The Forever Christmas Tree

by Sandra Hill

  “Absolutely,” JAM, Geek, and K-4 said as one.

  “I only ask because I read a book about SEALs one time. Apparently there are females, called SEAL groupies, who follow them around, just for that purpose. They’re called by the insulting name of frog hogs.”

  JAM, Geek, and K-4 cringed.

  JAM responded to Gloria’s jab, which she really hadn’t intended to be offensive, with utter politeness. “Ma’am, I never heard that term before,” which was a lie, “and if I have any groupies, I don’t know where they’re hiding.” He pretended to be looking under the table for hidden lurkers.

  They all laughed.

  “I don’t know,” Diane said. “In my limited experience . . .” She batted her eyelashes with mock innocence. “. . . that’s just a highly inflated rumor started by Navy SEALs themselves.”

  “Ah disagree,” Claudette said, to everyone’s surprise. She hadn’t talked much so far. And to speak up now on such an intimate subject! In her deep Southern accent, she told them, “Ah spent an evenin’ one time in a Nawleans hotel with a Navy SEAL who had the stayin’ power of a Chattanooga race horse. He was Cajun, as well, so, that might account for it.”

  Whoa! This is getting a little out of hand.

  Instead of being embarrassed, the other senior citizens at the table offered their opinions. The consensus seemed to be that older folks could get away with saying whatever they wanted, just because they had those years behind them.

  “Personally, I always thought brokers did it with more interest than the average fellow,” Harry contributed while he worked on his second helping of bread pudding, not even bothering to look up. “My wife, Julia, on the other hand, knew the drill better than I did.” Julia had been a dentist.

  “Ha, ha, ha. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for short men.” Elmer snapped his suspenders and winked. “Short in height, long in . . . well, you get the drift.”

  Wendy and Diane exchanged grins. Who would have thought!

  But then, Wendy’s aunt added to the madness. “I always believed that a man who danced well could do other things well. You know, the moves, the rhythm, the energy.”

  Raul just bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

  Oh . . . my . . . God!

  JAM, Geek, and K-4 were enjoying the hell out of the discussion without saying anything explicit themselves. But they were thinking it, all right. If they let loose with their opinions, the remarks would be crude, to say the least.

  Wait until this group found out about Geek’s invention, the “penile glove.” They would probably want a demonstration, or be checking it out on the Internet later tonight.

  “And you said we would be bored,” K-4 reminded Wendy.

  Throughout the meal, everyone spoke of Christmas traditions in their families, or special things that had happened in their lives during the yule season. It was the first Wendy had learned that JAM had been raised in an orphanage, where Christmases had been rather bleak.

  Geek, on the other hand, came from a wealthy family who often spent Christmases on the ski slopes of Aspen or the Swiss Alps.

  “My wife and I were so poor the first few years we got married that we spent the whole day of Christmas in bed because there was no heat,” K-4 said.

  “Yeah, that’s your story,” Geek teased.

  “And I’m sticking to it.” K-4 grinned.

  “How did your wife die, Kevin?” Aunt Mildred asked, refusing to use their SEAL nicknames.

  “Cancer.”

  Several of them, including Wendy, nodded at his answer, having had personal contact with the Big C.

  “When I was six, our dog, Betty, gave birth to a litter of six puppies on Christmas Day. There was dog shit and piss everywhere. The best Christmas ever. It was probably when I first got interested in becoming a veterinarian.” Elmer sighed at the memory.

  Which made Wendy recall how Ethan had dreamed of becoming a vet someday. There hadn’t been an animal he didn’t love, from birds to Bassets.

  “Well, I win the prize for best Christmas stories,” Diane declared. “It’s how I got my SEAL nickname of Grizz. I was home alone when I was eighteen because my family was off to church, but I had the flu. While they were gone, a huge black bear managed to get into our garage and went on a rampage. To the shock of my dad and brothers, who fancied themselves big game hunters, I shot that beast right between the eyeballs, and we ate bear meat all winter.”

  “Is bear meat edible?” Aunt Mildred asked.

  “Sure, and if cooked properly, it’s as good as venison or any other wild game.”

  “In the South, we’re known to cook everything but the toes on any animal, and even those in certain parts of the bayou,” Claudette told them. “Mah daddy was especially fond of possum, bless his heart.”

  Wendy went into the kitchen and brought back a fresh carafe of coffee for those who’d had enough of wine. “Okay, guys, tell us about your meeting with the Jinx folks,” she said, then added an explanation to the others. “There’s a treasure-hunting company for sale in New Jersey called Jinx, Inc., named after its original owner, the Jinkowsky family. The guys stopped off there yesterday to look it over before heading down here.”

  “Very interesting,” Geek said. “Jinx makes the distinction of being a treasure-hunting company, not just a shipwreck salvage company. In other words, they search for all kinds of things, from lost Nazi loot to gold mines, and, yeah, sunken ships.”

  “You wouldn’t believe some of their finds,” K-4 exclaimed with excitement. “Pink diamonds from some Atlantic shipwreck. Spanish coins buried by a famous pirate in a Louisiana bayou. Recovered stolen artwork. The walls of their warehouse and display cabinets are loaded with evidence of their successful projects. It’s like a freakin’ museum.”

  “Not all their ventures have been successful,” JAM cautioned. “Treasure hunting is like high-stakes gambling.”

  “JAM is right,” Geek said. “It can cost millions to engage in some of these searches, especially the deep-water shipwreck ones, that on top of all the hoops a company has to go through with state licensing and potential lawsuits from foreign countries claiming the ships and their contents belong to them, even though they’ve made no effort to recover them for centuries. Finders Keepers doesn’t apply anymore in the Law of Finds.”

  “On the other hand, the rewards can be monumental, even if you give the other country their twenty-five-percent cut,” K-4 argued. “Do you know, there are still three million shipwrecks sitting on the bottom of the world’s oceans and seas? And that’s no bullshit—the statistic comes from a United Nations study. Three million! Of course, only about three thousand of those have the potential for big bucks. Still . . . three million!”

  “Sounds like you’ve decided,” Wendy remarked to K-4.

  “Doesn’t matter how I feel. I’m not the one with deep pockets,” K-4 said. “I’m due for renewal this summer, though.”

  Everyone looked at JAM and Geek.

  JAM put his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. I’m no millionaire. Besides, I’m not ready to quit the teams. I have another year to go on my current contract. Maybe later. Just not yet.”

  Which left Geek.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Geek said. “I re-up in May . . . or not. I’ve been in about fourteen years now. That’s a long time in special forces.”

  “Those of us who grew up on the Outer Banks have been hearing about shipwrecks and salvors all our lives. The good and the bad,” Aunt Mildred interjected. “There must be a dozen companies with licenses for wrecks off our coast right now.”

  “And occasionally one of them hits the jackpot. Like that recent ‘Pulaski’ discovery,” Elmer pointed out. “That’s what makes all the others keep trying.”

  “I went to that Graveyard of the Atlantic museum today,” Diane told them. “You guys should definitely visit if you’re seriously considering this venture. K-4, you mentioned the huge number of shipwrecks still sitting on th
e ocean bottoms around the world. Well, get this: there are three thousand shipwrecks still uncovered off this coastline alone. Makes even the most cautious person get the fever.”

  “Why is this particular company wanting to sell out? Jinx, did you say? Isn’t that an ominous name?” Harry asked.

  “Their headquarters on Barnegat Bay is about to be demolished as part of a federal wharf restoration project,” Geek told them, “which won’t be finished for five years. In the meantime, they need to find another site, temporary or permanent. They’ve decided to just sell.”

  “Jake and Ronnie, the owners, are thinking about getting involved in some small private casino in the Poconos,” JAM added.

  Harry frowned. “If there’s no building to sell, what would potential investors get for their money?” Harry had been a financial consultant at one time; so, his viewpoint was valuable.

  “Goodwill. The company name, its reputation, past and existing accounts,” Geek explained.

  “Plus a big-ass salvage boat, don’t forget that,” K-4 said with a laugh. “I mean, we’re talking a huge boat that sleeps eight and has all the latest technology for exploring and recovery.”

  “I think the most interesting thing, and this is rather ironic with us being here on the Outer Banks, is that they have a salvage permit with the state of North Carolina, obtained before this whole issue of wharf redevelopment came up in Jersey. It’s for a site five miles out in the Atlantic where a trio of Portuguese ships supposedly went down in 1862. Called the Three Saints . . . the St. Martha, the St. Cecilia, and the St. Sonia. Cool, huh?”

  “So, you could conceivably establish a new headquarters for Jinx anywhere, even here on the Outer Banks,” Wendy mused.

  “I suppose so,” Geek said. “But like I mentioned, shipwreck salvaging is only one of their services. And who knows where the next project would be located?”

  “Are you going to do it?” Diane asked, her question addressed to Geek, since he was the only one with the cash to do it, unless he took in other investors.

  “I don’t know. A lot to think about.” Geek took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair. “Like JAM, I’m not sure I’m ready to give up the teams. Still, I am thinking about it. I brought a pile of paperwork with me to sift through.”

  “You should talk to my daughter, Bonita, when she comes for the Christmas Day Open House,” Raul said then. “Bonita is some kind of oceanographer—or a marine archaeologist, I am not sure which—in Ocracoke. She has worked with some of the Outer Banks shipwreck salvaging companies.”

  “That would be great,” Geek said.

  Wendy was staring at her aunt. That was all very interesting about Raul’s daughter, but what was that about an open house?

  Her aunt understood Wendy’s unspoken question and said, “I decided to resume the annual Christmas Day Open House this year, like your mother and father used to hold. I sent the invitations out weeks ago, before you decided to come home. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Did she mind? Not really. It was just a surprise. They’d stopped the ritual party a year before her mother died, when she’d gotten too sick to organize even family meals, let alone a community event. And that’s what the Patterson open houses were, open to everyone in town. From noon to four p.m., giving families a chance to open gifts that morning and then go to church services, with plenty of time afterward to hold their own feasts at home later that day or early in the evening.

  Christmas Day might seem like an odd time to hold a party, but originally, when her mother and father had started the tradition, it was because they’d wanted people with no families around to have a place to go and celebrate. Shades of Aunt Mildred? Wendy mused. But what had happened was that everyone came, even if only for a half hour. It had become a means for all the townsfolk to enjoy the day together.

  “Are you sure you’re up for that? I mean, it’s a lot of work. As many as fifty or sixty people could show up, as I recall.”

  “We’ll all help,” Elmer said, and the other seniors nodded and offered enthusiastic encouragement to Aunt Mil.

  “Hey, I can be the bartender,” K-4 said.

  “I make a mean Santa’s Wild-Ass Elf cocktail,” JAM said, waggling his eyebrows. “Very festive.”

  “Did you know that the word cocktail was first used in the early 1800s, referring to any drink with sugar, water, and bitters?” This from Gloria, ever the librarian. “It was called a ‘bittered sling,’ which came from the German word schlinger, which means to swallow quickly.”

  Everyone gaped at Gloria. She was a walking encyclopedia.

  “Are you sure? In Nawleans, we’re told that the cocktail was invented in a French Quarter pharmacy where it was served in an eggcup, which is called a ‘coquetier’ in French and later became Americanized to the word cocktail.”

  Everyone gaped at Claudette now. She hardly talked at all, but then the most amazing things popped out of her mouth.

  Before you knew it, someone would be saying cocktail came from the Latin for you-know-what. If F.U. were here, it would have been said by now.

  JAM waved a hand in the air. “Hey, in Mexico, we say the cocktail was named for an Aztec princess, invented by some lonely vaquero, or something.”

  They all laughed then.

  “So, it’s only seven thirty,” K-4 said, glancing at his watch. “What say we go pick up a Christmas tree? Wendy? You said you wanted us to do it tomorrow, but why not tonight?”

  Wendy wasn’t about to chance another meeting with Ethan, but she didn’t mind them going. In fact, she’d appreciate it.

  So, the three SEALs and Diane went off to Rutledge Tree Farm, while Aunt Mildred cautioned, “I do not want one of those Rutledge Trees. I want a regular tree,” which led Wendy to explain the history of the Rutledge Tree, after which all four of her guests said, “Cool!”

  Wendy and Aunt Mildred rolled their eyes at that and went up to the attic to gather the boxes of Christmas tree decorations while the other seniors cleared the table, did the dishes, and made room in the front parlor for the tree. It took three trips for the two of them to carry all the boxes downstairs, and by then Raul had put some soft Christmas music on the stereo and lit the logs in the fireplace.

  “I like your friends, Wendy,” her aunt said while they were carrying down the last load.

  “I like yours, too,” Wendy replied.

  Her aunt beamed. “I am so glad. I was worried that . . . well, I was worried.”

  “What? That I would kick them out, and you with them?” Wendy teased.

  “No, of course not. Well, maybe,” she admitted. “If you disapproved, I would have had no choice but to ask everyone to leave.”

  “Now, stop right there. You don’t need my approval for anything, Aunt Mil. I told you that before.”

  Not totally convinced, her aunt smiled softly. Wendy suspected that her aunt was worried about what would become of the house, if Wendy wasn’t coming back here to live, eventually. That was a decision they would make together, but this wasn’t the time for that discussion. She squeezed her aunt’s hand in reassurance.

  The guys and Diane were back an hour later with a huge, ten-foot, perfectly-shaped Fraser Fir, which almost met the ceiling once it was in its stand and topped with the ratty old angel that had graced Patterson family trees for fifty years. Because of the chipped paint on its china face, which gave it a perpetual wink, Geek said it should be called a Fallen Angel. They also bought a three-foot Rutledge Tree for the kitchen, where the seniors decided it should have culinary type ornaments . . . a.k.a. dried fruits left over from a fruitcake baking project last week, along with strings of popcorn alternated with cranberries. The ugly little tree looked almost pretty.

  Around eleven, her Coronado buddies, including Diane, decided to go to The Live Bass, a local bar they’d passed on the way to the tree farm, for a few beers. Wendy opted to stay home, despite their entreating her to come along. They even invited the seniors to come, which pleased them to no end, but
they, too, declined, it being past their bedtimes.

  Once her guests were gone and her aunt and the rest of the seniors had gone to their respective rooms, Wendy put another log on the fire, turned off all the lights, except those on the tree, and let herself remember. Standing before the tree, she examined one ornament after another.

  First, there were some miniature Bell Forge commemorative bronze bells, including her favorite, for 9/11, featuring etched twin towers. The Pope Francis visit to America. Virginia Dare and the Lost Colony, which was supposedly on the Outer Banks. The Wright Brothers’ first flight from Kitty Hawk. A dozen commemoratives in all.

  Then, she examined the vintage glass ornaments passed down through the family, those that survived clumsy children handling them over the years. Only seven of the original two dozen remained, and a few of those had flecks of paint missing.

  Her childhood handmade efforts had all been collected and stored for her. They were on the tree, too. K-4 had gotten a big kick out of the cardboard reindeer with five legs that she’d made in kindergarten.

  But then there were those with special meaning. The bright red tin apple purchased the year her parents took her to New York City, a.k.a. the Big Apple, to see the Rockettes’ Christmas show. She’d been about seven and for a long time after dreamed of becoming one of those beautiful dancers.

  One year her mother got inspired to make a whole army of stuffed mice cloth ornaments, complete with clothing and tools of their trade. A Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus, he carrying a sack of toys, she with a baking tray of cookies. A farmer and his wife, he with a shovel in hand, she with a basket of vegetables. An Amish man and woman in black garb, he with a flat-crowned hat and suspenders, she with a white apron. A Scotsman with a bagpipe, wearing a kilt. A skier and a golfer. A physician complete with tiny stethoscope (her father’s favorite, especially since that particular mouse had ginger-colored hair). A soldier and a sailor. A policeman.