Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!

by Charlene Baumbich

  “I told Earl that we’re going to get our Christmas decorations up pretty quick now,” May Belle said while she retrieved the napkins. “I’ve got some of the happiest snowman placemats—I’m sure you remember them, Dorothy. After so many years they’re starting to look a little ragtag from all the washing and ironing, but I just love them. Every year after the holidays I think I’m going to toss them out, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Try as she might, Dorothy couldn’t picture them. “Do you remember placemats with snowmen on them, Earl? I don’t.”

  “Yes, Dearest Dorothy,” he said, seating himself between the two women. Although Earl addressed everyone as Mr. or Miss plus their first name, he’d never called Dorothy anything but Dearest Dorothy. It was an endearing remnant from his earliest childhood days. Although Earl didn’t usually warm to people, he’d melted right into Dorothy’s lap. May Belle had been so touched and joyful to see her son take to someone, she’d said, “Oh, my. He sure loves his Dearest Dorothy.” After that, Earl never called her anything else. “The snowmen are right here,” he said, pointing his index finger to the lower right-hand corner of his placemat.

  “That is exactly right, Earl!” Dorothy said. “I couldn’t picture them myself, but when you said that, I knew you were right, by golly. I can picture them now. Three of them, right? And the placemats are green, right?” Earl nodded and beamed.

  “Earl does love the Christmas decorations,” May Belle said as she stood at the counter using her pie cutter to slip the slices onto the plates, Sheba standing by just in case.

  “Now that I remember! You know, Earl, I don’t have my decorations up yet either. Four days ago Jacob was on his way to help me find the boxes, but then the phone rang and. . . .” She didn’t want to bring up Rick’s death again. “But by golly, we’re getting them up this weekend, no matter what!”

  “Can I see them?” Earl wanted to know.

  “Of course you can. We’ll give you and your mom a call as soon as we light up the tree, Earl. Or better yet, maybe you’d like to come help us decorate it!” When she lived out on the farm, she’d always had a huge fresh tree. Every year people at her Christmas open house would rave about it. “Where’d you get such a big tree?” they’d want to know. “Got it at By George’s,” she’d always answer.

  George Gustafson owns By George in Partonville and since the first year he opened the filling station, as most in Partonville still refer to it, he’s set up a tree stand in his side lot right after Thanksgiving. He drives his big old flatbed pickup to his cousin’s tree farm in Wisconsin and cuts them himself. When Hethrow began its expansion, many of their chain garden stores started selling cheaper trees and his business dwindled so much he thought he might have to give it up. But after a few years, most of his regulars—who had trouble looking him in the eye during the holidays, they felt like such traitors with their store-bought trees—decided that By George’s trees smelled better and sure enough lasted longer. “I reckon if a feller ain’t had enough sense to grow his own Christmas tree, he should at least, by George, buy it from By George!” Of course, Arthur was always in George’s corner since George had sent a lot of auto repair business Arthur’s way when he was still running his shop. But still, time and again Arthur would say to Dorothy when he saw her tree, “I never saw one that big on George’s lot when we went looking.” Dorothy didn’t tell them that George always spotted, cut and set aside the biggest one just for her—for her party, really—since he couldn’t imagine the holidays without her lavish hospitality and figured it was the least he could do to contribute his share. He cut her a discount, too, but he swore her to secrecy lest word got around.

  Where would she put even a tiny tree in her living room now? She’d have to talk to Jacob about it. This was just one more in a long string of changes for her and it made her sigh. Surely she wasn’t old enough for one of those little trees that sits on top of a table! She used to tease about folks who had those, saying they must not have a very big Christmas spirit to have such a tiny tree. She remembered asking her own grandmother why one year she suddenly had a small tree and her grandmother had said something like, “At this age, it’s all just too much bother. A small tree can bring as much pleasure as a big one.” Lord, let it be so!

  May Belle sat down at the table, having served the largest pie slice to Dorothy, the second largest to Earl and the one that hadn’t cut exactly right to herself. “May Belle, how big was your tree last year?” Dorothy wanted to know. She couldn’t envision it and was beginning to wonder if she needed to check into that memory vitamin she heard about and kept forgetting the name of.

  “How big was our tree last year, Earl?” The Justices’ moderate trees were so different each year: some years fat, some years skinny, some years taller than others (although never too tall), some more lopsided than others. . . . Same as he did for Dorothy, George always set one aside for May Belle, one slightly larger and therefore more expensive than he knew she could afford, but he only charged her for a smaller one.

  Earl set his fork down and held his hand about three feet above the top of the table.

  “Well, now, I’m afraid that’s about the size I’m going to have to get this year, not including the table!” Dorothy said.

  “Jacob can help you rearrange a few things,” May Belle said, casting her memory around Dorothy’s living room. “I’m sure you can work something out. Maybe you could fit a tall, skinny one in the front window where we moved that card table for your Hookers’ night.”

  “Do you foresee a Charlie Brown tree in my future?” Dorothy asked, sounding almost forlorn.

  “Now, Dorothy, there’s worse things than that. Think how we all love Charlie Brown.”

  “Thank you, dear. That’s just what I needed to be reminded. And you know, I bet if I put my mind to it, I could have a dandy Charlie Brown tree. Might even be fun trying to create one!” Yes, the quirky notion was already percolating in her imagination. Thank you, Big Guy.

  “Say, speaking of Christmas, did you ever talk to Katie about maybe hosting your Christmas party out at the farm?”

  “The right moment hasn’t presented itself yet,” Dorothy said between swallows, then she stopped to smack her lips. “How do you make simple custard taste so good?”

  May Belle ignored Dorothy’s question about the pie; she still had concerns about the present lack of a December gathering. She’d heard Dorothy offer one excuse or another as to why she hadn’t approached Katie about it yet, and she wondered what was really going on there. It wasn’t like Dorothy to procrastinate. “I’ve had a couple folks at church ask me whether I know anything about the annual party. I told them to ask you. I’d say that party has been one of the highlights of everyone’s season all these years. Hard to imagine Christmas without it. When and where else would the Hookers present their ‘Best of Happy Hookers Moments’ to the townsfolk if not at the party?” It was a long-standing tradition in which riotous moments throughout the year were instantly collected with a “Well, THAT one just made the ‘Best Of’ moments!” The last entry this year was when Maggie had arrived direct from the hair convention in Chicago with a REAL TATTOO!

  May Belle took a bite of pie and rolled it around in her mouth for a moment to decide whether or not she’d added enough vanilla and cinnamon. Just right, she thought with a satisfactory smile, which made her happy for the Lawsons. “If we weren’t all so distraught and distracted by Rick’s death, I imagine we’d be hearing much more about the lack of a party plan. If Katie’s not hosting the open house, do you think she’ll at least host the Hookers for a December night of bunco, or maybe a potluck dinner or . . . ?” Dorothy’s annual Christmas party always took the place of the usual Hookers’ meeting. “If we don’t have anything at her house, I can’t remember who’s in line to host the Hookers next. Can you?” Dorothy shook her head and took another bite of pie. “Hard to think we don’t even have a Hookers’ meeting in place yet and here it is well into the first week of
December already! And folks get so busy, what with shopping and school plays and out-of-town company, I wonder if we’ll even be able to coordinate anything this late in the game,” she said. “Wonder if we might have to just skip it.”

  “Can’t speak for Katie one way or the other, May Belle, but to be honest, I’ve had more than a few inquiries about the party myself. Between the two of us, probably all the Hookers have asked, as well as half the town.”

  “I wonder if any of them have actually asked Katie?”

  “Good question. I’d bet we’ll get a question or two about it during the doings for Rick this weekend. It would be a swell time to make an announcement about a party though, give folks something to mark on their calendars and look forward to after such a sad turn of events. And this I know: no matter how last-minute the invite, if you offer food and fellowship, people will come. I guess I’m just going to have to give Katie a call either this evening or in the morning and approach the topic head on.”

  Jacob followed Helen down the steep second-floor stairs from the law office; it was 7:45 P.M. “I don’t know about you,” he said as they walked, “but I feel like we’ve put in a very long day. I think we got a lot accomplished, though, which makes me feel good. How about you? How are you doing?”

  Helen came to a sudden halt in the landing at the bottom of the stairs and Jacob nearly crashed into her. She was staring at the metal mailbox mounted on the interior wall just inside the door. “Rick Lawson” was handwritten on the yellowed and curling piece of paper that was taped to the front of the dented box. Although it was usually locked, the lid was open and envelopes of all sizes were sprouting out the top. This was the first time in the four days since Mr. Lawson’s death that she’d either noticed or thought about the mail. Her boss had always brought it up before she’d arrived for work. “I must have been living in a daze,” she said more to herself than to Jacob. She was still frozen in place.

  “Under the circumstances, I’d say you’ve been doing extremely well,” Jacob said, a gentle assuring tone in his voice. She sighed and started to reach for the bundle, realizing she’d have to retrieve it one piece at a time to keep it from toppling out, the mass was so tightly wedged in. “I have an idea,” Jacob said. “Let’s pretend we didn’t see this tonight either. We’re both tired, you’ve got a big weekend in front of you with the funeral and all and we need to be done for the day. That pile of mail isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Do you think it’ll be okay? How will they even leave tomorrow’s delivery? Not a single thing more will fit in there,” she said, continuing to stare at it like it was a ghost, or maybe a mummy or a tombstone.

  “How about you give me the office keys and I’ll come in before the mailman arrives tomorrow. What time will that be?” She stared at him for a moment and her eyes began to well; it wasn’t clear why. “Don’t worry about it, I’m an early riser. I’m sure I’ll beat him here.”

  “Her.”

  “Her. I’m sure I’ll beat her here.” Helen looked concerned. “Or how about this?” he said enthusiastically. “How about you go on ahead, I’ll get a plastic bag from upstairs—I saw a couple stuffed somewhere—and I’ll take this to Mom’s tonight.”

  “If you’re working, I’m working,” she said, her voice leaving no doubt about it.

  “Okay. I promise you I won’t work either. I’ll just put all the mail straight in a bag and I won’t look in the bag tonight. I’ll just bring the bag back with me tomorrow morning.” She studied him, thinking it over. “But here’s the caveat: neither one of us will look in the bag tomorrow either. Since tomorrow is the wake and you’ve been such a trooper to work under so much duress, we will only work on the letter until noon so you have time to catch your breath before the wake. When we’re satisfied with it, I’ll find out if Sadie and Roscoe have found an attorney to handle the probate for them yet. If so, we’ll add that information, make the copies—your copy machine is up to snuff, right?” She nodded her head. “Good. Then we can spend the morning trying to ready the mailing so all the Lawsons have to do is sign the letters and send them off.” She gave a small nod. “Right now I’m scheduled to fly out on Monday and I feel pretty sure I’ll need to be on that plane, so I’m hoping we can get things at least that far.” Panic began to fill Helen at the reminder he’d soon be leaving. Then what? He could see the concern in her eyes. “At least we’ll have the framework in place. Then whoever steps in can handle everything, including what’s in the mystery bag of mail,” he said.

  Helen chuckled and dropped her shoulders. “Mystery bag of mail. Mr. Lawson would have liked the idea of that,” she said, a faraway look enveloping her. And then she began to cry—again.

  For the third time that day, Jacob pulled out his monogrammed hanky. “Do you have the keys to the mailbox?” he asked her.

  Helen blew her nose so loudly that it echoed in the stair-well, then she pulled herself together. “I’m taking this hanky home and washing it for you,” she said, her voice still cracking a bit.

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” he said, which turned up the corners of her lips. She reached in her handbag to retrieve the keys from where she’d plunked them after locking the upstairs door to the office. Three keys on a metal loop: one key for the office, one for the mailbox and one for Mr. Lawson’s top desk drawer—which he never locked anyway, she thought as she gingerly fingered them. There was a two-inch round wooden key fob on the ring with only the merest evidence of print left on it, so little print you couldn’t tell what it had originally said. Since he always carried the keys by the fob, often rubbing it like a touchstone when he sat idle, he’d worn a smooth and shiny groove in it. She ran her thumb down the groove now, wondering at the fob’s origin. She’d once asked him about it, but all he said was that it was a special gift from a special friend. It wasn’t right for her or Jacob or anybody but Mr. Lawson to have this set of keys which suddenly felt like such a personal item. Mr. Lawson always opened and locked up. That was his job. These were his keys, his special fob. Her eyes welled again, but she reluctantly handed the keys over to Jacob since Mr. Lawson would not be coming back. She hated how that truth kept hitting her anew.

  “I’ll give them back to you tomorrow,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure not to lose them.” Helen left without another word. If she spoke, she would surely sob again, and she was simply too wrung out.

  Jacob, on the other hand, felt a spike of renewed energy when he noticed Katie’s SUV still parked in front of the Taninger building.

  13

  “Yes, I remember mentioning a second car, Joshua,” Katie said into the cell phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Yes, I know you are currently stranded out in the country like I was when you were in Chicago—although you are being a little dramatic since I’m only a couple miles away. And I also know you’re supposed to be doing homework.”

  “Done.”

  “Have you cleaned your room?”

  “Done.”

  “Have you checked the mousetraps, emptied any . . . corpses, put fresh peanut butter in traps?”

  “Done. Corpse report: one. Escape report: one tripped trap.”

  “Have you had something to eat?”

  “Done. Had a PBJ, a cheese sandwich and a salad,” he said, hoping to score a few points with his few leaves of ice-berg lettuce and three tablespoons of Thousand Island dressing. “Have you had any dinner, Mom?”

  “No. I’m just finishing up here.”

  “Want me to make you a salad while you’re on your way home? I can use one of those bags of weed-looking stuff you keep in the fridge and cube some of your gross-smelling health cheese. Sprinkle a couple drops of your low-fat raspberry dressing on it.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve noticed.”

  “You think I don’t pay attention? I pay close attention, so close it might scare you.” He chuckled. “While you eat the dinner I will have prepared, we can go over a few ads for used cars I’ve circled. Okay?” He was sure
the “used” part sounded particularly wise.

  Katie was just about to consent when she heard the door opening, looked up and saw Jacob. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, a pair of black slacks, shiny cordovan loafers, a cordovan belt, a lightweight beige jacket and a smile. Why is it he was always taller—and broader-shouldered—than she remembered? “Let me get back to you on that,” she said, her Mother Voice having vanished, suddenly replaced by a business tone. “Someone just came in.”

  Josh sighed. It seemed like more and more every day, his old Chicago Mom was reemerging. Not coming home for dinner was beginning to be a habit—and a sure sign of things to come. “But you won’t be long, right? And we’ll look at the ads when you get home, right?”

  “Joshua Matthew Kinney, do not start pushing me. We will talk about all of this later,” she said, her lips pressed as closely to the cell phone as she could get them in an effort to keep her words private. She said a quick good-bye and flipped her phone closed.

  “Whoa. That sounded like the same tone I heard my brother use on my nephews a few times over the holiday, but only when they were crossing a line—or threatening to.”

  Katie stared at him. She didn’t like the idea he’d heard her, and she liked it less that he’d made a point of letting her know. Not very tactful. “Just one of those parenting things,” she said casually. “We’ll work it out.”