Catching Christmas

by Terri Blackstock

I meet with my client in a tiny interview room adjacent to the courtroom before we’re in session this morning. Court starts at eight thirty, and I’d asked him to be here at seven thirty, but he’s thirty minutes late. He looks like he has a hangover. His hair is greasy, and he’s unshaven and has dark circles under his eyes.

  But having already interviewed him several times, I was prepared for this. I hand him a bottle of Pedialyte—which I bought in the baby section of the grocery store. It’s for children with dehydration. “Drink this.”

  He grimaces. “I hate this stuff. Have you ever tasted it?”

  “Drink it, Steve. I’m serious.” I open the top. “Take the bottle and chug it. It’ll rehydrate you and help with your hangover. There’s a jury in there, and you’d better not look like you just crawled in from another party.”

  He takes the bottle and sips, then winces again.

  I dig into my bag and pull out some hair-styling gel I bought for this very purpose. “Put this in your hair so it looks like you care.”

  “I do care. Have you seen this scar on my face? Somebody’s got to pay for it.”

  I want to tell him that he’s responsible for the scar on his face, but then he’d call his father, who is in the gallery already, and he’d convince him I’m the wrong lawyer—which I am—and my job will be toast.

  “And they will pay. Really, I think this will look good on you. The jurors like people who are well groomed. Oh, and I brought an electric razor. Maybe you should shave.”

  “So you don’t think I’m well groomed?”

  Again I bite my tongue, and I don’t say that I’m sure he was well groomed right after the last time he showered. “Drink some more.”

  “Will I have to say anything today?”

  “No. We went over all this. You’re not testifying at all.”

  “Well, if somebody trashes me, I need to defend myself.”

  “That’s my job. Come on. Hair.”

  He sips some more of the Pedialyte, then squeezes a big glob of gel into his hair and sweeps it back with his fingers. It looks better. After he’s run the razor over his face, he still has the beginning of a beard, but it at least looks deliberate. There are a few young women on the jury—I made sure of it. They might like the look.

  He does have on a starched shirt, which I’m sure his mother arranged for. “Tuck the shirt in. You have a belt?”

  He grins. “You have one of those, too?”

  “No, I didn’t bring one.”

  He makes a sheeshing noise like he’s messing with me. “Yes. I have one on. But why do I have to tuck it? Even my professors don’t tuck their shirts in.”

  “There are some middle-aged people on the jury. You’re doing it for them.”

  I can’t believe his dad didn’t make him tuck it in already, but it’s clear that this kid calls the shots in his family and everyone falls into line. The man who runs a Fortune 500 company with thousands of employees can’t make his son tuck his shirt in.

  It’ll take all my wits to keep the jury from sensing that.

  He finally tucks it in, and he looks presentable. I’ve chosen not to put him in a suit and tie because I want him to look young and innocent. This might work if I can keep him from showing his true colors.

  CHAPTER 7

  Finn

  That young man is going to cheat on his wife.”

  Callie’s loud proclamation embarrasses me, but she isn’t speaking to me. She’s talking to the Macy’s salesclerk who’s helping her.

  The girl seems amused. “Why do you think so?”

  “Because she’s let herself go. Look at her! He’s a nice-looking man, and she hasn’t even washed her hair.”

  The woman with the greasy hair hears her and looks over, indignant. I step away from the wheelchair and pick up some towels as if I’m examining the thread count. The woman storms off, her husband trailing innocently behind her.

  The Christmas music piping over the speakers is too loud, playing some ridiculous version of “Deck the Halls.” Why can’t people just leave a good melody alone?

  “And those pants they wear are very unattractive,” Callie says. “Why would anyone want to wear elastic pants that show every dimple?”

  The clerk signals her coworker to get her to listen in. “They’re yoga pants.”

  “It’s like wearing your leotard out in public.”

  I step forward. “Are we finished here?”

  Callie looks up at me like she doesn’t recognize me.

  “Finn, the cab driver,” I say, and that smile takes over her face again. “Shouldn’t we go? We have other things on the list.”

  “The list?” Callie asks.

  I consider backing off and taking her home, but she’ll remember as soon as she sees that list again. It’s sticking up out of a pocket in her purse. I point to it. She grabs it and reads it. “A gift for Sydney. Did I get one?”

  “You bought something,” I say, lifting the bag. “I don’t know who it’s for. Who’s Sydney?”

  “My . . . uh . . . What was I saying?”

  “Who Sydney is. Your granddaughter?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  I wonder why Sydney isn’t the one taking her to the doctor and going shopping with her. I round a Christmas tree in our path and almost run into another one. How many ways do they really need to remind us of this season?

  Just as I’m eyeing the exit, the sound of Christmas carolers singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” distracts her. She tries to turn in her wheelchair to see them. “Oh, look. Aren’t they lovely?”

  Groaning, I turn and see that just outside the mall exit of the store, an ensemble of singers dressed in Victorian outfits are launching into a concert. Just my luck.

  “Let’s go see them!” Callie says, clapping her hands. “Oh, I love the singing!”

  I push her through the displays and cross the store to that exit. I park her in front of the singers. She sways in her chair, clapping her skinny hands with the song.

  There’s a coffee store behind us, so I leave Callie by the singers, hurry in, and order a coffee. I take my time fixing it, then I walk back over to Callie. She sees me coming and stops clapping to reach out for my cup. “Oh, you didn’t have to get me that. You’re such a sweet boy.”

  Reluctantly, I surrender the coffee and wonder if I should take the time to go back and get another one. But the singers end their little concert.

  “Ready to go now?” I ask her.

  She looks at me, confused. “I don’t know where my head is,” she says. “What did I buy?”

  I open the bag and show her.

  She looks disappointed. “Towels aren’t a good gift for her.”

  “You bought them.”

  “That won’t do. I have to get her something else. What’s a good gift?”

  It took her a half hour to find and buy the towels. Now she doesn’t want them? What am I supposed to do? Take them back before we’ve even left the store?

  “I don’t know anything about her,” I say. “But everyone needs towels.”

  “She deserves something special.”

  “Something special in this store, I hope. And if you make me help you pick out clothes, I’m going to hurl myself into the elevator shaft.”

  “What, dear?”

  “Nothing.”

  I wheel her around the home section, to the jewelry, the shoes, the purses. She doesn’t buy anything. I don’t even know if she’s still lucid.

  Finally, I convince her to go to the next place on her list. The towels will have to do. It isn’t like this Sydney person will hold it against her thousand-year-old grandmother if she doesn’t get her something she wants.

  Truth be told, this revered granddaughter doesn’t deserve anything, or Callie wouldn’t be with some random cab driver for the second day in a row.

  I get Callie out of the store and back to the cab. She’s waning by the time we reach the car. I wonder if she’s had breakfast.

  CHAPTE
R 8

  Finn

  Just what I need. Callie has fallen asleep in my back seat, and I have no idea where she wanted to go next.

  This is ridiculous. Even indulging in this fantasy of hers—that she can hire me all day to trot her all over town to buy gifts for people who may or may not even exist—is insane. I have to end it right now.

  I go around the block and head back to her house. I’m the one who needs to sleep. And so much for the rent money. Not only am I not going to get the day’s pay, I won’t even make what I usually do because I’ve been off the meter for half the morning.

  Life always turns out this way for me. Some people are given lemons and they make lemonade— and frankly, I detest those people—and some, like me, are given acorns, and unless you’re a squirrel or a Naked and Afraid contestant, they are pretty much useless.

  I reach Callie’s house and pull into the driveway. I look into the back seat. She’s still sleeping, her head back and her mouth hanging open. She’s going to get a neck cramp.

  Sighing, I turn off the meter. “Miss Callie?”

  No response. I try again. Still nothing. She doesn’t even flinch.

  Her face looks pale, and it occurs to me that she might be . . . No, she wouldn’t dare die in my back seat! I jump out, open the back door, and lean in. I shake her. “Miss Callie?”

  She stirs then, and I blow out a sigh of relief. “Miss Callie? Wake up. We’re here.”

  Her eyes come open, and she looks around, confused. Then she smiles up at me.

  “We’re at your house. I’ll get your wheelchair.” I get her chair, and when I’m back at her door, she’s digging through her purse. I don’t know if she’s thinking about paying me, but I highly doubt it. But while she’s in there, I might as well try.

  “Ma’am, that fare is twenty-two dollars. Eleven for taking you to the mall, and another eleven to come back.” I should add on the time in between spent walking around Macy’s, but it would be too complicated to explain to her.

  “Oh yes,” she says, pulling out an oversize wallet. She opens the coin purse and digs through, pulling out a few quarters.

  “No, ma’am. It’s twenty-two dollars. I doubt you have all that in change.”

  She looks embarrassed and opens the billfold part. She pulls out two twenties and hands them to me. “I don’t have change.”

  “I’ll get it,” I tell her.

  She grabs my hand. “It’s all right, sweet boy. You keep it. Buy something nice.”

  Like shelter? I want to say. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  I help her out. She leans on me as I maneuver her into the wheelchair. I wheel her up to her door. “Your key?”

  “Oh yes.” She plunges into her nightmare of a purse again, and I cringe at the sound of useless items rattling against each other. “I’m afraid I can’t find it,” she says finally. “It’s not in here.”

  Dread twists in my gut again. “May I look?”

  She looks a little suspicious, but I don’t care. I pull her purse open as wide as I can get it and look past the wallet and checkbook, the hairbrush and lipsticks.

  There are no keys. “Are you kidding me?” I mutter. “Seriously? You came away without your keys?” I open the screen door and try the doorknob, but it’s locked. I locked it myself. Why didn’t I check to make sure she had her key?

  “Miss Callie, are you sure you don’t have keys in a pocket somewhere? Maybe you dropped them into your shopping bag?” I grab the bag hanging on the handle of the chair and look into it. Nope.

  I’m ready to kick something, but I don’t want to frighten her into a heart attack. What am I going to do now?

  She’s distracted by the weeds in her garden now, as if she’s already forgotten that she lost her key.

  “Miss Callie, do you have your granddaughter’s phone number anywhere?”

  “What? Oh yes. Somewhere.”

  “How do you get in touch with her when you need her?”

  “In touch with who?”

  “Your granddaughter. What’s her name again? Sydney?”

  “Yes, Sydney.”

  “I need a phone number.”

  The distressed look on Callie’s face makes me regret my harsh tone. She can’t help this. It isn’t her fault. It’s LuAnn’s. She should have sent Lamar instead of putting me through this again. I’m going to get ulcers.

  This isn’t accomplishing anything. She doesn’t know where her keys are, we’re locked out, and Sydney is a world away since I don’t know her last name and have no way of finding her.

  I turn Callie’s chair around and push her back toward the cab.

  “Where are we going?” she asks.

  “I would love to know that myself.” I help her back into the cab and roughly collapse the chair again. “Somebody is going to have to pay for this,” I mutter. “This is my work. I don’t do it for my health. I do it to put a roof over my head.”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. I put the chair back in the trunk. Acorns. Once again, I’m stuck with acorns instead of lemons. Congratulations to all those who get lemons. You could make lemonade out of that, and lemon icebox pie, and lemon bars, and lemon chicken. You could season with it and add it to other dishes. You could use the juice on fish and steak.

  But acorns . . .

  I back out of the driveway and start my meter running again.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sydney

  The college culture today is not about education,” I say to the jury. They look alert and interested in the handsome boy behind the plaintiff’s table. “It’s not about career training. It’s not about learning. It’s not about starting the path to your future. Instead, it’s about drinking and partying and frat hazings and hookups. College has taught these kids that they’re entitled, and that it’s all about having fun instead of preparing for a productive life. And my client, Steve Darco, is a victim of that culture.”

  The jury seems locked into what I’m saying. I stayed at the office most of the night, practicing this opening statement. I had no desire to go back to the office after getting Grammy into bed, but I knew I had to so the partners would hear about my commitment. I didn’t get home until two a.m.

  I wonder if I should even keep my house. Maybe I just need to move in with her.

  “Yes, I’m sure Mr. Renzo will call him a partier. He’s eighteen. His father and mother sent him to college, trusting that he would be taken care of on campus. Trusting that the university could protect him. But they didn’t.”

  The words couldn’t be further from what I really believe. I don’t like victimhood, and I hate excuses, and I know the college isn’t any more responsible for his behavior than the Burger King is. But I have a job to do, and that is to keep this kid from shouldering the blame.

  When I’m finished, I take my seat next to Steve. He grins and punches a fist at me, as if I’m going to fist bump him right in front of the jury. I look down at my notes and pretend I didn’t see it.

  God, help me.

  The attorney for the college gets up and starts his completely logical spiel, expressing everything I really think.

  “Do you remember the lady who sued McDonald’s because her coffee was too hot?” he asks the jury. “This case is just that ludicrous. Young Mr. Darco brings two kegs to the third floor of the Jameson dorm, and a thousand dollars’ worth of liquor, breaking the school’s rules.” He goes back to his table as he speaks, and picks up a sheet of paper. “This is the form he signed before moving in, where this rule is spelled out. Then he leaves the campus, drunk, in his car, and crashes the vehicle into the Burger King, and we’re supposed to agree that the university is liable for this? Are you kidding me?”

  I sigh and Steve whispers, “Dude, that’s harsh.” He looks back at his parents sitting behind us, as if his dad will stand up and tell the attorney to pipe down.

  I don’t let myself roll my eyes.

  “Can’t you object?” he whispers. “The whole BK thing is a separate act.” />
  I shake my head. “It’s the event we’re accusing the college of causing.” I hate myself for saying those words.

  “They did cause it,” Steve says.

  I wish I could go home and take a nap. It’s going to be a long day.

  CHAPTER 10

  Finn

  I’m stuck with Callie. What am I supposed to do? Move the woman into my apartment if we can’t get in touch with her AWOL granddaughter? If I have to break a window to get her inside her house before day’s end, I will.

  But right now, I have to deal with it. I’m sure Callie hasn’t eaten, so I’ll have to feed her. And what about her medication? Is it in her purse? Does she need any now?

  Where can I take her? I don’t even know if someone her age would eat something from Arby’s or McDonald’s. This is going to be a long, drawn-out thing, and I won’t be able to keep my meter running. This day is just getting better and better.

  I try to think where someone like Callie might eat. My mother used to go to Lulu’s a lot. It’s a cafeteria-style joint that old people love. There’s one not far from here. I drive there and pull into the parking lot, but when I try to get Callie out, she’s sleeping so deeply that I hate to wake her.

  Her list is peeking out of the top of her purse, so I pull it out. She’s written, “Dry Cleaners, Bank,” and some things that don’t register with me.

  Was she even in her right mind when she wrote the list? I groan and sit down on the back seat next to her. I peek into her purse again, careful not to stick my hands in it. You don’t stick your hands in a woman’s purse, I learned long ago. They have stuff in it they don’t want you to see. Primping tools and breath mints and wadded receipts, makeup and hairbrushes and big fat wallets, bricks and whatnot. There’s no telling what someone her age has in that thing. It could be forty years of accumulated detritus.

  I see two medicine bottles crammed at the top. I glance up, making sure she’s sleeping soundly enough that she won’t spring awake the second I pull them out. Wincing, I reach in without looking—as if turning my head makes my invasion of her private things okay—and I grab the bottles. I pull them out and read the labels.