Another Cliche Christmas

by Sarah Hualde

  “What was she doing in Ashton in November?”

  “Same thing I was doing. I was there for my annual doctor’s appointment. We chatted for about boys and then she had to leave to catch a bus. “

  “Any boy in particular.” Emily blushed and pouted. Some boy somewhere didn’t admire Emily in that same way she admired him.

  “For me, no. But she was talking about seeing Martin Levere. Why she’d want to talk to him after what he did last summer, I do not understand?”

  “Does he live in Ashton?” Emily shook her head and smiled at her refilled glass. “Do you want dessert?” With both plates empty, the girl had licked the sauce from her bowl. Emily’s eyes sparkled. “And maybe a serving of breadsticks, to take home?” Her young friend clapped with glee.

  “Martin doesn’t live in Ashton. He lives closer to Don.” She sneered at both men’s names. “He worked at the cell phone accessory kiosk, in Lewiston plaza. They flirted for a long time. Nothing major happened. Ms. Annie didn’t want Ivy dating until she was older. Then Ms. Annie died, and they were a couple. They even lived together for a bit. Then he ditches her and dates a waitress named Amber.” Her blue eyes rolled.

  “A friend of mine said she saw Ivy at the Ashton Target.”

  “I know where that is. It’s in the same center as my doctor’s office.” She sunk a fork in her creamy cheesecake and then smeared the bite in the garnish of melted chocolate. Lydia observed and heeded as Emily ate and talked. The teen’s girl-like mannerisms and excitements, her woman-like experiences and disappointments, and her inconsolable optimism colored her every simple memory and every single story. Lydia loved this new friend and added her name to her mental prayer list.

  Chapter 8

  Rehearsals started Monday night at 7pm. Two hours of timing, line reading, costume fitting, and choir practice rolled into a hairy mess of noise. With all her shepherds out with a stomach bug, Kat had the handful of wise men pulling double duty. Sam, also known as Joseph, ran lines with Hannah/Mary. He was having a blast hamming it up on stage but was a world away from being the humble stepfather of the Savior. He was a wild, sarcastic ball of wit dressed in a brown robe and sandals.

  Charmed by his comedy, the first twenty times he slaughtered his lines, Kat, now, fumed. Her hands balled into fists shook under her clipboard every time he took the stage. Late coming families disrupted the rehearsal and needed guidance to their proper places. Early leaving families wanted her to email them anything they may miss by exiting an entire hour before time. None would listen to Kat’s begging introduction, during which groveled for everyone’s attendance, every night, on time, for the entire time. No one seemed to care about the pageant. Yet, everyone in the community demanded it still take place.

  Kat hosted entire conference calls that morphed from planning to complaining. Someone’s daughter didn’t like the itchy material of her camel outfit. Someone’s son thought his robe was too girlie and wanted a camouflage one instead. Then came the cries of: Why couldn’t the children dress in whatever costumes they had and just sing together? How come the “Holy Family” was on the stage the entire time but not the angels? Turmoil echoed off everything Kat touched.

  This kid was allergic to sheep and this kid to the bales of hay. Three families wanted to take part but would not make a single rehearsal due to basketball practice. They wanted their parts emailed to them and a daily text shot their way with any new changes they missed. One family wanted to take part but couldn't be on stage the night of the performance. Kat had entire composition books filled with special arrangements, medical information, personal preferences, and the calendars of every family in Honey Pot.

  Kat’s family shared her frustration. It crinkled her expressions and wafted on her acidic breath. No amount of mints or tums could keep her reflux from acting up. She often forgot to eat, living instead on coffee and random bits of Christmas goodies.

  Her favorite Christmas traditions went ignored or put off for later. Cookie night had established her families Christmas tree habit. This tree was the sole decoration up in the Miller home. Thad urged her several times to put up more tinsel and lights but she poo poo-ed his suggestions. She had important matters to attend to. The entire community depended on me nailing this pageant.

  Now, her own child, blessed at being one of the main characters was sabotaging her efforts. She couldn’t handle it. “Six more days.” She repeated her mantra whenever the storm in her stomach stung and sloshed. “Six more days and then never again.”

  The Millers drove home to a dinner of macaroni and cheese with hot dog chunks. Jess hummed God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman while Sam interjected fart noises into the chorus. And Kat lost it. She swerved to the side of the road, tossed the car into park and screamed. Loud and scary, her wordless holler terrified the children. Jess sobbed, swallowing the sound so as not to add to the tension. Sam, agitated by the outburst, kicked the back of the passenger seat and tossed hateful sneers toward his horrified sibling.

  Kat witnessed it all and did nothing to stop it. Inside she raged. Cursing herself and the town and then herself again. By the time her emotions had settled she was numb unable to feel any concern for her dependents or her fellow drivers. She pulled back onto the street and rushed home on autopilot.

  Sam, having been the first to settle down, tucked Jess under his arm and led her to his bedroom. He curled around her on the floor and whispered prayers for their mother. Jess allowed herself to wilt on his shoulder and they huddled together, listening as Kat tossed around pots and pans.

  When Thad arrived home, Kat was too distraught to speak. She had fed her frustration with lies and accusations while she made her children’s dinner. He didn’t bother to talk with her. Communication was curdled with Christmas angst since Black Friday. He passed her by and found his children. They rushed to him. Something needed to straighten out Kat.

  *****

  The library was not a busy place during Christmas. Pottersville youth did not enjoy wasting away their vacations on furthering their education. They built men and forts when it snowed, played video games when it hailed, and enjoyed hiking on a day filled with light rain. Lightning meant more creative activities. Sometimes, movies at the theater, sometimes foosball in the garage, and sometimes less savory activities, but the library never made the list.

  Emily paced the YA section, checking her phone for the time or a text. She eyed the book spines and flipped open the occasional hard cover. Perhaps she should take a couple back with her, to keep her story straight. Mr. Mike was always looking deep into everyone’s activities. Since, Emily’s mother was so close to reconciling with her daughter, Mr. Mike was extra attentive to her whereabouts.

  Sometimes kids and parents could not bear to be apart for another minute. They’d meet in private, for a quick hug and an update. Sometimes these meets were harmless. More often they left emotional scars on the child. Either way it violated the court orders and could ruin the chance at a true reunion.

  Ivy was late. Not unlike her. Emily grabbed a vampire romance and a historical drama and headed to the comfiest looking armchair. She curled her feet onto the cushions and snuggled into reading. Entranced with her novel, Emily didn’t notice the sky darken and the library patrons vacate. She finished the last chapter as the librarian announced closing time. Ivy still hadn’t shown. Emily huffed, dropped her book on the return rack, and drudged home feeling both anxious and abandoned.

  *****

  “I don’t have a daughter, woman! I’ve told you that twice now. I will tell you one more time and then I’m going to get mean. I... don’t… have… a… daughter!” In a dirty t-shirt and cargo shorts, Ivy’s stepfather belly bounced Lydia off his front porch. A woman standing in the threshold of the screen door stared into the yard, processing the scene and hiding her alarm.

  Lydia almost fell, rear first, onto the browned lawn. She couldn’t fathom the man’s belligerent behavior. As soon as he turned away, she took a quick picture of his house with h
er cell phone. Even the mail box tractor attacked her. Her funny bone injury electrified her arm. She rubbed it and noticed next door’s kitchen curtain swing into place. Lydia walked to the turquoise front door and slipped a post it through the mail slot.

  I’m a friend of Ivy’s. Do you know where she is? Lydia

  Her telephone number acted instead of a postscript. Sounds of mounting frustration rumbled from the house next door. Lydia hurried to her car and speed away. She had no destination. She only wanted off the same street as Don, the disgusting rage machine.

  She pulled into a drive thru, ordered a beverage, and parked to drink it. Her nerve frayed and scattered. Ethan would be livid if he figured out Lydia was hunting down a missing person alone. Her buddies from the support group would join in, but it was Christmastime, and she was the only one without family obligations.

  Riddled with an inner debate, Lydia drove back to Honey Pot. Why should she worry about Ivy? If Ivy needed or wanted her help, she could’ve called. Now, her phone was out of service. She struggled between worry and apathy the entire ride home. Worry won out. She couldn’t keep silent. She needed to find that girl. Something was wrong.

  There had been thefts, small and huge. Then an abandoned car that led to nowhere, a bloody sleeping bag, and a name tag. Lydia had expected Ivy’s stepfather to be a painful person to encounter. Ms. Annie had told her as much, titling him “The Treasure.”

  A wise and kind woman, she only hinted at the level of upheaval her home life counted as normal. Lydia had noticed how concerned over Ivy the grandmother had been, determined to help the girl use her talents to get her free from Lewiston and dependency on Don Hooper. Ms. Annie would have succeeded; Lydia had not a doubt, is she had lived just two years longer. It was not to be and now her missing granddaughter was in more peril than either older woman considered plausible. There was one last lead for Lydia to track down.

  *****

  Kat’s hair was in a messy bun, not in an online tutorial, designer, messy bun, but the I haven’t washed my hair in a week, re-sprayed, and re- pinned messy bun. Lydia tried not to stare at her friend’s haphazard hair day horror, but it kept drawing her attention. Throughout Pastor Dean’s blessing over the Senior Center, residents and volunteers, her eyes shot undeterred to the tangled nest. She still had her head bowed when Emily approached.

  “Hiya, Lydia.” The teen threw her hands in the air and waved. Though only ten feet away from her friend, she continued to rally until Lydia returned the gesture.

  She must have enjoyed dinner. Lydia felt instant guilt, she asked Emily to dinner only to pump her for information about Ivy. Seeing what a small amount of attention could do, she wanted to get to know Emily for Emily and not for clues in her investigation. The girl smiled and shimmied over to Mr. Mike, gathering up gifts to hand out to the elderly.

  “Mike’s calling you.” She motioned to the tall, muscular man standing near the piano. Lydia nodded and walked over.

  “So,” he began without hesitation. “Emily hasn’t stopped talking about the other night.” His gray eyes pierced into Lydia’s chocolate ones.

  Mr. Mike always searched out motive and intent in the volunteers that served his kids. He was always on guard and doing what he could to prevent disaster. He was straightforward and direct when examining adults who affected the lives he rescued. Lydia shrunk back as he dove into her thoughts.

  "Em will not make it back to her mother before Christmas. It would be great if you would host her for the holiday. Nothing special needs to be done. Just someone to be with. I’ll even send a couple donated gifts to you ahead of time. It wouldn’t cost you more than lunch and a headache.” He glanced toward Emily and grinned. “Man, can that girl talk!”

  Embarrassed she’d never considered hosting a teen for Christmas, Lydia agreed to the idea. Even if Joan were at home, inviting one more for the day wouldn’t be a bother. “I’d enjoy that.” She responded.

  Mr. Mike examined her face once more before he slapped his hands together in approval and said, “I’ll set it up.” He then walked away as if the conversation never happened.

  Lydia joined Kat and the teens. She watched kids without parents love on parents without kids. Kat and the younger children decorated the huge plastic tree, dusting it as they worked.

  Emily read to Mrs. Lloyd, the center’s oldest resident. She repeated and reemphasized the same paragraphs and pages until the geriatric acknowledged the effort with a soft pat on Emily’s knee. Emily was a good girl. Lydia wasn’t naïve enough to assume Emily was always helpful and cheery. Trauma begets drama. Sometimes hurt people live hurtful lives.

  Emily had a lot of both trauma and hurt. And though Emily welcomed Lydia to the party, she’d spent the last few hours avoiding her. Even her reading to Mrs. Lloyd appeared a diversion from direct conversation. Lydia let it go. Maybe she’d pushed too hard at dinner. She’d send her one formal and fancy invitation to Christmas dinner and then call her a few days later. Perhaps, the distance would shrink by then.

  *****

  The following afternoon, Lydia sat in the restaurant wondering what she was expecting. She was hoping the M. on the black and gold card was the Martin on the restaurant name tag. Factoring in the odds he was also working on this particular day on this particular shift made Lydia seem more like a nut. She ordered dinner, even though she’d eaten on the drive up to Lewiston, and waited, praying for help from above.

  Ivy had been in Honey Pot and something had happened. Deputy Gus refused to file a missing person report. No one noticed the exact day Ivy went missing. Don, her stepfather, was less than helpful and refused to offer any information to anyone who asked. He denied living in the same house as anyone named Ivy even though common knowledge suggested the opposite. He even refused to admit Ivy was his stepdaughter. No clues leading to boyfriends or jobs or runaway possibilities slipped from his lips when interrogated. He left investigators pondering the heinousness of such a man.

  Though evidence pointed to him being a violent despicable man, nothing led Deputy Gus to think Don manufactured her disappearance. Even Kat and Flora accounted to seeing Ivy in a healthy state after her supposed vanishing.

  Flummoxed,Lydia was certain Ivy needed her support and was helpless to give it. Her prayers and nightmares reflected her deep concern and worry over the girl.

  “Your potato skins and a side salad.” Lydia’s waiter, Ben, set the food down without a clink of the dishes. “You need a refill?” He poured iced tea without waiting for an answer and pandered to another table.

  She picked at her food, pretending to enjoy it. No Martin nametag passed her by. She would have to ask. Next time Ben came near she waved him over. “More tea?” Her glass was still brimming.

  “Um, no. I’m looking for someone. Martin Levere. Is he in today?”

  Ben’s brows slanted in opposition to his plastered-on smile. Lydia’s internal radar flared. Married to a sheriff for twenty years hadn’t left Lydia without super senses. She often had “notions” about people, glimpses of their inner selves and hidden motivations. She had a bad impression about Ben just like she had a foreboding about Ivy. Ben knew Martin and knew him well. She covered her hebbie-jebbies with a smooth countenance and steady voice.

  “Never heard of him.” Ben laid down a napkin and utensil setting though it was unneeded.

  “Oh, I heard he worked here. Maybe if I spoke to the manager they could let me know which restaurant he works at.”

  “Sure.” Ben exited with a casual shrug and a hurried step. His voice was loud enough to identify but not clear enough to understand. Another male tone joined his conversation. Lydia remained cool, craning an ear toward the beverage center but not making eye contact. A waitress left the back and the swinging door revealed Ben scuffling to the nearest window, facing the parking lot. “Dude, that’s her truck.” The doors closed before she could catch the face of Ben’s counterpart.

  Lydia peeked out the window at her own vehicle. “Beans and rice!” She
huffed and took a deliberate sip of tea. Ethan’s “I might be the Sheriff but my wife’s the Boss” joke bumper sticker stood out like a beacon of doom. She'd forgotten it was there.

  Mr. Levere, Lydia surmised, rocketed over the counter and out the front doors of the restaurant. His face was undistinguishable, other than the blur of panic and adrenaline plastered across it. "Well, that looks innocent” Lydia still sipped her beverage, watching the scene.

  His buddy shouted encouragement in the form of curses and fist pumping. Lydia rolled her eyes. She’d have to run after him, she supposed. But she’d worn her cute boots today, and the restaurant had hard wood flooring. If she attempted a sprint, she would wind up sprawled out on the floor. She needed to figure out where Martin hid and get there before him.

  A timid worker bumped her tray into Lydia’s shoulder as she passed to clear the next table. The fist pumper, retreated to the back of the restaurant glaring one more time at Lydia. Lydia scooped up her jacket and made for the door when a small, purple nailed hand grabbed her shoulder.

  “Can we talk?” The busser whispered. Lydia nodded, reluctant to let Martin get away, but happy to have a better reason than foot wear not to bolt after him. “I’m off in ten minutes.”

  Lydia lowered her voice to match the quiet girl’s “I’ll be waiting in the blue pickup out front. I’ll have the heater running.” Without another word the girl wiped the table down with a bleach covered rag and moved to the next table. Lydia, certain she wasn’t receiving anymore service from Ben, left cash to cover her uneaten order and left her booth. Diners speculated and gestured about the running youth and his grand hurdle over the counter. None of their conversation gave clues to why exactly he had run.

  Kat texted Lydia, checking in on her adventure, while Lydia waited in the warming cab of her truck. She responded with thumbs up and an update of her location. Ethan would be proud of her informing friends of her whereabouts and horrified that she could place herself in danger. She jumped when the young worker knocked on the truck window. The girl’s nervous smile evoked Lydia’s compassion. She unlocked the passenger door.