Family Fruitcake Frenzy

by Margaret Lashley

  “That’s Tabitha Barfield. Uncle Jake’s looking pretty chummy with her, don’t you think?”

  I had to admit he was. “Yes. But surely they’re not –”

  “He thinks he can win her over with his charm!” Annie said, cutting me off. “Ha! It sure won’t be with his wallet! Uncle Jake’s too cheap to pay me for a decent haircut. Look at that horrible homemade disaster on top of his head!” Annie turned back to face me and crossed her arms. “I don’t know exactly what the man’s up to, but I guess it doesn’t rightly matter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed as her mouth crept into a grin. “I know her secret, Val. When it comes to Tabitha Barfield, I’ve got the ace of spades in the hole.”

  “Huh? I must be missing something, Annie. Who the hell is Tabitha Barfield?”

  Annie looked at me as if I’d beamed down from planet Moronus. “Val! She’s the judge of this year’s Fruitcake Frenzy Competition!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  WHEN ANNIE AND I GOT back from IGA, Tom’s SUV was in the yard. I gulped down a wad of guilt and regret. I was anxious to set things right with him. But as we walked in the door, Mom informed us that Tom and Dale had gone out for a walk, and we needed to get busy making Christmas Eve dinner. I was setting the table when I heard the guys open the side door and tromp down the hall.

  “Oh. We’re only going to need five places, Val,” Annie said as I laid down the sixth plate.

  “Why? Ricky isn’t coming?”

  “No.”

  Tom and Dale walked in the dining room and nodded at Annie and me. We nodded back.

  “Why not?”

  Annie looked at Tom, then at me. She lowered her eyes and her voice. “I couldn’t convince him you wouldn’t cut his balls off and hang them on the tree.”

  I shot a glance at Tom. He made an “I told you so.” face. I got mad again. This time, however, it was at myself. My reputation needed mending.

  “You fellers get out of my dining room!” Mom bellowed as she waddled in. “Ain’t there a game on or something?”

  “I reckon,” Dale said.

  “Then go watch it. I’ll have the girls bring y’all some tea.”

  IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE Mom had run Annie and me out of the kitchen, too. Me because I’d had the audacity to suggest making cranberry relish with real cranberries, and Annie because, well, she really was useless when it came to anything culinary. She and I bypassed the living room where Dale and Tom sat like zombies, worshiping their NFL god. We dusted off the dirty cushions on two wicker chairs out on the front porch and sat down.

  “I’m sorry Ricky isn’t coming on account of me,” I apologized.

  “It wasn’t just you,” Annie said. “He had an invitation to his daughter’s place tonight. I told him to go.”

  “Ricky has a daughter?”

  “Yeah. She’s twenty-five.”

  “Wow. How come I never heard about her?”

  “Because he just found out hisself this summer.”

  “Whoa. That’s a big surprise.”

  “You should know. I guess finding out you weren’t a real Jolly was a bit of a shocker.”

  “I guess, yeah. But somehow, I always felt I didn’t fit in here.”

  “You and me, both.”

  I grinned at Annie in sympathy. “Why do you think Mom is so...so –?”

  “Mom-like? I don’t know.”

  “Why can’t she love us like a normal mother?”

  “What’s normal, Val?”

  “I dunno. Like on TV?”

  Annie laughed. “Look around this dump, Val. Mom gave you the only thing of value she had to give. Her fruitcake recipe.”

  “Yeah. But only after she thought the secret ingredient was all used up.”

  “Still, it’s the thought that counts.”

  “That’s my whole point. What was her thought behind it, Annie?”

  Annie ran her hands through her cinnamon hair and sighed. She turned to look me square in the eye. “Would you consider, Val, even for a second, that it was love?”

  AS WE SAT AROUND THE dinner table that Christmas Eve night, I realized everyone looked different to me. They hadn’t changed – only the way I saw them had. As Mom passed the sweet potatoes with little marshmallows melted on top, I realized she was right. She wasn’t my enemy. As Dale pushed up his glasses and carved the ham, I understood he wasn’t a hostage. As Annie served me my favorite crusty part of the peach cobbler, I remembered she wasn’t my competition. She was my sister. And when Tom offered to clean up afterward, single-handedly, it finally became crystal clear to me why I felt so uncertain about him. I was afraid I wasn’t good enough for him.

  Tom deserved better than the likes of me, and it was time to let him go.

  I waited until Annie went home and Mom and Dale were watching their TV programs, then I snuck into the kitchen to help Tom with the clean-up chores. He was standing at the sink, washing dishes and staring out the window into the dark sky.

  “Let me help,” I said. I grabbed a dish towel and a plate out of the drain board.

  “You don’t have to,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve got this.”

  Something inside me snapped. I flung the plate to the floor. It shattered, but the sound was barely audible over the TV. Tom jumped back as I launched my final battle attack.

  “Why are you so...so darn good, Tom?” I spat. “But more to the point, why the hell are you still here?”

  Tom’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t want me here?”

  It was a simple question, but to my mind, the answer was anything but simple. “I...I don’t want you here if you don’t want to be here.”

  Confusion crossed his handsome face. Tom’s sea-green eyes turned grey. “What are you talking about, Val?”

  “You’ve seen how bizarre my life is, Tom! My weird family. My oddball friends. All the wacked-out screwball stuff that happens to me!”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So? So! Tom, you’re so...freaking...normal! You deserve a normal life. You can’t have that with me. I’m not normal. I’m a freaking magnet for crazy crap!”

  Tom’s face went blank. “So that’s it,” he said.

  My heart sank. It was over between Tom and me. “Yes, that’s it.”

  Tom shook his head and laughed. “And I thought it was me.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me.”

  “Tom! That’s not it...don’t you realize? You’re too good for me!”

  “Val, you truly are crazy!” Tom grabbed me and kissed me hard on the mouth. “I love you, you freaking nutcase!”

  “But...but!”

  Tom silenced me with another kiss. “Crazy crap happens, Val, with or without you.”

  “But....”

  “You might think you’re Valliant Stranger, conjurer of calamity, but you’re not that powerful, Val. You’re just a normal person. Like me. You don’t have any control over what other people do. And you’re not responsible for their actions.”

  “And you’re okay with me? The way I am?”

  Tom hugged me tight. “More than okay. ‘The way you are’ is my favorite thing about you.”

  Chapter Thirty

  THE SOUND OF SOMEONE whispering in my ear pulled me out of a dream about Santa being stuck in a chimney with nothing but a sack full of fruitcakes for company.

  “Tis the season to be Jolly!” someone said, and kissed me on the cheek. I cracked open a groggy eye. Tom was kneeling by the side of the couch, hair slicked back, fresh shaven, and grinning like a little kid. His crisp, red-plaid shirt was a bit too festive for my as-yet-un-caffeinated brain.

  “Is that some kind of joke?” I grumbled, and pulled the sheet over my head. He laughed and yanked it back off.

  “Don’t be such a Grinch, Val. Merry Christmas.”

  I scowled, then tried unsuccessfully to turn it into a smile. “You’re looking pretty dapper,” I gr
oused.

  Tom pulled at a spot on his shirt above the pocket. “Like it? Your mom offered to press my shirt for me last night.”

  “Oh.” I sat up on one elbow. “You know how that works, don’t you?”

  Tom’s blond eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead. “Uh...she uses an iron?”

  My lip curled upward like a cartoon villain. “Nope. Mom sits on it.”

  Tom’s eyebrows flew up an inch. “Oh.”

  I laughed. “Believe it or not, it actually works. Hopefully, thought, she didn’t engage the human steam option.” I sniffed at Tom’s shirt and crinkled my nose.

  Tom’s body grew stiff as a board. “Excuse me.” He pulled himself up from kneeling and disappeared down the hallway.

  “Sure,” I called after him. “Merry Christmas!”

  I crawled off the couch and padded to the kitchen, giggling the whole way. I had the coffee going when Tom reappeared, wearing a different shirt. I opened my mouth to say something, but Tom held up his hand. “Not a word about this is to be spoken of ever again.”

  I stifled a smirk. “How about I make it up to you with some biscuits and bacon?”

  Tom sighed. “It’s a start.”

  I laughed and handed Tom a cup of coffee. “You’re gonna need your strength if you’re gonna make it through today, Tom. The fruitcake competition starts at ten this morning. You can expect everybody to start piling in here around nine.”

  “How did this whole thing get started, Val?” Tom asked as he took a seat at the breakfast table.

  “The Fruitcake Frenzy? By my grandpa’s brother Ike, back in the ‘60s. He was a pastor, you know.”

  “A pastor? Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t get it, either. I guess Ike figured there was no better way for our family to celebrate the birth of our Lord than with a cutthroat competition that always ended in tears.”

  AFTER BREAKFAST, I fetched my fruitcake out of the bedroom closet and gave it a last dose of spiced rum. As I patted it in, I spoke to it as if it were a baby. “I guess that’s that, then, little fruitcake. Good luck, cutie pie.”

  “You seem pretty relaxed about the contest,” Tom said.

  “Yeah.” I grinned. “Mom never found my cake. Plus, I’m taking your advice. I’m embracing the crazy. It’s out of my control anyway.”

  Tom looked at me sideways. “I’m glad to hear that...I think.”

  I walked over and gave Tom a hug and a kiss. “So, how about you. Are you ready to embrace the crazy?”

  Tom winked and pulled me closer. “I thought I already was.”

  I sneered. “Good one. But you ain’t seen nothing, yet.”

  TO KEEP MOM FROM BOOBY-trapping the contest again like she had back in ’94, the family had banished her from coming anywhere near the fruitcake holding area in the backyard. She also wasn’t allowed to help set up the folding tables and chairs where the family’s annual Christmas lunch buffet would be served right after the fruitcake judging. In fact, Mom wasn’t allowed outside on Christmas Day, period, until Uncle Jake had given the all clear.

  Having been a victim of my mother’s meddling and sabotage myself, the family entrusted me to keep an eye on her while everyone else readied the grounds for the Family Fruitcake Frenzy. Uncle Jake, Uncle Popeye, Dale and Tom set up the tables, while all the womenfolk fretted over the decorations and, of course, their prize-hopeful contest entries. To be clear, “all the womenfolk” didn’t include Annie and me. Annie couldn’t cook. And I, of course, was stuck doing time as Mom’s parole officer.

  “I love me some pearled onions,” Mom said as she put the casserole dish into the oven to bake. “Don’t you?”

  “I hate pearled onions, Mom. They’re gross – like frog eggs and slime.”

  “I could a swore they was your favorite.”

  “They were Ricky’s favorite, Mom.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. Well, I guess he’ll finally get to have ‘em again.”

  “Can’t wait. That ought to be fun.” I put the finishing touches on a pan of cornbread dressing. “I’ll pop this in the oven, too.”

  “Well, our work here is done,” Mom said.

  “Who’s bringing the turkey this year?”

  “Your Uncle Jake. He’s makin’ one a them fancy fried turkeys. I seen him setting up the deep fryer out back.”

  My eyebrows rose in horror. “You haven’t been out there, have you?”

  Mom shook her head and scowled. “No. Good grief, Val. Don’t you trust your own ma?”

  I said nothing, so I didn’t have to lie. Mom studied my face with suspicion.

  “Valliant, I just want to say this.” She held out her hand for me to shake. “May the best fruitcake win.”

  I checked her hand to make sure it wasn’t a trap. “Yes, Mom,” I said as I shook her hand. “May the best fruitcake win.”

  AT FIVE MINUTES BEFORE nine, I received official notification that it was okay to release Mom to wander free. She and I toted our fruitcakes to the judging table and set them beside the other five cakes up for judging. Mom snorted with derision. “I see your cousin Darla made it again, this year.”

  I studied the other fruitcakes. The one labeled Aunt Pansy was shaped like a snowman. Green, candied-fruit eyes stared out from an otherwise blank face drowned in white frosting. Aunt May’s fruitcake was round and long, like a log, with a tiny, toy saw stuck in the middle of it, as if forgotten by some miniscule, drunk lumberjack. Mom’s and mine were nearly identical, and looked like twin meatloaves. The shiny, round cake with a hole in the center like a donut belonged to Cousin Tammy. The sorry-looking, lopsided lump of a cake was proffered by my Cousin Darla. The seventh cake on the table wasn’t a true entry. It was the petrified trophy fruitcake Mom had held onto since 1989.

  “Step away from the table, now, Lucille,” Uncle Jake ordered. “You know the rules.”

  Mom turned her nose up. “Come on, Valliant. Nothin’ worth hanging around here for.”

  I scanned the crowd for Tom. I saw him talking to Annie. When I walked over to them, Tom smiled and took my hand, then asked my sister a question. “Why don’t you have a cake in the running, Annie?”

  “Annie doesn’t like to compete,” I said, saving her from having to explain her abysmal lack of culinary skills.

  Annie smiled and winked at me. “She’s right. I don’t like to compete. Not with family, anyway. It never ends well.”

  “Where’s Ricky?” I asked.

  “Delayed,” Annie said. “He –”

  Uncle Jakes booming voice cut her off. “All contestants in the Fruitcake Frenzy are now invited to step forward and make all final preparations,” he blasted through a megaphone like a NASCAR announcer.

  “Here we go,” Annie said, and elbowed Tom.

  “Good luck,” Tom said, and kissed me.

  “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Annie said.

  All six of us competitors lined up for last-minute preps and to unveil our secret weapons. First up was Aunt Pansy. She pulled out a bottle of Maraschino cherries and placed them in a crescent below the green fruit eyes on the snowman face. “A winning smile!” she said haughtily. The crowd broke out into scattered applause. “Go Pansy!” Uncle Popeye yelled.

  “Amateur,” Mom snorted.

  Second up was Cousin Darla. She, lord help her, buried her horrible lumpy fruitcake in carrot-and-raisin salad. It was a stroke of genius. She’d figured out the only way on earth to make her gross cake look even worse. Mom snickered so hard she had to cross her legs to keep from pissing her pants. Not a single one of us clapped or uttered a word.

  Third at bat was Aunt May. She added clumps of green holly made from sugar icing around her log-shaped cake. “Mighty purty, I might say!” Uncle Jake said over the blow-horn. Half a dozen people nodded and clapped.

  Mom turned to me and whispered, “Three down, one to go.”

  Tammy stepped in front of her donut-shaped cake and gave Mom the skank eye. She pulled out a bottle of castor
oil, doused her cake with it, and looked around proudly. I heard Aunt Pansy gasp.

  “What a chump,” Mom said under her breath.

  I was up next. Stage fright rendered me weak in the knees. I wobbled up to my cake and pulled out a miniature bottle of spiced rum. When I went to open it, I realized the seal had been broken. I held the bottle up to the sunlight. The color was wrong. I shot Mom a glance. She looked away, her innocent nose three inches higher.

  Panic shot through me. Is this the last of my father’s moonshine? Was she not lying earlier? Does Mom actually want me to win? But wait! What if it’s castor oil! Or baby lotion? Should I pour it on anyway, and let my mother have her last victory? I hesitated for one final second, then made my decision.

  No!

  I pretended to fumble with the bottle. I dropped it onto the ground and watched its contents pour out onto the ground. I searched Mom’s face for a reaction. All I could garner for sure was disappointment. I forced a smile at the crowd.

  “Well, good thing my cake is perfect just the way it is,” I said. Tom and Annie cheered as I relinquished the stage to the reigning Queen. Let her do her worst.

  Mom stepped up and poured a colorless liquid over her cake. The crowd was dead silent, except for one hillbilly hoot from Dale. Mom eyed the audience like a shepherdess does her sheep.

  “That ends the preparation round,” blasted Uncle Jake’s voice. “May the best fruitcake win! Now, fine folks, without further ado, will our honored judge, Miss Tabitha Barfield, please approach the cake table!”

  We all looked around, but Tabitha was nowhere to be found.

  Uncle Popeye hollered out, “She just called. Said she’s got a flat.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I STOMPED BEHIND MOM like a scolded child as she wobbled her way across the yard to where Annie, Dale and Tom were standing.

  “Why did you try to ruin my fruitcake?” I hissed behind her.