by Robert Dalby
“So it’s a big fat definite ‘no’?”
“Afraid so, sweetie.”
Gaylie Girl rose from her chair without saying anything further, heading back to the reception desk. Mr. Choppy watched her glacial pace from afar and winced, her usual boundless energy and confidence substantially drained from her body.
“Then I guess I’d better get started discussing this with Laurie and Euterpe pronto,” she muttered, not bothering to turn her head as she spoke. “We’ll have to contact all the choirmasters and decide what to do next. They’re all going to be horribly disappointed, of course.”
An emergency meeting of everyone involved in Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve had been hastily called for six o’clock that evening in Gaylie Girl’s immaculately kept drawing room on North Bayou Avenue, and it was now under way. It had required a monumental effort, but she, Laurie, and Euterpe had managed to round up the rest of the Nitwitts, their newly appointed Go-to Guy, Powell Hampton, and all the choirmasters for the brainstorming session. Only Novie had been unable to attend, since her Vigil Auntie shift for Cherish, Henry, and baby Riley Jacob at the hospital would begin at six and end at nine. Meanwhile, Mr. Choppy had asked to sit in to offer the mayoral viewpoint on any proposals that arose. His would be the final word regarding anything involving activity in The Square.
With less than a half hour to prepare after rushing home from her secretarial duties, Gaylie Girl had just enough time to put out a store-bought spinach-artichoke dip and several bowls of crackers, pretzels, and nuts around the room. She had thought better of making a big to-do of the usual elaborate Nitwitt libations in deference to certain denominational viewpoints on the subject of alcohol that would be entering her house. Instead, she offered only bottled water and soft drinks. Not surprisingly, there were a few disgruntled expressions among the ladies, but she did not let that faze her. After the meeting, she reasoned, any of the Nitwitts having extreme withdrawal symptoms from the lack of Bloody Marys, mimosas, or something straight up and stronger flowing through their veins could throw one or two or three together at the wet bar and go home happy.
“So, Mayor Dunbar,” Lawton Bead of St. Luke’s Episcopal was saying from his corner armchair, “let me get this straight. You remain unalterably opposed to letting us switch any of our performances to other balconies farther away from the fire? You don’t think we can salvage something here?”
Mr. Choppy, who was standing in the doorway in a kibitzing mode and sipping a ginger ale, drew himself up and cleared his throat. “I would dearly love to, Mr. Bead. I, above anyone else, know how much plannin’ and rehearsal this has taken, since my wife here was the spirit behind it from the start. But I just don’t think the city of Second Creek should take the risk. I think we’d all readily agree that the venue has been drastically altered overnight anyway. It’s pretty much an eyesore right now.” He nodded in Powell’s general direction. “So, if you’ll put together one of your state-of-the-art press releases for the ladies on the official cancellation and get it to The Citizen tomorrow mornin’, it’d be much appreciated, Mr. Hampton.”
“Will do. After all, I’m Mr. Go-to now.”
“So that’s the end of it?” Mr. Bead continued, thrusting out his jaw in a combination of defiance and disgust. “Do we just blow off everything we’ve done just like that?”
Interestingly, it was the amenable Press Phillips of Second Creek United Methodist who quickly stepped into the fray just after grabbing his second generous handful of cashews. He’d been noshing ever since entering the room. “Well, I just wanted to say that things haven’t changed at all for our choir. Not where it matters. We still intend to go over to Delta Sunset Village in Greenwood and perform for the residents on Thursday afternoon. And I’ve discussed the aftermath of the fire with our pastor, and he thinks we should perform our caroling selections for our own congregation at the church on Christmas Eve. We already have the program well rehearsed, so even if we can’t sing it in The Square as we all originally intended, we can still sing it there. And we can get the word out to the general public that they’re perfectly welcome to attend. There’s still time for another press release for The Citizen’s ‘Community Doings’ column. Why don’t we all consider what I’ve just said? It’s seems very simple to me.”
“And very much like a letdown to me,” Lincoln Headley of the Second Creek Church of Christ added. “We’re all splintering into a lot of separate little events which may or may not be well attended. And what about the bus tours? Are those going to be canceled, too?”
This time, Gaylie Girl took the floor, rising from her sofa in the center of her friends. “I managed to get in touch with all the out-of-town churches this afternoon, and I told them about the Mayor’s decision to cancel the event. They were pretty definite about several things. First, they wanted to pass along their sincerest regrets about the fire. Some of them had no idea, since everything happened in the middle of the night and there was next to no news coverage. They also said they intend to keep us in their prayers for a timely recovery. And unfortunately, they regretted to say that they don’t think the interest will be there any longer for the bus trips now that the balconies around The Square won’t be the focus of the caroling. I know for a fact that that’s what attracted them in the first place.”
“And surely Lady Roth shining down on them from above,” said Renza, frowning into her Perrier and lemon.
“Well, Press’s idea is about the best we can do at this point,” added Walker Billings of First Baptist in his booming voice. “I just wanted to make sure there was no chance we could pull off this balcony business, as we’ve all come to call it. Hey, Press, maybe our choir could come over with yours to that retirement home?”
But it was Gaylie Girl who addressed the suggestion. “Oh, I can tell you there wouldn’t be enough room, Mr. Billings. Every bit of space in the Delta Sunset Village lobby will be taken up by the Methodist choir and the seating for the residents.” She paused to give him the politest of smiles. “But what a nice gesture. Certainly in the spirit of the season.”
Mr. Billings shrugged. “Hey, you do what you can!”
Gaylie Girl impulsively decided to inject a positive note. “Maybe we should all keep in mind that there’s always next year. I trust The Square will have been restored to its former glory by then.”
Mrs. Vergie Woods of the Marblestone Alley Church of Holiness spoke up next.
Gaylie Girl noted that she was dressed once again from head to toe in purple, as she had been the first time the two of them had met at her church. Perhaps it was her signature color. “Miz Dunbar, I just wanted to say that maybe we should be talkin’ ’bout how we can help that former glory thing get here a little bit sooner. There’s not a’ one of our churches that can’t hold a bake sale to raise money for a good cause. Why, we do it all the time at Marblestone Alley Church of Holiness.”
“I think that’s a marvelous idea,” Gaylie Girl said. “What do you think about it, Hale?”
Mr. Choppy gripped his glass of ginger ale a little tighter and managed a tense little laugh. “I think it’s gonna be a long, hard road back for The Square. It’ll take loads of money and plannin’ and maybe even a guardian angel or two to get us to where we once were. There’s a part of me that wonders if we’ll ever get there. But, by all means, let’s try anything—bake sales, concerts, raffles—anything we can think of to make The Square a desirable destination again.”
On this, there was unanimous agreement, and the spirits of the group seemed to lift ever so slightly. “It’s at least something to work toward,” Press Phillips offered, tossing back the last of his cashews. “Even if it doesn’t feel much like Christmas right now.”
Novie’s Vigil Auntie shift in the hospital waiting room started out uneventfully. First off, she asked Henry if there had been any change to report, and he answered calmly enough.
“Cherish is her usual angelic self, thank God. I’ve just been in to see her. If there was such
a thing as an advertisement for the perfect hospital stay, she’d be it—all propped up in bed smilin’ and not so much as a hair outta place. But behind that pretty picture I can tell you Cherish is plenty worried because our Riley Jacob’s still on the ventilator. That’s the key, the doctor says. If they can just get him off it . . .”
Novie conjured up her most reassuring demeanor. “I’m sure they will soon, Henry. Now, it’s time for you to run on home and get something good and homemade to eat. You’ll find your plate on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Just zap it in the microwave for a minute or so. Not too long, though. About a minute should do the trick. You don’t want my wonderful cuisine nuked to a crisp!”
“Mind tellin’ me what’s on the menu?”
“Ah! Well, for your dining pleasure this evening I have lovingly prepared for you several slices of pork tenderloin with a light gravy, a generous helping of smashed red potatoes, and lots of buttered green beans with slivered toasted almonds. I always have that when Marc and Michael come over for dinner. They both rave about it. You know, it’s very satisfying for a woman to see the men in her life enjoying her cooking.”
Henry was beaming and rubbing his belly at the same time. “Man, you Nitwitts sure know how to treat a fella!”
Indeed, the details they had worked out for their Vigil Auntie shifts were far beyond the call of duty. In exchange for a copy of the key to Henry’s modest little bungalow in New Vista Acres, each Nitwitt would be dropping by before her watch to deliver a full home-cooked meal or at least a delicious little snack for him to enjoy on his much-needed breaks from the hospital. No fast-food or vending-machine indigestion for this young father with the weight of the world on his shoulders!
“As I explained, it’s no more than I’d do for my Marc,” Novie added, grasping his hand warmly. “Now, you run right along and take some downtime, young man. Vigil Auntie Novie’s orders. I’ll let you know immediately if anything changes.”
It was about five minutes after Henry’s departure that the NICU nurse on duty, a short plump woman with big hair, came shuffling out in search of him. “Has Mr. Hempstead left?” she said while looking around the room.
“Just a few minutes ago,” Novie answered with a hint of trepidation in her voice. “I’m his friend, Novie Mims, and I’m holding down the fort while he goes home to have a little bite to eat. Is something wrong?”
The nurse was smiling and shaking her head at the same time—a professional affectation she typically indulged with all her patients. “We think it’s under control now, but there have been a couple of episodes of apnea in the NICU.”
An alarm went off in Novie’s head. “Apnea? Isn’t that when someone stops breathing? Has the baby stopped breathing?”
“Relax, Ms. Mims. It’s under control. It can happen sometimes with babies this young who are being weaned off ventilators.”
“Should I call Mr. Hempstead and let him know? I promised to do that if anything came up.”
“Frankly, I’d let him go ahead and enjoy his dinner. As I said, the situation is under control, and there’s nothing he could do if he rushed back here. I just came out to keep him informed.”
Novie thought for a moment. “Does Mrs. Hempstead know about this? Perhaps he’d like to be here for her.”
“She knows. Actually, she was in the NICU watching the baby when it happened. Just her second visit, it seems, so it was quite distressing for her. But the doctor has given her something to calm her down. She’ll be all right, especially now that we’ve told her the baby’s apnea episode has passed.”
“Can she have visitors? Perhaps I could go in and be of some comfort to her.”
The nurse broadened what was already an understanding smile. “Not just yet. We’ll let her rest just a little while longer. Then I’ll come out and take you to her room for a nice little visit.”
Cherish couldn’t seem to get the image of her baby son not breathing out of her head. “It was so frightenin’, Miz Mims,” she was explaining some thirty minutes later from her recumbent position in the hospital bed. Novie was standing beside her holding her hand and gently smiling down at her. “How could I know it wasn’t . . . well, the end? I panicked for a while there. You watch those hospital shows on television and the equipment starts makin’ all those funny hectic noises, and you know good and well it means somethin’ is drastically wrong.”
“I know exactly what you mean, dear. Those shows are so dramatic. There’s a crisis around every corner of the hallways. Of course, they do it for the ratings.”
“I’m sure they do, but what I felt an hour or so ago was real. My heart just dropped to the soles of my feet. It was like bein’ on the roller-coaster ride at the state fair in Jackson.”
Novie loosened her grip and patted Cherish’s hand gently. “No need to dwell on it, though. I’ve been assured things are back to normal.”
“If bein’ on a ventilator and bein’ almost two months premature can be considered normal for a baby,” Cherish stated in a monotone, while averting her eyes.
Then she gave Novie an earnest glance. “Miz Mims, would you mind if I asked you somethin’?”
“Why, of course not.”
“Do you think it’s possible I’m not a good person?”
Novie drew back slightly, both surprised and perplexed. It was the last thing she expected to hear from a young woman that Gaylie Girl had once precisely described as eternally optimistic and relentlessly cheerful. “I—uh, don’t quite know what you mean, dear.”
Cherish was looking off to the side now, allowing herself a rueful little smile. “I was just thinkin’ about Christmas nearly bein’ here and all. Henry told me about the terrible fire in The Square last night and all the devastation, and that’s just made everything worse.”
“I’m still not following you.”
Cherish sat up a bit straighter against her pillows and sniffled. “Oh, I know I’m not makin’ much sense. But they say bad things happen to bad people, and I think everyone would agree that miscarriages and premature babies aren’t exactly good news. So the way things have gone for me, I sometimes wonder if I’m bein’ punished for somethin’. Do you think that’s possible?”
Novie grasped Cherish’s hand again, this time more firmly. “I most certainly do not, young lady. I don’t know why you would even get a notion like that into your head. This is a challenge you’ve been given for whatever reasons, and you and Henry will just have to be strong enough to work your way through it. Now, I’ve seen for myself how much you both love each other, and I have no doubt this whole thing will turn your way very soon.”
“So you don’t think everything is an omen? What about the fire in The Square? When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me that if I wasn’t good all year, I’d get ashes and switches for Christmas. I can’t help thinkin’ about all those ashes Henry says The Square is covered with now. He says it’s so ugly he can barely stand to go anywhere near it. I guess I keep waitin’ for the switches to show up.”
Novie’s voice stayed on the gentle side, but there was a hint of impatience about it. “My mother told me the same thing, Cherish, and I told my Marc when he was just a little boy. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. As for the fire, I spoke with Gaylie Girl Dunbar this morning, and she says they won’t know the likely cause for another couple of days. They’re investigating it right now. But whatever the case, you can rest assured it will be something scientific. There’ll be no mysterious omen to explain away. It’s just one of those things that happens from time to time.”
“I know I’m bein’ silly about it, Miz Mims. I guess I’m just depressed. Christmas is supposed to be such a joyous time to celebrate your beliefs and bein’ with your friends and family, and it seems like that’s not goin’ to happen this year in Second Creek.”
Novie took a deep breath and reflected. To a certain extent, Cherish was right. It wasn’t turning out to be the special Christmas they’d all been so judiciously planning the past f
ew months.
“You’ll never guess who that was,” Gaylie Girl said to Mr. Choppy. He had sauntered into the kitchen just as she was hanging up the phone.
The emergency meeting she’d called had been over for twenty-five minutes now, and all the choirmasters and Nitwitts had long retreated to their homes. Of course, some of the Nitwitts had partaken of various spirituous concoctions for good measure. Now it was time for Gaylie Girl to think about getting dinner together, but the phone call promptly put that task on hold.
“I give up. Practically everybody we know was just here,” Mr. Choppy replied. “A telemarketer, perhaps?”
“You’re forgetting about Lady Roth, Hale.”
Mr. Choppy put the palm of his hand to his temple and sighed. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. She demands a meeting with both of us tomorrow at the office to discuss the status of her role as the Star of Bethlehem. She insists that she be allowed to depict it despite the fire. Oh, I knew this would happen!”
Mr. Choppy was now patiently massaging his temple with the tips of his fingers, his face a mask of stoicism. “What did you tell her?”
“That we’d see her around two. You know there’s no way around it. We’d have to face her sooner or later. What are you going to do—get a restraining order?”
The phone rang again, startling them both, and Gaylie Girl said: “I’m afraid to answer it. It’s brought us nothing but grief the past twenty-four hours.”
Nonetheless, she picked up the receiver gingerly, said hello, and listened. “Why, yes, how delightful to hear from you,” she began. “Your Mrs. Woods was just here and contributed quite a bit to our discussion. I think everyone agreed she had some positive ideas to contribute to a situation that was a bit depressing, to say the least.”