The Christmas Women

by Elyse Douglas

  Trudie smiled. “Mrs. Childs.”

  Ray nodded. “Why do we love her so much? She was a tough woman.”

  “Not really. She just acted tough. It was her persona. We all knew she cared about us. We all knew she was a dedicated teacher, and not just in drama class. She talked to us like a mother, gave good, solid advice, yelled at us when we were wrong, praised us when we did a good job. And I know she spent some of her own money to mount some of those plays and musicals.”

  Ray nodded. “And then the school budget was cut and art, music and drama were eliminated. They gave her a perfunctory retirement party and that was it.”

  “Out with the old and in with the new,” Trudie said.

  Ray turned toward the bright day. “So life goes. At least we have sun today and no snow is forecasted for tomorrow.”

  “I really want her to have this party—this Christmas performance, Ray.”

  He narrowed his determined eyes on her. “And she will. We’ll all make it happen.”

  On Monday evening, under a heavy gray sky and light falling snow, Trudie parked her car near the Courthouse square and hurried toward the library. A few Christmas shoppers passed, their hats and shoulders dusted with snow. A father and his young son shouldered a large Douglas fir Christmas tree, struggling across the street in heavy traffic. Christmas lights blinked on in the shops and restaurants, adding a cheerful quality to the town. She glanced at her phone to see if Ray had texted her about securing the auditorium, but he hadn’t.

  There was still time for some shopping before she met with the students in the library. The shops were full and bustling; the Christmas carols bouncy and light. She bought a brown turtleneck sweater for her brother, left the shop and approached the redbrick Georgian style library, with its clock tower, Ionic columns and wide staircase.

  Trudie had been tutoring math-challenged students for five years. Her father once asked her why she did it.

  “Because I like it. It makes me feel useful somehow. I was always good in math and Mrs. Childs said we should try to help the world with the talents we have.”

  “Why didn’t you go into teaching then?” he asked.

  “I didn’t want to teach all day long. So I tutor one evening a week and I am happy when they understand what an isosceles triangle is.”

  Her father canted his head to the right, asking. “And what, pray tell, is an isosceles triangle?”

  “Textbook def?”

  “Any def.”

  “A triangle with two equal sides. The angles opposite the equal sides are also equal.”

  “Fascinating,” her father had said, returning to his newspaper.

  For the next hour, Trudie sat at a heavy mahogany table near three rows of bookshelves, under a vaulted ceiling. She was working on math homework with two 9th grade boys, an 8th grade girl and a 10th grade boy. Both 9th grade boys were distracted by the pretty 8th grade girl named Ashley, who had long blonde hair and a blossoming body.

  Trudie saw Ashley erasing the same equation for the third time.

  “How is it going?” Trudie asked.

  Ashley lifted her soft, discouraged eyes. “I just don’t understand word problems. I keep making the same mistakes.”

  “My father used to say, ‘She who does not make mistakes, usually makes nothing.’ Let me help you with it.”

  After working with Ashley, Trudie noticed the antisocial 10th grader was slumped and bored at the far end of the table, texting. She had told him repeatedly to put his phone away and he always obeyed, but only for a minute or so. Then he’d hide it between his legs, eyeing it, pretending he was studying the algebra problem on the notepad before him.

  Trudie pushed her chair back, got up and strolled to him, hands clasped behind her back.

  “Almost finished, Larry?” she asked.

  Larry Watson jumped, unaware she’d materialized. He was an overweight boy, with a moon face and long, black curly hair that fell over his ears and forehead.

  “It’s all okay,” he said, not looking up.

  “It’s all okay if you have an answer. Do you have the answer, Larry?”

  He shrugged. “Ummm... not yet.”

  “Put the phone in your backpack, Larry. Don’t take it out again. If you do, don’t come back. Do you understand? You’re wasting my time and yours.”

  Grudgingly, Larry shoved his phone into the side pocket of his canvas backpack and zipped the flap shut. Trudie sat down next to him.

  “Okay, let’s start again.”

  “This is like real boring, you know.”

  “It’s boring because you’re making it boring. Throw the switch in your head, Larry. Throw the switch from boring to interesting; from ‘I’m bored’, to ‘let’s take an adventure and learn something new.’”

  He shrugged, his uninterested expression expanding, his eyes blurred on the notepad.

  “What do you like to do, Larry?” Trudie asked.

  “Just hang out. I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do know. What do you like to do?”

  “I like guitars. I like old guitars, like from the 1950s and 60s. I like to do audio stuff with my brother.”

  “What kind of audio stuff does your brother do?”

  “He sets up audio for rock bands: amplifiers, mics, speakers. Stuff like that. When he’s working close by, like in Columbus or Cincinnati, I go help him. I get to play the guitars sometimes.”

  “Okay. What are some of the names of the guitars you like?”

  He shifted in his chair. “I don’t know... I like...the Gigilotti GT Custom. And I really like the Gibson ES-125 Electric Archtop.”

  Trudie took a piece of white paper and a pencil. She scribbled down an algebraic word problem and then slid the paper across the table so Larry could read it.

  He studied the page, his curious eyes sliding across it.

  Larry wants to get $200,000 for his vintage guitar. An agent charges 20% of the selling price for selling the guitar for Larry.

  a) What should the selling price be?

  b) What will the agent’s commission be?

  Larry’s eyes opened a little wider. Trudie saw sudden interest in them. “That’s a lot for a guitar,” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter what the price is. Work the problem. Let x be the selling price: x - 20%x = 200,000. Go to work on it. Use the tools I gave you last session.”

  Larry massaged his forehead, and fell into concentration.

  Trudie got up and checked on the others while Larry scribbled down some ideas.

  Ten minutes later, Trudie went back to Larry. “How’s it going?” she asked.

  Larry looked up at her. She saw light in his eyes. She saw pride.

  “It’s still too much for a guitar.”

  “Did you solve it?”

  Larry said, “Okay, so if I used your tools right, I solve for x to find x equals $250,000. So the selling price is $250,000. Then 20% times 250,000 = $50,000. So the agent’s commission is $50,000. Right?”

  Trudie folded her arms in satisfaction. “Yes, Larry, that is absolutely correct.”

  “The agent is rippin’ the guy off,” Larry said. “That’s just wrong.”

  Trudie grinned. “Now go to work on your homework problems, Larry.”

  After tutoring, Trudie stopped at the Town Market for a half-baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots. She didn’t have the energy to cook. As she drove home through light snow, she passed Rusty’s Café. She slowed down. She had an idea. She glanced down at her take-out food, made up her mind and turned into Rusty’s half-full parking lot. With a slight hesitation, she unbuckled her seatbelt, got out and started for the stairs. She felt hopeful and bold, and a little foolish.

  She entered, feeling the warm blast of heat as she scanned the busy café—the burgundy booths and heavy wooden tables and chairs. From the bar, off to the left and behind the restaurant, she heard shouts. There were two TVs broadcasting a football game.

  The counter was mostly empty. F
rom overhead speakers, she heard the familiar beats and choruses of cheerful Christmas carols. A Christmas tree by the entrance twinkled with white lights.

  Trudie didn’t see the guy she was looking for—the guy she’d met the last time she’d eaten there. Conflicted, she was about to turn to leave, when she saw him emerge from the Men’s bathroom, striding toward the counter, wearing a white and green ski sweater and jeans. Trudie froze. He saw her and stopped. He lifted his arms in surprise and smiled. He bowed a hello. Trudie smiled, shyly, but started over to him. Then she forgot his name. It simply flew out of her head. She panicked.

  “Well, hello again, Trudie,” Don said. “I believe that’s your name, if memory serves. And most of the time it serves.”

  Trudie fumbled for any word. “Hello...” then a name flashed into her mind. “...Dan... right?”

  He scratched his head and turned about, as if searching for someone beside him. “Dan? Dan? Now where can he be?”

  Trudie was mortified. “I’m sorry, that’s not your name, is it?”

  “Well, Trudie, a Don by any other name is still a Don. Don Rawlings.”

  “Don! Yes... I’m so sorry. I’m usually very good with names.”

  “Then I must make a better impression. Are you meeting somebody, or can you join me at the counter?”

  “I’m free.”

  “Would you prefer a booth?”

  “No, no, the counter is fine.”

  Trudie slipped out of her coat and eased down on the stool next to Don’s. She saw he’d nearly finished his chicken dinner, and it was again drowned in a lake of ketchup.

  He followed her gaze. “Yes, chicken again. I’m in a bit of a rut, I think. I almost went for the meatloaf but then, in the end, the chicken a la ketchup won out.”

  Trudie breathed in her nerves and when the waitress came for her order, she chose the meatloaf, though she’d lost her appetite.

  Don’s cologne was musky and sexy, his deep voice entrancing. It had been years since she’d felt this girlish excitement, enjoying the sweet bewilderment of sudden attraction.

  Their conversation began with the weather: it was cold, not much snow had melted. She’d heard there was more snow on the way. Christmas shopping? Don had already bought presents for his little niece and nephew, but still had to find something for his parents, who were living in Tucson.

  “Have you started your shopping?” Don asked.

  “Some. I just buy for my grandparents, my brother and a few friends.”

  “Parents?”

  “They’re both deceased,” Trudie said.

  Don looked over and paused before saying “I’m sorry.”

  Trudie changed the subject. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “No. Born in Tucson. Went to college in Phoenix.”

  “What brings you to Deer Lake?” Trudie asked.

  Don pushed aside his near-empty plate. “I’m part owner in a tech company. The one just outside of town, CodeMobile.”

  “Yes... I drive by it. It was a big addition to the town. People were talking about it for months. We were all afraid you were going to choose a more attractive town.”

  “We like it here. The property values are good and we’ve found a good work force.”

  “You’re involved with internet security, right?”

  “Yes, we’re a security software company. Internet security is big business these days. We’re growing like crazy, which is a good thing, but the business has tentacles shooting out everywhere, and that’s a crazy thing to manage. No complaints though. And what about you? What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a dental hygienist.”

  Don brightened. “Fantastic. I’ve been looking for a good dentist. It’s been eight months since my teeth have been cleaned.”

  “Sounds like you’re confessing. Shall I absolve you and make you an appointment?”

  Don laughed. “Yeah... Let’s do that. Let’s make an appointment.”

  Their eyes met, and neither pulled them away. Their attraction was immediate and electric.

  The waitress delivered Trudie’s meatloaf, just as her cell phone rang.

  Trudie pulled her eyes away and glanced down at her phone. She didn’t recognize the number, or the area code. Something told her to answer it. Maybe it was someone calling about the Christmas reunion.

  “Excuse me,” Trudie said, reaching for her phone. “Hello?”

  “Trudie Parks from the outlaw town of Deer Lake, Ohio, where gunslingers shoot cowpokes, whiskey bottles and swinging chandeliers, while kissin’ feisty singin’ dance hall girls, how the hell are you?”

  Trudie laughed. She knew who it was, of course. She recognized the voice and she recognized the crazy patter. It was Jon Ketch!

  “Jon!? Is that you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Lassie girl, it’s me. I’m a comin’ to town, Lady Trudie Parks, and I’ll be lookin’ for love, adventure and a good barroom fight!”

  SEVEN

  It’s not what Trudie expected. While she was finishing up her call with Jon Ketch, Don paid his check, gave her a half wave, a weak smile and left. That was abrupt, she thought. He must have thought Jon was her boyfriend or husband or something. She’d wanted to explain who Jon was and mention the Christmas reunion, but Jon was going on and on about how he wanted to put on an abbreviated version of A Christmas Carol at the Christmas show, and he was going to play Scrooge. He was already working on the script, and he wanted to know who was coming so he could cast the parts.

  “Hello, Jon,” Trudie said, finally interrupting his rapid-fire delivery. “We have not spoken in 15 years,” Trudie said, hoping Don would get the message.

  “Yeah. So?” he said, not missing a beat, “I want you to be the Ghost of Christmas Past! Or Mrs. Cratchit. I’m not sure yet. I’ll know when I see you, and see how you’ve changed. Have you changed? You were so sexy the last time I saw you.”

  “That was 15 years ago. Of course I’ve changed.”

  “Change is good. I haven’t changed a bit. I haven’t even aged. Oh, and by the way, I’m delusional. Hey, I have to be. I live in L.A. Everybody’s delusional out here.”

  So Don Rawlings left. With the phone to her ear, Trudie swiveled and watched him go, with disappointment and fascination. He was so very attractive.

  Jon rambled on until, finally, he said his agent was calling and he had to go. That was it. He was gone, without another word.

  Trudie entered her empty, silent house, flipped on the living room lights and stood there. She felt oddly out of place, almost as if the rooms and the furniture had been moved. The silence seemed alive with possibility. What possibility? It was as if the house had been flung off its foundation, had flown across space and landed in a different land. She even felt a little dizzy. She had the strange feeling that something major in her life was about to shift. Maybe it was already shifting. Maybe she was just getting the jitters about the reunion and seeing everybody again. Maybe she was coming down with something.

  She made some hot tea, drew a bath and was about to strip off her robe when her phone rang. It was Ray.

  “Dragon lady wants a proposal.”

  “Your principal?”

  “Yep. Mrs. Marjorie Lyons, aka, Dragon Lady.”

  “Okay... no problem. Can you do it?”

  “She wants all the details. How many days on site? How many people in the show? How many sets? How many costumes? Security. You name it.”

  Trudie sat down on the broad rim of the tub, dipping her free hand into the hot water. “Okay, so at least she didn’t say no.”

  “She wanted to. I could see it in her chilly eyes. I tell you, the woman doesn’t like me. Then I pulled out the Mrs. Childs’ card, because I genuinely love the woman and want this reunion to be perfect for her. I told Dragon Lady that it was a great big Christmas present for a very sick woman who spent almost 30 years at the school. You may recall, Dragon Lady is from Cleveland and has never heard of Mrs. Childs. Anyway, I told her
we’d done a Christmas show two years in a row and the town loved it, and it had become a tradition.”

  Ray’s voice deepened. “Now get this. She said, rather snidely, that two years in a row, 20 years ago, does not constitute a tradition. I smiled, demurely, though I wanted to smack her, and recovered by telling her many alumni were coming and they would be in the show, including the famous actor, Jon Ketch. Well get this: she knows who Jon Ketch is.”

  “Of course she knows Jon, Ray. He’s the most famous thing that has ever happened in this one-horse town.”

  “Okay, well, anyway. Next, I said we’d invite the entire community and make sure her name was displayed prominently on the program.”

  “Well, aren’t you quite the diplomat, Raymond Howard.”

  “I heard myself say it, and it made me sick,” Ray said. “But, in the end, she was almost, and I say almost, civil to me. But being the controlling person she is, she had to add that she will be, quote ‘involved in every aspect of the production, to make sure the school is protected and appropriately represented.’ End quote. She wants at least a thousand bucks for the high school. Maybe more, after she reads the proposal.”

  “So we’ll raise the money. Get to work on that proposal.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Work, work work. Like I don’t have about a million and a half papers to grade.”

  “I’ll help you with the proposal. I’m proud of you, Ray. Kristen will be impressed. She always said you didn’t have enough force of will.”

  “Well that little bitch! She had enough force of will for all of us. See you.”

  Trudie was chin deep in the tub, feeling the warm water relax her tired muscles, when she got a call from Kristen. Trudie lifted up, quickly dried her hand on a handy towel and grabbed her phone.

  “What’s up, Kristen?”

  Kristen’s voice was low and conspiratorial. “Guess who I just hung up with?”