Three

by McMan, Ann;

  I had my money on the minority opinions. The way my luck was running, we’d probably be looking at whiteout conditions within the next twenty minutes.

  Of course, that might mean we’d have to cancel the party . . .

  I smiled.

  Last year’s Christmas Eve blizzard worked out really well for me. Clarissa and I finally ended up together—and we’d been together ever since.

  There were worse outcomes than having to spend an entire evening dodging daggers thrown my way by a creature named Elspeth, and inventing ways to prevent my father from challenging Bernard Wiley to eat one of his big ones.

  I couldn’t even think about the permutations of horror that awaited us by adding Marty and Sheila to the mix.

  Nope. This surprise storm was going to be a godsend. No two ways about it.

  Clarissa came out of the bathroom and picked up her suit jacket.

  I pointed at the mostly-blue weather map that dominated the TV screen.

  “Honey—” I began.

  She cut me off.

  “Forget about it. We’re not canceling.”

  “But the weather people are saying—”

  “The weather people are saying that it’s going to fizzle before it reaches us. We’re supposed to be in the mid-forties by six o’clock tonight.”

  “Clar . . .”

  “Forget about it, Diz. We’re not canceling. The catering is ordered. The invitations are sent. The decorations are up. Your goose is cooked.” She pulled on her watch and snapped it into place. “Find a way to make peace with it. This party is happening.”

  I tossed the remote onto the bed in frustration.

  “What good are two-hundred-and-forty high-def cable channels when you don’t listen to any of them?”

  She stopped in the center of the room and glared at me.

  “I don’t need two-hundred-and-forty high-def cable channels to get the weather. I have an iPhone.” She buttoned her jacket. “And by the way, half of those two-hundred-and-forty high-def channels are part of that deluxe cartoon package you had to have.”

  “I love Bullwinkle.” I sulked.

  “I know you do, sweetheart.” She walked to me and kissed my forehead. “Learn to love this party, too. It’ll make both of our lives a lot easier.”

  “Okay.” I gave her a crooked smile. “Will you be nice to me if I do?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Define nice.”

  I ran a hand over her firm, wool-clad bottom. “I’d rather show you.”

  She rolled her eyes and swatted my hand away. “In your dreams.”

  “Exactly.” I pulled her close for a kiss.

  She tolerated it for most of a minute.

  Well . . . maybe for a minute and a half.

  Then she pulled away. “I have to get to work, and so do you.”

  “I don’t wanna go to work.” I nuzzled her soft neck. “You smell good.”

  “Bathing does have its advantages.” She patted the back of my head. “Will you be home by four?”

  I nodded. Our guests would begin arriving at six-thirty.

  “Good. I’ll do my best to be here before five.” She gave me another quick kiss. “Try not to worry so much. It will all work out just fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  She smiled at me and headed for the stairs. I stood in the center of the room and listened as she crossed the living room, collected her keys from the top of the bookcase, and went out the kitchen door.

  I glanced again at the big, flat screen. The Weather Channel was now airing fantastic video of an ice storm paralyzing Charlotte, ruining Christmas Eve celebrations for thousands.

  “Yeah.” I snapped up the remote control and shut off the TV. “In my dreams, all right.”

  I did make it home by four o’clock, but not because of the party.

  Sleet started falling in Baltimore a little after nine a.m. During the late morning, ominous streaks of heavy snow broke out south of the city. The big bands of white stuff surged northward as a second low-pressure system quickly intensified. By noon, heavy snow had settled in over much of the area, and forecasters were all scratching their heads. The snow continued falling at rates of up to three inches per hour for several hours, accompanied by lightning and thunder. Temperatures were hovering around the thirty-degree mark, and since the texture of the snow was heavy and wet, power outages were predicted to become a problem by nightfall.

  Accumulation predictions ranged anywhere from six-to-sixteen inches, with a foot being most favored.

  Traffic tie-ups were already dominating news headlines. Fifteen and twenty-two mile backups were reported on Interstates 95 and 70 in and around Baltimore. Already, an estimated sixty-thousand commuters were reportedly stuck in traffic.

  It was shaping up to be a shitty night for a party.

  I quickly realized that if I didn’t head out for home soon, I’d end up spending the night on the floor in our Xerox room. And unlike previous years, I had no interest in amusing myself with the attentions of Randi and Ronni, the twins who ran our company’s duplicating center.

  I called Clarissa’s office before I hitched a ride home with Marty. She picked up on the first ring.

  “We’re not canceling,” she said, before I had a chance to identify myself.

  “Hello to you, too,” I replied.

  “I knew it was you.”

  “Then you also know that down here in the bowels of the building, we have no windows.”

  “Your point would be?”

  “Have you looked outside recently?”

  “Of course.”

  I sighed. “And?”

  “And . . . it’s snowing.”

  “It’s not just snowing . . . it’s snowing a lot.”

  “Diz. We’re not canceling.”

  “What is it with you and this damn party? Nobody in their right mind is going to want to be out in this mess tonight.”

  “All the people who matter to us will be there.”

  It was clear that arguing with her was useless. For some reason, this damn party had become her hill to die on.

  “Do you want to hitch a ride home with Marty and me?”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “As soon as I hang up.”

  I could tell she was thinking it over.

  “Does he still have that Simply Red CD stuck in the stereo?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Honey—”

  “Besides, I have one more thing I have to take care of today.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.”

  “Clar . . .”

  “Diz, I promise to be home within the hour.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I promise,” she said again. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “I’m going to get going now.”

  “See you at home. Be careful riding in that thing.”

  “You be careful, too. That car of yours isn’t made for weather like this.”

  “It’ll do fine.” I could hear voices and laughter in the background. “I have to run now, sweetie. My three-thirty is here. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  I opened my mouth to say “I love you,” but she’d already disconnected.

  Such was life upstairs in the posh editorial suite.

  I looked around my basement office. Tossing a few coats of brightly colored paint on all the conduit and plumbing pipes didn’t make this place any homier. It still looked like the set of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. Down here in the dank catacombs, the lower echelon of Wiley employees plodded through their days without notice. I still didn’t understand why research departments always got crammed into the darkest parts of buildings. Did people think we were troglophiles?

  I shut down the computer and stared at my reflection in the monitor.

  I did sort of look like a cave dweller . . .

  Maybe I needed to change my glasses.

  Then Marty was at the do
or snapping his fingers, and we were on our way.

  It only took us twenty-five minutes to get to our neighborhood—not too bad, considering the traffic jams on all the major thoroughfares. Marty navigated the back alleys and byways of the city like a Romanian cab driver. I’d lived in Baltimore most of my life, and I’d never seen some of the streets he zigzagged across as we threaded our way home.

  “I didn’t know we still had a Chicken Delight.”

  He nodded. “Their ribs are the best.”

  I sunk lower in my seat. “I don’t think they’ll be doing very much business tonight.”

  Five minutes later, he turned onto my street. I noticed two things right away.

  My next door neighbor, Christa, had strung the hot pink, LED lights I bought her last year—but this time, they were looped around her porch railings and not on the linden tree in her front yard. They made a dazzling spectacle against the falling snow.

  The other discovery was my father’s massive Buick, which was completely blocking our driveway.

  It begins.

  “Is that your dad’s car?” Marty asked.

  The rear bumper was covered with stickers that read, “Eat Art’s Big One.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  He chuckled. “It looks like I’m leaving you in good hands.”

  I touched him on the arm. “You won’t ditch out on me tonight, will you?”

  “And miss seeing this eclectic off-Broadway production of Meet the Parents? Do I look nuts?”

  “Okay.” I opened my door. “Just remember what I said about that felonious dog and its three henchmen.”

  He nodded. “They’re locked in the attic. Got it.”

  I climbed out and trudged my way up the rapidly disappearing sidewalk to the house.

  My mother met me at the door. Her ensemble was brighter than the Christmas tree aisle at Walmart. She looked like an ageing refugee from an Annie Hall remake.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” I asked. I stomped my feet and did my best to shake the snow off my jacket.

  She did a little pirouette in the foyer. “Like it? I just found this fantastic little import shop—all organic fabrics. These batik prints are all made with sustainable dyes.”

  “It looks like a UNICEF card.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She slapped me on the arm. “Get in here. Your father is cooking.”

  I looked at her with panic.

  “Cooking? What do you mean he’s cooking?” I looked toward the kitchen. I could hear something sizzling. The house smelled like . . . crab. “Ma . . . we have caterers coming.”

  She was hanging up my coat. “No you don’t. They canceled.”

  “They what?”

  “They called about twenty minutes ago. Bupkis. None of their staff can get in with this weather.”

  I stared at her with a slack jaw.

  “It’s a good thing your father brought extra food. He thought something like this might happen when that snow rolled in.”

  “I’m . . . you can’t . . .”

  “Maggie!” My father’s voice rolled out from the kitchen. “Get in here. I need more Old Bay.”

  I closed my eyes. This was not happening.

  Who was I kidding? Of course it was happening.

  My mom was heading for the kitchen.

  “Hold your horses. Maryann is home.”

  “She is? Great. Yo, Diz,” Dad hollered. “Get out here and help your old man. You can make the creamed corn.”

  Creamed corn?

  I wanted to die.

  Someone knocked on the front door. Maybe I’d luck out and it would be the Baltimore Police, here to pick me up because Clarissa’s bail check bounced.

  Nope. It was Christa. She was carrying a huge roasting pan.

  “My door is open, letting all my heat out,” she said in her thick, German-accented English. “Go over there and bring the rest of the food.”

  “What food?” I stood back so she could come inside.

  “The cabbage and the Kartoffelpuffer. And the Stollen is baking now. It’ll be ready in time for dessert.”

  She pushed past me and headed for the kitchen.

  “Christa!” I heard my father bellow. “Um Himmel’s Willen, wie geht’s dir?”

  “Ya, you do better to speak English, old man,” Christa huffed. “Where you want me to put this goose?”

  Goose?

  Goose and crab cakes? And creamed corn?

  I didn’t have to wish for a speedy death. Clarissa would surely take care of it for me.

  I followed orders and went next door to schlep back the rest of the food. When I got back to our kitchen with the tray of casseroles, it looked like a bomb had gone off. There wasn’t a single surface not covered with Dad’s special breading. It was even on the ceiling fan.

  My mother pointed toward the back porch.

  “Maryann, go out back and help Father Frank with the beer.”

  She always called my brother Father Frank. And she always called me Maryann. It drove me nuts.

  “Frank is here?” I asked. “And what beer?”

  “He brought a keg of Harp.”

  “A keg? Why the hell did he bring a keg?”

  “It was for the Posada celebration tonight at the Knights of Columbus. But that got canceled because of the weather.”

  “Oh, jeez . . .”

  “Go out there and help him get it set up. You know priests aren’t any good with hoses.”

  “Ma . . . we don’t need beer. We’re serving wine and champagne punch.”

  “You don’t drink champagne with crab cakes, Dizzo.” My father looked up at me over his vat of goo.

  “I could use a pint right now,” Christa said.

  “Christa’s family got stuck in Charlottesville,” Ma explained. “This storm is wreaking havoc with everyone’s holiday plans.”

  “Ya, and I had all this food ready.” Christa gestured toward her row of dishes. “What am I going to do with a whole goose and all that cabbage?”

  I gave up.

  “Lemme go help Frank.”

  I went out back and found my brother ankle deep in the snow piling up on what was supposed to be our patio, trying to tap the keg.

  He brightened up at once when he saw me. “Great . . . someone who knows which end is up with these damn things.”

  “Hey, Frank.”

  He studied me as we stood together in the swirling snow. “Why so glum?”

  I shrugged.

  “Diz?”

  I looked at him. “Come on, Frank. Look at what’s happening here? It’s The Nightmare Before Christmas—just like I knew it would be.”

  Frank looked up at the house, then back at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “This. This weather. This mess.” I paused and made air quotes. “Art’s Big Ones.”

  “Oh, I get it. Not the way you wanted to introduce Clarissa’s parents to your humble origins?”

  “Not really, no.”

  He smiled at me. “Lighten up, kiddo. It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad?” I jerked a thumb toward the house. “Have you seen the kitchen . . . and the ten pounds of red cabbage now congealing in there?”

  “Yeah. I heard that K2 and his family got stuck in Virginia. It’s wonderful that Christa has your place to come to.” He gave me one of his most priestly looks—the ones that took you from unrepentant sinner to postulant in about two-point-four seconds. “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

  I sighed. He was right. And he knew that I knew he was right.

  “Come on,” he said. “What’s really going on? It’s not like you to be this uptight.”

  I didn’t say anything and started working on inserting the hose into the keg.

  “Diz?”

  I looked up at him.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be off the clock?”

  “It’s okay. I get double-time for holidays.” He smiled.

&nbs
p; “I’m just afraid.” I didn’t see any reason to try to delude him. Besides, even though I thought of myself as a lapsed Catholic, I still knew in my viscera that it wasn’t a good idea to lie to a priest—even if he was your brother and you’d shoplifted Milk Duds together as kids.

  “Afraid of what?”

  I shrugged. “Afraid that if Clarissa’s family doesn’t like us, she’ll come to her senses and go back to her yacht salesman?”

  “He didn’t sell yachts, he built them.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I guess that’s it. Sort of. This party is really important to her for some reason. Now it’s all gone to hell at light speed.” I finished tapping the keg. “We need to prime and test this. Did you bring a cup?”

  Frank pulled a ginormous, glass tumbler out of his overcoat pocket and handed it to me.

  “Jeez, Frank. Why don’t we just use the altar chalice?”

  “I left it in my other suit.”

  I took the glass from him. “Very funny. You should do stand up.”

  “It’s been a while since you’ve heard one of my homilies, hasn’t it?”

  “Why do I get the sense that my luck is about to change?”

  He laughed.

  I siphoned off some of the Harp lager and held it up to examine it. The amber liquid looked glorious against the snowy, gray sky. Oddly, it looked just like Christmas.

  “This looks great. I think we’re good to go.”

  “Good. I’m freezing.”

  “I guess we should go in and get the fireplace going. The way this day is shaping up, we’ll be certain to lose power, too.”

  “One thing before we do . . .”

  I sighed. “Okay. Let me have it.”

  “That’s just it, Diz. I don’t need to let you have it. You already have it all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. Clarissa. A houseful of good people who love you.”

  “Elspeth—”

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Elspeth Wiley might be a tad eccentric, but she loves her daughter.” He hesitated. “Well . . . maybe not as much as she loves her dog, but she loves her daughter just the same. And her daughter loves you.”

  “You really think so?”