Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “I know,” McQuaid said unhappily. “I screwed up, China, big-time, and I’m sorry. Look. Why don’t we put the tree off a couple of days? Charlie’s job is a quickie. I’ll be back Friday night. We can get it on Saturday.”

  I shook my head. “Won’t work. If we don’t pick it up tomorrow, we won’t get it decorated in time for the party Saturday night.” We had invited a dozen friends and their children—a neighborhood get-together, potluck-style, nothing fancy. But we had to have a tree. I eyed him. “Don’t tell me. You forgot about the party, too.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.” He sighed. “Well, maybe you could do it without me. Pick up the tree, I mean. It’s no huge deal, I guess.”

  “Right,” I said ironically. “Sally can go in your place and—”

  “Yeah, sure.” He threw his hands into the air. “Sally can take my place. I won’t be missed at all.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re the one who decided to go to Omaha—without consulting me. If you had asked, I would have been glad to remind you about getting the tree.”

  “And you invited Sally to stay here without consulting me.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “So I guess we’re even, huh?”

  I went back to the chowder, sprinkling on minced chives and parsley. “No, we are not even. You owe me one. Your going to Omaha is worse than my asking Sally here.”

  “Sez you,” McQuaid replied, nuzzling the back of my neck.

  “Sez me.” I pulled myself loose and went to the oven to take out the dinner rolls. “Go call the kids. We’re ready to eat.”

  Howard gave a plaintive whine.

  “And tell Brian to come and feed the dog,” I added. “Please.”

  Howard wagged his tail hopefully.

  THE kitchen table was a little more crowded than usual. McQuaid sat at one end, I at the other, Brian on one side, and Sally and Caitlin on the other. Since Caitlin is new to our family, now is probably as good a time as any to catch up on that part of the story.

  Caitlin Danforth is my eleven-year-old niece, the daughter of the half brother I had never met until early last year. Miles was my father’s son by Laura Danforth, the “office wife” with whom he spent all of his working days and many of the nights and weekends that he might have spent with my mother and me. If that sounds bitter, well, I suppose it is. Wouldn’t you be bitter if you learned, out of the blue, that your dad had fathered a love child, and that he had lavished more attention on his secret son than he had on you? At first I tried to deny it, although one close look at Miles was all it took to see the undeniable family likeness. Then I was angry at the way Dad had abused my mother’s trust. Would she have turned to alcohol as she did, if he had been a real husband and father?

  But that’s an unanswerable question. Anyway, as things turned out, there wasn’t a lot of time for anger or bitterness. I worked through most of my feelings about my father as I tried to learn more about his relationship with Laura Danforth and the circumstances of his death. And any animosity I might have felt toward Miles was completely flushed away by his hit-and-run death—his murder—only a few months after we first met. The killer has pled guilty and is serving his sentence, and the man behind the whole sad business died last month, avoiding the messiness of a trial and the penalty that he, too, would have paid. But he paid in a different way. Before his death (and rather than face the wrongful death suit I threatened to file) he set up a very substantial trust fund for Caitlin’s education. The money will never compensate her for the loss of her father, but whatever happens, her future is provided for.

  The present is a greater challenge. Caitlin watched her mother drown during a family outing at Lake Travis a few years ago, and then had to deal with the terrible trauma of losing her father. A dark-haired pixie of a child, she is small for her age, fragile and very shy, and she has reacted to her loss by turning inward, away from everyone. The one bright spot in her life was her aunt Marcia, her mother’s sister, who became her court-appointed guardian after her father died. Marcia would have been an ideal mother for Caitlin—except that she was diagnosed several months ago with a virulent form of breast cancer. It has already spread to her spine, and the prognosis isn’t good. As if Caitlin hadn’t faced enough losses, now she’s losing Marcia.

  There is no one else in Caitlin’s life, so with Marcia’s encouragement and blessing, McQuaid and I petitioned the court for appointment as her guardians. Our petition was granted a few weeks ago. Caitlin is our daughter now. And while I may not have much confidence in my ability to mother a young girl, we’re all she has. Since this Christmas was the first one she would celebrate (if that was the word) without either her mother or her father, McQuaid and I were determined to make it as happy a holiday as possible, hence the Christmas tree outing, a planned shopping expedition, a neighborhood party, and a couple of big family get-togethers. I could only cross my fingers that Sally—or Juanita, or Hard-luck Hannah—wouldn’t complicate the situation.

  But tonight, at least, Sally was on her best behavior. She and Brian seemed to have come to some accommodation of her past failures and forgettings. As they came into the kitchen, he was telling her about his plan to get a job as soon as he can drive. McQuaid thinks that as long as Brian keeps up his grades, this is okay. I don’t agree. I’m in favor of high-school kids focusing on their schoolwork, not dividing their attention between school and work—and certainly not plowing every penny of income into an automobile. But I’m not likely to have the last word on the subject, and from the snippets of conversation I overheard, Sally seemed to be endorsing McQuaid’s position.

  When she sat down at the table, she turned her attention to Caitlin, beside her. Sally and I hadn’t had much time to talk, but I had briefed her on the situation. To her credit, she seemed to be handling it sympathetically, asking about Caitlin’s interests (photography and fairies), her favorite subject in school (art), her least favorite (arithmetic—yuck!), and her favorite sport (soccer). Sally confessed with a sigh that arithmetic was her worst subject, too, but brightened at the mention of fairies.

  “Really?” she exclaimed. “Oh, I love fairies, Caitlin! I used to adore the little Flower Fairy books that my grandmother gave me. And even now, I’m always on the lookout for a good fairy story.”

  “Honest?” Caitlin seemed intrigued. “I didn’t know grown-ups believed in fairies.” She slanted a resigned look at me. “Aunt China doesn’t.”

  This is not exactly true. I happen to believe in the tooth fairy, for I have personally watched as he sneaked a silver dollar under Brian’s pillow. However, I doubted that Caitlin would consider hairy, mustached McQuaid as qualified for the tooth-fairy position, and I didn’t want to throw cold water—or too much realism—on the discussion.

  “Actually, I try to keep an open mind on the subject,” I said, feeling that I was being measured against an invisible (fairylike?) standard and found wanting.

  “Everybody should believe in fairies,” Sally said decidedly. “It would be a very sad world if there weren’t any.”

  “Fairies are lame,” Brian remarked, and made that L thing that kids do with their thumb and forefinger against their foreheads.

  Caitlin looked crushed, and Sally came to their common defense. “That’s all you know, buster,” she said spiritedly. “And let me tell you, Santa had better not hear you talking that way. He just might decide to skip your presents.”

  I could see the phrase, There’s no Santa Claus, either—it’s just parents , forming on Brian’s lips. I was riding to the rescue when McQuaid stepped in.

  “Your mother’s right,” he growled. He leaned over and put a heavy hand on the top of Brian’s head. “Anybody who thinks he’s too big for Santa Claus can look for coal in his stocking.”

  “Coal?” Brian asked, distracted from making his case for the lameness of fairies. “You mean, like the kind of stuff they burn in dirty power plants?” He appealed to me. “Why would I get coal in my stocking, Mom?”

  He stopped, biting his lip, o
bviously puzzled by differentiating between Mom One and Mom Two, or Old Mom and New Mom, or maybe even Usually Absent Mom and Always Present Mom. When Sally wasn’t here, I could be pretty sure where I stood (Mom-in-chief, to borrow a phrase), but at the moment, I wasn’t clear about my position.

  “That’s the stuff,” I replied. “And you’ll get it in your stocking if you bad-mouth Santa.”

  “Sick,” Brian said admiringly.

  “It is not sick,” McQuaid snapped. “It’s traditional. It’s been happening for centuries. Good kids get presents. Bad kids get coal.”

  “No, I meant really sick,” Brian insisted. “Beast. Cool. Awesome.”

  I was glad to have the explanatory synonyms. Sick was new to me, but cool I understood from my own youth and awesome from last year or the year before. I don’t try to keep track of the evolving linguistic universe of young adults, however. I just listen and say “uh-huh” and try to catch the general drift.

  “Young man,” McQuaid said sternly, “you can leave that slang at school.”

  “Yeah,” Brian said, leaning on his elbows. “Hey, Dad, I’d really like to have some coal. I could burn it and see if it’s as bad as Mr. Nordyke says.” He pulled down his mouth and said in a deep voice, presumably Mr. Nordyke’s: “ ‘There is no such thing as clean coal, boys and girls. It’s all dirty.’ ” He popped back into his usual Brian voice. “I’d like to see how dirty. Measure the pollutants. You know, the particulates. Any idea where I can get some?”

  I had nothing to suggest, but McQuaid did. “You might ride your bike over and talk to Mr. Rich. He’s got a blacksmith’s forge and does some horseshoeing. He could maybe give you a couple of lumps of the stuff.”

  “Or you could wait until Christmas,” Sally said in a meaningful tone, “and check your stocking.” She turned back to Caitlin. “You and I, on the other hand,” she added sweetly, “will have candy and presents in our stockings. Because we’re good girls.”

  Caitlin looked up at her, eyes wide, and I could see that she was smitten. “You’re going to have a stocking, too? Here? With us?”

  Brian looked at me, surprised and alarmed. I guess Sally hadn’t told him that she was here for the duration.

  McQuaid looked at his plate.

  I looked around the table. “Yes, Brian’s mom is going to have a stocking,” I said brightly. “Here. With us. Isn’t that awesome?”

  And seeing Sally and Caitlin together, I had to agree with my somewhat optimistic remark: it was pretty awesome. Come to think of it, there was something about Sally that reminded me—and perhaps Caitlin, too—of Marcia, before she became so sick. Sally and Marcia were both perky and outgoing, with a cheerful, playful spirit. Both of them seemed to relate to Caitlin on her level, as if they were best friends or Barbie buddies, rather than adult and little girl. That takes a special flair, I think, and I’m not sure I have it. Caitlin misses Marcia terribly, and since she came to live with us, I’ve been trying hard to stand in. But let’s face it. I’m not the playful type, and my experience of fairies is severely limited. If Sally could begin where Marcia left off, she might help to make the holiday fun for a lonely child facing the bitter realities of loss.

  I smiled at Caitlin. “We’ll put in an extra nail and you can hang Sally’s stocking on the mantel, right next to yours. Would you like that?” We were out of Christmas stockings, but I’d bet Ruby would have an extra.

  “Yeah,” Caitlin said shyly. She dipped her spoon into her chowder. “Sure.” She smiled again at Sally, a sweet little smile that always turns my heart inside out. “I’m glad you’ll be here.”

  “Me, too.” Sally looked around the table. “It’ll be just like family. All of us together at Christmas.”

  McQuaid glanced up. He was opening his mouth to say something—I hate to think what—but Brian leaned over and whispered something, sotto voce. I’m sure I couldn’t have heard it right, for it sounded like “Peace out, cub scout.”

  McQuaid sighed. “Pass the rolls,” he said.

  We were clearing the table when Sally turned to McQuaid. “I wonder if you and I could have a little talk this evening, Mike. I really need your help. I—”

  “Sorry.” McQuaid put his dishes in the sink, where Brian was rinsing, and went to pour another cup of coffee. “I’m grading exams.”

  “But it’s important,” she said in a low voice. “It’s the reason I came to Pecan Springs—other than being with Brian, I mean,” she added hastily, seeing his shoulders stiffen. “It’s about what happened in—”

  “I said I’m sorry.” McQuaid’s voice was hard. He picked up his coffee and headed for the door. “It can wait until I’ve turned in my grades.”

  “Can I help you?” I asked sympathetically, wishing that McQuaid had been just a little nicer, especially with Brian in the room. He knows that his parents aren’t exactly good friends, and when the animosity gets ugly, he tries to tune it out. But it has to hurt.

  “Help me?” Sally pressed her lips together. “I wish you could, China, but I don’t see how. Mike is an investigator. I was hoping he would—” She stopped, sighing. “I guess I’ll just have to wait and try again, when he’s in a better mood.”

  Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to tell me, but there was something in her voice that made me think she was telling the truth. I wondered what kind of trouble she was in this time.

  A moment later, Caitlin bounced downstairs and asked Sally if she’d like to come up and look at fairy pictures. Which left Brian and me to do the dishes. It was actually Caitlin’s turn to help Brian, but she and Sally were getting along so well. I was happy to promote the friendship by giving her a night off.

  Brian had a different opinion. He didn’t say anything until he had finished wiping the counter. I was putting soap in the dishwasher when he came to stand beside me. “Mom,” he said in a low, troubled voice. “Do you think it’s cool for Caitie to get involved with my mother?”

  I looked up at him. Brian is two inches taller than I am now, and as he’s grown older, he looks even more like his father. His craggy face is still unformed at sixteen, but has McQuaid’s strong nose and firm jaw. They have the same shock of dark hair and the same steel blue eyes. Brian lacks his father’s broken nose (courtesy of a quarterback sack at the ten-yard line) and the jagged scar across the forehead (courtesy of a druggie’s knife in a parking lot arrest). Personally, I love McQuaid’s crooked nose and even his jagged scar, and I would never deny Brian any of life’s challenging experiences. But I secretly hope he manages to get through life without football, and I don’t mind hoping out loud that he can avoid crazy, knife-wielding dopers, as well.

  “I don’t think we need to worry too much about involvement,” I said judiciously, wondering if there might be some jealousy here. “I think they’re just talking fairies.”

  “Maybe,” Brian said in a serious tone. “But you know Sally.” He looked at me to judge my reaction. It was the first time I had heard him call his mother by her first name.

  “How do you mean?” I asked. Looking at him, I couldn’t see any jealousy. His gaze was too direct, too serious.

  “I mean—” He took a deep breath. “You can’t count on her,” he said, and in those five bleak words, I could hear the whole history of their relationship. “She says one thing and does something else. She promises, but she never comes through. She’s here one day and gone the next.” Another deep breath. “I know that you and Dad are doing your best, but Caitie is still pretty unhappy. I’d hate to see her start depending on my—on Sally. And be let down.” Having delivered himself of this long speech in only two breaths, he stood watching me, a handsome, gangly boy who—sooner than I would like—was going to grow into a handsome, husky man.

  I lifted my hand to his face, remembering how I once had to bend over to touch his cheek and brush his hair out of his eyes, when he was a little boy and I was his father’s girlfriend. His mother had been gone then, too. In fact, his mother had been gone for most of his chil
dhood. It wasn’t—

  He said it for me. “It’s not fair!” he burst out angrily. “I wish she’d stayed away. She’s going to spoil our Christmas, just you wait and see. Look at the way she’s bugging Dad about helping her. She got herself in trouble, and she wants him to bail her out.”

  I dropped my hand. “Please be patient with her,” I said. “Yes, she’s in trouble right now. She’s lost her house and her car and her job and—”

  “So she shows up here, looking for a handout!” he cried. “She doesn’t bother to come when she’s okay, when she’s got money. She only comes when she needs something.”

  “But that’s what family’s for, isn’t it?” I asked reasonably. “To be there for you when you need something?”

  He frowned. “I don’t get this. I thought you didn’t like her.”

  “I’m not sure I do, very much. I wish—” I stopped. There was no point in saying that I wished she’d stayed away, too. “But it’s Christmas, and we need to help one another. And if your mom can help Caitie even a little bit, I’m happy to have her here. I hope you will be, too.” I paused. This might not be the right time to bring it up, but I had to ask sooner or later. I might as well get it over with. “Oh, and we’ll need the keys to your car, Brian. Your mother’s going to use it while she’s here.”

  “My car?” he squawked. “But Sally is a terrible driver. I don’t want her—”

  “Your father and I paid for that car, Brian,” I said firmly, “and we all agreed that he and I would be using it until you start to drive. Your mom needs a car while she’s here. She’s going to drive yours. I’ll tell her to be careful. Okay?”

  He gave me a black look. “I hope I don’t get to say ‘I told you so.’ ” He turned on his heel and left the room.

  I spent the rest of the evening making some Christmas simmer potpourri. I divided it among some small earthenware jars I’d bought from a potter in Wimberley and wrapped them for Ruby, Cass, Laurel, and Sheila. Then I finished a holly wreath I’d started earlier, hung it on the front door, and strung the icicle lights on the porch railing. While I was at it, I got out the boxes of Christmas tree decorations so they’d be handy when we decorated the tree. By the time I finished, it was nine o’clock, and I went to say good night to Caitlin, already in her pink flannel jammies, in her bed with one of her fairy books.