Skipping Christmas (9 page)

“Blair.”

He finished chewing and pondered the question that she now asked only three times a day. “She’s fine, Nora. She’s having a great time.”

“Is she safe?” Another standard question, posed as if Luther should know for certain whether their daughter was safe or not at that precise moment.

“The Peace Corps hasn’t lost a volunteer in thirty years. Yes, trust me, they’re very careful, Nora. Now eat.”

She pushed her greens around, took a bite, lost interest. Luther wiped his plate clean and honed in on hers. “You gonna eat that?” he asked.

She swapped plates, and in a flash Luther had cleaned the second one. The pasta arrived and she guarded her bowl. After a few measured bites, she stopped suddenly, her fork halfway to her face. Then she laid it down again and said, “I forgot.”

Luther was chewing with a vengeance. “What is it?” Her face was stricken with terror.

“What is it, Nora?” he repeated, swallowing hard.

“Don’t those judges come around after the parade?”

Then it hit Luther too. He retired his fork for a moment, sipped water, gazed painfully at nothing in the distance. Yes, indeed, it was true.

After the parade, a committee from Parks and Rec toured the neighborhoods on a float pulled by a John Deere tractor and examined the level of Christmas spirit. They gave individual awards in various categories—Original Design, Festive Lighting, etc. And they handed out an award to the street with the best decorations. Hemlock had won the blue ribbon twice.

The year before, Hemlock had placed second, primarily because, according to the gossip on the street, two of the forty-two homes had not put up a Frosty. Boxwood Lane three blocks north had come from nowhere with a dazzling row of candy canes—Candy Cane Lane it described itself—and took away Hemlock’s award. Frohmeyer circulated memos for a month.

Dinner, now ruined, came to a standstill as they picked through their pasta and killed as much time as possible. Two long cups of decaf. When Angelo’s was empty, Luther paid the bill and they drove home, slowly.

________

Sure enough, Hemlock lost again. Luther fetched the
Gazette
in the semidarkness, and was horrified with the front page of Metro. The award winners were listed—Cherry Avenue first, Boxwood Lane second, Stanton third. Trogdon across the street with more than fourteen thousand lights finished fourth in Festive Lighting.

In the center of the page was a large color photo of the Krank home, taken at some distance. Luther studied it intently and tried to determine the angle. The photographer had shot down and at a wide angle, sort of an aerial view.

Next door, the Becker house positively glowed with a blinding display of lights. On the other side, the Kerrs’ house and lawn were perfectly lined with alternating reds and greens, thousands of them by now.

The Krank home was dark.

To the east, the Frohmeyers’, Nugents’, and Galdys’ could be seen, all glowing warmly, all with their Frostys sitting snugly on the roofs. To the west, the Dents’, Sloanes’, and Bellingtons’ all radiated Christmas splendor.

The Krank home was very dark.

“Scheel,” Luther grumbled to himself. The
photo was taken from directly across the street. Walt Scheel had allowed the photographer to climb onto the roof of his two-story house and shoot down with a wide lens. Probably had the whole street egging him on.

Under the photo was a brief story. Headlined “SKIPPING CHRISTMAS,” it read:

The home of Mr. and Mrs. Luther Krank is rather dark this Christmas. While the rest of their neighbors on Hemlock Street are decorating and busily preparing for Santa, the Kranks are skipping Christmas and preparing for a cruise, according to unnamed sources. No tree, no lights, and no Frosty up on the roof, the only house on Hemlock to keep Frosty hidden in the basement. (Hemlock, a frequent winner in the
Gazette
’s street decoration contest, finished a disappointing sixth this year.) “I hope they’re satisfied now,” complained one unidentified neighbor. “A rotten display of selfishness,” said another.

If Luther’d had a machine gun, he would’ve bolted outside and commenced spraying houses.

Instead he sat for a long time with a knot in his
stomach and tried to convince himself that this too would pass. Just four days until they left, and when they came back all those damned Frostys would be stored away, the lights and trees would be gone. The bills would start flooding in, and perhaps then all his wonderful neighbors would be more sympathetic.

He flipped through the newspaper but his concentration was shot. Finally, Luther found his resolve, gritted his teeth, and took the bad news to his wife.

“What a horrible way to wake up,” Nora said as she tried to focus on the photo in the newspaper. She rubbed her eyes and squinted.

“That jerk Scheel allowed the photographer to get on his roof,” Luther said.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Look at the picture.”

She was trying. Then she found her focus and read the story. She gasped at “… rotten display of selfishness.”

“Who said that?” she demanded.

“Either Scheel or Frohmeyer. Who knows. I’m in the shower.”

“How dare they!” Nora said, still gawking at the photo.

Atta girl, thought Luther. Get mad. Stiffen your back. Just four days to go—we’re not collapsing now.

That night, after dinner and an effort at television, Luther decided to take a walk. He bundled up and wrapped a wool scarf around his neck; it was below freezing outside with a chance of snow. He and Nora had bought one of the first homes on Hemlock; damned if he’d be forced to hide inside. This was his street, his neighborhood, his friends. One day soon this little episode would be forgotten.

Luther ambled along, hands stuck deep in his pockets, cold air invigorating his lungs.

He made it to the far end, to the intersection of Moss Point, before Spike Frohmeyer picked up his trail and caught him on a skateboard. “Hi, Mr. Krank,” he said as he rolled to a stop.

“Well hello, Spike.”

“What brings you out?”

“Just taking a little walk.”

“Enjoying the Christmas decorations?”

“Of course. What brings you out?”

“Just watching the street,” Spike said, then looked around as if an invasion were imminent.

“What’s Santa gonna bring you?”

Spike smiled and pondered for a second. “Not sure, but probably a Gameboy and a hockey stick and a set of drums.”

“Quite a haul.”

“Course I don’t really believe anymore, you know. But Mike’s just five so we still pretend.”

“Sure.”

“Gotta go. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you, Spike,” Luther said, uttering the forbidden greeting for what he hoped was the first and last time of the season. Spike disappeared down Hemlock, no doubt racing home to report to his father that Mr. Krank was out of his house and loose on the sidewalk.

Luther stopped in front of the Trogdons’ spectacle—more than fourteen thousand lights draped over trees and shrubs and windows and porch columns. Up on the roof with Frosty was Santa and his reindeer—Rudolph of course with a bright, flashing nose—all perfectly outlined with white lights. The roof itself was lined with two rows of red and green, blinking alternatively. The chimney was flashing too—hundreds of blue lights pulsating at once and casting an eerie glow over old Frosty. Along the holly bushes next
to the house a squad of tin soldiers stood guard, each as tall as a human and wrapped with multicolored lights. In the center of the lawn was a handsome Nativity scene, complete with real hay bales and a goat whose tail went up and down.

Quite a show.

Luther heard something, a ladder falling in the garage next to the Trogdons’. The garage door was up and through the shadows he saw Walt Scheel wrestling with yet another strand of lights. He walked over and caught Walt off guard. “Evening, Walt,” he said pleasantly.

“Well, if it isn’t ole Scrooge himself,” Walt said with a forced smile. They shook hands and each tried to think of something cutting and witty. Luther took a step back, looked up, and said, “How’d that photographer get up there?”

“Which photographer?”

“The one from the
Gazette
.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yes, that one.”

“He climbed up.”

“No kidding. Why’d you let him?”

“I don’t know. Said he wanted to get the whole street.”

Luther snorted and waved it off. “I’m a little
surprised at you, Walt,” he said, though he wasn’t surprised at all. For eleven years they’d been cordial on the surface, neither wanting an outright feud. But Luther didn’t like Walt for his snobbery and one-upmanship. And Walt didn’t care for Luther because he’d suspected for years that their salaries were almost equal.

“And I’m a little surprised at you,” Walt said, but neither neighbor was surprised at all.

“I think you have a light out over there,” Luther said, pointing to a shrub wrapped with a hundred lights.

“I’ll get right on it.”

“See you,” Luther said, walking away.

“Merry Christmas,” Walt called after him.

“Yeah, yeah.”

      Eleven      

The Wiley & Beck office Christmas party would begin with a lunch catered by two feuding Greek brothers who made the best baklava in the city. The bar opened at precisely eleven forty-five—three bars actually—and soon thereafter things got sloppy. Stanley Wiley would be the first to get smashed—he’d blame it on the loaded eggnog—and he’d stand on a box at the end of the conference table and deliver the same speech he’d given a week earlier at the black-tie Christmas dinner. Then they’d present him with a gift, a shotgun or a new sand wedge or some
other useless souvenir that he’d practically cry over, then quietly give to a client months later. There’d be other gifts, some speeches and gags, and a song or two as the booze flowed. Two male strippers appeared one year, and, to the beat of a howling boom box, disrobed down to their leopard thongs while the men ran for cover and the secretaries squealed with delight. Dox, Luther’s secretary, had squealed the loudest and still had photos of the boys. In a memo, Stanley had banned future strippers.

By five, some of the most starched and staid accountants at Wiley & Beck would be groping or attempting to grope some of the homeliest secretaries. Getting plastered was accepted behavior. They’d haul Stanley to his office and fill him with coffee before he could go home. The firm hired cars so no one would drive.

All in all, it was a mess. But the partners loved it because it was a good drunk away from their wives, who’d been properly entertained at the firm’s fancy Christmas dinner and had never been invited to the office party. The secretaries loved it because they saw and heard things they could tuck away and use as blackmail for the rest of the year.

Luther hated the Christmas party even in a
good year. He drank little and never got drunk, and every year he was embarrassed for his colleagues as they made fools of themselves.

So he stayed in his office with his door locked and tended to last-minute details. Then some music started down the hall just after 11 A.M. Luther found the right moment and disappeared. It was the twenty-third of December. He wouldn’t return until the sixth of January, and by then the office would be back to normal.

Good riddance.

He stepped into the travel agency to say goodbye to Biff, but she was already gone, off to a fabulous new resort in Mexico that offered a holiday package. He walked briskly to his car, quite proud that he was skipping the madness up on the sixth floor. He drove toward the mall, for one last tanning session, one last look at the crush of idiots who’d waited till almost the last minute to buy whatever was left in the stores. The traffic was dense and slow, and when he finally arrived at the mall a traffic cop was blocking the entrance. Parking lots were full. No more room. Go away.

Gladly, thought Luther.

He met Nora for lunch at a crowded bakery in the District. They’d actually made a reservation,
something unheard of for the rest of the year. He was late. She’d been crying.

“It’s Bev Scheel,” she said. “Went for a checkup yesterday. The cancer’s back, for the third time.”

Though Luther and Walt had never been close, their wives had managed to maintain good relations over the past couple of years. Truth was, for many years no one on Hemlock had much to do with the Scheels. They’d worked hard to have more, and their higher income had always been on display.

“It’s spread to her lungs,” Nora said, wiping her eyes. They ordered sparkling water. “And they suspect it’s in her kidneys and liver.”

Luther winced as the horrific disease crept on. “That’s awful,” he said in a low voice.

“This could be her last Christmas.”

“Did her doctor say that?” he asked, wary of amateur prognostications.

“No, I did.”

They dwelt on the Scheels far too long, and when Luther’d had enough he said, “We leave in forty-eight hours. Cheers.” They touched plastic glasses and Nora managed a smile.

Halfway through their salads, Luther asked, “Any regrets?”

She shook her head no, swallowed, and said, “Oh, I’ve missed the tree at times, the decorations, the music, the memories, I guess. But not the traffic and shopping and stress. It was a great idea, Luther.”

“I’m a genius.”

“Let’s not get carried away. You think Blair will even think about Christmas?”

“Not if she’s lucky. Doubt it,” he said with a mouthful. “She’s working with a bunch of heathen savages who worship rivers and such. Why should they take a break for Christmas?”

“That’s a little harsh, Luther. Savages?”

“Just kidding, dear. I’m sure they’re gentle people. Not to worry.”

“She said she never looks at a calendar.”

“Now that’s impressive. I’ve got two calendars in my office and I still forget which day it is.”

Millie from the Women’s Clinic barged in with a hug for Nora and a Merry Christmas for Luther, who would’ve otherwise been irritated except that Millie was tall and lanky and very cute for a woman her age. Early fifties.