by Joanne Fluke
Lucy was singing “Deck the Halls” when she and Toby went out to get the tree, and Toby was chiming in on the fa la la la las. Some six inches of snow had fallen, but it was light, fluffy stuff, and Lucy had no trouble shoveling it off the porch and making a path to the car. Toby had a little shovel, too, but he preferred to roll around in the snow like a frisky little puppy. Lucy knew it wouldn’t be long before he was wet and cold, so she immediately addressed the issue of the tree, which was now frozen solid in the bucket. She considered loosening it with boiling water, but without a stove she didn’t have a way to boil water. The hair dryer might work, she decided, but she’d have to find an extension cord.
The really good thing about two-year-olds, Lucy decided as she stood outside in the snow attempting to defrost the tree with the hair dryer, was that they really didn’t know how things were supposed to be so they didn’t mind when things didn’t go according to plan. So long as Toby got his three meals and two snacks, his Sesame Street and bedtime story, things were fine with him. She watched as he knocked the snow off the bushes, making snow showers, and gave the tree a budge. It moved, and she noticed that a small puddle was beginning to form in the bucket. She wiggled it a bit more and the puddle grew larger. Toby was now climbing onto the bottom porch step and jumping off into the snow, repeating the process again and again. Then he decided to go up two steps.
“Don’t do that,” she warned, as he launched himself, landing hard on the bottom step instead of the soft snow. He started to wail and she turned off the hair dryer.
Bill was still working on the figures when she took Toby inside. She stripped off his wet clothes, set him in the high chair next to Bill and gave him a cup of instant hot cocoa, made with lukewarm water from the kitchen tap. Then she was back outside and this time the tree came out of the bucket. She hugged it in a prickly embrace and dragged it across the lawn to the front door, then pulled it trunk first up the stoop and into the front hall. Then, because her heart was thumping, she sat on the stairs to rest and catch her breath. Now all she had to do was set it in the stand, string the lights, get the ornaments out of the attic, and trim it. Not bad, since she had all day. But first, she realized, hearing Bill yelling in the kitchen, Toby must have finished his cocoa and wanted down from the high chair.
“You smell like a pine tree,” said Bill.
“It put up a heck of a fight, but I won. I’ve just got to get it in the stand, put the lights on and it will be ready for the ornaments.”
“Don’t forget that box your mom gave you at Thanksgiving,” reminded Bill, as she lifted the tray so Toby could scramble down. “I think it’s in the pantry.”
Lucy had forgotten all about it, but when they visited at Thanksgiving her mother had insisted she take the ornaments, old family pieces she said she no longer used since she’d bought a small artificial tree. Lucy hadn’t even looked inside the box, she’d been tired from the long drive and Bill had unloaded the car. Now, as she set the box on the table and peeked inside she saw shining and glittery reminders of her childhood. There was a red and silver plastic trumpet that made a horrible noise if you blew on it, a “Baby’s First Christmas” card picturing a baby lamb that hung from a twisted red cord, several heavy glass kugels in the shape of grapes.
“I wasn’t allowed to touch these,” said Lucy, lifting out the red and green and silver ornaments. “They’re very old.”
“They’re really beautiful,” said Bill.
Lucy remembered her mother hanging them carefully, one by one, on sturdy bottom branches of the tree. Lucy always held her breath until the delicate operation was complete, and waited impatiently for the magic moment when her father would plug in the string of lights and the kugels would glow as if lit from within.
Suddenly nostalgic, Lucy decided to call home.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, by way of greeting, when her mother answered the phone.
“It’s not Christmas yet and it’s not merry, either,” said her mother.
“That’s why I called,” said Lucy. “To cheer you up. And to thank you for the ornaments. I’d forgotten how beautiful the kugels are.”
“Don’t let Toby play with them.”
As if she would. Lucy sighed. “How’s Dad?”
“They’re giving him oxygen.”
“Does it help?”
“He keeps pulling off the mask.”
Lucy knew her father hated having anything on his face or head, not even hats or Halloween masks. “He hates…”
“I know, I know,” replied her mother, sounding tired. “He could try to cooperate. It’s only for his own good.”
“I guess you’ll be spending Christmas at the hospital.”
“Of course.”
Suddenly, Lucy felt quite bereft. She wanted—she needed—her parents’ attention right now, but she couldn’t have it. Her father was hovering near death and her mother was so consumed with caring for him that she hadn’t even asked Lucy how she and Bill and Toby were doing. “Well, I’ll be thinking of you,” she said.
“I’ll call if there’s any change,” said her mother, then hung up.
“And ho, ho, ho to you,” said Bill, who had been listening. “I could call my parents and then we’d be so depressed we could commit suicide and end it all.”
“You should call them,” said Lucy. “They sent that nice box of presents….”
“That was my mom,” said Bill.
“And you’d feel better if you worked things out with your dad. I feel better, I do, just hearing my mother’s voice.”
“Liar,” said Bill.
“Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing I tried.”
“That’s something I guess. You’re a good daughter.”
“And you’re a bad son,” said Lucy, perching on his lap and stroking his hair. Bits here and there felt stiff and brittle, singed from the explosion. “You should call them.”
“You know that’s why you fell for me,” said Bill, changing the subject. “The good girls always go for the bad boys.” And then he turned her face toward his with his bandaged hand and kissed her.
“Bad boys are the best kissers,” said Lucy, coming back for seconds.
A couple of hours later it really was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas. Now that the tree was decorated the living room’s half-finished sheetrock walls, stained ceiling and uneven floorboards weren’t so noticeable. Swedish meatballs were cooking in the Crock Pot, giving off a spicy, beefy aroma. When Toby woke from his nap Lucy got the popcorn popper going for a snack and popped a Christmas video in the VCR.
“Light the tree for him,” said Bill, settling beside them on the couch.
Lucy hopped up. “Good idea,” she said, crouching on all fours and reaching behind the tree to retrieve the end of the cord. She plugged it into the socket—and everything went black.
“What the hell!” exclaimed Bill. “This shouldn’t happen. The first thing I did was have the house rewired.”
“Well I guess it wasn’t done right,” said Lucy.
“Maybe it’s a blackout,” said Bill. “Maybe everybody’s lights are out.”
“Maybe you ought to go down in the cellar and check the circuit breakers,” said Lucy.
“Maybe you could light a candle, in the meantime,” said Bill.
“We don’t have any candles,” said Lucy. “Get the flashlight.”
“The flashlight’s dead,” said Bill.
“Don’t we have any batteries?”
“I used ’em up.”
“Well you should’ve bought more.”
“You’re right, I should have, but I didn’t. They’re expensive and I’ve been trying to economize.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. She had no idea things were this bad. “I can’t do this, Bill,” she said, her voice steely. “We’re going to have a baby in a few months and I am not bringing that baby home to this.” She waved her arm. “Do you know there was snow in Toby’s crib this morning? Snow! Inside the h
ouse, in his bed, on our child. That is unacceptable.”
“I’ll caulk the window….”
“No.” Lucy shook her head. “I’m not staying. I don’t know where I’m going—maybe my mother’s, maybe your folks’, maybe a friend, I don’t know—but I am taking Toby someplace where there are walls that keep out the weather and lights that work and a stove that cooks.”
Bill looked at her for a long time. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I’m a failure. I tried, and I can’t do it. I was kidding myself. I’ll never be a restoration carpenter. It’s time to go back to Wall Street.”
Lucy had wanted to hear those words for months, but now that Bill had actually said them she didn’t feel happy at all. Instead she felt guilty and terribly sad. “I didn’t mean for you to give up your dream. You can finish up here and I’ll stay at my Mom’s and come back with the kids when the house is ready.”
Bill shook his head. “We’re broke.” He shrugged. “And besides, being with you and Toby means more to me than any stupid, unrealistic dream.”
“You worked so hard.”
“It wasn’t enough,” he said. “But I’m okay with it.” He looked out the window at the rapidly dimming sunlight. He opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “This is it, the family fortune. I guess I’ll get some batteries, so we can get the lights back on.”
He left and Lucy sat in the darkening room, holding Toby in her lap and blinking back tears. This was not the way Christmas was supposed to be.
Chapter Ten
A sharp rap on the door roused Lucy and she stood up, perched Toby on her hip, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before opening the door. It was Wilf Lundgren, the postman, with a package.
“This came in the last delivery and I thought I’d bring it along since it was on my way,” he said, looking for all the world like Santa with his red nose and cheeks. “Otherwise you wouldn’t get it until Tuesday, Christmas being on Sunday and all.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, her voice still thick from crying.
“Have you got some trouble here?” asked Wilf, looking past her into the dark kitchen. “I see the lights are out.”
“I must’ve overloaded a circuit.” Lucy shifted Toby to the other hip. “My husband went to get some flashlight batteries.”
“Is that all? I’ve got a flashlight in the truck,” he said, turning and hurrying down the walk to the driveway. In a moment he was back carrying the biggest flashlight Lucy had ever seen and marching straight to the pantry and lowering himself through the hatch to the cellar. “Better unplug a few things,” he said, before ducking beneath the floor. “Ready?” he called.
Lucy dashed around the kitchen, unplugging appliances, and scurried into the living room to turn off the TV. “Ready,” she called back and in a moment the lights were on and the Christmas tree was radiant with glowing colors.
“Well, isn’t that a beautiful sight?” said Wilf, who had emerged from the cellar and was standing in the doorway.
Toby, excited by the sight of the tree, was bouncing in her arms. “Now it feels like Christmas,” said Lucy, setting him down and keeping a watchful eye as he toddled toward the tree. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“It was nothing,” said Wilf. “Just being neighborly, that’s all.”
“Well, I really appreciate it,” continued Lucy, who was terrified of the old-fashioned root cellar beneath the pantry and the spiders and mice and snakes she imagined lurked there. “I mean, you went down into the cellar…and you brought that package, too, when you didn’t have to. It was really awfully nice of you…can I give you a cup of coffee or something before you go back out in the cold?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” said Wilf, amused by Lucy’s extreme expressions of gratitude.
“The pot’s still hot,” sang Lucy, pouring a cup for him and one for herself, too, and setting some of her precious Christmas cookies on a plate. Toby had followed them into the kitchen and she hoisted him into his high chair, pouring a glass of apple juice for him.
“Very good,” said Wilf, approvingly, chewing on a cookie. “Looks like you’ve got company,” he observed, glancing out the window.
“Probably Bill,” said Lucy, going to the door. But it wasn’t Bill, it was Miss Tilley she saw walking carefully along the path.
“Come in, come in,” said Lucy, opening the door and shivering in the cold blast. “Come out of the cold.”
“I was just making my rounds, oh, hi there, Wilf,” began Miss Tilley. “And I thought you might like some of my eggnog. It’s an old family recipe.”
“That’s so kind,” said Lucy, accepting two old-fashioned glass milk bottles filled with creamy liquid.
“I wouldn’t mind trying some of that,” said Wilf.
“You know, I didn’t get a chance to taste it myself,” said Miss Tilley. “I wanted to make my deliveries and get home before the snow starts.”
“Well, let’s all have some,” said Lucy, popping into the pantry to get the punch cups she received as a wedding present but had never used.
“If you’re getting cups, you’ll need some more,” called Miss Tilley. “The Miller sisters have just pulled into the driveway.”
“Really?” asked Lucy, staggering out with the heavy crystal punch bowl filled with a dozen cups. “What brings them here?”
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” chorused the sisters, entering the kitchen which was becoming a bit crowded.
“We brought you some cookies,” announced Emily, or was it Ellie?
“That’s right. We made them ourselves,” added the other, holding out an enormous tin with a jolly Santa design. “Sand tarts.”
“I haven’t had those in years,” said Wilf.
“My mother used to make them,” said Miss Tilley.
“Well, let’s all have some eggnog and cookies,” invited Lucy. “Can I take your coats?”
She was just hanging the ladies’ matching red coats on the hooks by the door when there was another knock on the door. Lucy was beginning to wonder if this was some sort of planned invasion, or perhaps it was just what people in small towns did at Christmas. Whatever was going on, the table was filling up with people and the house was filled with chatter and laughter. She opened the door, hoping whoever it was had brought food, and found Sherman Cobb holding a foil-covered pan that looked like it contained a turkey. A turkey! And behind him she recognized Rachel Goodman and Richie, along with a man she assumed was Bob, Rachel’s husband. They were all holding foil-covered dishes, except Richie, who had a can of cranberry sauce.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“We heard your oven was broken,” began Sherman, smiling in Miss Tilley’s direction. “So we brought you Christmas dinner. Are you going to let us in?”
“Oh, please, please do come in,” said Lucy.
“By the way, we haven’t met, but I’m Rachel’s husband,” said Bob. “Do you have a stereo?”
“In the living room,” said Lucy.
“Great. I brought some Christmas cassettes,” he said, handing off a bowl of stuffing and heading down the hall with a shopping bag slung over his arm. Moments later the house was filled with Bing Crosby’s mellow voice.
Lucy was standing there, holding a bowl of stuffing and trying to decide what to do with the turkey when there was yet another knock on the door and Fred Rumford stuck his head in.
“Hi, everybody,” he called, marching in and setting a jug of wine and a case of beer on the table. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” they all cried back.
“Now it’s a party,” said Wilf, reaching for a beer.
“Where’s your dining room?” asked Rachel. “I think we better set the food up there.”
“This way,” said Lucy, feeling rather dazed as she lead the way. “I can’t believe this.”
“I hope it’s all right,” said Rachel. “You didn’t have other plans, did you?”
“No, no. We we
re just going to have a quiet celebration,” confessed Lucy, shaking out a cloth and spreading it on the table. From the kitchen she heard voices and laughter, there was music in the living room and Toby and Richie were chasing each other through the rooms. “This is much better.”
“Good,” said Rachel, setting down the turkey. “Now we’ll need plates and silverware….”
“In the pantry. I’ll be right back.”
Entering the kitchen she encountered Sue Finch, who had arrived with her daughter and a man dressed in a Santa suit. “This is Sid,” she said.
“Not Sid, Santa,” he replied, hoisting a bulging red bag. “And I brought presents.”
The party was in full swing when Bill arrived. Plates were filled, glasses were emptied, music was playing, and the kids were dancing around the tree. Everybody was having a great time.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“The neighbors dropped by to wish us a Merry Christmas,” said Lucy, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Eggnog?”
“Sure,” he said, taking a cup and shaking his head in amazement.
Lucy and Bill were still amazed several hours later, when everyone had left and they were tidying up.
“I just can’t believe it,” said Bill. “They gave us an entire Christmas. Food. Drink. Even presents for Toby.”
“I think Miss Tilley organized it,” said Lucy, clearing off the kitchen table. She was gathering up paper napkins and wrapping paper when she found the package Wilf had delivered. “I forgot all about this,” she said, taking a closer look. “It’s from your parents.”
Bill glanced over. “It’s probably fruitcake,” he said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “They send them every year.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, rather disappointed. “I suppose it’s nourishing, with all that fruit and nuts.”
“If you can digest it,” said Bill.
“Don’t you want to open it?” asked Lucy. “Maybe it’s not fruitcake. Maybe it’s a surprise.”
“My parents don’t do surprises,” said Bill, cutting the tape with a knife. “It’s fruitcake.”