by Judith Ivie
Interspersed with these august structures were the various establishments that made up the Old Wethersfield business district. I experienced a brief pang as I drove by the Law Barn, which until recently had housed MACK Realty and my daughter Emma's place of employment. Emma, a real estate paralegal, and her lawyer boss Isabel had responded to the market slide by downsizing to a two-person office in Glastonbury. Now a Space to Let sign swung forlornly in the chilly breeze outside the empty building. After that came Blades Salon, Antiques on Main, Mainly Tea, the Webb-Deane-Stevens Museum, and an assortment of small businesses, including a travel agency, bakery and the Village Diner.
Parking along Old Main Street could be difficult later in the day, but finding a spot was easy at this hour. I snugged the Jetta against the curb and dashed into the diner, where the mingled aromas of hot coffee and cinnamon something washed over me. Deenie, the chronically harassed college student who filled all of the diner's take-out orders during the morning shift, greeted me. “Morning, Kate. Just coffee, or is this an off-your-diet day? The sticky buns are nice and fresh.”
As often as not, I gave in to temptation, but not this morning. “Just coffee today, Deenie. Don't want to be late for my new job.”
She grinned at me and went to fill a large paper cup with the diner's special brew. “Yeah, I heard Sister Marguerite talked you into helping out with the UCC fundraiser this year. A big to-do at the Wadsworth, visit from Santa and all that, isn't it? Better you than me. I helped out with that a couple of years ago. All those lah-de-dah women expecting to be treated like royalty.” She rolled her eyes while I tried not to look discomfited. Sister Marguerite had omitted any mention of egocentric donors. I smiled weakly and handed Deenie the exact amount, which I knew from long experience.
“Well, it's only for a couple of weeks. How bad could it be?” I made a hasty exit before she could tell me.
Today's priority was a full run-through of Thursday evening's event. Despite the surface confusion of yesterday's meeting, I felt certain that the chaos had been organized. After all, this wasn't the first such fundraiser these people had orchestrated. They had been through it all before, probably dozens of times. No doubt my own unfamiliarity with the proceedings had been the source of my misgivings. I would get up to speed this morning.
Accordingly, I parked and locked the Jetta a bit closer to the Cathedral than I had the previous morning and joined the parade of volunteers moving purposefully through a rear entrance to St. Joseph's and into the lower church. I looked around curiously. To my untutored eyes, even this lower space looked pretty grand. Row after row of pews were interspersed with wide aisles. A full altar stood at the front of the space, and a smaller, separate seating area occupied the space to the right. A simple altar and what looked to be a baptismal font were located there. The main nave upstairs with its towering ceiling and huge, stained glass windows must be dazzling. At some point, I hoped to glimpse the world-renowned pipe organ, dubbed “The Mighty Austin,” that distinguished musicians flocked to play in a series of concerts offered by the Cathedral throughout the year.
I watched parishioners dipping their fingers into bowls of holy water, then crossing themselves in the age-old Catholic ritual. My lack of participation seemed to cause no consternation, and I soon realized that I had plenty of non-Catholic company among the volunteers. Apparently, this meeting was as ecumenical as the UCC itself. I knew that previous meetings had been held at other churches and synagogues throughout the region.
“Okay, boys and girls, let's get this show on the road.” Sister Marguerite addressed the group of perhaps fifty with her customary lack of pretense. “Shirley, who called this meeting, and what are we supposed to be doing again?” Her little joke drew appreciative chuckles. Then the staff and volunteers fell silent and prepared to concentrate.
“As you've probably noticed, we're missing a few folks today. This year's strain of flu has begun eating into our numbers, and from the coughing and sniffling I'm hearing out there, I'm very much afraid that we'll be down a few more by tomorrow.” We looked around nervously. I had indeed heard the phlegmy evidence of contagious virus and shrank instinctively a bit farther from my pew-mates. The last thing I needed at this moment was the flu. “So the first order of business is to recruit more volunteers. We can't have our prestigious guests scavenging for food and drink at the buffet table tomorrow evening. We need wait-staff to pass things around and charm the money out of their pockets. If you have any friends or relatives available, get them on the phone as soon as we adjourn and line ‘em up.”
Immediately, I thought of Margo and Strutter. We were meeting for dinner this very evening, and I would beg for their help on Sister Marguerite's behalf. Strutter was already acquainted with James O’Halloran, having sold him and his wife a house a couple of years ago, and Margo … well, Margo was always up for a good time, even if she had to pass a few canapés in the process. As for beguiling the guests, my partners were unsurpassed in that area. I made a note.
An hour later, we had been given our marching orders and dispersed as quickly as we had gathered. The schedule for Thursday evening had been confirmed, and each person in the room had his or her role down pat. As I had suspected, this was old hat to most of these folks. Because the Atheneum would already be decorated to the hilt with the fabulous trees, wreaths, and more whimsical decorations of the season contributed by organizations throughout Greater Hartford to support the Atheneum's own fundraising efforts, the UCC would have to add little to the ambience. A committee of experienced decorators would add the final touches to the refreshment tables early in the day.
By mid-afternoon, all of the auction and raffle prizes would be artfully displayed along a long wall near the open bar. “Ladle the punch liberally, remember,” Sister Marguerite admonished. “Show them a good time, and their wallets will practically fall open by themselves. But keep a close eye on them as they head out the door. Our famous Christmas punch is well spiked, and we don't want to send any inebriates out into the streets. Just call Jimmy's Cab Service, and he'll send around one of his boys to drive the over-enthusiastic imbibers home safely.”
At five-thirty, the doors would officially open, and platters of mouth-watering hors d'oeuvres would be circulated by the volunteer waiters. A popular senior citizens chorus would provide twenty minutes of seasonal selections, ending with “Here Comes Santa Claus.” This was the cue for James O’Halloran, in full Santa Claus regalia, to make his entrance and distribute the goody bags which had already been packed into a large sack that would be smuggled into the Wadsworth well ahead of time.
“It's crazy and chaotic, but somehow I have confidence that we'll pull this off,” I told Armando on the phone after work. At the sight of me coming into the living room, Jasmine perked up, but when she realized Armando wasn't behind me, she sighed and dropped her chin back onto her front paws. Her eyes were half open, and she looked, well, sad.
As if reading my mind, Armando asked, “How is Jasmine doing?” The two had formed such a strong emotional attachment to each other since Armando had moved in the previous autumn, Jasmine had all but abandoned me. I was okay for the mundane caregiver duties such as feeding and litter box cleaning, but she chose to spend her true quality time with Armando. This was facilitated by our separate-bedroom arrangement, which we had agreed was absolutely necessary for middle-aged, stuck-in-our ways housemates. For the last year, Jasmine had spent her nights sleeping in the crook of Armando's arm, thriving under his gentle stroking, while Simon, growing slowly weaker and sicker from kidney and thyroid ailments, had nestled close to me under the covers.
“She's okay physically,” I told Armando now, “but I think she's depressed. Losing Simon was bad enough, but now that you're gone …” I changed gears, not wanting to distress him. “Anyway, she's sitting right here next to me. Guess she figures I'm better than nothing. So how are things going there?”
Quickly, he filled me in. Then, “I am sorry to have to cut our conversation
short, Mia, but there is a working dinner this evening, and I must go now to get there on time.” I rolled my eyes. Promptness was not one of Armando's strong points. “We will speak again tomorrow. So, do you have big plans while I am safely out of the way?”
“As a matter of fact, I have a dinner date of my own,” I teased him, “with Margo and Strutter. It seems like forever since I've seen them. When we all worked together, it was easy to keep up with each other's lives, but now I feel as if we're drifting apart.”
Although I knew he understood my melancholy, Armando had little time to reassure me. “That will change, you know that. This downfalling in the real estate market cannot last forever.” Despite twenty years in the U. S. , Armando still had a little trouble with English idioms.
“I know, you're right. We'll all be back together soon, chatting up a storm over morning coffee. Besides, I plan to rope them into helping with the gala tomorrow night. So run along and make some money. One of us has to be steadily employed.” I made kissing noises and disconnected. “Well, old girl, how does some water-packed tuna fish sound for your dinner?” Apparently, the proposed menu didn't appeal to Jasmine as much as sleeping, and once again her eyelids drooped shut. I made a mental note to try to tempt her appetite again before bedtime and went off to meet my friends for dinner.
The early crowd at Vito's was in full swing, but Margo and Strutter had saved me a seat at the small bar in the front room. Despite her relatively casual attire, Margo was the epitome of chic, blonde elegance, and Strutter's darker Jamaican beauty glowed in the dim overhead lighting. Each of them routinely lit up any room she was in, but together, they were amazing. I smiled at the sight of them, and they seemed just as glad to see me. It had been too long.
“Married life seems to be agreeing with you,” I observed, giving Margo a quick hug. The previous New Year's Eve, she had married Wethersfield's handsome chief of homicide, John Harkness, changing his entire demeanor from dour to dynamic. Though we would never express it to Margo, our fear had been that just one man, even one as impressive as Lieutenant Harkness, wouldn't be able to sustain the interest of our libidinous Southern belle, but so far, she all but purred with contentment. “How is your gorgeous new daughter?” I greeted Strutter before hopping onto the barstool they had saved between them. Margo ordered me a glass of shiraz, and Strutter wasted no time producing a handful of photos of baby Olivia, who had arrived late last spring to the delight of her husband, another John, and her thirteen-year-old son Charlie, the only good thing that had come from a disastrous early liaison.
“Not just gorgeous,” Strutter amended as Margo hung over my shoulder to get a look. “I can already tell this girl is going to be hell on wheels, smart and funny and manipulative, whoooeee! Just like Emma but with a better tan,” she winked at me. “She has had my husband and son eating out of her hand since they first laid eyes on her, and do you know? She's already pushing with those fat little legs to stand up. I am in such trouble.” She grinned to let us know she didn't really mind.
Margo wasn't a baby person, nor was I, but we couldn't help but enjoy our friend's obvious pride in her new offspring. Early in her pregnancy Strutter had been worried that her new husband, who was in his early fifties, wouldn't welcome a new arrival. He soon set her straight, and from that point on, Olivia may have set a new record for being the most eagerly anticipated baby in Connecticut.
“It's for certain that girl is goin’ to break more than a few hearts,” Margo observed. “Takes right after her mama with those big, blue eyes and dimples and that amazin’ milk chocolate complexion. Makes me regret bein’ Caucasian. Think she'll be able to master that hip-swingin’ sashay of yours?” Strutter's sexy walk was the reason behind her sobriquet.
“Don't you worry. It's a Jamaican thing. It's in our genes,” Strutter assured her. She returned the photos to her purse with a final pat. “So what's going on with you two?”
We carried our glasses into the main dining area and secured a booth at the back, the better to catch up on each other's lives. By the time our orders arrived, we had pretty well covered the progress of sales at Vista View, the retirement community our realty firm still represented, albeit from Margo's living room these days; Margo's blissful adjustment to married life with her handsome police lieutenant; and Strutter's consternation at how much she had forgotten about dealing with an infant, let alone the challenges presented by her son Charlie, now a teenager. “So how are you and Armando managing under the same roof?” Strutter wanted to know. “Is the honeymoon over?”
After five years of dating, Armando and I had moved in together a little more than a year ago. To everyone's amazement, including our own, neither of us had yet killed the other. We had known going in that however much we loved each other, the fact that we were both strong-willed, independent, middle-aged adults who had enjoyed our own spaces for more than a decade apiece would call for a major adjustment.
“I'm not saying we haven't had a spat or two,” I began, but Margo snorted into her wineglass. It was one of her less attractive mannerisms, since it usually signaled her complete disavowal of whatever I was saying.
“Knock down, drag out fights, would be more accurate,” she contradicted me now, and Strutter giggled. “We lived through them with you, remember?”
“Okay, okay,” I capitulated, “a couple of yelling matches, maybe, but it never got physical. It's not easy living with a man again after all these years, especially a Colombian packrat whose relationship with time is entirely different than mine.”
“We're with you about livin’ with a man, Sugar, but you're on your own with the packrat who's always late thing,” Margo compromised, and Strutter nodded her agreement. The two of them would make a compelling argument for matrimony. Margo, who had been not-so-discreetly lascivious for as long as I'd know her exuded contentment with her role as Mrs. John Harkness, and new mother Strutter, all shiny eyed and glowing, was the picture of domesticated bliss. She munched thoughtfully on a mouthful of pizza.
“How are things going with the new job?”
“Temporary job,” I corrected her swiftly. “I'm so glad you asked.” Between mouthfuls of my excellent chicken Caesar salad, I filled them in on the happenings at the UCC and the plans for the fundraiser at the Wadsworth the following evening. “I'm telling you, I have a whole new respect for people who raise money for a living. It was tough enough before the economy hit the skids, but now everyone has to work twice as hard just to keep basic services afloat. The commitment of these people is simply amazing, and they do it for salaries that would make our old legal secretarial pay look like casino jackpots.”
A few years back, the three of us had worked at a prestigious law firm supporting some of the rudest, crudest, most expensive attorneys in the business. Our shared disenchantment had prompted us to leave the firm and open MACK Realty.
“It has to be tough,” Strutter agreed. “Is the gala at the Wadsworth coming together?”
“Despite all odds, it is, but as of today we have a new problem. The flu has taken out a dozen or so of our volunteer wait staff, with who knows how many more to follow in the next twenty-four hours.” I grinned at my best friends in the world, who surely knew what was coming. “So what are your plans for tomorrow evening?”
“Ooooh, really?” Margo squealed. “You know there's just nothin’ in the world I enjoy more than rubbin’ elbows with the filthy rich.” Then she narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. “What's the catch? Do I have to hide in the kitchen and wash dishes?”
Strutter laughed. “She'll probably have us slaving away over a hot dishpan all night, and we won't get so much as a glimpse of the movers and shakers.”
I widened my eyes. “Would I do that to you?” They both nodded vigorously. “Let me rephrase that. Would I do that to you on just one day's notice? Now that would truly not be nice.”
Strutter helped herself to more pizza. Margo took a sip of wine and arched an eyebrow.
“Okay, I'll spell it o
ut. All you have to do is show up an hour ahead of time wearing black pants and a white blouse. A fancy caterer will shove silver trays loaded with to-die-for canapés at you and send you into the main room to circulate. You can have all the free samples you want. Open bar. No dishwashing.” I waited. “Would you like that in writing?”
Big grins. “I'm in,” Strutter answered. “John and Charlie can take over babysitting duties for a while. I just hope I still remember how to make conversation with adults.” I was delighted for the UCC and for Strutter. If new motherhood was still anything like it used to be, she could use a night out, and this promised to be an interesting evening for all of us.
Three
Although I'm not a religious person, I really don't object to Christmas in principle, I reflected as I dodged through the morning commuter traffic on Thursday. In fact, I enjoy the holiday in small doses. I'm especially partial to the decorations and music that accompany the season. I don't even object to the exchange of gifts within reason. My dread springs from the early years of my marriage. I hated having Christmas shoved down my throat not only by the media and the retail establishment, but also by my Midwestern in-laws who were a part of the package deal when I married Michael.
Left to my own devices, I actually would have enjoyed celebrating the season with Emma and Joey, introducing them to the spirit of the holiday through books, music, playing Secret Santa, exchanging small gifts, decorating, and maybe even doing some modest entertaining. It was the relentlessness of the thing that got my back up. It seemed as though everything from late October through early January was focused on buying, consuming, and attending things related to the omnipresent holiday, as if it were somehow un-American to turn one's thoughts elsewhere for the duration.