I got up from my chair and poured a refill of coffee, not liking how much sense he made. “I’m going to make someone upset.”
Mike rose. “You’ll figure it out, my beloved trout.”
I stood in the kitchen, watching the storm sweep snow from drifts and toss it about in wild gusts. Someday—perhaps tomorrow—it would pass, the sun would shine, and the snow would glitter. In the meantime, I would hide myself under a blanket and relish being warm in my home.
Mike changed clothes and disappeared into the garage. An hour later, I heard a motor running. I looked outside to see him camouflaged under a spray of snow as he pushed the snowblower up our long driveway. Kevin emerged from the basement, hair tousled, and to my surprise, donned his boots and coat and went outside to shovel.
Apparently I was the only one interested in hiding in our snow-covered enclave.
Sunday morning, the storm had abated, and we piled into the SUV for church. I saw Gretchen and Muriel in the entryway, having a powwow, and lifted my hand to them, pretending not to see when they gestured me over.
I just wanted to sit in the service and push the tea and the Trout’s future from my mind. I sat next to Mike in the pew and closed my eyes, listening to the organ prelude.
I’d forgotten that we had an influential member of the pastoral staff on my committee. Apparently, she’d been dispensing her own opinions around the Thanksgiving table, because when I opened my eyes, perused the bulletin, and saw the sermon title, everything inside me went tight.
The Need for True Hospitality in Our Congregation.
Perfect.
I hung my head through the opening hymn, trying to decide if I should make a break for it. We Norwegians didn’t make waves, however, and I planted myself.
Maybe I’d learn something.
I guess I’d crumpled the bulletin into a tight wad, because just as Pastor Backlund rose to take the pulpit, Mike reached over and eased the bulletin from my hands. He took my hand, his fingers winding through mine.
“As we enter into the Christmas season, it’s come to my attention that we may need to explore the meaning of and need for hospitality in our congregation.”
I tried to ignore the burn of eyes on my neck. I could just imagine what Gretchen might be thinking.
“Our society is beleaguered with business, people too swamped with their own to-do lists or their family needs to reach past their own front doors and invite people into their lives.”
I sighed.
“The problem isn’t our inability to provide a decent meal. It’s our priorities. When have we looked out past our living room windows to the needs around us?”
I found a smidgen of a smile and began to relax. Maybe Pastor Backlund wasn’t talking to me.
“But it’s not only about reaching out to our neighbors or our community. It’s about our heart attitudes. Do we long to serve others? Do we rejoice in reaching out? Are we loving each other by our actions?”
Mike’s hand gave mine a little squeeze. My hand broke out with a slick layer of sweat.
“As we move into this Christmas season, let us contemplate our hearts and whether we should, in fact, offer up first our attitudes and then our homes to serving one another.”
I looked down at Mike’s thumb and played a game: 1-2-3-4, I declare a thumb war. My mind wandered to next weekend, when Kevin and Mike and I would search our forest for the best tree, drag it home to decorate. I needed to make sugar cookies and buy cranapple juice to spice up and heat. And I had our Christmas letter to write. I wondered if I should order a fresh wreath for this year.
Mike rose beside me, nearly pulling me to my feet. Phew, it was over, no blood loss. We sang the benediction. I avoided the pastor’s eyes as he walked down the center aisle to the back. I’d escape out the side door.
Gretchen must have had my number, because she was standing by my coat in the hallway as I snuck around to retrieve it. “I brought in the boxes of china and left them downstairs to wash. If you need help, just give me a call.” She patted me on the arm.
I fought a wave of nastiness.
“Hello, Marianne.” Jenni’s voice from behind indicated that she’d seen Gretchen. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”
“Wonderful,” I said, grabbing my coat. I looked around for a gap in the crowd to evaporate into. “And yours?”
“Perfect. We went to my parents’ house. My siblings were all home with their kids.”
Of course they were. “That sounds lovely.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve picked a menu,” she said, all innocent and sweet, the perfect assassin.
“Nope,” I said. I patted her baby on the head. “What a cute outfit.” Good grief, I was turning into Gretchen.
But it worked, and I made my escape without further incident.
Mike was silent on the drive home. But he was smiling, as if he and Pastor Backlund had collaborated on their recent sermons.
They hadn’t, had they?
I threw myself into Christmas preparations—spending the week taking down the Thanksgiving decorations; putting up the lights, the wreath, the advent calendars; changing the candles in the bathrooms; hanging bows and ribbons from the curtain rods, the space above my cabinets. I changed the CDs, putting Christmas-only albums in the basket next to the CD player. I pulled out my old Christmas menus. I wrote our Christmas letter, addressed and mailed seventy-two cards, and baked our annual Christmas tree–decorating cookies.
I didn’t call the paper.
I didn’t wash the china.
Basically, I refused to think about the tea.
And most importantly, Coach Grant never called with a replacement for the Trout.
Pastor Backlund’s words niggled at me Saturday morning as Kevin bundled up and left early for the game. “Don’t be late, Mom.”
Attitude. Attitude.
Mike brought in the costume and laid it on the kitchen table.
Probably I deserved this. Sort of like Jonah, who got swallowed by the big fish.
I didn’t particularly appreciate the comparison.
“It’s for the kids,” Mike said. This time his words didn’t come attached to a smirk. He folded one arm around me and pulled me tight. “This too shall pass.”
I went down to the basement to grab his orange hunting suit.
Winter had descended upon us in one short week. A glance at the thermometer told me that I’d also need long underwear, wool socks, and probably gloves. I felt like the little boy in A Christmas Story who couldn’t put his arms down by the time Mike got me dressed in my Trout gear and out to the car. We drove to the game in silence, me next to my prison guard, sweat ringing my forehead, dribbling down my temple.
I felt like the fatted calf, off to be sacrificed.
The Big Lake Trouts’ undefeated record earned them the right to have this semifinal game at home, and the town had turned out in record numbers to support their team. The wind raked the flag over the field, whipping it mercilessly, and a shiver went through me. How I longed to be in the stands, wrapped under a blanket or two, sipping hot cocoa.
Mike helped me out of the car and lowered the head over me. He wore a sympathetic look. “You win the Best Mom Award.”
“Just make sure that when I keel over with hypothermia, you’re there to warm me up.”
That got the faintest hint of a wolfish smile, although I hadn’t meant it quite that way. Men.
Please, I prayed to the heavens, despite my theological doubts that God cared who won, let us win this game . . . quick.
I could hear the band warming up. The clock on the scoreboard ticked down ten more minutes to the game.
I tried out a few cheers, to which the fans responded. I had remembered my foam finger this time, but when I put it on, the wind grabbed it and tossed it down the field.
I needed that finger.
I took off, slipping on the snow and ice, my body stiff and uncoordinated. The finger lay quiet in the snow for a tantalizing moment an
d I lunged for it.
It skittered away from me.
The force of my dive took me off my feet, and with a whump, I fell.
The brim of my hat jammed into my forehead. And I lay prone, facedown.
Maybe I could stay this way.
“Help the Trout!” I heard Gil’s voice from the announcer’s stand, in between peals of uncontrolled laughter. I couldn’t wait to see next week’s front page.
Hands rolled me onto my back, and through the mouth slit, I recognized Mike and one of his EMS pals helping me to my feet. “Better stick around,” I said without a smile.
Mike had tears rolling down his face as he tried to hide his laughter. He handed me the finger and I grabbed it.
“Help me over to the field entrance,” I snapped.
Mike grabbed my arm and we slip-slided to the gate, where I waited for the Trouts’ dash onto the field. The opposing team came out first and eyed me with undisguised smirks. Yeah, well. . . . I gave them a fins-down.
The band struck up the school song. While Mike steadied me, I held out my fin and wished my team luck.
Their excited expressions snapped me back to the game, to the fact that we were in the semifinals. One more win would land them, and my son, in the state championship.
A real Christmas bowl game.
“Go, Big T!” I yelled and nearly fell again.
I made it back to the sidelines, grabbed a cowbell, and adopted a no-leaving-the-ground cheering strategy. Mike stayed by the fence as I shimmied my dorsal fin, waggled my googly eyes, shook my pom-poms, and screamed the Trouts to a halftime lead of one touchdown to nothing.
The snow turned the field slushy, and I wondered if Kevin’s hands were frostbitten. He’d carried the ball for at least forty yards, at least ten in the touchdown drive.
I sported a thin layer of sweat covering my entire body, thanks to my energetic first half.
I waged a one-Trout halftime show, boogying to the band’s renditions of “New York, New York” and “King of the Road,” only landing on my backside twice, to the fans’ delight.
By the time the team hit the field again, we were revved and ready to cheer them to victory. The other team—the Trojans, from somewhere out in the iron range—closed the gap with a kickoff return that landed them in Trout territory. They scored a field goal while I led the crowd in a “De-fense!” rally.
The Trouts put no points on the board during the third quarter. When the Trojans recovered a fumble on our twenty-yard line, the stands roared to a frenzy of defensive cheering.
The Trojans connected with their wide receiver in the end zone, pushing them into the lead, ten to seven.
The snow had turned to driving ice. Watching the fans huddling under their blankets in the stands, I gave thanks for the head that protected me from the wind. As I grabbed my blow horn, I took a breath and scanned the crowd.
Bud Finlaysen sat in the front row, way to the left. He was bundled in his orange hunting suit, wearing a wool cap. He met my gaze with something like pride in his eyes.
“Go, Trouts!” I bellowed.
I turned to watch the game for a moment and noticed that number 33 had been added to the kickoff return line. I watched as Kevin knocked over a couple defenders, clearing the road for the ball carrier. What had happened to my timid son?
Or for that matter, to his reserved, cultured mother?
The Trouts took it back to the forty, then over midfield, and finally into field goal range.
Please, don’t give in to temptation! Go for the touchdown! But I watched with dismay and a glance at the time clock as they lined up for the attempt.
I turned back to the crowd, banging the cowbell.
They snapped the ball. I could see the play on the faces of my fellow fans. Something wasn’t right—or rather had gone wonderfully right! I turned and watched as the kicker—a sophomore with incredible talent—ran the ball into the end zone.
I hit the deck about the same time he did, without, of course, the assistance of a gang of defenders.
“Touchdown!” I screamed, going wild even as I lay on my backside, a flopping fish. But I didn’t care. I squirmed on the ground like a ten-year-old, waving my cowbell.
State champs, here we come.
Who was laughing now?
Chapter 8
A concussion and a broken ankle.
The cost of our superstar kicker’s touchdown resounded like a death knell through the corridors of the clinic. Never mind that we were going to play the state finals in the Metrodome in Minneapolis, the same place the Minnesota Vikings played football. Never mind that this season, out of thirty, had been the first we’d made it all the way to the state finals.
We had no kicker. Our team barely comprised the requisite number for eleven-man ball, and even then, some of the seniors—including Kevin—played both defense and offense. We had no other kicker.
The dismay on Kevin’s face as he emerged from the huddle of doom made me want to wrap him in my arms, kiss him on the top of his head, tell him that Mommy would make it better.
I think we all know by now that I would have marched out in pads and a helmet if it would have been permitted.
“I’m so sorry, Kev.” We stood there in silence. Mike was still back in the ER, filling out forms. I had just started to feel my fins, er, fingers again.
“I think I’m going to stick around here for a while,” Kevin said, glancing at his teammates.
“What about our tree? This is decorating weekend.”
From the expression on his face, I knew he’d forgotten. Hadn’t he seen the decorations, smelled the cookies?
“Mom—can you and Dad just do it without me? I really should stay. . . .” He wore that look that said if I forced him, played the Mom card, and perhaps fell to the floor in pleading, he’d somehow find the strength to return home and have fun with us. Merry Christmas.
“Sure, that’s okay, Kevin.”
He gave me a kiss on the cheek right there in the hall; I counted my blessings and wandered back to the ER.
Mike stood in an equally concerned huddle, only this time it wasn’t about the game. “There’s a crash out on 61,” he said as he saw me approach. “I’m going to have to stick around.”
Of course he would.
He waved good-bye and left me alone in his orange hunting suit in the middle of the pastel hallway.
Apparently, Christmas tree decorating was a solitary sport.
I drove home, melancholy pressing into my bones along with the chill.
Three weeks until Christmas. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so upset. After all, this was just the warm-up. The real deal happened Christmas Eve, when we frosted cookies, ate soup, gathered for the Christmas story. Mike wouldn’t be running out then. Kevin wouldn’t forget. The rest of the family would be home to celebrate. I supposed I could even wait to put up the tree then.
I draped the fish costume back on the lawn chairs and traipsed inside. Climbing out of the union suit, I left it nearly fully formed in the entryway.
I stood in the kitchen brewing a hot cup of cocoa, staring at the empty place where the tree usually stands—in the living room next to the stairs, where the ceiling soars two stories. One year we wrestled a fifteen-foot tree into place, its base so wide we had to shorten limbs at the bottom to walk around it. I’m not sure why, but the Wallace family ascribes to a “bigger is better” theme when it comes to Christmas trees. Now, staring at the designated tree spot, I thought of the twinkle lights, the cute ornaments that signified the start of a celebration season.
I couldn’t wait until Christmas Eve to put up the tree.
But I also couldn’t traipse through the snow to find the appropriate tree by myself. As much as my stint as a Trout had honed my muscles, I didn’t have the arm strength to drag the conifer through the woods and set it up alone.
I did, however, have my grandmother’s fake tree tucked away in the garage. Once upon a time, I’d set up two trees—one in the living room, th
e other in the basement entertainment room. As festive as the house felt, the work of decorating two trees had outweighed the joy, and I dispensed with the practice after two years.
I poured all my efforts into decorating our fifteen-foot skyscrapers.
Putting on my boots and a coat, I braved the wind and tromped out to the garage. Some rearranging uncovered the tree box underneath a ripped fire pit tarp, a coil of hose, an old air conditioner unit from our now-defunct camper, and a table umbrella. I kicked it all aside and wrestled the box out, dragging it back to the house. I’d worked up a sweat by the time I pushed it through the mudroom into the kitchen.
Grandma’s tree had once been a glorious blue spruce before time flattened its needles and twisted its branches. I spent the next half hour setting it up, pulling out the stems, fluffing it into shape. For being neglected so long, it revived with a Norwegian tenacity, and although it didn’t soar past nine feet, the fact that it wouldn’t soon be dropping its needles soothed the traditionalist inside me.
Besides, it was a keepsake, in a way.
I returned the empty box to the garage, then found the Christmas lights. It took me an hour to detangle the cords and replace the dead bulbs, a job usually reserved for Mike. Because we had miles of extra twinkle, I wove the lights in and out of the branches, wrapping them with sparkle. The tree could probably illuminate the entire house.
That done, I went downstairs to the storage room and dug out the ornaments. The big box contained seven smaller boxes, all marked with our names. Inside, each child had his or her own collection, one I’d helped create, ornament by ornament, through the years. I put on more water for cocoa and sat on the sofa, opening Neil’s box. I pulled out the little ornament of a bear holding a book, the one I gave him the year he’d started to read. I could still hear his little voice, feel his warm body on my lap as he climbed up with a book. We spent hours on the sofa in those early days, just us, and then with Brett cocooned next to me, reading The Cat in the Hat or The Story about Ping or my personal favorite, The Biggest Bear. Under the reading bear figurine, I found another ornament, a tiny porcelain piano, for the year Neil took piano lessons. I’d spent hours teaching him his scales, simple songs.
The Great Christmas Bowl Page 7