year-old son, Eric.  While teaching Eric how to shoot the rifle, Lyle passes along valuable tips about being caught in a life threatening situation in light of recent break-ins at their trailer court, including his friend, Sam Taylor.  While Rachel is visiting a friend, Lyle sneaks out to have a beer.  But first he puts Eric in charge with explicit instruc­tions to shoot first and ask questions later.  At Roadkill, Lyle nearly gets into a fight with Deek Jack­son, a low life his age who is secretly seeing his sixteen-year-old daughter, Tara.  As a joke, Lyle borrows a Santa Claus suit.  Eric, thinking he's a burglar, shoots him.          Reporters, demanding to know how Rachel can raise a child to kill Santa Claus, flock to her trailer.  Forced to make a statement, she accidentally lets out that Lyle dislikes Christ­mas.  After Lyle's funeral, the press antagonizes Eric into making a sensational comment about his hating Santa Claus.  Tara also admits to Rachel that she's sleeping with Deek Jackson.          When school reopens, troublemakers goad Eric into a fight and he gets beaten up, while his best friend Duncan Hayes only watches.  Rachel is forced to find a job as a waitress at The Diner, where she works with Sam Taylor's teenage daughter, Connie.  Tara quits school to move in with Deek Jackson.  Finding the receipt for Eric's rifle, Rachel pays a visit to Gordon's Gunshop.  Later, she runs into Dale Hocker, Eric's principal and an old boy­friend.  They start to date again.          A drunken Sam Taylor beats up his daughter Connie.  Rachel discovers that she is pregnant with Lyle's baby.  Dale abruptly ends their relation­ship.  On the last day of school, Eric is attacked by a group of boys and is hospitalized.  Feel­ing desperate, Rachel calls her estranged father, who agrees to help take care of Eric.          An elderly friend convinces Rachel to speak out against hunters' careless habit of leaving guns lying around for their children to find.  During Rachel's talk, she's heckled by Bert Hayes (Duncan's father), Deek Jack­son, and Gordon Damby, owner of Gordon's Gunshop.  A drunken Sam Taylor kills a family of five in a car accident.  Barely alive, he blames Rachel and makes wild accusations that she's a witch.  A brick with a bullet taped to it is thrown through Rachel's window.  Suspect­ing Gordon Damby, Rachel leads a protest outside Gordon's Gunshop.  Rachel confronts Eric about fighting and skipping school, only to learn that kids at school are calling her a witch and a whore for sleeping with their principal.          Wanting to put a stop to all this, Rachel confronts Eric's principal, Dale Hocker.  During a heated argument, Rachel goes into labor.  Dale not only delivers the baby, but also, after 18 years, finally proposes to her.  Rachel's not so sure this is a good idea.          Bert Hayes forces his son Duncan to go hunting and Duncan shoots him in the back.  With the two patricide shootings linked together, Rachel delivers a strong anti-gun statement to the press.  Deek Jackson beats up Tara for getting pregnant.  Later, while drunk, he pays Rachel a visit and threatens her with a gun.  Eric surprises him with a gun of his own.          Two days before Christmas, Eric breaks into a cold sweat when he sees Santa Claus at the mall.  To Rachel's dismay, he gets into line behind the other kids.  Sensing trouble, parents pull their children out of line.  As Eric confronts Santa Clause, Rachel is all too aware that some­one in the crowd is stalking her.  Christmas in Sharpton will never be the same.