I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to warm myself by blowing into my hands. The blue bathrobe and slippers I had on did little to keep the biting cold air from creeping through and chilling me to the bone.
I stumbled over to the little foot bridge and gazed into the rippling waters of the creek. “Why?” I raged. “Why?”
Still watching the creek as it bubbled along without a care in the world, I pondered on my miserable failure. Mistakes had been made, and they were all mine, because I wasn’t a Dunder-Bull wife. A Dunder-Bull wife would have had a full Christmas Eve supper planned, too. Or maybe a nice layout of cheeses and crackers and soups. I nodded when I considered this idea. That would have been so nice.
And a real woman, one who was on top of things, would have inquired of her guests about pets prior to their arrival. If I’d known ahead of time that the Chihuahua from Hell would be accompanying one of the widows, I could have planned accordingly. I pondered on that a little more, because even with foreknowledge, I couldn’t think of how I could have prevented the turkey disaster. Then I sobbed even harder, because certainly, I thought, a Dunder-Bull wife would have had an answer immediately.
“Let’s face it, Barb,” I said to myself, “you’re a loser. A big, fat LOSER!” I shouted the word “loser” for the world to hear, but I don’t think anyone was listening. It just echoed on down the creek valley for me to experience over and over again.
When the echoing faded, I was left with the gentle sounds of the rippling creek and sleet hitting the leaves of the trees around me. I was wiping my nose with a damp tissue I’d found in my robe pocket when a voice startled me.
“Don’t jump!”
I did jump, but not into the water (which was only two feet deep at best). Standing behind me was a woman I would have guessed to be my age, give or take a couple of years. She stood just slightly shorter than me and had an enviable head of wavy brown hair that fell to just below her shoulders and was topped with a white knit hat. Her long wool coat was white, as were her pants and pretty but practical shoes. She held a small black device that looked like Callie’s new data phone.
“Is that a cell phone?” I asked the lady.
“Promise me you’re not going to jump!”
“Why would I jump?”
“To kill yourself.”
I looked back down into the creek, then pointed for her to look as well. “If I jumped into that, the most that might happen is I’d snap an ankle or break a leg.”
The lady peered over the railing of the bridge. “I see what you mean.” She tapped thing in her hand and smiled. “Excellent. That makes my job so much easier.”
My only thought was getting her cell phone so I could call home for help. “Can I use that please?”
“Heavens no. Angels only.” She held her hand out for me to shake. “My name is Claire.”
I didn’t take her hand, but I did take several steps backward.
She held up the cell phone that she wasn’t sharing. “It says here that you are a fan of the cinema and that on your list of top twenty favorite films, It’s a Wonderful Life is number six, so this should all be fairly familiar territory for you.”
“Your cell phone tells you I’m a movie buff?”
She smiled. “I think when we’re done here today, you’ll be moving that little masterpiece from number six to number one where it belongs.”
A quick up and down visual reinspection over Claire and her attire left me a little stunned. Despite the fact that the falling sleet was slowly turning to snow, Claire was as dry as a rock star in rehab. And her uncovered hands were pink and obviously warm, even though my own hands . . . yikes! My heart flipped hard and then flopped harder when I realized my own hands weren’t cold any longer. I held them up—they were dry, too. And my robe and slippers—well, you can guess.
“Am I dead?” I asked, more calmly than one might think.
A puzzled look crossed her face. She looked at her cell phone again and then at me. “It’s number six in your top twenty—you should know this one, Barb.” She put her hands on her hips, obviously frustrated. “Did Jimmy Stewart die in the movie?”
I shook my head and quietly considered the possibility that I’d been admitted to an insane asylum and this was all part of a drug-induced hallucination.
“That’s right. He didn’t die, and neither did you,” she affirmed. “Now, let’s get this party started. I have some wings to earn and you have a family to get back to.” She tapped the railing. “Step over here and look into the creek.”
Even though I did as she instructed, I had to ask. “Why?”
She punched a few numbers into her cell phone. “Give it a minute . . . there, see it?”
The waters of Purple Poplar Creek stalled and then transformed into a sort of glistening movie screen, and the image displayed was the Rustic Woods “Welcome” sign that greets travelers from Dunder-Bull to Rustic Woods on the Rustic Woods Parkway. Only this sign was in terrible condition, with one of the two posts cracked and bent. The paint was chipped and worn, so it appeared to read “elome to Rus oods.”
“Okay, Barb,” Claire said, “this is what would have happened to Rustic Woods if you and your husband had moved to Dunder-Bull and you’d been one of those wives instead. Remember? It almost happened.”
She was right. We had put in an offer on a house in Dunder-Bull—it was smaller than our house in Rustic Woods, but was right next door to the elementary school. Someone had come in with a better offer than ours, though. I had completely forgotten.
The image changed from the sad welcome sign to an image that caused me to gasp out loud. It was Tulip Tree Elementary where Callie had gone, and now hosted Bethany and Amber. Only this Tulip Tree Elementary had bars on the windows and graffiti painted on the brick walls. A bus pulled up front and an armed guard stepped off before the children, who then ran in fear to their front doors.
“That’s awful!” I said. “Why?”
“Many reasons. Remember the day soon after you moved into Rustic Woods and you met that nice lady at the doctor’s office? She asked where you lived and you said Rustic Woods. You told her you had just moved there and loved the town, but the principal of the elementary school had just retired and you were worried about who would replace him because he was such a good principal.”
“Claire, I’m forty-five and perimenopausal. Sometimes I can’t remember my middle name.”
“Trust me—it happened. To make a long story longer, she was vice-principal at a nearby school and when you told her about Tulip Tree Elementary, she decided to apply for the principal position.”
I nodded, remembering when they’d hired Mrs. Solomon. She’d turned out to be even better than the previous principal and had gone on to become the county’s Principal of the Year.
“No wonder she looked familiar the first time I saw her in the school.”
Claire shook her head. “No—Mrs. Solomon wasn’t the lady in the doctor’s office. That was Madelyn Goofenhouser. She applied, but also told her friend, Ruth Solomon, about the opening. Ruth got the job.” Claire was silent for a moment. “Sadly, Ruth took her to People’s Court to get revenge. They haven’t spoken since.”
The image on the creek “movie screen” changed to the storefronts of the Rustic Woods Shopping Center. I saw some familiar haunts—Cappuccino Corner, my favorite family-run Italian restaurant, Fiorenza’s, and . . . holy cow. Instead of Hunan Rustic Woods, a glaring neon sign that flashed “Adult Bookstore XXX.”
“What happened to Mr. Chang and his Chinese restaurant?”
“They closed shop. You didn’t live in Rustic Woods and they relied heavily on your carry-out business.” Claire patted my hand. “See, Barb—the fact that you don’t cook and order in so often is actually a good thing.”
My tummy grumbled thinking of Mr. Chang’s chicken lo mein, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten. “Are we done with this? I’m getting hungry.”
“Just one more thing.”
; The image changed again, and now I was looking at a smiling, larger-than-life Howard. He appeared even more handsome than his usual George Clooney look-alike self, and sported a designer suit accented with a super snazzy tie. He was in an office, talking with two other fancy-looking men.
“That’s my husband.”
“Yes, that’s Howard,” she said with a nod.
“But he looks great there. He hasn’t suffered at all.”
“It’s true that living in Dunder-Bull and having a Dunder-Bull wife helped him move swiftly up the ranks at the FBI. He moved from field agent work long ago and he’s both respected and feared. You live a comfortable life financially.”
“And that’s bad, how? You’re not making your case here, Claire.”
“Just keep watching.”
Howard laughed another minute more with the fancy-looking men. I crossed my arms and watched, not content that Dunder-Bull was bad for him. When the men left Howard’s office, he closed the door. The smile faded instantly and his shoulders dropped. He walked around his desk and flopped into the chair, staring solemnly into space. Eventually, he opened the side drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle, unscrewed the top and drank.
I was shocked. “What is that?”
“Bourbon.”
“Howard doesn’t drink bourbon.”
“In your Dunder-Bull life, he does. He hates his job. Desk work isn’t for him. Eventually the drinking will force him out of the FBI altogether and you’ll have to go to work to support your family.”
“Really?”
Claire hesitated. “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s not entirely true. He does drink too much and you fight about it, but that’s really all. As in most movies, we exaggerated the circumstances of the story here to enhance the drama and emotional appeal. But the bottom line remains the same—Dunder-Bull bad, Rustic Woods good.”
She tapped her cell phone one more time. “But here’s one image that’s not exaggerated. There’s your perfect wife-friend, Tru Diamond, in present time.”
Oh, poor Tru. Her hair looked like it had been attacked by varmints and her house was a shambles. She wasn’t wearing a pretty holiday dress, and her nails weren’t painted. Kids were running through the kitchen screaming while she fanned the smoke off a burnt turkey. I felt bad for her on the inside, but I have to admit, I was smiling on the outside. “That’s happening right now?”
“As we speak.” She was smiling too. “Now, that completes our virtual tour and life lesson. How are you doing, Barb? Feel good?”
“I suppose. I’m still craving chicken lo mein though.”
“No problem. I just need you to do a quick survey to rate my service to you today, then I’ll get out of your hair.” She handed me her cell phone and once I got a better look at it, I saw that it wasn’t a cell phone at all—it was an iPod Touch. I think. Anyway, it had a blank screen.
“Am supposed to do something here?”
“The survey question is, ‘Did I convince you that,’” she shook her head slightly and gave me an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, this gets a little cliché. Remember that these surveys come from,” she pointed upwards, “above.” She sighed lightly then continued reciting. “‘Did I convince you that you are perfect just the way you are?’ Press YES or NO.”
The screen lit up with the two words.
“So if I press YES, you get your wings, right?”
She nodded.
“And if I press NO?”
“That’s another movie.”
***
Someone was shaking me. “Ma’am?” More shaking. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
My eyes opened and began to focus on a police officer who kneeled next to my open car door. I wasn’t on the bridge. I was in my van. I looked through my windshield and saw steam rising from under the crunched hood.
“Damn, it was a dream,” I mumbled. “Cheap, overused plot trick.”
“What’s that, Ma’am?”
“Nothing. Just get me home, please.”
***
I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say getting home wasn’t quick and easy. The policeman had already called in emergency technicians. Then Howard had to be contacted, the EMTs took their time doing their job diligently (as they should), and the tow truck must have taken the route through China to find us.
Hours later, as we walked through the door of my house, the smell enveloped me like a warm blanket. “Who’s cooking?” I asked Howard.
“When I called around to your friends to ask them if they’d seen you and they heard about your botched meal, they all brought food. I think we have enough to feed a hundred guests.”
He walked me into the dining room, where I beheld a glorious sight. Two golden turkeys, a ham, bowls of stuffing, gobs of cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, stuffing, baked apples and more. My mom was there with Master Kyo and her art class friends, along with my brother and his life partner. I hugged them all.
“The pies are in the oven,” my mom told me.
“See,” Howard said as he rubbed my back. “There was no reason to get so upset. It all worked out.”
I sighed. “I know, but I wanted it to be me. I wanted to be perfect.”
“You’re already perfect.” He planted a kiss on my pouting lips. “Now go upstairs and get into some dry clothes so we can eat.”
As I neared the front door, it flew open and Colt bounded in. A large package occupied his arms, precluding a hug. “Hey, Curly. Merry Christmas!” He gave me a visual once-over. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He called out, “Where’s Amber?”
“What is that?”
He winked. “It’s a surprise.”
Amber landed at his feet. “What’s a surprise?”
“Guess who I ran into just a few minutes ago?” he asked her.
“Is that a ’torical question?” she responded. “Mommy asks them all the time, and honestly, they tire me out.”
“Santa Claus,” he said. “He saw me driving here from his sleigh way up high in the sky and swooped down to give me this. He said something about leaving you the wrong present?”
A smile the size of the North Pole filled her face and she grabbed the package from his arms. It only took her two pulls at the wrapping paper to see that “Santa” had given her the real Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume. She jumped up and gave Colt the hug that I couldn’t. “But Colt, don’t think I’m falling for that ‘Santa Claus’ line.”
I took a deep breath, worried that she’d stopped believing.
She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Santa’s back at the North Pole by now. You got this yourself.”
He put his hands up in the air. “You got me, kiddo. Guilty as charged.”
The doorbell rang as Amber tore off with her new gift.
Colt took the knob and turned. “That must be my friend. She followed me over—you needed twenty guests, right?”
When he pulled the door open, my breath stopped. “Claire?” I asked.
The beautiful woman standing in my doorway cocked her head. “Nicole.”
“Sorry,” I said, brushing it away as a silly mistake. “You look so much like a Claire that I . . .” I let the sentence just hang there, because I really didn’t know how to finish it.
We all stood awkwardly for a moment until Nicole spoke again. “My mother’s name was Claire, though.” She took the red cap from her head and I noticed a tiny bell sewn on the top. “I miss her most this time of year.” Nicole shook the snow off her cap, and the little bell tinkled. “She was an angel.”
And if I guessed right, she’d just earned her wings.
***
So, after a bit of a hiccup getting started, it turned out that Christmas in the Marr House that year, deep in the cozy town of Rustic Woods, was just . . . perfect. It’s really true you know—when you have friends and family, you have it all. I guess I just had to learn that lesson the cinematic way.
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It's a Dunder-Bull Wife Page 3