by Donna Ball
Miss Emily ran around the house getting coats and packing jars of hot coffee in quilts and thinking about the things people might need like she always did, and I piled the blankets and the water and the food in the boot of the Pony and we took off. To this day I can’t think about what we saw when we pulled up in the school yard without going all cold and shivery inside. It was a the last day of school before the holidays, don’t you know, and there’d been a Christmas party, and near about every child in the county was there that day. Nine of them wouldn’t live to see Christmas. Mary Pritchet, the third grade teacher, brought out twenty five of them alive, but she went back in one time too many and didn’t come out again. I don’t reckon there was one family in this county that wasn’t standing in that schoolyard, wailing and praying or just staring and hoping, and Miss Emily and me, we did what we could, passing out food and blankets and coffee and water for those poor firemen, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t near enough.
It seemed like God had pure turned his back on us that Christmas, it surely did. It wasn’t enough that we had lost so many of our fine menfolk to the war, but now our children were gone too. It was a hard pill to swallow. Too hard. Miss Emily and me, we came home late that night bone weary and half-froze from standing out all day, our clothes splotched with water and our skin smudged with soot and our hair smelling like smoke and death, too tired and too hurt to do anything but sit in the dark in front of the fire and just rock. And then, after awhile, Miss Emily said, real quiet like, “Ida Mae, you and I are so lucky. Praise God, we are so lucky.”
I thought about my Jackson all alone up in Norfolk with his shot up leg, and I thought about Miss Emily’s oldest buried somewhere in Flanders, and I never thought either one of us would ever feel lucky, but I did that night. I felt like the luckiest woman God had ever made.
After all our hard work, there wasn’t no Christmas party that year. On Christmas Eve, we wrapped up all those fruitcakes Miss Emily had meant to give to the dignitaries that came to her party, and we went around the countryside, stopping to leave one at the house of every family that had lost a child in the fire, or a son in the war. And then Miss Emily put a bus ticket in my hand and told me to go on, and spend Christmas with my loved one. I hated to leave her alone, but I couldn’t bear to think of my Jackson all alone at Christmas in that hospital either. So I hugged her and I thanked her, and I grabbed my satchel and I got on that bus.
You won’t believe what I found when I got to Norfolk and unpacked my satchel. It was two slices of Miss Emily’s fruitcake, wrapped in paper and tucked down under Jackson’s sweater. Jackson and I had it for desert the next day after the hospital turkey dinner, and I want you to know, it was the best fruitcake I ever tasted.
And it was my best Christmas, too.
Chapter Five
In Which Christmas Falls From the Sky
Lori had stopped chopping walnuts, and her expression was somber. She said quietly, “Ida Mae, I never knew.”
Ida Mae used a wooden spoon to fold in the dried and candied fruit, working the ingredients around the big yellow mixing bowl with all the vigor of a boxing champion at a sparring match. “It’s not all Santy Claus and reindeer at Christmastime,” she said without looking up from her work, “and Miss Emily thought it was important to keep that in mind. Every year, we’d remember the families that had lost a child with a special fruitcake at Christmas. Sad to say, the list got longer every year. There was Korea, and Vietnam, and now them godforsaken countries in the desert. It’s only right to do a little something extra to honor the empty plate at the Christmas table.”
Lori surreptitiously blotted a corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “But Miss Emily’s son, he did come back, right?”
“Of course he did. And I suwanee, was he mad about that case of wine we’d used up.” There was the hint of a chuckle in her voice. “But that very year was when he started the vineyard, and it wasn’t till we started using the Blackwell Farms wine to soak the fruitcakes that we became what you’d call legendary around here. Of course, after that first year, her Christmas parties was the hottest ticket in town. I wish you coulda seen this place, all done up like that castle in Asheville, what do you call it?”
“The Biltmore House?” suggested Lori.
She gave a sharp nod. “You about ready with them nuts?”
Lori scraped the contents of her cutting board into the bowl. Her voice, and her face, were touched with wonder. “Don’t you think that’s kind of weird—that now we’re giving the same kind of Christmas party Miss Emily used to, and we didn’t even know about it?”
“I do not,” declared Ida Mae. “The house remembers, even if folks don’t.”
Lori sat back on her stool, looking puzzled and touched by the sentiment.
Ida Mae gave the wooden spoon two more turns around the bowl. “Well don’t just sit there, girl, get out the baking sheets and start greasing them with butter. The day’s half done and we’ll be doing good to get these out before the reindeer fly as it is.”
Lori said, “You know what would go really good in those cookies, Ida Mae?”
Ida Mae gave a derisive sniff. “Like I’d ever be listening to the likes of you on a recipe.”
Lori said, “Some of that peach brandy.”
Ida Mae looked at her, her brows drawn together in their usual scowl, her lips tight. And then, slowly, she smiled. “You know something, girl?” she said. “There might be hope for you yet.”
“I told you we should have gotten new lights this year,” Lindsay said. She stood back and surveyed the Christmas tree with her hands on her khaki -clad hips. Now barefoot, in cotton shorts and a halter top with her hair caught up in a pony tail, she was in a much better mood. “That’s two strings that have gone out in the past week.”
The Christmas tree was a nine-foot fir that dominated the spacious parlor and filled the entire room with the sweet smell of the green outdoors. It was wrapped in miles of multicolored miniature lights and studded with the treasured ornaments of the ladies’ three consolidated households – lace angels, gingerbread men, Santa faces with cotton beards, crystal unicorns, jewel-toned teardrops and spheres—along with a couple of hundred silver and gold glass balls in a myriad of sizes. Bridget had hung her treasured collection of antique Christmas cards by ivory ribbons from selected branches, and Lindsay had nestled a small, fluffy white teddy bear into the limbs. This year, for added panache, they had woven silver-blue and silver-pink ribbons in and out of the greenery, proving once and for all that there is no such thing as an over-decorated Christmas tree.
Bridget said, “There probably should be a rule. You know, like the one that says change your smoke detector batteries when you change the clocks for Daylight Savings Time. Some of these lights are twenty years old.”
Lindsay gave her a dismissing look. “How can they be twenty years old? They weren’t even making miniature lights twenty years ago.”
“Sweetie, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re a lot older than you think.”
Lindsay looked somewhat disturbed by that, and chose not to reply.
The base of the tree was already crowded with gaily wrapped presents, and Cici nudged these aside carefully as she wiggled under the tree, the plug from the final string of lights in hand. As she did, one of the lower limbs snagged her back pocket and the crystal angel atop the tree shimmied dangerously. Both Lindsay and Bridget lunged forward, hands outstretched protectively.
Cici plugged in the lights. “How’s that?”
A cheer of approval went up.
“Perfect!”
“Good for you!”
Cici scooted back out from under the tree, brushing dead nettles from her hair. She had changed into a tank top and jeans, and the red marks of abrasive branches were evident on her freckled arms and chest. She had been working on the lights for half an hour.
“Okay,” she declared, pushing a hand through her sweaty hair, “let’s check the rest of them.”
/> The Christmas decorating had been divided equitably. Bridget had been in charge of the mantel, which was draped in burgundy velvet and gold rope, accentuated by an antique mirror, an evergreen garland, and champagne glasses filled with miniature white lights. Lindsay had decorated every flat surface with bouquets of evergreen and red carnations, accessorized with red glass balls and twinkling white lights. A heavy garland of evergreen and white lights accentuated the entrance to the parlor, and wound its way up the banister to the landing, where another fully decorated Christmas tree looked down upon visitors from above. The three of them had wound evergreen, red ribbon and white lights around the porch columns, and fashioned wreaths for all of the front-facing windows, all interwoven with white lights. The doorway was draped with evergreen, red ribbons, and lights, as were the evergreens lining the walk. The porch roof line was swagged with ribbons, garlands and lights, but a brief windstorm two nights previously had knocked down the lights on the west side of the porch.
“You know,” declared Bridget philosophically, “even if all the lights work perfectly today there’s no guarantee they’ll work tomorrow. I think Lindsay is right. We should have replaced the lights.”
“Well we didn’t. So let’s just make the best of it and replace them next year, okay?”
Cici plugged in the mantel lights and the front porch lights and started toward the porch. “Somebody will have to hold the ladder while I try to get that string of lights tacked up again. I can’t wait any longer for Noah to help. Where did he go, anyway?”
“Where he went was to my bad side,” Lindsay muttered, following her. “You’d think after living here almost three years he’d know that the one day you do not want to blow off is the day before Christmas. It’s all hands on deck, and he knows we were counting on him. ”
There was a sudden cacophony of barking from the front yard and Bridget hurried to the door. “Oh, good, maybe he’s back.”
“I don’t hear a motorcycle.” Lindsay’s tone was dark with skepticism and she frowned at her watch. “If he’s hanging out with those boys at the pizza parlor again…”
“Speaking of pizza,” Cici said, “are we going to have lunch? A ham sandwich or something?”
“It’s not even eleven o’clock.”
“Maybe, but breakfast was six hours ago and I’ve been smelling ham and turkey and sausage dressing and pecan pie for the past five of them, and I’m starved.”
Bridget turned her head toward the kitchen. “Something does smell awfully good, doesn’t it? I wonder what Ida Mae is baking.”
Cici gave a curious tilt of her head. “Baking? I thought she’d gone with Lori to deliver her fruitcakes.”
“I don’t think so,” Bridget said. “When I was back there to take the ham out of the oven Ida Mae was up to her elbows in flour and Lori was chopping something.”
“Never a good sign,” Cici murmured worriedly.
Lori chose that moment to come in from the kitchen, staggering a little under the weight of the huge picnic basket she carried in both hands, and declared happily, “Santa Claus is here! Or maybe I should say Santa Clauses. Uncle Derrick and Uncle Paul are coming up the driveway. They’re staying the night, right? Because Ida Mae is waiting for me in the car.”
Paul and Derrick were not Lori’s real uncles, any more than Bridget and Lindsay were her real aunts. The close friendship between all of them for almost thirty years had transcended a blood relationship and formed its own kind of family which, for Lori as well as everyone else, was just as genuine --and in some ways even more treasured—than the ties that bound them to the families into which they had been born.
“I thought you’d already left,” Cici said, running her fingers through her hair and snagging a few more fir needles.
“Minor setback,” replied Lori cheerfully.
Cici ran a disapproving gaze over her daughter’s denim shorts, belly-skimming tank top and flip-flops. “You’re not going out to deliver fruitcakes dressed like that, are you?”
“Nope.” Lori nudged open the screen door with her hip and edged the basket through. She picked up a Santa hat from one of the rocking chairs and plopped it on her head, grinning at her mom. “Back in a flash.”
“That’s what Noah said two hours ago,” Lindsay muttered.
The cacophony of barking grew louder as the Prius glided silently to a stop in front of the steps, and Lori took advantage of the border collie’s frantic preoccupation to edge past him toward her own car. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Paul, Uncle Derrick! “ she called on her way past them. “I’m off to play Lady Bountiful. What did you bring me?”
Paul opened the passenger door and used it as a shield between himself and the dog to call back, “Cashmere!”
“Yay!”
Derrick opened the driver’s side door and added, “Diamonds!”
“Double Yay! Gotta run.” This was no exaggeration, as Rebel, having tired of charging the car, suddenly pricked up his ears and turned toward her. Lori hurried toward the safety of her own car, the basket banging against her knees.
“I hope you brought cooler weather!” Cici declared as she skipped down the steps to greet them.
“I hope you brought rum,” said Lindsay, right behind her.
Paul, a slim, salon-tanned man with perfectly coiffed silver hair and Ralph Lauren sunglasses, carefully checked for the whereabouts of the dog before emerging from behind the car door. He was wearing a tropical shirt, Bermuda shorts, and thong sandals, and Bridget laughed as she came down the steps behind the other two. “I thought you’d cancelled your trip to the Bahamas this year.”
“Had too, darling. Too bloody hot.” Derrick, similarly attired, closed his own door and came around the car. “Fortunately, we didn’t have to waste a perfectly good wardrobe.”
They embraced all around, and the two men started unloading bags from the car. “Actually, I did get Lori a cashmere sweater,” Paul confessed as he handed a double-handled Christmas bag filled with wrapped packages to Cici. “But in my defense, it was forty-two degrees when I bought it. Maybe she can exchange it for a bikini and a sunhat.”
“Well, I brought rum,” announced Derrick, passing an insulated cooler to Lindsay, “along with brandy, bourbon and all the fixings for my famous Southern Comfort eggnog—including, of course, Southern Comfort.”
“God bless you!” Lindsay said, hugging the cooler to her chest. “I’ll help you get it started.”
“Let them unpack first, for heaven’s sake.” Bridget peeked inside the gourmet market bag Paul passed her. “Oh my goodness, is that white truffle oil? And Egyptian dates?”
“Unpacking can wait,” Lindsay said, starting up the steps, “but the longer it takes to get this eggnog in the bowl, the less of it I get to drink. I’ll meet you in the kitchen, Derrick.”
“I guess I’d better hurry,” Derrick said, and flung the strap of his leather duffle over his shoulder. “Where is Noah?”
“We think he may have forgotten that Christmas was on the twenty-fifth this year,” Cici replied dryly. “he had a few last-minute errands.”
“Don’t hold it against him.” Paul took the remaining bags in hand and started up the steps with Bridget and Cici. “He’s a teenager. You’re lucky he remembered what month it is. The place looks nice, by the way, “ he added. “Why are all the lights on?”
“We were testing them.”
“You’ve got a string out.”
“I know,” Cici said. “You’ve been drafted to hold the ladder while I fix it.”
Bridget opened the screen door and paused at the threshold, sniffing the air. “Do you smell something burning?”
Cici edged in beside her. “That’s odd. You don’t suppose Ida Mae went off and left something baking, do you?”
Bridget left the packages on the table by the door and moved toward the kitchen. “Lindsay, is something in the oven?”
Lindsay came from the kitchen, her nose wrinkling. “I smell something burning.”
&
nbsp; Bridget hurried past her to check for herself.
Paul glanced around, sniffing the air. “Did you light candles?”
Derrick came from behind Lindsay, uncapping a bottle of whiskey. “Has anyone seen the bag with the--” He stopped and turned his nose to the air, glancing around. “What’s burning?”
Bridget came through the dining room, her face creased with anxiety. “Everything is off in the kitchen, and nothing is burned on the stove.”
“It’s not food,” Derrick insisted. “It’s more like candles.”
“Actually,” said Lindsay, “it’s more like when Noah was burning the grass off around the vineyard last spring. It’s like--”
“Oh my God.” Cici gripped Paul’s arm, staring with her expression frozen in horror up at the balcony. “It’s the upstairs Christmas tree!”
Even as she spoke, the fine film of smoke that had hovered over the balcony drifted into a patch of sunlight and became clearly visible to all. Cici dashed toward the stairs and Bridget cried, “Cici, be careful!” but she was close behind. “Don’t get burned!”
The tree was not yet blazing, but they both could clearly see the tendrils of smoke curling from its branches when they reached the balcony, and the pungence of evergreen was much stronger there. Cici lunged forward and Bridget caught her shirt. “You’ll catch on fire!”
“Everything will catch on fire if we don’t unplug those lights!”
Cici flung herself to the floor and yanked the plug from the wall, then quickly scooted back. “We need to wet it down,” she said, gasping as she got to her feet and backed away. “It’s going to go up any minute.”
“You can’t put water on an electrical fire!” Bridget said, coughing and waving at the smoke.