The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “Then change it,” Esme says. “I run a business of my own. The reason I stay in business is because I listen to my customers. I give them what they want.”

  Kilburn brings up her chin. “Not possible. Even if I wanted to expand, we don’t have the capacity. We’re behind production as it is.”

  Exactly the opening I was hoping for. The reason we’re here. I pass her the prospectus Audrey, Nelson, and I put together last month for Canine Cuisine. Everything’s in there. Factory specs, estimated costs of operation, labor pool, transportation, tax incentives, lease terms.

  I give her a quick overview of what the town of Eaton can offer Beyond Beauty, then I sweeten the deal. “If you commit to the space within the next seventy-two hours, I’ll commit the $100,000 prize money—if we win it—to fitting out the space for you.”

  Beside me, I hear Audrey take a sharp breath. Therese looks horrified. So do Susan and Esme.

  But it’s Patricia Kilburn I watch. She tilts her head and looks at me. “You’d do that?”

  “I would.”

  “The press will eviscerate you.”

  “Maybe. But they’ll love you. You’ll look like a hero. You can put together some kind of a statement about how moved you were by the efforts of my community. How you recognized that size shouldn’t be a barrier to anything. How you’re revamping your collection to make it available to all women. It’s a great PR move. Your sales will skyrocket. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

  Kilburn softly drums her nails over the prospectus.

  “Look,” I say, “I’m a small-town mayor. I’m not trying to broker peace in the Middle East. We’re talking about clothes here. But if I can be part of something that helps ensure people are treated equally, I’d consider that a pretty major victory.”

  “I do treat people equally.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. You have a snarling wolf in your window display. If that’s not meant to keep out undesirables, I don’t know what is.”

  Kilburn meets my gaze for a long moment.

  I push harder. “Let’s not over-complicate it, all right? I have a factory I need to lease, you have an entire segment of the population you’re turning away. This is a win-win for us both.”

  She’s on the verge of saying yes. I can feel it. But at the last minute she expels a sigh and shakes her head.

  “Thank you, Mayor Presley, but I’m not interested. It’s too risky.”

  “Too risky? How?”

  “I have a core consumer I have to please. My base clientele. They have certain expectations. I can’t alter my product line in a way that might risk alienating them.”

  It’s all I can do not to let my shoulders slump. Damn. We were so close. I open my mouth to make another pitch, but she shakes me off.

  “Next customer, please.”

  She tries to return the prospectus to me, but I won’t take it. “Keep it. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I won’t. Next customer!”

  And just like that, we’re dismissed. Except my feet won’t move. Not yet.

  “You really think beauty stops at size twelve?” I shake my head. “I’m sorry if I offended you when I thought you were a man. But normally only someone with a pair of testicles between their legs can make an assumption that stupid.”

  There’s a knock on my door a little after eight o’clock. I pause the movie I’m watching. Roll off the couch and shuffle to the door. I assume it’s Matthew, home early from a night Christmas shopping with Ed and he forgot his key.

  Instead I find Mike Capella standing on my stoop.

  “Hey! I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  My hand moves automatically to my hair, which I’m sure is a rat’s nest. Probably safe to assume there’s a pillow imprint on my cheek, too. I haven’t left the sofa since I got home from the mall.

  He says, “I ran in Nelson Davis at the grocery store.”

  Ugh. Which means he heard about the whole debacle with Beyond Beauty. I widen the door and step back. Nevermind how awful I look. I could use a little consoling right about now.

  “Come on in,” I say.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  I look at Mike. There’s not just tension in his voice. There’s simmering anger in his expression. I snatch my coat off the rack by the door, slip it on, and join him on the stoop.

  “What’s going on?”

  He presses his lips together. Shakes his head. “You know, when I told my family and friends I was dating the town mayor, they all got a kick out of it. Laughed and told me it couldn’t last. ‘She’s a politician,’ they said. But I said, ‘Oh, no. This one’s different. Trust me. She’s not like the rest of them. She knows how to keep her word.’”

  My stomach clenches. My offer to commit the potential prize money to Beyond Beauty. “Mike, listen—”

  “You made a promise, Rachel. To me, to those kids, to this community. You gave your word that the prize money would go to the schools.”

  “I know. And in a perfect world, it would.”

  “Oh, that’s clever. In a perfect world? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’m sorry to disillusion you, Mike. But I’m an adult with real responsibilities and real pressures. You can’t have your little playground equipment if it costs this community two hundred and fifty new jobs.”

  I made a mistake letting Canine Cuisine get away. I’m not making that same mistake again.

  He lets out a breath. “Okay. I get it now. This is about Alper, isn't it? He brought in Bobo’s Bargain Chimpanzees, or whatever the hell that was, and you’re trying to one up him by bringing the town a better lease.”

  “Yes, but not the way you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, really? What am I thinking?”

  “That trying to sign Beyond Beauty was some cheap campaign stunt.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “Of course not! If you believe it was, then you don’t know a damned thing about politics. No wonder you got your ass handed to you in D.C.!”

  It’s a cheap shot, but I’m angry, and Mike’s snuck in a few low blows of his own.

  I say, “A campaign stunt? Really? Take a second to think about that. You know what Pat Kilburn said to me when I offered her the prize money? She said the press would eviscerate me. She’s right. And if you think that’ll be bad, what do you think my own constituents will do to me? You think I’ll stand a chance in hell of being elected once that’s widely known?”

  “Then why’d you do it?”

  “Because I’m mayor. That’s why. I’m mayor. Every decision I make has to be for the good of this community. That’s my job. Even if that means making the hard, unpopular decisions that will get me kicked out of office. I don’t have the luxury of hoping people like me. I have to do what’s right.”

  “Great speech. But there’s one problem with it. How is going back on your word the right thing to do?”

  “Do you think ten years from now people will remember the installation of a rock-climbing wall? Maybe, maybe not. But they will remember the opening of Bobo’s Bargain Basement, particularly if it’s cited so close to our downtown corridor that it drives all the mom and pop stores out of business. Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled Bobo wants to come to Eaton. But let him park his store out near the other big box retailers near the mall. That’s only fair.”

  Mike tries to object, but I won’t let him. I drag in a breath and continue.

  “A manufacturer like Beyond Beauty brings skilled jobs, decent wages, and economic stability, which means in a few years those kids you’re trying to protect won’t just have a rock-climbing wall. They’ll have a rock-climbing wall, a new gymnasium, and maybe even a new library. I might even get Eaton’s damned potholes fixed before they become sinkholes. I just can’t do it all right now.”

  He gives me a hard look. “So you’re saying, breaking your word was the right thing to do.”

  “In this case, yes.”

  “In this
case.” He shakes his head. Looks away. “Tell me, did it work? Did Kilburn sign the lease?”

  I grind my teeth in frustration. He talked to Nelson. He knows the answer to that as well as I do.

  We’re both silent for a long beat. It’s cold out. Frigid, really. Tiny glistening icicles drape from my gutters.

  Mike returns his gaze to mine. “You remember that night in the church basement, when we were stuffing food donation boxes. You told me it was too late to put your promise in writing, but not to worry about it. If we shook on it, your word was good.”

  “Mike—”

  “I was right to flinch. I should have gotten it in writing.”

  He turns and walks away.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Are you gonna answer your phone?”

  “Wha?”

  I sit up in bed. Blink my eyes into focus as I try to make sense of the question. It’s still dark out. Feels like I just fell asleep. I glance at my bedside clock. Six-thirteen on a Sunday morning. A bleary-eyed Matthew stands in my bedroom doorway in his boxer shorts, my cell phone in his hand.

  “You left it in the kitchen last night,” he tells me. “It won’t stop ringing.”

  My lungs constrict. This can’t be good. Good news doesn’t arrive at six-thirteen on a Sunday morning. My parents? Therese? Ed? I take the phone from Matthew and punch a button.

  “Hello?” I croak.

  It’s Audrey. My expression must immediately go grim, because Matthew doesn’t leave.

  He waits until I’ve hung up to ask, “What’s wrong?”

  Church Street. The water main broke. The whole area’s flooded.

  The festive greenery is gone. So are the bright, multi-colored lights. The candy cane street lamps and the jolly inflatable snowmen. The enormous ornaments and the red-nosed reindeer. Some quick-thinking public works employees managed to salvage the barrels that held the food and gift donations, but everything else got swept away.

  On the bright side, it happened at roughly four o’clock this morning, so no one was around. It’s all property damage, no personal injuries. On the dark side, it looks like a tsunami rolled through. All the shop windows are streaked with mud. The power’s out. Ice and sludge are everywhere. Huge excavators are clawing through dirt and asphalt to get to the water main in order to install a temporary fix.

  I barely suppress a shudder. Eaton’s pride and joy. Our downtown core. Where the media is supposed to congregate tomorrow evening to celebrate our little town’s forthcoming triumph. Which is a far cry from a sure thing, but that doesn’t really matter, because all of it is ruined now anyway.

  Esme, Nelson, and their girls arrive with buckets of soapy water and begin to scrub down the Queen of Tarts. So do other tenants. Despite the bitter cold, streams of people arrive to help. Matthew bundled up and came downtown with me. He’s pitching in and so are some of his friends. They’re gathering up trash, shoveling away mud and muck. I know I should help, too, but misery has me frozen in place.

  I knew there was a problem with the water line but I kept pushing it off. I’d worry about it later. I was focused on leasing the factory. Winning the challenge. Campaigning for mayor. In short, I was doing everything except what I was supposed to be doing.

  Ratnor comes up to stand beside me. Ratnor. On the list of people I want to talk to right now, he comes in dead last. I tense up, waiting for him to scold me. For him to tell me, I told you so.

  He doesn’t. Finally, I can’t stand waiting anymore so I do it for him.

  “I should have made fixing the water main a priority. I should have found a way to squeeze some money out of the budget and fixed it when you told me to. Go ahead. Say it.”

  Ratnor looks a me. Looks back at the mess.

  “I guess you just did.”

  I sigh.

  “Tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve. I’ll never get it put back together in time.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Another lengthy pause, then he says, “Doesn’t matter, though.”

  “Doesn’t matter? The press will be here tomorrow night. People are turning out in huge numbers for the weigh-in. How’s this going to look?”

  Another thoughtful pause. Ratnor glances at me, then turns his attention back to Church Street.

  “Looks to me like most of the reporters are already here. And they don’t seem too bothered by any of it.”

  Frowning, I give it another look. Yes, we’ve got friends and families here, people from Eaton pitching in to help each other out like we always do. But mixed in among the locals are the reporters who’ve been following me around ever since this challenge began. They’ve ditched their gear, rolled up their sleeves, and are helping clean up. No microphones or cameras, which may be why I didn’t recognize them at first.

  Ratnor says, “I talked to a lot of those folks. They’re bringing their families here for Christmas. Said they don’t care one way or another what happens at Jym’s weigh-in. They want to show their kids what a small town Christmas feels like.”

  A shiver rushes through me and it’s not from the cold.

  “Is that right?” I say.

  “Next couple of days, they just want to be in Eaton, celebrating the holiday with us. Right here in this town. That’s what it’s about, after all.”

  He gestures toward Church Street. “They don’t care about reindeer, or dancing penguins, or twinkly lights. They want to see us.”

  Oh. My. God.

  How could I have missed it? How could I have been so dense?

  “Audrey!” I shout.

  It’s early. She hasn’t gotten dressed yet. She’s wearing red rubber boots, parakeet pajamas, and a faux zebra skin coat. My favorite outfit yet.

  “Audrey!”

  “Yeah?” She straightens and looks at me. She’s got mud smeared across her cheeks.

  “Call Georgia Jones. Tell her to open her sign shop! Tell her we need some custom banners made, pronto!”

  “Now?”

  “Now!”

  I’m as giddy as Ebenezer Scrooge when the old miser realized it wasn’t over. He still had time to get his ducks in a row. The final bell hadn’t rung. I spy Hank Bixby and grab him by the arm.

  “Hank, does your brother-in-law still work for that seafood distributor?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “See if he can bring us some ice. Big, thick blocks of it. A truckload or two at least.”

  “Seems to me we’ve got plenty of ice here, Mayor.”

  “Not even close. We need more. Lots more.”

  He looks at me like I’m cracking up. Maybe I am.

  “Just do it, okay?”

  He shrugs. “You’re in charge.”

  Damn straight. Put that on a bun and eat it, Councilman Alper. I race off in search of the Pardoe Brothers.

  Christmas Eve.

  Church Street has been repaired. Well, almost repaired. No time to lay a new coat of asphalt, but the water main’s been patched and the hole’s been filled. The mud’s been shoveled away, the shops are wiped down, and a fresh, level coat of dirt covers the street. A dusting of snow lies on top of that.

  The whole thing is blocked to vehicular traffic, which means I get my pedestrian mall after all. At least for tonight. Perfect timing, because we’ve drawn quite a crowd.

  Everyone is oohing and ahhing over what they see.

  Us.

  Life-sized ice sculptures of the people of Eaton. Maybe three dozen of us, scattered along the eight blocks that make up the downtown core. All courtesy of the Pardoe brothers. Ice isn’t really their medium, but they did a fantastic job nonetheless.

  There’s Fred Stone, with his ball cap and rounded belly. One of the yoga moms, looking sleek and energetic. Bespeckled Juan Gomez, who owns the flower shop. Esme, frozen in the act of passing out a cupcake. Turban-wearing Mr. Singh, who runs the local taxi and shuttle service. Chelsea Jaden, town librarian, with Coco, the spaniel mutt who trails her everywhere. Mort Lear, who volunteers every Wednesday at the Veteran’s home.<
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  Not everyone is so easily identifiable. Some of us blur and blend. Maybe the Pardoe brothers ran out of time, or maybe it’s an artistic choice. A reflection of how we used to look in the past, how we might look in the future. (There’s a boy and a girl running hand-in-hand, their shape and features left deliberately indistinct, so nearly every child in Eaton can believe he or she was chosen as the model.)

  We’re big and tall, short and small. Bearded and smooth-cheeked, curly-haired and bald. Thin and thick, old and young. But no matter what shape or size, all of us are lit from within. A battery powered light is nestled in the base of each sculpture. We literally glow. And damned if every one of us doesn’t look absolutely perfect just the way we are.

  Audrey and I had two banners strung across Church Street. They’re each illuminated by a border of tiny white lights, so no one can miss my message.

  WELCOME TO EATON

  AMERICA’S HOMETOWN

  That’s all. Regardless of what the BestOfMyCountry folks think, we don’t need a superlative. We’re not the wealthiest town in America, not the smartest, not the most talented, not the boldest. We’re certainly not the chubbiest, either. All of those titles are absurd.

  We’re just us. The people of Eaton. We’re like every other small town in this country. That’s why people have tuned in to see what happens next. They recognize us. We’re your next door neighbor and your best friend. We’re the person in front of you at the grocery store, the guy who rotates your tires, the receptionist at your dentist’s office, the cop who gives you a warning when you’re caught speeding. Everyday folks with jobs to do and families to raise.

  Solid, hardworking, decent people.

  Just like people everywhere.

  Matthew and Therese are already at church, passing out programs and helping my mom and dad with last minute details. I’ll join them soon. I’m not quite ready yet. I stroll down Church Street toward the town green, taking my time, saying hello to friends and neighbors. People are smiling and taking photos, exclaiming over the sculptures. The media is here in force, capturing it all.

  My attention is snagged by Ratnor. He’s circling the sculpture of himself, examining it with a critical frown. I study him for a minute, wondering if the Pardoe brothers might have made Ratnor’s sculpture a bit too realistic. It’s certainly not flattering. His receding hairline and protruding teeth are prominent. Ratnor is slightly stooped over, his head turned as though caught in the act of eavesdropping.