Santa Clawed (2 page)

“With fortitude. She’s eighty-six. She’s ready to go. Fighting to breathe robs any delight one might harbor. But she amazes me. So do the brothers. I didn’t think I’d much like them hovering about, but they’ve been good. Well, Christopher Hewitt isn’t too good. Brother Morris,” she mentioned the prior, “says he has to do some hospice work. Mostly Christopher runs the Christmas tree farm. He knows how to make money. Bryson is there more than I am, so Aunt Phillipa receives lots of attention. He has two elderly patients there, as well.”

BoomBoom, who’d gone to high school with Christopher, as did Harry, Fair, and Susan, said, “I haven’t seen Christopher since he joined the brotherhood. Not that we were bosom buddies before.”

“Heard he became a brother after he got out of jail in Arizona. Money led him down the garden path. I am going over to the Christmas tree farm later, and maybe he’ll be there.” Harry was looking forward to picking out a tree.

Susan spoke to Alicia, Racquel, and Jean, who did not go to Crozet High School. “Christopher was a year behind Harry and me. He was handsome. And he was always elected treasurer of whatever group he was in.”

“Good training.” BoomBoom laughed.

“That comes back to my question,” said Harry. “Can a leopard change his spots? I don’t know all of the details, but Christopher was a stockbroker, became involved in insider trading, losing millions of clients’ money. I just wonder.”

“Well, I changed my spots.” BoomBoom laughed again, at herself this time.

“Oh, you were never that bad.” Susan liked her school chum, although she sided with Harry during the affair, which was natural.

“Bad enough.” Harry laughed, too. “But isn’t it funny how things turn out? All three of us have grown closer.”

BoomBoom became serious. “The truth is I didn’t know what love was until I met Alicia. I was running on empty and running from man to man.”

“You sweet thing,” Alicia said.

Racquel, not one to hold back, asked, “Think you were always gay?”

“No. Not for a second. I don’t even know if I am now, but I love Alicia. If that makes me gay, I’m happy to claim it. But, Racquel, I never once thought about another woman that way.” She turned to Jean. “Which reminds me, I’m surprised Bill allows you to work with Alicia and me.”

Jean rolled her eyes. “He’s gotten worse. He’s not as bad about two women as two men, but he’s really become a bigot. The other thing that sets him off is illegal immigration.” She looked around at the others. “The man I married was purposeful but fun. I don’t know—he entered his forties and now he’s such a crab. I hasten to add that he’s good to me. But he really loathes anything and everything about gay men. I just don’t know what to do about it, because there are gay men in our social groups. He avoids them.”

“Not a thing you can do.” Racquel shrugged, then tossed a rosebud at Harry. “The leopard and his spots. I worry about Bryson. He says he’s changed, but I don’t know. These last few months I kind of get the feeling he’s slipping back. I’ve checked the new nurses. None is his type.”

“Racquel, there hasn’t been a whiff of gossip, and you know that the hospital is a hotbed of it. If he were sleeping with a nurse, we’d know.” Jean wanted Racquel to be happy.

“I’d have heard.” Susan did hear a lot, plus her husband—a lawyer—served as a representative in the Virginia legislature and was on the hospital board.

“I don’t know.” Racquel appeared glum for a minute. “I swear to you, if he is fooling around and I catch him, that is one man who will be singing soprano in the choir.”

All the women laughed at this, each knowing, however fleetingly, that thought of revenge.

Pewter and the others had been listening.
“I’m not changing my spots.”

“You don’t have any spots.”
Tucker laughed at her.

“You know what I mean.”
Pewter stared crossly at the dog.

“That you think you’re perfect,”
Tucker said.

“I’m glad you recognize that.”
Pewter beamed as the other cats laughed.

A
string of red and green lightbulbs, supported by four poles, formed a square shining down on rows of freshly cut Christmas trees. The Brothers of Love kept a tight grasp on the wallet. No need to squander funds on fancy lights or even a crèche. The Christmas tree farm provided the brothers with half their annual income.

The square rows of Scotch pines undulated, roots balled and in large pots. Other trees, still planted, would be dug up after the shopper selected one. A forklift put the pots of freshly dug trees into truck beds. Sliding a potted tree into a station wagon proved more difficult, since the root balls were quite heavy, but after ten years the brothers had it down to a science.

People flocked to the tree farm because the trees were symmetrical and the prices fair. One also left the farm feeling smugly virtuous, since the money did fund their hospice. Back in the early 1980s, when even some medical personnel wouldn’t touch AIDS patients because the transmission of the disease was not fully understood, the brothers formed to nurse the sick and comfort the dying. Their commitment to all patients regardless of disease won them respect and support. The order wore monks’ habits, a black rope tying them tight around the middle. This outward display of their vows, in these secular times, pushed some people away from them. Others rushed toward them, eager to bare sins. By starting the hospice, perhaps the brothers wished to spare themselves such repetitive boredom. What each brother learned over time was that there are no original sins.

Harry Haristeen walked through the trees outside the square. Sticking close to her were Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both nimbly stepping over garlands and wreaths that had been laid to the side,
SOLD
tags attached to them.

Popping out from an aisle of trees off the small main square was Alex Corbett, head of Corbett Realty.

“Harry, find a tree?”

“Not yet. You?”

“A big one. Need an impressive specimen for the annual company party.”

“Same night as St. Luke’s. Bad timing.” She smiled.

“Oh, Harry, people party all day and night. Half of the St. Luke’s people will come over to Keswick Club. I’m counting on you and Fair to add to the celebration.”

“Alex, we’d love to, but I’ve got to help clean up.”

His sandy mustache twitched upward. “Well, I’ll see you at Spring Fling, then.” He waved good-bye as he walked to his new Range Rover and drove off.

She said to her animals, “Real estate has been tanking for two years and yet that man rolls in the dough. Wish I had his brains for money.”

“You have a good brain,”
Tucker complimented her.

As it was two in the afternoon on December 15, she had the farm all to herself once Alex left. The high volume of shoppers would fill the place after work. The other women at the work party had their trees up already, but Harry, like her mother, waited until ten days before Christmas.

Tucker patiently examined each tree. Had to smell right.

“Pine”
—Pewter sniffed—
“all smells the same.”

“Does not,”
the sturdy dog replied.

“I don’t want to hear about your superior nose. My nose is every bit as good as yours.”

Although Tucker knew she was being goaded, an activity at which Pewter excelled, she couldn’t help herself. She rose to the bait.
“My nose is superior. Why, I can track a cow on a three-day-old line.”

“Ooh la.”
Pewter tossed back her head.
“Even a bloodhound can’t do that. Furthermore, what do you want with a stinky cow? The cud breath could gag a maggot.”

The fur on the back of her neck fluffed up as Tucker responded,
“You don’t know anything about canine noses.”

“Well, I know all I need to know about canine butts, you tailless wonder.”
Pewter giggled.

Tucker whirled around, ready for a fight. The dog had endured five lunatic cats at St. Luke’s. Her feline fun meter was pegged.

Mrs. Murphy stopped to face them as Harry walked on, and said with an authoritative voice,
“Can it.”

Rarely did Tucker oppose the tiger cat. They were good friends. Besides, Murphy could unleash those claws and tear her up.

Pewter, while not wishing to tangle with the tiger, didn’t want to look as though she’d backed down.
“Who died and made you God?”

Upset at her phrase, Tucker said,
“You shouldn’t talk like that. We just came from St. Luke’s. Besides, there are brothers around.”

Mrs. Murphy couldn’t help but laugh at Tucker’s seriousness.
“Since when do humans understand our language? Even our own human doesn’t get it.”

“Right.”
Pewter seized on what she took to be a tiny bit of support from Mrs. Murphy.
“Furthermore, most of the brothers are mental. They’re making up for something. You know, atoning for sins. Why would anyone want to sit with the dying? It’s not normal.”

“Pewter, you’re hateful.”
Mrs. Murphy turned to follow Harry, who was attractive even in a dirty, smeared Carhartt work jacket.

“I tell the truth. Why is that being hateful?”
Pewter yelled to the two animals leaving her.
“They’re a bunch of whack jobs.”

As Tucker padded along next to Mrs. Murphy, she said,
“Her nose gets out of joint because she doesn’t like the cold. Does she stay in the truck? No. She lives in fear that she’ll miss something and then all she does is bitch and moan.”

A gray cannonball shot past them. Pewter turned to face them after skidding to a stop, sending pine needles flying.
“You’re talking about me!”

“Egotist,”
Tucker fired back.

“As it happens, we were. We were discussing how you hate the cold but you won’t stay in the truck,”
said Mrs. Murphy.

“Ha. You were saying ugly things about me. Un-Christian things.”

“Pewter.”
Both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker said the same thing at the same time while laughing at the cross kitty.

Harry, hearing the chatter, called to her friends, “Come on, you all, keep up.”

“It’s her fault.”
Tucker petulantly pointed the paw, so to speak, at Pewter.

Pewter hopped sideways, stiff-legged, toward the dog. Then she swatted the corgi.

“That’s enough,” Harry commented. “Look at this one.”

“Very nice.”
Tucker admired the twelve-foot tree, which would look good in the old farmhouse with its high ceilings.

“Can’t wait to climb it,”
Pewter said.

“Have to wait until it’s decorated. Maximum damage,”
Mrs. Murphy gleefully ordered.

“Where is everybody?” Harry wondered out loud. “Ought to be a brother around here somewhere.”

“Probably in prayer and penance.”
Pewter sarcastically giggled.

Harry misinterpreted Pewter’s remarks, thinking the cat wanted to be picked up. She bent over, hoisting the large cat.

Given that a free ride beat walking, Pewter didn’t fuss.

Tucker raced down the row of trees, reached the end, and raced back in another tree lane. She continued running up and back while the others returned to the square.

Just as Harry and the cats reached the lighted open square, she noticed an SUV pulling away. She walked to the small trailer and knocked on the door.

“Just a minute,” a male voice called from inside.

The flimsy door opened. Out stepped a man in his late thirties, wearing the winter habit, a heavy brown wool robe. His red beard and mustache were offset by bright blue eyes.

Harry paused, finally recognized who it was behind the beard, then said, “Christopher Hewitt, we were just talking about you.”

He smiled. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, Harry. And who’s ‘we’?”

She hugged him, then let go. “The decorating committee at St. Luke’s. You remember Susan Tucker and BoomBoom Craycroft. They were there. I don’t think you know the other ladies.”

“You know what Mae West said? The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. So what did they say?”

“That you’d joined the brotherhood after being in the slammer.”

“Heard I made the papers back home.” He ruefully smiled. “Took my vows a year ago plus a few days. I needed to completely change my life. I’d made a terrible mistake. Anyway, I give myself to service. Perhaps, in time, the good I do will outweigh the bad.”

“It will.” She reassured him. “We all make mistakes.”

“Mine cost other people millions.”

“Yes, well”—she laughed—“that is a major mistake.”

“I don’t do things halfway.” He pulled his hands back into the heavy sleeve. “Would you like to come into the trailer? Warm.”

“Thanks. I want to buy a tree. Can you tag it for me?”

“Sure.”

They walked to the perfectly shaped tree that Harry had marked. Chris pulled a red cardboard tag from a pocket in his robe. “There you go.”

“Aren’t your hands cold?”

“Yes. I try to keep to the tradition—no gloves, no shoes—but I surely wear gloves and shoes when it’s cold.”

“No shoes?”

“Sandals. We can wear sandals, but I cheat and wear Thinsulate-lined boots when it’s this cold. Really is cold, too. I think we’ll have a white Christmas.”

He stepped back to admire the tree. “Remember old Mr. Truslow, who used to show
White Christmas
every year in assembly? I thought it was the most boring movie I’d ever seen, but at least we were out of the classroom.”

“Really? I liked it.” She paused. “I think he showed it to us because he was in the war. The idea of a reunion and all that.”

“Maybe. Want me to put the tree in your truck?”

“No, thanks, because Fair can’t get here until about nine. I want to make sure he likes the tree. Half of making a marriage work is letting your spouse in on every decision.”

“Another mistake I made. My wife bailed when the scandal broke about insider trading. I wished she’d loved me enough to stick it out, but I can’t say that I blame her.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. I was a fool. How much is enough? Made millions, Harry, millions, and I wanted more. I was a fool. Like I said, I hope the good I do now will make up for what I did then.”

“Will.” She walked back to her old truck.

“These old Fords go and go. When did you get it?” He walked around it, noticing the good condition of the F-series truck.

“When I graduated from Smith, in 1990.”

His gaze ran over the ’78 Ford again. “I miss my Porsche.” He shrugged. “Funny how you can love an inanimate object.”

“Makes sense to me.” She opened the truck door.

The cats hopped in, but she had to pick up Tucker.

“Good to see you, Harry. I’ll be here until ten. If you and Fair run late, call.” He waved as she drove off.

Heading toward the farm, she thought that the leopard could change his spots if he truly was motivated.

At least that’s what she figured.

“Where are we going?”
Pewter wanted a nap.

“We’re here,”
Mrs. Murphy said as Harry drove down the alleyway behind the old post office, where she used to work.

Once parked in Miranda Hogendobber’s driveway off the alleyway, she paused to notice that even in the snow, Miranda’s gardens, symmetrically laid out, still pleased the eye.

“Knock knock.” She opened the back door.

“Come on in. I’m in the living room,” Miranda, Harry’s surrogate mother and former workmate at the post office, called out.

The animals dashed in to be rapturously greeted, followed by Harry, who received a big hug and kiss.

“Wow.” Harry admired Miranda’s tree.

“Thought I’d do something different this year.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

A Douglas fir, reaching the ceiling, bore evidence of Miranda’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility. Plaid bows, shot through with some gold thread, were tied in place of balls. A lush gold garland wrapped around the tree. On the top, a single thin gold star finished the picture.

“You really like it? I haven’t been too severe?”

“I love it.”

“Sit down. Tea?”