A Carol Christmas

by Roberts, Sheila

He said it so softly I could barely hear him. I leaned in closer.

  “We could have worked things out.”

  “No, we couldn’t,” Mom snapped.

  “We still could.”

  Whoa. He had her trapped against the stove now. I almost giggled. Dad was making a move on Mom. Any second I’d be humming, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

  That had been overly optimistic. Mom gave Dad a shove. “Back off, Michael. You’re making me sweat.” Good old Mom. Such a romantic.

  I sighed and went back in the kitchen. Forget Mommy kissing Santa Claus. I’d have to settle for her not killing him. “What else can I take out?”

  Mom glared at me. “Yourself. Both of you, beat it. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Okay. We scrammed before the wrath of Mom could scorch either of us further.

  Dad was looking like a little kid who’d just gotten sent to his room. I understood how he felt. I felt the same way.

  But at least he was here. We were together as a family again. Sort of. “I’m glad you came,” I told him and squeezed his hand.

  “Thanks, Princess.” He looked to where Mr. Winkler sat in his chair. “I don’t even have a place to sit.”

  Dad sounded so forlorn. I wished I could think of something to say to comfort him, but I couldn’t. And that made me feel even worse.

  The forlorn attitude didn’t last long. Dad hiked up his pants with his good arm and went to stand by where Mr. Winkler sat, drinking eggnog. “How’s it going, Winkler?”

  His question sounded innocent. If he’d asked it of any other person in the room, I’d have heaved a sigh of relief. I felt dread start swirling in my stomach. This was not going to turn into anything pretty. I backed away and took refuge by the dining room table, adding another place setting for Dad. Mom had been right. This had been a bad, bad idea.

  “Going fine,” said Mr. Winkler. “How do you like your new place?”

  “I don’t.”

  Mr. Winkler just nodded. “Too bad.”

  “Got no place to go today?” Dad asked.

  “Well, look at that,” Aunt Chloe said. “It’s beginning to snow. Looks like we’re going to have a white Christmas. I can't remember the last time it snowed on Christmas Day.”

  The two people she was most hoping to distract ignored her. Mr. Winkler stood up slowly. Now he and Dad were facing each other like gunslingers playing double-dog-dare. “I had someplace to go. Here. I was invited.”

  “Yeah? Well, so was I. Nice of you to get out of my chair,” Dad said, and sat down in it.

  “We still have some presents under the tree,” Gram said quickly. “This might be a good time to open them.”

  “Good idea,” said Keira. “Here, Daddy. Here’s one for you from Andie.”

  “Bring it to me,” Dad said, unwilling to risk losing his chair to Winkler the claim-jumper.

  I let out my breath. Things would settle down now that Dad had been distracted.

  “Andie, come help me,” Mom commanded from the kitchen.

  I went into the kitchen where she was violently hurling mashed potatoes into a bowl.

  “This is what comes of asking your father over. I told you nothing good would come of it. You need to find a way to get him out of here.”

  “They’re okay now,” I assured her. “They’re opening presents.”

  “They’re not going to be okay. I’ve got a present under there for Bill.”

  “Oh.” Now I really felt sick. We might as well have put a lit stick of dynamite under the tree. “Maybe it will be all right,” I said hopefully. “After all, Dad wouldn’t be expecting a present from you.”

  “That doesn’t matter. He won’t want to see me giving one to Bill. Andie, when I invited you home for the holidays, this was not what I had in mind.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I was just trying to help.”

  Male voices started to rise in the living room.

  “I didn’t ask you home to help. All this meddling—if you weren’t grown up I’d send you to your room, you ungrateful child.” She slammed the last spoonful of potatoes into the bowl. “Here. Take these to the table.”

  I did. Anything to escape. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother had spoken to me so harshly. What happened to “It’s a treat to have you home”?

  I supposed she couldn’t realistically say that, not with the way she was feeling about Dad’s unexpected presence in the house. I had been out of line to invite him without asking her. And there in the living room was living proof of how dumb I’d been.

  From the dining room table, where I stood blinking back tears of hurt and anger, I got a bird’s-eye view of the whole disaster. A can of cashews lay discarded on the floor. Mr. Winkler's gift? Probably, judging from Dad's wrathful expression. My brother was in the process of removing the tulip plates I gave Mom from harm’s way. Spencer was out of his chair and hovering, unsure of what to do, while Dad and Mr. Winkler stood in the middle of the room, engaged in a shoving match.

  “Why don’t you just get out,” Mr. Winkler said, laying his hands on Dad’s chest and trying to bulldoze him toward the door.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?” Dad shoved him back hard with his good arm, and Mr. Winkler tottered dangerously near the tree.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” warned Winkler.

  “I’d like to see you try.” Dad moved in on him and gave him another shove. Now they were practically on top of the tree.

  Ben tried to step between them. “Hey, guys. This is not the time.”

  “Stand back, son,” Dad commanded and took a swing at Mr. Winkler. Winkler danced out of range and crushed the box that held my pink jacket.

  Ben tried again, pulling on Dad’s good arm. “Knock it off, Dad, before someone gets hurt.”

  “Someone needs to get hurt,” Dad said and bore down on Mr. Winkler.

  At this point Mom rushed past me, muttering, “I’m going to kill him.” She stormed up to Dad. “Michael, if you don’t stop right now I’m calling the police.”

  Both men ignored her. She whirled around and headed for the kitchen wearing her stone scowl.

  Oh, no. Surely she wouldn’t. I looked into the kitchen. She had the phone receiver in her hand.

  Meanwhile, back in the living room Aunt Chloe had joined the combatants. “Stop!” she cried, jumping up. “You’re going to trample the painting.”

  Gabe stepped in, trying to help Ben haul the two men apart, but they were going at it in earnest, and Aunt Chloe’s presence didn’t make the task easier.

  It looked like a mini mosh pit with all of them wrestling in front of our oversized tree, bumping elbows, and in Aunt Chloe’s case, hips against the boughs. “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” started blasting through the room.

  “Look out,” warned Gram. “You’re going to knock over the tree.”

  The noise level had risen so high I was sure Mom wasn’t the only one who had called the cops. Mr. Harris was probably on the line with Carol’s finest right now. We were going to make the police blotter again. Even worse, someone was going to end up in the hospital. Dad would probably break his other arm.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I called desperately. Of course, no one even heard me.

  Too late, anyway. Before you could say “God bless us, everyone,” Aunt Chloe lost her balance. She crashed into Dad and Mr. Winkler like a bowling ball taking down pins, and the three of them toppled into the tree.

  Down it went, right into the window. It looked like a Three Stooges movie. Riding the tree, they pushed through the glass and shattered the window. Or maybe it was Aunt Chloe’s scream that did it as she landed on top of Dad, who landed on top of Mr. Winkler.

  I stood there in the dining room, staring in horror at the Christmas monster I’d created, a many-legged, moaning mess. I hoped Mr. Winkler wouldn’t sue us. All I could see of him was an arm and a couple of feet.

  “Chloe, get off me,” Dad moaned. “You’re suffocating me.”
>
  “This is what comes of inviting your father over for Christmas,” Mom said at my elbow. Then she left me and went to scold Dad for getting territorial over territory he no longer owned.

  Blue lights began to flash over the scene, announcing the arrival of the police. Another memorable Hartwell Christmas. Okay, so I’d been wrong to invite Dad over, but surely any civilized family could have managed to get through a couple of hours without trying to kill each other, certainly without putting their Christmas tree through the window.

  And to think I’d almost convinced myself I was glad to be back. Well, I wasn’t glad anymore. I’d put up with ridiculous scenes, insults from my sister, and a blistering scold from my mom. And now this. Enough was enough.

  I looked in disgust at the pandemonium taking place around the Christmas tree. It looked like a scene from some stupid holiday movie. Aunt Chloe staggered up with the help of Ben and put her foot through the painting. That brought such loud wails out of her that if the cops hadn’t already arrived they’d have come, sirens blaring. Dad came up holding his broken arm with his good one and swearing, and Mr. Winkler was sitting among the squashed presents and broken tree boughs like a fighter who couldn’t rise to finish the round. Gram was hovering and tut-tutting, and Mom was yelling at Dad. Spencer was moving presents out of the way so we could heave-ho the tree back into the house, while Gabe just stood next to Ben, looking like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  I was mortified. This was by far the worst Hartwell Christmas ever. And Gabe had been here to witness it firsthand. Any second now he’d be asking for his coat back. And his heart. And who could blame him? Not me.

  Ben gave me a shrug as he went to to the door to let in the cops. “Good to be home, huh?” he teased.

  But I didn’t think it was funny.

  “I’ll get the first aid kit,” Keira offered. She rushed by me. “Don’t just stand there. Do something.”

  Good suggestion. I’d started my visit with a broken window. That was where I was going to end it. If I stayed even a minute longer, my head would explode. I hurried to my room to pack. I’d catch a red-eye, go stand-by, camp out at the airport, anything but stay in this madhouse a minute longer.

  With all the pandemonium in the living room, I wasn’t even missed. I grabbed my cell—thank God I’d kept it charged—and called a cab. Then I hauled my suitcase out of the closet and threw it on the bed. Working at warp speed, I gathered my clothes and toiletries and shoved them in any which way. I knew I wouldn't be able to take my snow globe on the plane so I left it. The little angel looked so peaceful in there. I wished I could climb in with her.

  My cell rang. I couldn’t imagine who on earth would call me on Christmas Day. If it was Santa, checking to see if I was being a good girl, he was too late.

  Amazingly, it was Beryl. “Are you having a lovely Christmas, my poppet?” she sang.

  Where did she get off being so merry, anyway? She was probably at some quiet, swank gathering, nibbling hors d’oeuvres and listening to chamber music.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  “Good,” she said crisply, “because I truly need you here day after tomorrow.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured her. “I’m actually packing for the airport as we speak. What’s up?” Why are you calling me on Christmas after squeezing me out on Christmas Eve?

  “Our dear Mr. Margolin was feeling a little peaked yesterday, so we postponed our meeting until day after tomorrow. It will be him and his people and you, me, and Mr. Phelps.”

  Me and my ideas in the same room with Mr. Big and Mr. Nutri Bread. Something was going right? I could hardly believe my ears. And the timing was perfect. Even if I couldn’t get a flight out until the next day, I’d still make it back in time.

  “Of course, I’ve been singing your praises like a little canary,” Beryl continued, “and Mr. Margolin is dying to meet you, my poppet.”

  “Me?”

  “Your ideas, darling.”

  Beryl wasn’t taking credit for everything? Could this really be possible? If it was, I’d sure misjudged her.

  “I’ll be there,” I promised, and snapped my suitcase shut.

  “Smashing.” Beryl said approvingly. “The meeting is at ten. Come to my office at nine and we’ll rally the forces.”

  “Right-o,” I said, sounding like a Beryl Junior.

  We said our good-byes, and I disconnected and put the phone in my purse. Then I did a quick visual check to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything.

  Only your manners, whispered my conscience. I told it to shut up and started for the door.

  Wait a minute. The last thing I wanted to do was go past my family. That left me only the emergency exit: the window. I threw up the sash, then tossed out my suitcase and my carry-on.

  Okay, I’ll admit it was a chicken-livered thing to do, but I’d really had all the scenes I could stand.

  I had one leg over the sill when Keira opened my door. “Mom needs . . . ” She broke off. “What are you doing?”

  I felt suddenly stupid, and tried to cover it up with attitude. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’re running out on us.”

  “Well, you won the final Jeopardy question. You can come back next show.” I swung my other leg out.

  “I can’t believe you’re sneaking out. You started this mess.” She was right, of course, but I was up to my nostrils in anger and frustration, so there was no room left for humility.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find a way to make another one without any help from me,” I snarled. “I’ve got a plane to catch.” Hopefully.

  Keira looked at me in disgust. “Fine. Stay around just long enough to act like you’re better than the rest of us, then, when we really need you, run out. You are such a complete hypocrite, I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, we can’t all be perfect like you, can we?” Obviously, the truth hurt. At first she looked like she was going to cry. Then she glared at me and turned and slammed the door.

  Have the last tantrum. What do I care? I caught the branch of the nearby maple tree, climbed down, picked up my luggage, and marched across the lawn.

  The cops were helping Ben, Mr. Winkler, and Gabe push the tree back through the window and into the house. I could see Dad and Spencer inside the house, each hauling a branch. How many men does it take to put a Christmas tree back up? Who cared?

  The lights of the patrol cars were still flashing, turning the falling snow pastel blue. No one was yelling anymore, and the sounds of “Joy to the World” drifted out from the broken window.

  I took my cell phone out of my purse for one final call. Of course, nobody answered.

  I waited for the voicemail to click in, then said, “Mom, I just got a call and I have to get back to New York. You were, um, too busy to tell when I got the call about the big emergency, so . . . ” I stumbled to a stop and bit my lip. “Sorry,” I added. Then I pressed End, turned off the ringer, and put away my phone.

  My cab pulled up to the curb, and I got in. “To the airport, please. As quick as possible.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I was surprised at how few people were at the airport. Of course, I reminded myself, most travelers had reached their destinations by now and were snug by the fire with family and loved ones.

  My stomach rumbled. I wondered if my family was eating dinner yet. Maybe they were still putting up plastic on the broken window. Maybe Dad and Mr. Winkler were fighting over who would be the one to put it up. For all I knew, things could have escalated from a broken window to broken furniture and broken heads. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if they had.

  The woman at the check-in counter assured me I could get on the red-eye to New York, for a price.

  I paid it gladly.

  Then I checked my luggage, bought a paperback mystery, and wandered to my gate. A smattering of people sat in the waiting area, anticipating boarding a flight to Denver that took off in an hour. A tired
woman watched with glazed eyes as her two small kids ran in circles, while a grandmotherly type knitted and looked on benevolently. A woman who appeared to be in her forties was watching the kids too, with barely concealed distaste. She was pencil-thin, dressed in expensive casual, a Luis Vuitton bag by her feet. Successful career woman, traveling alone. I wondered if she was on her way to be with family or fleeing from them, like me. Would that be me someday, a middle-aged woman alone in the airport?

  Hopefully, if my family was kind enough to disown me.

  I opened my book and stared at the first page. The body of poor Emily Emerson was found floating in the Thames this morning at 6 a.m.

  What if my plane crashed on the way home? I should have said good-bye. I should have taken the mashed painting. But then I’d have had to take the pink jacket too. Everyone would have known I was going, and they’d have taken me prisoner, never letting me escape.

  The whole Christmas fiasco started playing again in my mind. Just thinking about it started my pulse racing, stressing me out. I directed my wandering attention back to the book. The body of poor Emily Emerson was found floating in the Thames . . .

  I started free-associating. Floating. Water. Tears. Ugh. Poor Aunt Chloe was probably crying enough to fill a punch bowl. Mom probably had enough smoke coming out of her ears to set off every detector in the neighborhood. She would never speak to me again. I knew it. None of my family would ever speak to me again.

  My sister wouldn’t for sure. Calling me a hypocrite. A hypocrite! Just because I ran away from my own family on Christmas Day.

  Guilt swamped me. I tried to paddle my way out by telling myself that my family would try the patience of Mother Teresa herself.

  One of the kids let out a squeal of delight. I looked up and saw it was because his mom was blowing kisses on his neck. That would probably be Keira someday, if she ever grew up. She’d be Mother of the Year. I’d be … I sneaked a look at the career woman. She was poking at her cell phone-, oblivious to the sweet scene in front of her. At the rate I was going, that would be me. Alone, no family.

  And where was the problem with that?

  Meanwhile, back at page one. The body of poor Emily Emerson was found…