A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “You’re awake.”

  I turned my head toward the gravelly voice to see Alistair lying beside me. He was on his back and turned his head on his pillow to watch me. It was the same face I’d known for so many years, but his eyes were red, his stubble was dark along his jaw.

  I felt a surge of disappointment. “I’m surprised you are,” I told him tersely.

  “I’d be dead if it weren’t for your tender ministrations.” He looked away. “The way I behaved last night, I didn’t deserve them.”

  I wasn’t sure that he did but kept my tongue.

  “I’m sorry for getting drunk. I know that’s no answer. I was just so angry.” He emphasized the word angry, indicating to me the wound was still fresh. “I needed to douse the flames.”

  “What she did to you was wrong. She’ll get hers; her kind always do. But it’s only money. She’s a cheater, a skinflint, a conniving . . . well, you know. But we’ll leave it there. Don’t bring that woman in my home. Don’t give her the power to ruin our Christmas. Because she can’t do that. Only you can.”

  Alistair lay quietly for a moment, and I wondered if he’d respond. I sighed and looked up at the ceiling, my arms straight at my sides. We lay beside each other but not touching. The distance between us felt vast.

  In time, he spoke. “Say you’ll forgive me.”

  “You didn’t ask for my forgiveness.”

  He laughed shortly. “Wife . . .” He rose up on his arms to stare down into my eyes. “Will you forgive me? For without your forgiveness, the holidays mean nothing. Your love is all I need.”

  “Husband”—I slipped my arms around his neck—“I love you. And, yes, you’re forgiven.”

  He bent to kiss me, but I laughed and turned my head and pushed him away. “But I won’t kiss you smelling like a distillery. You stink, my love, and there’s no easy way to say it.”

  Alistair fell back on his pillow with a groan. “I feel like death warmed over.” He pointed at me. “And don’t tell me I deserve it.”

  “I won’t. But I’ll be thinking it.”

  He groaned again, softer this time, and put his arm over his eyes. I rose and went to the window to draw the curtains. The room slipped into a comforting gray light.

  “Better?”

  Another groan came as the response.

  I went to his side of the bed and sat down closer to him. His eyes were closed but he wasn’t yet asleep.

  “Alistair, you’ll have to apologize to the boys.”

  “I will.” His voice was gravelly.

  “And you’ll have to go out with Miller and get a tree. I don’t care if you cut one down, but don’t come home without a tree. And a nice-looking one, too, for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

  Alistair pried open one eye. “Anything else?”

  “Yes.” I leaned closer to him. I waited until he opened his other eye and I had his full attention. “Talk to Taylor.” I felt Alistair stiffen beside me. I reached out to lay my hand on his chest. “Don’t shut him out with your cold silences and disdain. You shame him. He’s still your son. Someone to be proud of. Help him, don’t hinder him. Love him. Be his father. He’s never needed you more.”

  “You’re right. I’m not mad at him. Or ashamed. I just don’t know how to deal with his pain, and I’m afraid of losing him all over again.”

  “You can learn.”

  Alistair patted my hand on his chest. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I have to.”

  “You’ll talk with him? Tell him you love him?”

  He nodded slightly against the pillow.

  I bent to kiss him. “Now go back to sleep. You’re no good to anyone in this state.”

  I rose and dressed quickly, donning my old jeans, a long-sleeved red knit top that was getting threadbare at the elbows, thick green socks with candy canes on them—my fashion nod to Christmas—and my slippers, then left the room, closing the bedroom door behind me. Morning light filled the hall. I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The anger and angst I’d felt the night before had faded like an unwelcome ghost. In the light of day and Alistair’s apology, I felt compassion for his disappointment, and though getting drunk was never the answer to a problem, I could forgive him. I was too old to hold on to a grudge. Too wise to let indignation spoil my day. Especially not on Christmas Eve.

  The kitchen was empty and gray when I entered. A chill was in the air, and looking out the window, I saw that the sun only peeked out from behind massive, billowy clouds. I wasn’t going out today. It could rain for all I cared.

  I flicked on the overhead lights and headed for the coffeepot. First things first. I made a big pot of coffee, knowing we’d all need a few extra cups of caffeine today. After a few bracing sips, I went to the cupboards and began pulling out my mixing bowls, spoons, and ingredients for my traditional cinnamon buns and scones. There may not be fancy presents this year, but by God there will be good food, I thought with satisfaction. I’d spent a good portion of my extra money buying an especially choice cut of beef for my Christmas roast. I’d handpicked each big baking potato and would twice-bake them with lots of butter and cheese. I even bought two pretty persimmons to decorate my salad. I glanced over to the bouquet of brilliant white lilies arranged in my best crystal vase. That was an extravagant purchase for my table, but if not for Christmas, when? I smiled at the prospect of a glorious day baking in my own kitchen and not cleaning someone else’s!

  Bacon was grilling, cinnamon buns were in the oven, and the scent of freshly perked coffee was in the air when Taylor emerged. I was dismayed, even disappointed, to see him unshaved and undressed. Yes, it had been a bad night, but it was time to rally. He squinted at me as though he was still half-asleep.

  “Merry Christmas!” I called out cheerily.

  He grimaced and brought his hand up to rub his temple. “Have you seen Thor?”

  “No. Maybe he’s in Miller’s room.” I stilled my hand in the dough and leaned to better scrutinize Taylor’s face. “You don’t look well. Are your headaches back?”

  “They never really go away.”

  “Your father feels very bad about what he said last night.”

  “Yeah, well, that excuse is getting old. He’s not the only one having a hard time.”

  “I know.” I returned to my dough. “But he’s sorry this morning. And I think he’ll say so himself.” I straightened. “Want some coffee?”

  He shook his head, then grimaced as though even that slight movement brought him pain.

  “Does your new medicine help?”

  He walked to the cabinet to grab a glass and filled it with water. He popped two pills into his mouth and took a swallow of the water. “We’ll see.” He turned to face me, perplexed. “Thor’s not in Miller’s room. I checked.”

  I made a face. “Well, he’s not down here. Miller probably took him for a walk. I suspect he’s making himself scarce.”

  “Can you blame him?” Taylor guzzled down the glass. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, a habit I wasn’t happy to see he’d acquired.

  “Go back to bed.” I returned to my scones.

  He looked miserable and just waved his hand at me as he walked out. “Okay, then. I’m going back up. Send Thor to my room when they get back.”

  “I will. I hope your headache gets better.”

  I looked out the back windows. The sky was growing ominously dark, but the clouds were fat and white, not storm clouds. Perhaps there wouldn’t be rain after all. Still, I hoped Miller wouldn’t get caught in bad weather.

  The cinnamon buns were iced and cooling on racks and I’d just pulled my scones out from the oven when I slowed down enough to realize I still hadn’t seen Miller. The bacon was sitting on the plate already cold, with the fat congealed. Where was everybody? I wondered. Usually I had to chase the boys out of the kitchen. I washed the flour off my hands, and drying them on a towel, I walked to my bedroom. The morning was gone, yet Alistair was still sleeping. I quietly left and closed the door behind me.
This was the first day he’d had off in I couldn’t remember how long. Plus he needed to sleep it off.

  I walked upstairs to fetch Miller. I didn’t want him sulking and playing Xbox games in his room all day long. I knew he was still angry but didn’t want him to dwell. He could help me with some of my fun shopping errands.

  “Miller!” I exclaimed as I opened his door. I stared at the messed bed, the cold television screen, stunned that he wasn’t here. Feeling a shiver of foreboding, I went to Taylor’s room and, without knocking, opened the door. The lights were off and the curtains drawn, but I could make out his sleeping form on the bed. I scanned the room. Thor wasn’t there.

  Now I knew a moment of fear. Wasn’t Taylor looking for Thor earlier in the morning? That was hours ago. Something was off. I could feel it. I hurried downstairs, made a quick tour of the house. The rooms were ominously empty without Miller or Thor. Feeling tension mount, I went directly to the coatrack by the back door. Sure enough, Miller’s coat was gone, and so were his boots. Thor’s leash was also missing from the hook. Where could he have gone? I wondered. And with a huge dog? An idea came to mind. Pursing my lips, I went directly to the phone and dialed a number I knew well.

  Dill answered the phone on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dill, this is Mrs. McClellan. Is Miller there?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Was he there earlier?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “Okay. Listen, will you call me if he comes by? I’m looking for him. Thanks. Bye.”

  My hand rested on the phone as I tried to piece together all that I’d seen and done since I had awakened. I remembered it was late when I went to the kitchen, a little past nine o’clock. Now that I thought about it, I’d seen an empty bowl in the sink and a spoon. So Miller must’ve awakened and helped himself to breakfast. What time would that have been? I felt a flush of shame. I didn’t know because I wasn’t up, as I normally was. As I should have been.

  I ran my hand through my hair, recalling Taylor’s coming in—was it ten o’clock? He was looking for Thor, which meant Miller and the dog would’ve been out for at least an hour already. Likely more. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly twelve thirty. No dog walk lasted that long. My gaze wildly scanned the room as panic filled my chest. Where could Miller have gone?

  I ran to my bedroom now and pushed open the door and turned on the overhead lights. Alistair stirred in the bed, placing his hand over his eyes.

  “Alistair!” I called. I went to gruffly shake his shoulder.

  “Huh?” he answered groggily.

  “Alistair, wake up,” I said sharply, straightening. “Wake up! Miller’s gone.”

  His hand slipped from his face and he blinked hard, his gaze sharp as the words permeated the fog in his brain. “Gone?” His morning voice was gruff. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean gone! I haven’t seen him yet this morning. I just assumed he was in his room. But when I went up just now to check his room, he wasn’t there. And Thor’s gone, too.”

  “Probably took him for a walk.”

  “That’s what we all thought, but for four hours? I called Dill and he’s not there, either. I don’t know where he is.” My voice rose with panic.

  Alistair coughed, then sat up, grimacing with the effort. After a moment he said, “No need to panic. He’s probably out with some friends.”

  “With Thor?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Maybe a pickup game or something.” Alistair spoke calmly, but he was already rising from bed. “When did you last see him?”

  “I didn’t. He was already gone when I went downstairs.”

  Alistair didn’t reply. He turned to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table. He walked to the window and looked out, checking the temperature gauge he’d affixed to the window frame. “It’s not too bad out there.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Near forty.”

  I felt some reassurance knowing that.

  “But there’s no sun. And I don’t like the looks of those clouds.” Alistair’s fingers began undoing his pajama buttons as he walked to the bathroom. “Bring me a cup of coffee, will you? I’m getting dressed.”

  By one thirty in the afternoon we’d contacted everyone we knew, gone to the school, checked the ball field, and even gone to T.W. Graham’s, but no one had seen Miller or Thor. Everywhere people were bustling, doing last-minute shopping, and Christmas music was playing. For the first time the merry music grated on my nerves. By two, Alistair felt there was nothing left but to notify the sheriff’s office.

  Sheriff Cable was a handsome, likable man, tall and pink-cheeked, whose kindly demeanor masked a razor-sharp mind. His blue eyes were always twinkling with a smile, but if you knew him well, you also knew those eyes could flash with warning. Cable was near seventy, but no one in the county was fool enough to run against him. He knew most all by name, their history and whereabouts. Whenever someone was sick or needed a helping hand, Sheriff Cable was the first one there. He arrived promptly at the McClellans’ house, accepted my offer of a cup of coffee, and began asking routine questions.

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  I shook my head. “We went to all his usual places. Called his friends. All I know is he went out with Thor before nine a.m. and he hasn’t been seen since.”

  The sheriff made a few notations in his pad. “Notice anything missing? His bike, maybe?”

  I was dumbfounded. “I hadn’t thought of that!” Alistair and I led the way to the garage. The old wood-frame structure, full of sand and spiders, was big enough for one car, Alistair’s fishing boat, and his tools. Miller’s bike was still there.

  “The wagon is gone.” I pointed to the empty space beside the wall.

  “And so is my ax.” Alistair pointed to the empty hook on the peg wall.

  I looked at Alistair and we both had the same thought.

  “I know where he went!” Relief rang in my voice. “He went to get a Christmas tree.”

  Sheriff Cable seemed amused. “You mean to cut one down?”

  I nodded. “Yes. It’s a family tradition. We were meant to go today but . . .” I cast a hooded glance at Alistair, who stood with his arms crossed and a frown of worry.

  “Where would he go?” Sheriff Cable asked. “I can’t think of a tree farm nearby.”

  “I told him about a place in the forest where my parents used go when I was a child,” I explained. “I bet he tried to find it.”

  “In the Marion National Forest?” the sheriff asked incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “Ma’am, there’s thousands of acres of woods in there. Where would we begin to look?”

  “I know the path he’d take. I can take you there.”

  Sheriff Cable straightened and closed his notepad. “Then let’s go take a look.”

  “We should get Taylor.” Alistair looked around. “Where is he? I mean, where the hell are my sons?”

  “Take it easy,” I admonished, embarrassed in front of the sheriff. “I know you have a headache, but so does Taylor. One of his bad ones. He can barely open his eyes. Let the medicine do its job. He’s no good in this condition.”

  I could see the disappointment flare anew in Alistair’s eyes, but he kept his mouth tight and nodded in agreement. “Let’s go then,” he told Sheriff Cable. “We’re wasting daylight.”

  The sheriff gathered a police search group and Alistair rallied the Old Captains. In any emergency on the water the Old Captains, a group of retired shrimp boat captains, would organize a search party of other captains and crew. They in turn alerted their families. This efficient system could activate the whole community in a short time. Quickly a group of fifteen gathered at the point of entry to the forest, within walking distance from my home, that for years I’d always used. It might have been an old logging trail back in the day, or used today by the foresters, I didn’t know. But it made for a wonderful pathway into the woods for my private forag
ing. On this mean and dank afternoon the temperature was beginning to fall. Not at all like the gloriously sunny afternoon when Miller and I had last walked this path together so filled with Christmas cheer. The circumstances were terribly different today, I thought with a shudder. No one had to remark on the urgency of the situation. Time was not on our side.

  Soon the forest enveloped us. Our feet fell loudly on the dried leaves and twigs, crunching along the narrow path. We were encouraged by signs of the wagon’s wheels in the muddy parts of the path. Clearly we were on the right track, and knowing that spurred us on.

  “There’s the wagon!” I shouted, spotting it in the distance. I ran to the small clearing where the red wagon sat abandoned. The rest of the party, all men, gathered near, some calling out Miller’s name, others searching the ground for tracks.

  “Is that your ax?” asked Sheriff Cable, pointing to the one in the wagon.

  “That’s it.” Alistair briskly nodded. He bent to look at the felled tree beside the wagon. Lifting the trunk, he tapped the bottom where sap oozed. “It couldn’t have been cut that long ago.”

  “It still could’ve been hours,” replied Cable soberly.

  Alistair let the trunk fall to the ground and straightened slowly. “I’ll pay the fine for my son cutting the tree without a permit.”

  The sheriff looked off. “Cut tree? I see a fallen tree. I don’t see a cut tree.”

  Hearing that, I vowed the sheriff would have my vote for as long as he ran for office.

  “Looks like he went this way,” called out a deputy. He stood at the edge of the clearing, pointing farther into the woods.

  The sheriff scratched his jaw. “Now tell me why he’d go off and leave the wagon and the tree?”

  “An animal might’ve scared him,” offered Captain Morrison. “There’s all kind of wildlife in these woods.”

  “If that were the case, wouldn’t he have grabbed the ax?” the sheriff asked.

  “Couldn’t say,” Captain Morrison replied. “Like I said, he could’ve been scared.”

  “Bill, could you come over here and bring your map? The rest of you, gather round.” The sheriff waved his big hand to call the others closer.