The Christmas Table

by Donna VanLiere

  John looks up at him. “What happened?”

  Larry shakes his head, trying to put it into words. “I’m not a minister or a pastor or a chaplain. I’m just a man that looks at a piece of wood and knows it comes from a tree and realizes that we haven’t been able to create a seed, let alone a tree. From that tree we’re able to make homes, furniture, wagons, boats, and whatever else. I know that when I blink that man can’t create anything to match that.” He folds his hands on the table and looks down at them. “So, my mother got sick and we prayed to God, who said He created the trees. Our church prayed. Family from all over prayed. And we left the prayers with God.” John listens to him with interest. “But we had also prayed for my grandfather, who died at sixty just a year earlier.” John’s face clouds over. “All I know is God is big enough and powerful enough to create a tree and a seed and big enough to restructure a damaged heart and get rid of cancer cells. I believe that, John. I really do. I don’t know why that happens for some people and not others. I don’t know why my grandpa died and my mother lived. But when people are sick, I pray for them because that’s what I can do. I leave the rest to God and however He sees fit to heal … or not heal here on earth.”

  They sit in silence for several moments. “We don’t go to church,” John says. “I went some with my grandparents when I was little, and I actually did believe in God … I do believe in God. And for some strange reason, I believe in Him even more now because of Joan’s cancer. And for the first time I tried praying. I don’t think I did it right, but I tried it.”

  Larry nods. “I thank God. Honor Him. I ask for His forgiveness and for help and direction for myself and others. I’m just talking and listening. That’s praying, as far as I know.”

  “What if you don’t get what you ask for?”

  “Then that’s my answer,” Larry says. “Believing God hears prayer is faith. Then you wait.” John looks at him, curious. “It takes strength to wait. That’s the hardest part. Some people wait decades. A lifetime. My mother still prays for my brother, who’s a lost and wandering soul. Some people die and long after they’re gone the prayers they prayed for somebody are finally answered. It’s not a magic trick.”

  John nods, looking at the table. “I wish it was. I wish Joan could hop out of that bed healthy and strong right now.”

  “I wish that, too.” Larry pauses and looks at him. “When my mother got sick, even though I was a kid, I never looked at things the same way after that. Still don’t. I didn’t like it at the time. I hated it. It was an awful, gut-wrenching time. She didn’t get better right away; it took a couple of years. It was years for all of us, waiting and praying, getting mad, crying, believing and then not believing, and then believing again, but I don’t look at people the same way. I don’t look at situations the same way.” His eyes get misty as he thinks about it. “I’d hate to go back and do all of that over, but I would.” He stops, looking out over the cafeteria and then back at John. “I never thought about that before, but I would.”

  “You got that kind of faith from looking at a piece of wood?” John says.

  Larry’s mouth turns up a bit, smiling.

  * * *

  Joan opens her eyes to see John sitting next to her hospital bed. She reaches for his hand and he looks up, noticing that she is awake, and stands next to her bed, holding her hand. “I didn’t know if I would be able to breathe as well with part of a lung missing,” she says. “But each time I wake up, I realize that I’m still breathing.”

  He leans down to kiss her. “I’ve been watching you breathe for the last three days.”

  She shakes her head. “Sounds boring.” He chuckles and she squeezes his hand. “Go home, John. Go to work. You don’t need to be here with me all the time. Go home to the kids.”

  “Your parents are with the kids, and they are having a great time. The kids don’t miss me, trust me! Gigi said your mom made caramel corn yesterday. How can I compete with caramel corn?” He pats her hand and sits on the side of her bed. “If you’re up for it, maybe your parents can bring the kids to see you today.”

  She looks up at the ceiling. “We need to talk about what Dr. Levy said.”

  He shakes his head, looking at her. “Doctors aren’t always right. Dr. Kim said that herself to you. I met a man in the cafeteria who said the same thing.”

  She manages a smile and squeezes his hand. “Things don’t look good, John.”

  He bites the inside of his lip, thinking. “Not to them. But we’re not them, Joan.” Her eyes are full of love, looking at him. He wants to believe, and she can’t squash that, knowing that the time will come when he will be left with no other option but to face the reality of their situation. “We’re fighters,” he says. “We fight through things. We do what the doctors tell us, and we will pray, leaving it with God.”

  She looks at him, wondering what has shifted his thinking like this in the last few weeks. “Okay, John,” she says, not fully believing, but seeing the belief in his eyes seems to make her stronger, if even for this moment.

  FIFTEEN

  September 2012

  Lauren drives out of Grandon and into the country, following the directions on her cell phone. Teresa, a longtime friend of Gloria, is donating a week’s stay at her Florida condo for the annual Glory’s Place fund-raiser in December. The condo is situated right on the beach and pulls in a lot of money during the auction each year. The entire staff and volunteers begin collecting donations as early as the summer. Lauren notices a farm as she drives to Teresa’s and realizes that she has never been on this particular road before. She turns and heads up the long drive to the farm, wondering out loud what she is doing. A modest two-story home is on the left and a small white barn sits to the right with a larger red barn behind it. A yellow Labrador retriever runs from behind the house, wagging his tail as he greets Lauren, who is opening the car door.

  “Hi,” a middle-aged woman says, opening the front door. “Can I help you?”

  Lauren smiles at her. “Well, I’m not sure, but I hope so. I’m trying to find a dairy farmer named Bud.”

  The woman walks down the steps of the home to her, petting the top of the dog’s head as she walks. “A farmer named Bud?” Lauren nods. “I don’t know a farmer by that name, but let’s ask my husband. Come back this way.” She leads Lauren toward the red barn and begins to wave her arms and shout out her husband’s name when she sees him leaving the barn driving a tractor. “Jason!” she yells, running so she can get in his line of vision. “Jason!” A man around forty, wearing jeans and a short-sleeve work shirt, sees his wife and turns off the tractor.

  “What’s up?” he says, noticing Lauren and taking his ball cap off to scratch his head.

  “This woman is trying to find a dairy farmer named Bud. Do you know him?”

  He gets off the tractor and stands in front of them. “Bud?”

  Lauren nods, smiling. “I’m so sorry to bother you. You didn’t have to stop your work.”

  “It’s always here,” he says, sticking a hand in his jeans pocket. “You say he’s a dairy farmer?”

  “I think so. He sells milk. Or at least he used to sell milk.”

  “The Coys sell milk,” his wife says, thinking out loud.

  Jason nods. “They do. They haven’t been farming long. Maybe five years. But nobody there is named Bud as far as I know. Has Bud been farming long?” he asks, looking at Lauren.

  “I think so. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s been several years.”

  “The Hermans have been farming for years. Corn and soybeans. But they have sold milk in the past. They have a few cows on their farm. They don’t sell in stores. Just on their farm. I don’t think there’s anybody named Bud there, either, but you could stop and ask.”

  Lauren raises her hand over her eyes to keep from squinting. “Thanks so much! Where is the Herman farm?”

  Jason points west. “Stay on this road headed west for four miles until you come to Glade. Do you know where
that is?” Lauren shakes her head. “You can’t miss it. There’s a flashing yellow light and a small antiques shop on the right. Turn left onto Glade and about three miles up on the right you’ll see what’s left of a crop of corn. The house, the barn, and the silos sit back off the road, like ours. You can’t miss it. Jim Herman owns it.”

  Lauren extends her hand. “Thank you so much. Again, so sorry to bother you.”

  He shakes his head. “No bother.” He smiles. “If it’s organic milk you’re wanting, Clauson’s and other grocery stores carry it.”

  She smiles. “I’m actually not wanting the milk. I’m hoping Bud can help me find somebody.”

  September 1972

  Joan sits at the kitchen table and riffles through the recipe box filled with recipes from her mother. She is wearing a bright, multicolored scarf around her head; her arms are slender sticking out of her shirt and her fingers are bony, but she wants to cook. Friends and family have been so kind to bring meals to them following her surgery, but she can’t bear to look at one more casserole. She and John have secretly called the meals “hospital food,” because it was all given to them following her stay in the hospital and the thought of eating one more hospital meal nearly takes her appetite away. The surgery was nearly three weeks ago and little by little she is regaining strength and wants to cook again.

  When she first came home, Gigi and Christopher would play atop her bed or on the floor of her bedroom to be near her. As Joan’s strength returns, she lies on the sofa as the children play in the living room, drifting in and out of sleep. Each day before work and before going to bed each evening, John sits on the edge of the bed and holds Joan’s hand. “Thank you, God, for what you’re doing inside Joan’s body today,” he says. “Thank you for making her strong.” She still isn’t sure what to think about this, but it can’t hurt, and John seems to believe in a way that she can’t quite wrap her mind around.

  She finds a recipe for white chicken chili, one of her favorites as a child growing up, and begins to look over the card. How we all love this white chicken chili! Her mother wrote. Remember the trip we took out west one summer and we ordered this at a restaurant that exclaimed, “Voted best white chicken chili ten years in a row!” You finished your bowl and said, “The people who voted for this obviously don’t have any taste buds. Yours is much better, Mom!” How many meals did we eat around our kitchen table together? How many arguments did we get in? How many tears did we wipe off our cheeks from laughing? How many problems did we solve? I can’t imagine what our lives would’ve been like without those mealtimes. No matter what you’re going through, always come back to the table with your family.

  Tears fill Joan’s eyes as she reads her mother’s writing, and she sighs with the disappointment in not taking an interest in cooking until a few months earlier. Christopher is too young to remember this time in the kitchen with her, but will Gigi? She looks over her shoulder and calls, “Kids, do you want to help me cook?” She can hear Gigi rustling to her feet in the living room.

  “Are you cooking today, Mommy?” The little girl asks, looking at her from the hallway.

  Joan holds up the recipe card. “White chicken chili!”

  Gigi runs to the kitchen and Christopher toddles after her. “Are you feeling better?” Gigi asks, putting her hands on her mom’s leg and looking up at her.

  Joan squeezes Gigi’s cheeks, kissing her forehead and then Christopher’s. “Just thinking about your grandma’s white chicken chili makes me feel better!”

  “Mommy?” Gigi’s face is turned up and her eyes are wide.

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “Can you breathe?”

  Joan smiles. “Can I breathe? I’m talking to you, so that means I’m breathing.”

  “But is your breathing in half? And will it go down all the way someday?”

  Joan realizes what Gigi is asking and pulls her close to her. “I will say that breathing feels different from what I’m used to, and I probably won’t be running any marathons, but that’s okay because I hate running anyway, but I’m breathing just fine.”

  “And white chicken chili helps?”

  “It helps and your dad helps, and you and Christopher especially help!”

  Gigi smiles, wrapping her arms around her mom.

  SIXTEEN

  September 2012

  After Lauren picks up the paperwork for the free condo rental in Florida for the Glory’s Place fund-raiser, she makes her way to the Herman farm, hoping to remember the directions. She turns left at the flashing caution light and slows down when she sees what remains of a large corn crop. Turning in to the drive, she wonders again if all of this is worth it. No dog greets her here and no one seems to be home when she knocks on the front door. She walks down the stairs of the porch and around the house, toward the barns on the property, waving when she sees a man carrying a bucket of tools.

  “Hiya!” he says, setting the bucket down.

  Lauren picks up her pace to get closer to him. “Are you Jim?”

  “I am,” he says. He looks to be around forty-five with a stocky frame and blond, brush-cut hair. “What can I do for you?”

  She stops when she’s a couple of feet away from him. “I’m hoping to find a dairy farmer named Bud.”

  Jim shakes his head and his mouth turns down as he thinks. “I don’t know a Bud. A dairy farmer?”

  She nods. “I think so.”

  He keeps shaking his head as if the name or face will come to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t know him. But if you want fresh milk, we do sell it.”

  Lauren smiles. “I’d love to buy some!”

  He leads her to a small white building with a few refrigerators inside. “Two percent or whole?”

  She thinks for a second. “One of each. I want to make yogurt again and use fresh, farm milk this time.”

  He pulls a gallon of each from the refrigerator and sets them on a table. “Ten dollars.” She hands him the money and he turns back to the refrigerator, pulling out a Ziploc bag of shucked corn. “For you. On the house, or … on the farm.”

  She reaches for the bag. “Thanks so much!”

  He looks at her. “Does Bud sell something other than milk that you’re looking for?”

  “I’m actually hoping he can help me find somebody.”

  He lifts both gallons of milk off the table and walks with her to her car. “I can ask my wife when she gets home. Her family has been here forever. If she’s ever heard of him, I can let you know.”

  Lauren writes her phone number on a piece of scrap paper she finds in her car and adds, “If you lose that, you can just call Glory’s Place and ask for the pregnant lady.”

  “Will do,” Jim says, handing the gallons of milk to her. “And congratulations! We have four.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle one, let alone four,” Lauren says, closing her car door.

  “You’ll be amazed what you can do,” he says.

  “Thanks for the corn!” she says as she turns her car around in the driveway.

  Arriving home, Lauren removes a Ziploc bag of chicken pieces she had rubbed with spices and refrigerated that morning. She places the chicken pieces on a plate and picks up the recipe card, reading the ingredients for white barbecue sauce. Lauren reads the recipe: Our friend June in Alabama gave me this recipe when your dad and I were first married. It’s delicious on these grilled chicken pieces, pulled pork, even as sauce for coleslaw. When you find something you love, you stick with it. Guess that explains why your dad and I are still married! This is just exceptionally yummy! Lauren smiles reading the words and opens a cabinet to find the mayonnaise.

  She mixes the mayonnaise, apple cider vinegar, horseradish, and fresh lemon juice with several seasonings and then dips her finger in for a taste. “Mmm. She’s right. This is exceptionally yummy.”

  When Travis arrives home, Lauren is on the back deck as she finishes grilling the chicken pieces. She has made a spinach salad that she found among the recipes inside the t
able and read on the internet how to boil the perfect ear of corn. The table is set with new place mats, a simple woven fabric with hints of gray and blue, and a small ivory-colored vase filled with hydrangea flowers from the shrub at the corner of their house; both items were found during a trip with Miriam and Gloria to Hidden Treasures, the local thrift store. She places the food on the table and steps into the living room, calling up the stairs to Travis. He always takes a shower when he arrives home after a day of mowing and weeding park grounds and maintaining baseball and football fields. “What is this?” he says, looking at the meal on the table.

  “More recipes from the cards we found,” she says, smiling.

  He wraps his arms around her, kissing her. “Our baby’s mom is the best cook in all of Grandon!” They sit down and she waits for Travis to take a bite of the chicken. “Mmm. So good! You made this?”

  She smiles. “I did! The recipe cards are teaching me.”

  “Man, am I ever glad you found those cards!”

  “I actually tried to track down the owner of the cards today.”

  Travis lifts the cob of corn and takes a bite. He points the ear of corn at her. “Wow! Delicious. What do you mean you tried to track down the owner?”

  “Whoever wrote the cards has mentioned a farmer named Bud a few times. I stopped at a couple of farms today to see if there was a Bud. I got the corn and some milk from one of the farms.”

  “Any luck?” Lauren shakes her head. “You really think someone is missing the cards?”

  Lauren nods. “I do. They’re not just recipes. They are family stories and memories. This family was close. I think these recipes are part of their legacy.” She looks at him. “These cards were passed down to someone who was loved very much.”

  He stops eating, smiling. “Then let’s find Bud!”

  “Together?”

  “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective. I was going to change my name to Burt Grimes.”

  She laughs out loud. “Burt Grimes! Why?”