A Piggly Wiggly Christmas

by Robert Dalby

  After a brief period of everyone sipping while mulling things over, Novie said: “Shall we take a vote on it then? As usual, I have my trusty secretarial notepad in my purse.”

  A few minutes later, Powell Hampton had been unanimously appointed the Go-to Guy of the Nitwitts’ Club of Second Creek, Mississippi.

  “You’re on a roll, Laurie,” Gaylie Girl said. “And that makes you and Powell our official Go-to Couple. Next question. Do you think Powell will accept?”

  “I’ll go out on the proverbial limb and say yes. He’s really very fond of all of you, as I’m sure you know, and I think this concession to his masculinity will seal the deal for us.”

  Denver Lee and Myrtis were whispering and giggling next to each other, and Laurie couldn’t help but notice. “What on earth are you two plotting over there? You’re acting like a couple of schoolgirls.”

  It was Myrtis who answered with a naughty smile. “That’s not far from the truth. We were just saying to ourselves how nice it would be if we both had our own personal Go-to Guys at this time in our lives.”

  “I second that!” Euterpe exclaimed. “It’s been a while since my David rode off into the sunset.”

  Then Laurie crisply raised her glass. “Let’s have a toast, then.” The others quickly hoisted their drinks. “To all those wonderful Go-to Guys in our lives—past, present . . . and why not hold out hope for the future, as long as we’re at it!”

  Eight

  The Best-Laid Plans

  The on-again, off-again bus trip, which would carry some of the residents of Delta Sunset Village to Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve, was now officially off for good. On a rainy Sunday morning a mere eight days out from the event, Dr. Curtis Milburne had just phoned Gaylie Girl and interrupted her breakfast with the bad news.

  “I told you from the beginning that I would give this careful consideration, Mrs. Dunbar,” he had begun. “I made no hasty judgments. But I have an obligation as the facility’s physician on call to look after the best interests of our residents. And, yes, I’m aware that those who don’t require scooters and walkers were good candidates to attend your event. But it would still be a logistical nightmare with some undesirable side effects. You just don’t realize how much our people depend upon routine. Maybe require is a better word than depend. Routine becomes an old friend to them in their retirement years—and we particularly wouldn’t want to upset them at Christmastime. Even for something as special and inspirational as this caroling sounds like it will be.”

  But Gaylie Girl chose not to leave it at that, thinking on her feet with Laurie Hampton’s constant example for inspiration. “Perhaps we’ve been looking at this the wrong way around, Dr. Milburne.”

  He listened patiently while she suggested that if the residents couldn’t go to The Square, then perhaps The Square should go to the residents. “How disruptive would it be to have one of the choirs perform their program over there between now and Christmas Eve? All the residents and patients would have to do would be to come down from their rooms into the lobby,” she concluded.

  Dr. Milburne’s reaction was a distinct mixture of support and relief. “I think that’s a wonderful suggestion. I don’t much relish being thought of as the bad guy in all this. Give Lisa a call as soon as we hang up and see if she can wedge something into the activities schedule. It may not be too late.”

  Fortunately, Mrs. Lisa Holstrom, the crisply efficient director of Delta Sunset Village, found an immediate opening on the upcoming Thursday schedule. A much-anticipated presentation from a husband-and-wife Christmas storytelling team had fallen through at the last minute, and booking a choir would be the perfect replacement.

  Next, Gaylie Girl continued her flurry of activity with a call to choirmaster Press Phillips of the Second Creek First United Methodist Church, recalling his exceptionally affable nature. And Mr. Phillips had eagerly agreed to Gaylie Girl’s spur-of-the-moment proposal.

  “I don’t have to think twice,” he assured her. “We would be happy to go over and deliver some musical cheer to the residents. We Methodists are very good at our bus trips, whether to the Smokies or the outskirts of Greenwood!”

  All that had been accomplished in the space of twenty or thirty minutes, but Gaylie Girl was determined to go for more. “I’d like to round up the girls and have us all go over for Sunday brunch with Wittsie. I can’t wait to give her the good news,” she told Mr. Choppy as he was finishing up his breakfast of buttered grits and blueberry pancakes.

  “Best move I ever made—hookin’ you up with the Nitwitt ladies!” he quipped.

  After that, Gaylie Girl was glued to the phone the rest of the morning. Her efforts, however, were spotty at best. Denver Lee, Myrtis, and Euterpe insisted they had other plans that could not be broken, although none of them chose to reveal what they were. Of course, they all wanted it understood that they were not abandoning Wittsie and would see her during their weekly lunch outings. Novie was having Marc and Michael over for a Sunday brunch of her own, while Laurie and Powell had committed to a theater trip up to Memphis for a performance of Chicago they’d been anticipating for months now.

  That left Gaylie Girl with Renza as her solitary traveling companion, and she was approaching the short trip from Second Creek to Greenwood with no little trepidation. The reluctant in-law issue kept rearing its annoying head even after she got behind the wheel and they had left Second Creek in the rearview mirror. Would she be in for yet another session of second-guessing from Renza about the impending marriage of their two children? Perhaps she could forestall the possibility with small talk and not give Renza an opening. As the rain was slacking up a bit, she switched the wipers to intermittent and bravely took the plunge.

  “I meant to tell you. I got a long-distance call from my daughter, Amanda, yesterday.”

  Renza barely seemed to be paying attention. “Oh?”

  “Yes. It seems she’s not going to be able to swing coming down for Caroling in The Square since it would mean spending Christmas down here instead of up in Chicago. She said the children just wouldn’t like it, and I totally understand why they’d feel that way. Besides, she and Richard are trying to patch things up, so I gather she wants to hold on to what’s more comfortable and familiar. There was talk of divorce this summer right around the time of my wedding.” As soon as she’d let that last sentence slip out, Gaylie Girl mentally cringed. That was hardly where she wanted to go, inadvertently offering Renza another opportunity to pounce.

  “It’s funny that you brought that subject up just now. I’m speaking of divorce, of course,” Renza observed without missing a beat.

  Gaylie Girl was steeling herself for another shot across the bow. “Yes?”

  “What I mean to say is . . . well, I’ve been wanting to tell you something . . . and I haven’t been able to find the right time and place—not to mention the words. But this is long overdue.”

  Renza’s hesitant tone caused Gaylie Girl to cut her eyes sharply to the side for just an instant—no small risk considering the spray being thrown against the windshield from a passing semi. Amazingly, these were not the abrasive sounds of the Renza they all knew so well. Instead, there was a suggestion of vulnerability, tentatively poking its head out from deep inside her protective shell.

  “I’ll just come right out and say it. I’ve carried on abominably from the very beginning about our children’s engagement,” she continued, while adjusting her fox furs and tugging at her seat belt as if it were too tight. “I’ve said some snippy things to you about Petey and his previous marriages. And I honestly regret that. Could you . . . would you please forgive me? I don’t want the two of them to start out married life with us at each other’s throats. Marriage is hard enough without in-law trouble of any kind. I should know—my mother-in-law was the original Gorgon Medusa. Believe me, she had everything but snakes growing out of that mangy scalp of hers!”

  Gaylie Girl sat stupefied by the sudden intensity, unable even to steal another q
uick glance in Renza’s direction. Somehow, focusing on the rhythm of the wipers enabled her to recover and avoid further awkwardness. “Of course I forgive you, dear. I’m sure this whirlwind affair caught us both off guard. But I have good instincts about this, I really do. I think both our children are mature enough to know what they really want out of life now, and we have an obligation to respect that.”

  Renza instantly morphed into the picture of gracious relief. “Of course you’re right. Why, just the other morning I woke up and said to myself, ‘What on earth is wrong with you, Renza Belford? You should be thrilled Meta is finally settling down after all these years of you worrying to death about her. And to someone who comes from a very nice family like Gaylie Girl’s and is quite solvent to boot!’ ” She softly chuckled to herself. “Every once in a while, I need a reality check, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. Let’s you and I just concentrate on having a nice brunch with Wittsie and making her day.”

  Now Renza was wincing. “I hope she’s having one of her better ones. She’s been so blank lately. Even her long silences seem like a foreign language to me lately.”

  At first it appeared that Wittsie might just be grasping what Gaylie Girl had finished telling her about the Second Creek First Methodist Church choir coming to sing at Delta Sunset Village on Thursday afternoon. There was a discernible excitement in her voice and animation in her body language when she immediately reacted.

  “Oh, I love choirs . . . I’ve always loved choirs . . . I used to sing in one when I was a girl and—” Then she stopped abruptly, as if an invisible hand had covered her mouth. Gaylie Girl and Renza both waited patiently for more, but Wittsie had nothing further to add.

  They had all just returned from helping their plates in the brunch buffet line and were settled in once again around their cozy corner table. Gaylie Girl had been unable to restrain herself, leading with the choir news before anyone had taken a first bite. But after the prolonged silence from Wittsie, Renza put an end to their fast, spearing two of the ripe cherry tomatoes that adorned her veggie omelet and polishing them off quickly.

  “I went through my cherry tomato phase a few years back,” Renza explained, looking extremely pleased with herself. “I wanted to see if I had a green thumb, but I didn’t want to go all out with those big tomato plants that have to be stalked to the sky. Someone told me that you had to spend hours picking off those awful worms that look like they could sting the fire out of you. So I figured maybe I wouldn’t have to do that if I just stuck with cherry tomatoes in manageable little pots.” Renza was shaking her head in genuine amusement.

  “Of course, that was a huge horse apple fantasy on my part. The first time one of those nasty little worms appeared—and God knows how it managed that since my pots were out on the back screen porch—I screamed at the top of my lungs and took a big whack at the pot with my garden shears. It broke right in two—or three or four probably. There were shards all over the place. In other words, I threw out the baby with the bathwater. The plant was no more. I was a brave little trooper, all right, but with way too much pent-up energy. So, that was the end of my attempt to grow something in the dirt and then serve it up proudly as a garnish to all my Nitwitt friends when they came over for Bloody Marys.”

  Gaylie Girl was laughing brightly, but Wittsie was looking at her with the strangest expression on her face.

  “What is it, Wittsie?” Renza said, exchanging concerned glances with Gaylie Girl.

  But Wittsie still had nothing to say, continuing to shake her head as she appeared to be mouthing several words.

  “Why don’t we all dig into this wonderful brunch?” Gaylie Girl put in quickly, thinking it best to move on. “I can’t wait to try this huge slice of spinach and cheese quiche I’ve helped myself to. I hope my eyes weren’t bigger than my stomach. And look there, Wittsie, that’s a wonderful piece of ham you have with all those cinnamon apples and yummy grits on the side. I’ve practically become a grits gourmet, thanks to Hale and his mother’s cookbook. One of these days, I’m going to invite some of my Lake Forest friends down here and introduce them to all this very special Southern food.”

  Wittsie continued to stare down at her plate but eventually broke her silence. “Is this . . . what I ordered?”

  “We didn’t order, dear. We all went over to the other end of the room and served ourselves,” Gaylie Girl pointed out. “Remember how your friend, that lovely Mrs. Norris, commented on your pretty blue dress? And now that we’ve all gone to this trouble, we shouldn’t let our food get cold.”

  Wittsie picked up her fork and put one of the sliced apples in her mouth. “I like it,” she said. But she seemed to be grimacing as she swallowed. Then: “What happened to my . . . cherry tomatoes?”

  “You didn’t get any, dear,” Renza explained. “I had a couple, but I’ve finished mine. Both the tomatoes and my little story about them are gone. But I’d be happy to go over and get you some, if you’d like.”

  “Yes . . . I think so.”

  Renza dutifully excused herself and headed toward the buffet table, while Gaylie Girl kept Wittsie engaged. “Mrs. Holstrom tells me you’re not eating as well as you were when you first got here. You must keep up your strength. This food is really so delicious that it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Wittsie was smiling again. “Yes . . . I like the food here . . . I gained weight, you know . . . when I first came . . . I don’t know when that was . . .”

  “The extra pounds looked good on you, too, sweetie.”

  “I . . . have trouble . . . keepin’ weight on . . . have since I was a girl . . . I used to sing in a choir, too . . . did I tell you?”

  “Yes, you told us.”

  Renza returned with a small bowl filled with six cherry tomatoes and put it to the side of Wittsie’s plate. “I think this should be more than enough for the three of us. But if not, I’ll go back for more. They’ve got tons over there. At least somebody has a green thumb around here.”

  From that point on, eating their brunch slowed to a crawl, as Gaylie Girl and Renza did not want to finish way before Wittsie did. But it finally became quite clear that Wittsie did not intend to eat very much, so that tactic fell through.

  “I . . . don’t swallow the way I used to . . . sometimes it’s hard,” Wittsie offered out of the blue, pointing to her throat.

  The alarm clearly registered on Gaylie Girl’s face. “Have you spoken to Dr. Milburne about this?”

  “I’m not sure . . . I may have . . .”

  Equally distressed, Renza reached over and patted Wittsie’s hand. “We’ll mention it to Mrs. Holstrom on the way out, sweetie. I’m sure they’ll look into it for you.”

  Shortly thereafter, the brunch came to an end, and the three Nitwitts proceeded to the front, where an orderly was waiting to escort Wittsie back to the memory care wing. But the enormous Christmas tree in the center of the lobby halted their progress. It reached up to the second floor of the atrium and had been decorated in Victorian fashion with red-and gold-felt bows instead of ornaments. Scattered beneath it atop a red, circular skirt were mounds of gift-wrapped packages of various shapes and sizes—some of them real and others added by the staff for effect. Wittsie stood before it all like a child on Christmas morning.

  “Did they put all this up . . . while we were eating?” she said, but she seemed more delighted than puzzled by it all.

  Gaylie Girl seized the moment almost like a professional. “Now that you mention it, I believe they must have, dear. There really is nothing they can’t do around here, is there?”

  Just then the smartly dressed, impeccably coiffed Mrs. Holstrom emerged from her office and motioned to both Gaylie Girl and Renza. “Ladies, if I may have a word with you before you leave, please.”

  And finally it was time to let Wittsie go her way.

  “We loved being with you, dear,” Gaylie Girl said as the orderly took Wittsie’s arm and began leading her down the corridor. “And
Renza and I will be coming over again on Thursday to hear the choir with you.”

  Wittsie turned and looked back at the last second. “Choir?”

  Gaylie Girl and Renza just smiled and waved, realizing there was nothing more to be said except good-bye.

  “Unfortunately, our dear Miz Wittsie is approaching the last stages of the disease,” Mrs. Holstrom was saying to Gaylie Girl and Renza as the three of them sat together in her office. “Some of her vital functions are beginning to be problematic. Dr. Milburne knows about the swallowing problem, I can assure you, and you’ll be pleased to know that she’ll be made as comfortable as possible. But the patients forget how to do the simplest things. The brain forgets so the body forgets. It’s one of the most heartbreaking aspects of Alzheimer’s to have to observe. I’ve been around it for almost two decades now in my work managing communities like these, and I never get used to it.”

  Gaylie Girl was dabbing at her eyes with a piece of Kleenex. “How much longer do you think she has, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Mrs. Holstrom leaned in, her smile generous and full of empathy as only a trained professional’s could be. “Of course I don’t mind. That’s what we’re here for. She has a few more months, perhaps. It’s hard to be more specific. But we’ll keep you fully informed of any drastic changes.”

  “This will be Wittsie’s last Christmas, won’t it?” Gaylie Girl added, gathering herself a bit.

  “In all likelihood, yes.”

  Gaylie Girl took a deep breath and then turned to Renza. “Then perhaps we should all come over here and make the most of Thursday. We can all gather around Wittsie and sing along with the choir and drink whatever you’re serving. By the way, what are you serving? Now there’s a Nitwitt question for you.”

  “Nothing stronger than mulled cider and hot chocolate, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Holstrom replied with a wink. “Alcohol and so many patient medications just don’t mix, though I can assure you that most of our residents would adore a little jigger or two of something every night if we’d let them. Oh, every once in a while we have a watered-down Mimosa or wine social. We just don’t tell them about the watered-down part.” She paused briefly with an expectant look on her face. “Then we’ll see you again Thursday for the caroling?”