Remembering Christmas (9 page)

“It’s not that bad, Rick. Really. I can probably show you everything you need to know in an hour. You’ll probably find the most difficult thing will be keeping the coffee going and remembering to turn the music on when it cuts off. I’m going to make some cassettes for you before I leave, so you’ll at least have ninety minutes worth at a time.”

Rick didn’t make coffee. He either bought it or one of the secretaries made it at the office.

“Actually, after I show you what to do in here, I was hoping you might be able to spend some time back in Art’s office. We need to order some things so they’ll be here by the end of the week.”

This was growing more sour by the minute.

“But come here first. There’s somebody I want you to meet.” She stood up and walked around him. Then a few steps down the center aisle.

He watched her but didn’t respond, still reeling a bit from the things she’d just said.

She turned around. “C’mon. It’ll just take a minute.”

He followed her toward the back.

“Say, Andrea,” a male voice yelled over one of the aisles near the front.

They stopped halfway. “Need something?” she replied.

It was one of the teenagers by the records. “We can’t find Keith Green’s new album. Thought it came out a while ago.”

“We don’t carry it. None of the stores do,” she said. “Guess you didn’t hear. He’s not selling them in stores anymore. You’ve got to order it directly from his ministry in Texas.”

“Really? Know how much they’re selling it for?”

“For free . . . well, not really for free. For however much you want to donate.”

“No way. You mean I could get it if I sent in a dollar?”

“I suppose, but I think you’re missing the point. When you’re ready to check out, I’ll give you one of his newsletters. I have a few under the counter.”

“Hey, dude,” his friend said. “We can both get one, maybe we’ll send in five bucks between us.”

Andrea continued walking down the aisle. Rick didn’t understand a single word of that conversation.

They reached an open area with a sofa and upholstered chair. A little girl sat on the sofa, with some kind of project spread out beside her, with more of it on the coffee table.

“Amy, I’d like you to meet Mr. Denton. He’s Leanne’s son.” The little girl looked up, smiling brightly. She had the same color hair as Andrea, pulled into a ponytail on one side.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Bell had a boy.”

“Well, he’s not a boy, Amy.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say she had a
man
.”

Rick laughed. She was cute. She reached out her little hand, so he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Amy.”

“And you too, Mr. Denton.”

“Can she call me Rick?” he asked Andrea quietly.

“It’s okay with me.”

“How about you call me Rick?”

“Okay.”

“What you got here, some kind of school project?”

“No, silly.” She held up a JCPenney Christmas catalog, with a picture of Santa on the front wearing a blue apron, painting a toy. “I’m making a catalog.”

Rick didn’t understand. “Looks like the catalog is already made.”

She held up a black composition notebook. “No,” she gently scolded. “
This
is my catalog. I’m making it for Annabelle, so she can pick out what she wants for Christmas.”

He saw a blonde-haired doll sitting next to her on the sofa. Presumably Annabelle. “Oh. Why don’t you just have Annabelle look at the Penney’s catalog?”

Amy looked all set to explain. “Hold on, sweetie,” Andrea said. “You can tell Rick all about that later. I’ve got some things I need to show him in the store first.”

“Okay. It’s not ready to show anyone yet anyway. I’ve got a lot more I have to do with it first.”

Andrea headed toward the aisle closest to the back wall. “We’ll start over here.”

“Okay if I get a cup of coffee first?”

“Yeah, I can use one too. Then we’ll make a fresh pot.”

“You’re going to have to show me how to do that too.”

“What?”

“Make coffee. I don’t know how.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “Accountants don’t make coffee.”

She smiled. “Guess that means you don’t clean toilets, either.”

“Toilets?”

“I was saving that for last.”

Rick sat in the Book Nook’s dreary back office, Art’s office.

A few minutes ago, Andrea had finished giving him the grand tour, explaining way more than he could retain. But she was right. It wasn’t that complicated. He’d actually felt stupid for his apprehension. Teenagers in high school get hired for jobs like this at minimum wage. People came in to the store, picked stuff out, and brought it up to the counter to pay for it. That’s it.

But if they asked questions about the merchandise, that would be a problem.
What’s the best book on marriage? I’m buying a book for a friend, do you recommend this one? Which of these three Bibles is a better translation?
He didn’t know anything, knew he didn’t know anything, but he hated appearing that way. He had an almost biological resistance to saying “I don’t know.” His practice had always been to come up with something that sounded like it made sense and say it with authority.

But he couldn’t do that here; he had no reference point to even pretend.

Andrea had seemed to discern his struggle and offered some advice: “If customers ask you questions, tell them you’re just watching the store for a few days to help your mom out while Art’s in the hospital.” Then she walked him behind the counter and pulled out a pad of paper, suggesting he could write their questions down, get their name and phone number, and tell them she’d call them back when she got in at around 3:00 p.m.

Rick had then asked if she shouldn’t write down her phone number in case any of their questions were urgent. Immediately, he felt like a total fool for saying it. Who would ever have a question about a religious book that needed immediate attention? She’d given him a look that said “You’re kidding, right?” But she didn’t say it, which was all he could hope for. Instead she’d said, “I can’t take personal calls at the restaurant.”

Rick knew he’d only asked the question to get her telephone number. Like some reflex reaction. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to detect his scheme. She was probably wondering, though, how someone with a master’s degree could ask such a lame question.

Sitting there now in Art’s squeaky chair, he looked back on this whole episode with a fair amount of self-disdain. Because, after all, he wasn’t interested in Andrea, so there was no point responding to some misguided impulse to get her phone number. She was attractive enough, more than a little, and had a pleasing personality . . . and she smelled nice.

But she was a churchgoer, like his mom.

Worse than that . . . she had a kid.

Andrea popped her head through the office doorway. “How’s it going back here?”

Rick looked around at the mess of papers and stacks of folders. “Not so good. I’m sure Art had some kind of system here, but I’m not seeing it yet.” She had given him a written list of books, records, and religious paraphernalia to reorder, hoping to get them in the store and ready for resale by this Friday. Almost two hours had passed. “So far,” Rick said, “I’ve only found three of the wholesale vendors who sell the items on your list.”

“Any of them those big nativity sets?”

Rick shook his head. “Nope.”

“Hope you find them. I’ve had several people asking about them. Think your mom said they had a really nice markup.” She looked around the office. “Wish I could help you, but I hardly ever did anything back here.”

“I’m sure if I keep digging, I’ll connect all the dots. No customers out there?”

“Not at the moment. Care for a cup of coffee?”

“I’d love one.”

“Feel like making it? What’s left in here doesn’t smell very good.”

Rick made a face.

“I know you watched me make the last pot, but tomorrow you’re going to have to tackle this giant on your own.”

Rick smiled then got up. At about the same time, the front door opened and closed. “Better see who that is,” she said. “Sure you’re okay?”

He wanted to say “It’s just coffee.” But he was a little nervous. “I remember what you did. Just not sure how it’ll turn out.”

“We’re not Dunkin’ Donuts, so if it’s close, most people will be fine.” She smiled then walked away.

He got up and walked the few steps to the little cabinet next to the sofa, where the Mr. Coffee sat. As he began carefully following the steps he’d just committed to memory, he remembered reading an interview with the inventor of Mr. Coffee in a
Forbes
magazine article last year. The guy compared his creativity to that of Michelangelo. It was a clever little thing. But c’mon . . . it just made coffee.

He glanced over at Amy still hard at work on her catalog project. She looked up at him. “I like that smell.”

“Me too. Like how it tastes?”

“I’m only six.”

Rick laughed. “Right.” He needed to stop talking so he didn’t screw up the count on the scoops. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was still looking at him.

“Sorry about your dad,” she said. “I mean, your stepdad. I really like Mr. Art. He’s so nice to my mom and me. Sometimes I pretend he’s my grandpa, and your mommy is my grandma. It’s easy because they act just like grandparents are supposed to. Your mommy always gives me Chiclets gum from her purse. Both of them always give me big hugs when they see me, and more hugs when I have to go.”

Rick kept his eye on his assignment. It didn’t seem like Amy required anything from him to keep the conversation going.

“Sometimes after school I have to come here, because my friend Jenny’s mom can’t watch me. Sometimes Mr. Art sits right here beside me and reads me Bible stories. Did he ever read you stories when you were a kid? He always smells nice. Like flowers for men. Hope he feels better soon.”

Rick smiled. At least she wasn’t a brat. He listened for, then heard, the appropriate gurgling sound, bent over to watch the black drips as they started spilling into the pot. He had a few minutes, so he walked over and sat down beside her. “You almost done with your catalog?”

“Almost,” she said. “There’s just a few more things Annabelle might want for Christmas.” She had the Penney’s catalog opened up on the coffee table. The toy section was all cut up. “Like Baby Softina.” She pointed at a doll then turned the page. “And Holly Hobbie, the little one here that looks like a baby.” She turned a few more pages. “This Easy-Bake Oven.” She flipped several pages. “And this Miss Piggy doll. I think when I cut these out I’ll be all done with my catalog.”

“Can I see it a minute?” he asked.

“Sure.” She handed Rick the Penney’s catalog.

He flipped it forward a few pages. “The Empire Strikes Back,” he said. “Did you see this? Look at these action figures, Luke Skywalker, Chewbacca, Han Solo . . . look at this
Millennium Falcon
. It’s just like the one in the movie. I would have loved that as a kid. How come you didn’t cut these out?” Of course he was kidding.

“Because Annabelle doesn’t want things like that. They’re for boys.”

He handed the catalog back to her. “Can I see that?” He pointed to her handmade one. She gave it to him. “So Annabelle wants everything in here?”

“Well, she may want all of it, but she won’t get all of it.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not how it works, silly. You ask for some stuff, but you don’t get most of what you ask for. Maybe one or two things . . . and never the thing you want most.”

“What does Annabelle want most this year?”

“Can I see it?” she asked. Rick gave it back. She turned to the first page. “Barbie’s Dream House,” she said, “with all the furniture.” Her face lit up as she pointed to the cutout picture. She closed her eyes a moment, then sighed. She pointed to the second page. “And the Barbie Super Vette here.”

He noticed that none of the toy pictures in her catalog had prices; she’d cut around them. “So . . . why does Annabelle want a catalog with so many things in it if she knows she’s only going to get one or two presents?”