by Robert Dalby
“I think Wittsie sent them, didn’t you, dear?” Gaylie Girl said, her tone both pleasant and direct.
Wittsie seemed slightly unsure of herself but offered up an intriguing smile anyway. “Maybe.”
Wittsie changed the subject abruptly. “I received some wonderful news this mornin’ . . . my April called me . . . she’s comin’ down to spend Christmas Day with me right here . . . she and my little Meagan . . . my beautiful granddaughter . . . they’re comin’ to see me.”
Laurie clasped her hands together, and the others were tittering and buzzing as well. “Oh, that is wonderful news. We’re all so happy for you. Your Meagan is just adorable, and I loved having her as my maid of honor in my wedding at the Piggly Wiggly summer before last. I’ll bet she’s quite the grown-up little lady by now.”
“It was the light . . .” Wittsie resumed, completely ignoring Laurie’s train of thought. “I knew when I saw the light that somethin’ good was goin’ to happen . . . and it did . . . this very mornin’ . . .”
“And we’re all here for you as well,” Gaylie Girl added. “We’re here to sing Christmas carols and remember this Christmas with you forever.”
Wittsie laughed the sweetest little laugh and bobbed her head up and down.
“Wish I could carry a tune better.”
“Don’t worry, dear. You aren’t the only one who can’t warble,” Renza quipped, cutting her eyes at Denver Lee. “But the choir should cover all of us up nicely whether we have the gift or not.”
“By the way, Euterpe,” Laurie said, “do you know what the choir is going to sing this afternoon?”
“I do indeed. It’s the same program they would have sung from the balconies had everything gone as expected. They’ll be opening with ‘Adeste Fideles,’ which I think is very appropriate since all of us Nitwitt faithful are here. Then, ‘The Little Drummer Boy,’ which has always been one of my favorites, followed by ‘I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In,’ ‘Silver Bells,’ ‘Feliz Navidad’ for their international carol, and finally ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are.’ Unless Mr. Phillips has changed something up on me. Of course, he may have. I didn’t want to seem unyielding in all of this. It’s not like he was one of my pupils prepping for a recital and I was completely running the show.”
Wittsie was nodding with a certain reserve. “I like all those carols . . . but did I tell you . . . I get to spend Christmas with my daughter, April, and my granddaughter, Meagan?”
Laurie patted her hand gently and brushed right past the repetition. “That was a wonderful Christmas present for you, wasn’t it?”
Wittsie’s interest began to flicker. “It was . . . but April doesn’t come to see me very often . . . I don’t know why.”
“It’s probably because she can’t find a day one of us Nitwitts isn’t over here completely monopolizing you,” Laurie added, trying for levity. “Truth is, we want you all to ourselves. But what does that matter when your daughter and granddaughter will be with you this Christmas, as you say. That’s the most important thing this time of the year.”
Just then Mrs. Holstrom appeared in the doorway. “The choir will be starting in about ten minutes. Perhaps you’d all care to go out and take your seats. Just a heads-up, but we’re filling up fast. They’re practically having scooter races out there for the best spots. I think this could be standing room only.”
Several of the Nitwitts and Powell rose to their feet, and Gaylie Girl said: “Then by all means, let’s adjourn and head on out. We’ve been waiting for months to hear those angelic voices.”
From Gaylie Girl’s perspective, seated right next to her, it appeared that Wittsie’s voice was getting stronger with each carol that Press Phillips and his choir performed. She had been following along with no trouble, not missing a single word of any of the lyrics. The entire experience seemed to be transforming her into someone who was very much in the world and present in the moment.
“I thought you said you couldn’t carry a tune,” Gaylie Girl said, leaning over as the choir finished up “I Saw Three Ships.” “I wish I could sing half as well as you are right now.”
“She’s doing marvelously well, isn’t she?” Laurie added from her perch on the other side of Wittsie.
“Don’t know what’s gotten into me,” Wittsie answered them both, turning her head first one way and then the other. “But . . . maybe I do.”
“Have you been practicing up?” Gaylie Girl asked. She leaned back into the row behind her, where the rest of the Nitwitts were sitting. “Euterpe, I didn’t know you were offering voice lessons now. Have you been sneaking over here behind our backs?”
Euterpe snickered. “Nope. Can’t take credit, I’m afraid.”
“It was . . . the light,” Wittsie said, nodding emphatically.
Then Euterpe leaned forward and offered her insights. “I put great store in dreams, you know. I believe our Wittsie has had a vision. And what a wonderful time of the year to have it.”
Wittsie said nothing for a while. But shortly before the choir began singing “Silver Bells,” she turned to Gaylie Girl and said in her strongest voice yet: “Don’t worry. It will be restored.”
Gaylie Girl was puzzled but smiled anyway. “What will be restored, Wittsie?”
Wittsie closed her eyes briefly and said: “I know from the light. It will be restored.”
The choir began singing, and Wittsie joined in immediately, saying nothing further. She continued to sing along, her voice ringing out among the Nitwitts, even startling them with her power. This was a woman that none of them had ever seen or heard before, not even in the formative period of the Nitwitts’ existence. It was as if something had broken through the Alzheimer’s shell that had been hardening around her, and a brand-new Wittsie had emerged to rejoice a few days out from Christmas.
When the program had ended and the applause of the appreciative residents had finally died down—Wittsie being one of the last to desist—everyone moved to the refreshment tables that had been set up nearby. The Nitwitts homed in on their favorite nibbles and sweets but had to graciously resign themselves to unadulterated fruit punch and mulled cider to wash them down.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on such a lovely program, Mr. Phillips,” Mrs. Holstrom was saying as she circulated throughout the crowd. “Just the right length, too. Some of our residents do like their naptime, you know.”
“I understand perfectly,” Press Phillips replied, munching blissfully on a handful of cheese crackers. “Perhaps we can make this an annual event. I think all of us choirmasters aren’t going to pin our hopes on another Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve considering all the damage done over there.”
“Yes, it does seem daunting, bordering on the impossible, that The Square could come back the way it was. Of course we’d be delighted to have you again next year, regardless.”
A kibitzing Gaylie Girl monitored their conversation with great interest. Something began resonating strongly with her. But this was not the time and place to discuss it. Not with the other Nitwitts and Powell, not with Mrs. Holstrom, not with anyone here. No, she would say good-bye to Wittsie, giving her a heartfelt hug and farewell. Then perhaps when she got home she would run all her suppositions past her husband. In the short time since her return, he had become her only true Second Creek touchstone.
She finally tracked Wittsie down just as one of the orderlies had shown up from the memory care unit. Though he was a tall, imposing man, he took Wittsie’s arm as if it belonged to a delicate little doll and spoke to her in a gentle, reassuring tone—even complimenting her on her dress.
“That has to be the prettiest red color I’ve ever seen on one of our residents, Miz Wittsie. Sure reminds me that it’s almost Christmas. But it’s time for you to go back to your room now. We don’t want you to tire yourself out before dinner later.”
Wittsie’s response was disheartening. “Dinner? Isn’t this dinner?” She was pointing to a small paper plate she had filled with crackers an
d grapes and a strawberry or two. But she had not taken a bite.
“No,” the orderly answered with a smile. “Dinner’s not for another couple of hours. This was just a snack Miz Holstrom and the staff put out for everybody after the choir sang.”
“The choir?”
Suddenly, Gaylie Girl realized that the old disoriented Wittsie had returned in full force. The fact that she was fading quickly was all there in her expression. Gone was the vigorous voice that had kept up with the choir note by note. Gone was the confidence she had exuded when relaying the details of her intriguing dream come to life. Whatever focus she had been generously granted earlier in the day had evidently been withdrawn now just as unexpectedly. Wittsie’s brief shining interlude was over.
Gaylie Girl and the other Nitwitts each embraced Wittsie in turn and said their good-byes, tearful as that turned out to be in some cases. For on Wittsie’s part, it was as if they’d all just arrived, and she was seeing them for the first time that day. More than once she was saying, “Why, I didn’t know you were here!” without the least bit of hesitation.
The orderly flashed them all an understanding smile as he finally led Wittsie away. Gaylie Girl had the disquieting notion that he was taking away part of the Christmas spirit they had all worked so hard to encounter and indulge. She was looking forward more than ever to getting home and discussing everything with her Hale.
“I have the most wonderful news!” Mr. Choppy exclaimed as Gaylie Girl entered the kitchen and tossed her car keys on the counter with a metallic, jangling noise. “It’s about my godson. They were able to take him off the ventilator several hours ago without any a’ those apnea episodes. Little Riley Jacob has been breathin’ on his own all afternoon. I just hung up with Henry after a long conversation. It’s finally lookin’ pretty good for his little family. Talk about one excited father—and godfather, for that matter!”
“That is good news,” she said, but there was a hint of caution in her voice. “Then is the baby finally out of that depressing intensive care unit? Cherish says it makes him look even more vulnerable hooked up to all those tubes.”
“Not just yet. He may be in there a while longer. But this is the first step he had to take to have a shot at a normal life.” Mr. Choppy gave her a big hug and a warm kiss and then held her at arm’s length. “And I have another little surprise for you. I’m going to make us dinner in honor of this smallest of miracles—a baby step, if you’ll pardon the pun. How do omelets and cheese grits sound to you? That was the first Southern dish I taught you to make, remember?”
“Ah, yes, the beginning of my transformation from an inveterate Yankee out of suburban Chicago into a li’l ole Southern belle, y’all.” She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was early yet. “Let’s sit and have a little something to drink first. Pour us some wine. There’s something I need to tell you. It happened this afternoon at Delta Sunset Village.”
“Comin’ right up.”
She watched him open a bottle of Delta Lady dry muscadine and fill two wineglasses to the brim. Then they sat across from each other at the kitchen table and took a couple of thoughtful sips. “Your news fits perfectly with mine now that I think about it,” she began. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about the whole thing all the way back from Greenwood. Renza thought I was upset with her, I was so quiet. She’s so used to upsetting people, I think it comes with the territory for her. But I just told her I was thinking about Wittsie, and she said she understood. That was partly true, by the way. I was thinking about Wittsie—just not the way she thought I was thinking about her. Oh, that sounds like double-talk, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Choppy shot her a skeptical glance but tempered it with his best grin. “Seems like your news is a bit more complicated than mine. Either that, or you’re becomin’ more and more of a genuine Nitwitt every day. Now you know I love every one of you ladies, and I owe the club a helluva lot with all the support y’all have given me. But I’m glad I don’t go to your get-togethers like Powell sometimes does and try to follow the ebb and flow of everything y’all discuss.”
“Uh, thanks for the compliment . . . I think. But what I have to tell you definitely needs clarification of some kind. That’s where you enter the picture. I want your intuitive opinion here.”
Mr. Choppy took a big sip of his wine and braced himself. “Okay, shoot. Whatever you have to say can’t possibly be as complex as all this buildup. Let’s get to it.”
Gaylie Girl told him about Wittsie’s dream and its surreal waking aftermath, particularly the way she had kept emphasizing her fascination with the light.
“Sounds like one helluva dream,” Mr. Choppy remarked in a somewhat detached fashion. “My dreams are sometimes all over the map, too. That is, when I can recall ’em.”
“You don’t sound very interested in this.”
“No, you’re readin’ me wrong. Of course I am. So you want me to give you my interpretation of the light? Is that it?”
She shook her head and waved him off. “No, no. There’s something else I haven’t told you. That’s the part that really intrigues me. It was something Wittsie said to me a couple of times. She made a point of leaning over and saying it to me and only me. At least that was my interpretation. She said, ‘It will be restored.’ And then later she said that the light had told her that ‘it would be restored.’ When I asked her what ‘it’ was, she wouldn’t say. But I think I know what she meant.” She paused for effect, so long in fact that Mr. Choppy became slightly agitated.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you think she meant?”
“I think she meant that The Square would be restored. And she had this dream to back her up. Now, what do you think she meant?”
Mr. Choppy took his time, twitching his mouth and cutting his eyes from side to side. “If I were living in an ordinary town, maybe I’d say that she meant nothing. That she was sufferin’ from Alzheimer’s, which she is, and can’t think straight anymore. That’d be the conventional interpretation. But I don’t live in an ordinary town. I live in Second Creek, and I’ve seen too much happen here over the years that convinces me there’s more to life than conventional wisdom has to offer. Like those fireflies last summer. What was that all about? And Wittsie was somehow involved in that, too. Don’t know how, but my gut instincts tell me she was.” He paused for another swig of wine and to catch his breath.
“And so, what I’m gonna say to you is that your explanation probably makes as much sense as anything anybody else could come up with me—includin’ me. Not only that, but I hope your explanation is right. Because if it is, we’ll have a bigger miracle on our hands than a premature baby bein’ taken off a ventilator. If The Square is actually restored to its former glory, then we can breathe a huge sigh of relief and go on with our lives. You’ll prob’ly get that second chance at Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve after all. And Second Creek will continue to be the tourist attraction it’s always been. Now, how’s that for an answer?”
Gaylie Girl quickly rose, moved to him, and planted a big kiss on his lips. “Spoken like a true, native-born Mayor of Second Creek. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“We seem to be gettin’ it from all sides,” Mr. Choppy reflected suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, all the faithful keep showin’ up everywhere, don’t they? I know you haven’t forgotten the taste of that cream of courage.”
“Ah! Good point.”
He put down his wineglass and caught her gaze. “So. Where do we go from here?”
Gaylie Girl’s laugh was a series of delicate, staccato tones that made her sound like she couldn’t possibly have a care in the world. “I say we settle back and wait for something miraculous to happen. Or maybe we make it happen ourselves.”
Fifteen
The Square Deal
Christmas Eve had finally arrived. Mr. Choppy was taking only a half day at the office, and then he and Gaylie Girl were heading out to an after
noon holiday party at Evening Shadows that Myrtis seemed to have thrown together at the last minute. He was actually suspicious of the entire affair, since Gaylie Girl had disappeared the previous evening for an emergency meeting of the Nitwitts at Renza’s house.
“What are you all up to now?” he had asked her just before she left, as frisky and conspiratorial-looking as he had ever seen her as she headed for the door.
“I’m not telling. You’ll find out soon enough.”
And they had left it at that.
But now it was the next day, and Mr. Choppy was more curious than ever as the noon hour approached and his half day at the office came to an end. He summoned Gaylie Girl just before quitting time and had her take a seat on the other side of his desk.
“I know good and well that this is not one of Myrtis’s usual shindigs,” he began, bearing down upon her with his eyes. “That’s not how she works. You ladies talk about her parties for weeks leadin’ up to ’em. I know this has somethin’ to do with that last-minute Nitwitt meetin’ yesterday. Why won’t you let me in on it?”
Gaylie Girl looked supremely smug as she lifted her profile dramatically. “Now, Hale, what good is a surprise if I tell you about it in advance? And don’t ask me to tell you anyway so you can fake it. In a way, this will be my main Christmas present to you.”
Mr. Choppy was smiling in spite of himself. “It ought to be good, then. You’ve been on the phone constantly and runnin’ off to visit with practically everybody we know twenty-four hours a day lately, it seems. Out to Evening Shadows to see Petey. Over to Renza’s to see Meta. On the phone with Amanda up in Chicago. And on and on. If I ran things like Mr. Floyce did, I’d have my spies everywhere around town on the lookout and then they’d skulk up the stairs and spill the beans in some midnight rendezvous. But we all know I run a clean ship. Well, I guess I’d just better resign myself to the fact that I’m not gonna know anything until we get out to Evening Shadows.” He glanced at his watch and got up from his desk. “And now I believe you and I are officially on Christmas break. Let’s turn off the lights and head on home.”