The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  He spies me and calls me over. “So. What do you think?”

  “Well… I suppose it looks like you.”

  “That it does.” A pause, then, “You don’t like it.”

  “No, I like it just fine,” I stammer. “It’s just, maybe, a little too realistic?”

  “You think?” Ratnor’s mouth curves in a wry smile. Then he says, “I was one year behind you, all through high school. Did you know that, Mayor? We were in Algebra together.”

  I’m shocked. I assumed he moved to Eaton as an adult. “I, I don’t—”

  “It’s all right. Guess I was just one of those people who blended into the woodwork. Nobody took note of me at all. Not until I started speaking up. Pointing out things that were happening around this town. You can bet that folks started noticing me then.”

  I wince. Make a mental note to tell Audrey to stop screening calls on council session days. If people have something to say, they have every right to say it. I want to hear it.

  “Folks may not like what they see, but at least they see me. Now they remember who I am. Why would I want to fix that?”

  Why, indeed.

  He peers over my shoulder and calls out to a couple of reporters who are walking by, “Hey! Want to get a photo? This one’s me!”

  I scoot out of the shot as Ratnor puffs out his chest and poses beside his likeness, proudly mugging it up for the reporters. We all want to be seen. Heard. And in some distant utopian future that has very little in common with present day earth, loved and respected for who we are, rather than what we look like. I watch for a bit, then move on.

  “Rachel!”

  I turn to see my father dressed in his church robes, sitting on a bench.

  “Hey, Dad. I thought you’d be inside, getting your sermon ready.”

  “The one about the angel, the wise men, and no room at the inn? I think I’ve got that one down. Done it a time or two. Besides, I’ve got a few minutes. I didn’t want to miss this.”

  He pats the space beside him and I sit down. It’s Christmas Eve. The sculptures are glowing. Snow is softly falling and the church bells are ringing. People are drifting up the church steps and ducking inside.

  I say, “It’s going to be packed in there.”

  “Yes, it is. Lot of new faces tonight.”

  “You going to tell your joke about the church being open between Christmas and Easter?”

  “Of course. It’s one of my best.”

  I’m about to give him a gentle gibe about needing new material, but something in his voice stops me.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nope. Just thinking.”

  “About?

  He gestures toward Church Street. “This. What you’ve done here.”

  “Amazing what three men with chainsaws can accomplish in twenty-four hours.”

  My father shakes his head.

  “You can give them some of the credit, but most of it belongs to you. You did this, Rachel. You took something as awful as that website and used it to bring this town together. It doesn’t matter what happens tomorrow. You’re a damned fine mayor. You’ve made this community stronger and made our Christmas brighter. That’s the best gift ever.”

  I feel pressure building behind my eyes. Even if they are happy tears, nobody wants to see a weepy mayor. So I blink them back.

  “Does that mean you don’t want the set of steak knives that are wrapped up under the tree?”

  “I love you, honey.”

  “Love you too, dad.”

  He reaches for my hand and gives it a soft squeeze. We sit like that for a few minutes more until the bells stop ringing. The soft notes of O Little Town of Bethlehem echo toward us as the choir begins to sing. My father takes his cue and heads inside.

  I follow him, pausing for a minute because there’s one more ice sculpture I want to see. It stands by itself on the town green.

  Me. Mayor Rachel Presley. I don’t know which of the Pardoe brothers did it, so I don’t know who to thank or blame.

  I suppose it’s a good likeness.

  Although I have to say I look a bit frazzled. I’m not having a great hair day. My feet are enormous. But my eyes are bright and my stance is confident. I have one hand lifted to my forehead and I’m biting my lip. I don’t know if I’m trying to hide my dismay or struggling to hold back laughter. Probably both. I take a quick lap around, surveying myself from all sides. A few things I would change, but overall, I look fine. Just fine. We stand together for a few minutes, just me and my sculpture. Then the cold begins to get to me.

  No one’s watching, so I lean close and say, “Merry Christmas.”

  My ice self doesn’t reply. She just stands there, gazing down Church Street, looking over the town of Eaton. I can’t blame her. It’s a great view.

  I leave her to enjoy it and head into church to hear my father’s sermon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I know what everyone says about Christmas. That it’s been reduced to nothing but crass commercialization. Rushing around buying gifts, decorating trees, baking cookies. That it’s nothing but a mash-up of pagan winter solstice rituals and early Christian lore anyway. And that even if God did send his only son to be born in a lowly manger, we’ve got the date wrong. No shepherd in his right mind would be out in his fields in the dead of winter.

  You know what? None of that nit-picky stuff matters. In WWI, men who’d been killing each other along the Western Front took it upon themselves to initiate a Christmas truce. They laid down their arms and crawled out of trenches. On that lone, beautiful day they sang carols, shared food, told stories. Because it was Christmas. If that’s not a celebration of God’s love for us and our love for each other, I don’t know what is.

  I’m standing at the transfer station in Eaton. The town dump. Someone strung bright lights all around to make it more festive. I appreciate the effort. It is a special day, after all. It feels like the entire town turned out. The media, too. We’ve got satellite trucks and camera crews. Football teams and the 4-H. Alper’s set up a campaign table. He’s passing out swag. The middle-school band is here again, too. They’re entertaining the crowd with Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman.

  Somehow Audrey finds me in all the bustle and confusion. Together we wander around, say hello to friends, wish them Merry Christmas. Esme and Susan are here with their families. So is Therese. (I spy her introducing her daughters to Rob Urso. Can’t wait to hear what that’s about.)

  Mike is here, too. He tries to catch my eye but I won’t let him. He’s left two voice messages on my phone. I haven’t listened to them. Maybe later, when this thing is over.

  “Mayor Presley?”

  Patricia Kilburn. Looking effortlessly elegant in a cashmere gray wrap, gray suede skirt, and matching leather boots. Huh. Definitely did not expect to see her today.

  I say, “You here to wish us luck?”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks.” I turn away.

  “Mayor Presley. I wonder if I could have a word?”

  “I… Okay.”

  I’ve got five minutes to kill before I step onto a scale in front of a live audience of a million people. So, sure. Let’s talk. Why not?

  “It’s about the factory space.”

  My heart knocks against my ribs, then starts fluttering like a crazed bird trying to break through a window.

  She says, “I’ve decided—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. I hold up my hand. “Before you say anything, you should know my offer is off the table. The prize money, that is, not the lease terms or the tax breaks. If we win this thing today, Jym’s money goes to the schools. Not because I think the jobs you’d bring to this community don’t matter. But because my word matters more. If you want that factory, do it because it’s the right thing to do. For both of us. For your future clients. Not because we cut some dirty deal. Not because you think—”

  “For God’s sake,” Audrey interrupts, “would you shut up and le
t her speak?”

  Excellent advice. I pull myself together and look at Kilburn. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  Kilburn says, “Do you remember your parting shot, when you and your friends left my store the other day?”

  I wince. “About that—”

  “Don’t apologize. You were right. I do have balls. No one would make it as far as I have in this industry without them.” She casts a glance around the transfer station, then looks at me. “Given the scale of this spectacle, I suspect that trait occasionally comes in handy for small-town mayors, as well.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that. Neither is Audrey.

  She continues, “I’ve always prided myself on being a leader. I set trends, I don’t follow them. Fashion is not static. Perhaps it’s time to make my line more size inclusive.”

  Kilburn passes me an envelope.

  “My attorney has made a few changes to your lease. We’ll discuss it further in the new year. In the meantime, I’ve enclosed a letter of interest and a deposit for the space. Merry Christmas, Mayor Presley, Ms. Cho. I look forward to doing business with you both.”

  Having finished her business, she turns to walk away. I stop her.

  “Ms. Kilburn?”

  She turns and looks at me.

  “Thank you.”

  She hesitates for a moment, then gives a curt nod. “Good luck today.”

  With that she turns and disappears into the crowd, leaving Audrey and I dumbfounded. Utterly gobsmacked. Knock us over with a turkey feather. We did it. We actually did it.

  “Mayor Presley? Mayor Presley, are you out there somewhere?”

  My name echoes over the loudspeaker. I look at our makeshift stage. Jym Granger is there, dressed in a swishy red tracksuit, a Santa hat perched on his head. What look like a million watts of lights flash on. Cameras start to roll. An expectant hush falls over the crowd. Showtime.

  I take a deep breath and head toward the stage.

  Once I’m there, Jym says, “Maybe you’d like to say a few words to everybody before the weigh-in.”

  He shuffles off to the side. I step in front of the microphone. Look into the blinding lights.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m Mayor Presley.”

  Then I draw a complete blank. I had a speech. A speech full of mayoral wisdom and wit. But I found a tenant for the factory space. A tenant for the factory space. And that’s such a huge victory for the town. So much more important than this silly weigh-in. I want to shout it out to everyone. Except this isn’t the place or time. So my scrambled brain just spins in circles.

  “We’re with you, Mayor!”

  “Go for it, Rachel!”

  “You’ve got this, Mayor Presley!”

  Those are my friends, my family, my neighbors, my co-workers. Filling the silence by cheering me on. It occurs to me I don’t need a formal speech. Scripted words. I don’t have to worry about the television cameras or the folks watching this on cable. All I have to do is talk to the people of Eaton.

  So I do.

  “I thought it was complicated,” I say. “Diet, weight, fitness, size. All these different warring factions, everyone thinking the way they saw it was right. But this is not a one-size-fits-all planet. Bodies come in all shapes, sizes, and abilities. If someone tells you they’d feel healthier if they lose a little weight, love and encourage them. If someone tells you they think they’re absolutely perfect just the way they are, well, they’re probably right. There are no absolutes.

  “Except this. If you can be anything you want in the whole wide world… be kind. Love one another. And not just because it’s Christmas. Every day. The cameras will point in another direction, the sculptures will melt, the crowds will go home. But maybe, here in Eaton, some of the love we’re feeling today will linger on.

  “Together we are larger, in the best sense of the word. We have accomplished something. We have shown the world how beautiful we are, just the way we are.”

  Applause bursts out. A few whistles. I wait for it to die down, then continue.

  “Now. Jym’s challenge. I hope we win. Not because I think the numbers on that scale mean anything, because they don’t. They don’t. Numbers are good for lots of things. But they have very little value when you apply them to people. None of us should be measured by a number on a scale. The span of our waists or the size on a label. None of that tells you anything about who we are.”

  I pause. Catch my breath. Smile.

  “But I hope we win. Because as a town we have worked so very hard for this money. And if we get it, it’s all going to the schools. Every penny of it.”

  I feel Mike’s gaze on me.

  I allow myself to meet his eyes, just for a second, then I continue. “And that would make a lot of kids very happy, and everyone likes to see happy kids on Christmas Day. Thank you.”

  Jym’s waiting for me with a coffee can wrapped in colorful paper. I remove my little red poker chip—the one he gave me on Black Friday—and drop it in the can. Number two hundred. We’re doing the weigh-in in reverse order this time. Then I head to the scale.

  Mr. Lindsay, the middle-school band director, raps his podium. His band squawks the opening chords of Gonna Fly Now.

  I spin around, go back to the stage and lean into the mic.

  “Uh, Mr. Lindsay? If we could skip Rocky’s theme this time around? Thanks.”

  Sorry. I just can’t do it.

  I return to the scale. It’s enormous. Large enough for a semi. Or a group of two hundred people. The last time I was on this scale, I tried to hide behind someone else. Today, it’s just me. No more hiding. The numbers whirl above my head, flashing on a jumbo screen for everyone to see. Finally it settles on 167lbs.

  A fine number.

  I smile and motion for Audrey to join me. She drops her poker chip in Jym’s can and steps onto the scale. John and Colleen Belkin join us. Fred Stone. Esme and Susan. Until at last all two hundred of us are present and accounted for.

  The cameras are fixed on us as the numbers flash and whirl. Whirl and flash. Finally they stop.

  42,544 shines on the screen.

  An enormous, bold red, unshakeable number.

  42,544.

  Exactly 1,018 pounds lighter than we were on Black Friday.

  Jym gives a whoop! And tosses his Santa hat in the air.

  “One thousand and eighteen pounds!” he shouts into the microphone.

  The crowd goes wild, hooting and hollering. Hugging and back-slapping. Someone starts popping confetti and paper streamers. Mr. Lindsay’s pipsqueak band breaks into Joy to the World.

  “Louder!” I shout, though I’m not sure whom I’m talking to—Jym or the crowd or the band.

  I’m just happy. Very happy. So is everyone else.

  It takes a good two hours for the commotion to die down. By then, most of the crowd has drifted away. They’re home opening presents, having brunch, visiting relatives, watching corny movies, playing board games, walking through a snowy wood—all the things people do on Christmas Day that don’t involve standing on a scale while being filmed by national media.

  I’m almost ready to leave as well. I’m hosting Christmas dinner. Ed and his wife are coming (I decided it was only fair that he and I give Matthew his toy car together). Therese and my parents are coming, too. So are Gil and the girls. I still have a few dishes to prep and my kitchen’s a disaster, so I figure I better call it quits.

  I’m saying goodbye to Audrey when Jym joins us.

  “Congratulations, Mayor. I’ll say one thing. You folks certainly earned that money.”

  “Yes. We certainly did.”

  “Spend it well.”

  “We will.”

  Jym nods. Then his gaze lands on Audrey.

  “And you—how are you feeling?”

  “Actually, pretty damn good.”

  “You don’t want to lose weight, do you?”

  “No, Jym, I really don’t. I think I’m pretty awesome just the way I am.”

  �
�So I’m guessing you don’t need me.”

  “Nope. I don’t need any of you. I don’t need your gyms or your food or your scales or your encouragement. And if I ever change my mind, I’ll do things my way.”

  “Fair enough. I won’t take it personally.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  In the silence that follows, something that looks almost like wistfulness flashes across Jym’s face. Last night I went back and visited Jym’s web page. Read how he described himself at 400lbs, dragging his ‘flabby, useless, pathetic body’ up a mountain. When I read it the first time I didn’t even blink. Now I’m struck by the desperation and sadness he must have felt to view himself that way. How that must fuel what he feels about himself today. His frantic energy, as though he’s afraid that if he slows down for just one second, quits preaching the weight-loss gospel, those old pounds will creep back on.

  Maybe one day he’ll accept himself where he is. Or maybe he won’t. I don’t know. Either way, it’s his journey. He’s allowed to feel whatever he wants to feel about his body without anyone judging him.

  We all are.

  Jym draws himself up and scans the petering crowd, suddenly restless, anxious to move on, maybe bring his weight-loss circus to the next town.

  Matthew appears with Molly, Jym’s teenage daughter. (Like many of the reporters covering this story, Jym’s family came to spend Christmas in Eaton. Jym, his wife, and daughter are also on my guest list for tonight. It’s turning into quite the party.)

  “Hey,” Matthew says. “Is it okay if Molly and I head downtown for a bit? I want to show her the ice people. She didn’t see them last night.”

  Molly is dark-eyed and adorable. I suspect if I said the word Hannah to Matthew, his only response would be a blank Who?

  Jym and I agree, so long as they’re home within an hour. It’s not until I’m watching The Rocket pull away that I realize I’m stuck without a ride. I dig into my pocket to text Therese when a voice stops me.