The Christmas Table

by Donna VanLiere

  Dalton and Lauren load the desk into the back of Dalton’s pickup truck as Gloria gives instructions to Lauren. “Just find something simple and nice at Larry’s,” she says. “Anything with a top and four legs would be nicer than what we’ve been using.”

  “I don’t think I should be in charge of finding a new piece of furniture,” Lauren says. “I can’t even pick furniture out for our house.”

  “Oh yes you can!” Gloria says, leading her back into Glory’s Place. “Larry can help. He knows the size space that we have, and he knows our budget.”

  “What is our budget?” Lauren asks.

  “What is our budget, Dalton?” Gloria says.

  “I have about forty dollars in my wallet,” he says, grinning.

  “And that’s about what I have,” Gloria says. “I bet Miriam has another forty, so let’s say a hundred and twenty dollars.”

  Lauren steps into the bathroom before making the trip to Larry’s. It’s been five days since she ate the sushi from Clauson’s and she still doesn’t feel well. She knows now that it obviously isn’t food poisoning but rather a virus. “Hi, Andrea!” she says when she exits the bathroom and sees Andrea across the big room.

  “Lauren!” Andrea watches as Lauren slings her purse over her shoulder. “Are you leaving?”

  “I’m headed to Larry Maccabee’s to find a table or desk for the front entryway.” She sits on a chair in the reading section and sighs, trying to catch her breath.

  Andrea sits next to her. “Are you still not feeling well?”

  “Just tired right now. It comes over me at weird times. I heard somebody at Clauson’s talking about a virus going around.”

  “Still nauseous?” Lauren nods. Andrea looks up at the bathroom door. “And going to the bathroom more frequently?”

  Lauren’s brows rise and her eyes widen. “Yes! So frustrating.”

  Andrea pats her knee. “Tell you what, why don’t I go to Larry’s and you go to the doctor?”

  “I can’t do that to Miss Glory. She needs every volunteer once the kids arrive.”

  “Gloria wouldn’t want any of us to be sick around the children, and Miriam said that Gabe is coming in with Amy today, so we already have an extra person to cover for you.”

  Lauren nods. “Do you know Larry?”

  Andrea smiles. “No, but I will after I get to his shop.”

  “Don’t tell Gloria that I’m sick. I don’t want her to worry.”

  “I won’t say a word until you and your husband both know what’s happening.” Andrea smiles, watching Lauren walk across the big room and leave the building.

  * * *

  Larry Maccabee creates a mini dust storm inside his shop as he uses a power sander to lift years of polyurethane and what looks like nail polish abuse from a tabletop. He’s had it for years in his workshop in hopes of restoring and reselling it but has never gotten around to it. The table was set aside and quickly became a catchall for extra tools, cans of stain, books and manuals, paintbrushes, and anything else that was in Larry’s hand.

  “Excuse me.” His back is to the door, and Andrea knows there’s no way he’s going to hear her over that blasted sander. She spots the light switch and walks to it, flicking it on and off a couple of times. He spins around, turns off the sander, and pulls the earmuffs down around his neck. “So sorry to bother you,” she says. “I didn’t want to scare you because your back was to the door.”

  “I normally keep the door locked when I’m working with the power tools,” he says, setting down the power sander and wiping sawdust from his forearms as he walks through his shop filled with a table saw, drill press, band saw, jointer, workbenches, belt sander, planers, clamps, and various hand tools hanging on each wall. Larry mills his own wood and has been making or refurbishing furniture for decades. He looks to be in his late sixties or early seventies with a crown of grayish brown hair, black-framed glasses, and a gently worn face. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Andrea King, and I’m looking for a table or desk for the entryway to Glory’s Place. She said you’d know the size that would be best for that space.”

  “Sure! My wife, Melanie, and I were there when volunteers were cleaning and painting and getting Glory’s Place ready.”

  Andrea looks around the shop, wondering what he has that might work. “Well, we’ve all pitched in and we have a hundred and sixty dollars to buy something. What do you have?”

  “The one I was working on when you came in would be the perfect size but…” He glances up at it. “No. It’s round. You need a rectangle.” He moves to the side of the shop with a few pieces of finished furniture, and Andrea follows.

  “I love the smell of a wood shop,” she says. “It—”

  “I do, too! Always have.” He stands in front of two desks and taps one.

  Andrea notices the price—$1,600. The one next to it is $1,200. “Beautiful work, Larry.”

  “That one there was a black walnut tree out at the Hurley farm. It had to be over a hundred years old and—”

  Andrea lifts her hand. Gloria warned her that Larry would give the history of each project beginning with the tree when it was just a sapling. “It’s beautiful, but we can’t afford either of these desks. They are too much desk for what Glory’s Place needs. Do you have anything else?” He shrugs and leads her to two more desks, one that has obviously been created by Larry with a price tag of $700 and the other a simple oak desk with single drawer that costs $350. “This one’s nice and simple.”

  “It’s an old library table I refinished,” he says.

  “It’s really nice,” she says, looking underneath the table.

  He bends over to look as well. “What are you looking for under there?”

  “I have no idea, but it feels like I should do this.”

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “When you’re done looking under the hood, we can talk business.”

  “I think it will work great. Would you be able to take—”

  “If Gloria needs it. Gloria can have it. I’m happy to donate it.”

  “That’s awfully kind, Larry. Gloria said you’re one of her favorite people.”

  “Ah,” he says, making a growling sound in back of his throat. “She doesn’t get out much.”

  FOUR

  May 1972

  Joan holds the recipe card in front of her and turns on the oven, preheating it to 350 degrees. She places four bananas in their peels on a cookie sheet and pours two and a half cups of pecans into a shallow baking dish. While she waits for the oven to reach the proper temperature, she takes the pineapple from the grocery sack and stares at it, then grabs a large knife from the drawer. She whacks off the top and then the bottom and goes to work on the sides, just as her mom instructed, each time realizing she needs to cut away more of the skin in order to remove what Gigi calls “the prickles.” She cuts off a piece for the little girl.

  “What is this again?” Gigi says, observing the moist yellow fruit in her hand.

  “Pineapple,” Joan says, handing a piece to Christopher.

  “Mmm,” Gigi says with her mouth full. “Good apple pie.”

  “Pineapple,” Joan says, chuckling. She quarters the pineapple and cuts it into small chunks, enough for one cup. “I can’t believe I’m putting bananas in the oven, but here we go!” She places the bananas and pecans inside the oven and closes the door, setting her timer for ten minutes. “The peels need to be black, and the pecans need to be getting darker and smell fragrant,” Joan reads aloud from the recipe card.

  “What’s ‘fabrant’?” Gigi asks, squatting down to look inside the oven.

  “Fragrant,” Joan says, reaching over and scratching the little girl’s back. “It means they should smell good. Ready to mix everything together?” Gigi nods and Joan stands up. “Let’s do it!” She smacks the countertop and moves to the refrigerator. “I totally forgot to put the eggs out. Okay, we’ll put them in some water.” She hands three eggs to Gigi and fills a bowl with lukewarm
water. “Put them right in here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Grandma says so. If the eggs aren’t at room temperature you can put them inside a cup of warm water for a few minutes.”

  “Why?” Gigi asks, filling a cup too full of water.

  “Because Grandma says the eggs shouldn’t be really cold when you’re making a cake. They should be room temperature.” Joan peers again at the recipe. “Okay, you can hold the sifter and I will put flour, baking soda, cinnamon, and…” She reads the recipe again to make sure she’s grabbing everything. “Salt!” She measures each ingredient into the sifter and helps Gigi hold it while she turns the handle, sifting the ingredients into a bowl. “So far, so good!” Joan says, reassuring herself. When she smells the pecans, she opens the oven door and gives them a quick stir before closing it again.

  “The bee-annas look bad,” Gigi says, pointing.

  “According to Grandma, that will make them taste really yummy.” Joan combines the eggs and the sugar, and Gigi stirs the mixture as Joan adds the oil and vanilla. Reading from the card again, Joan pulls out a potato masher from a drawer and begins mashing the pineapple.

  Gigi reaches for another piece. “I love this apple pie!”

  Joan laughs. “Pineapple!” She adds the crushed pineapple to the batter and when the timer goes off, she runs to the oven, pulling out the pecans. “Ugh. They look too dark.” She sighs. “Please don’t be ruined.” She sets the timer for another five minutes for the bananas.

  “Who are you talking to, Mommy?”

  “The pecans.”

  “I don’t think they can hear you.”

  Joan sets the pan down on a hot pad, laughing. “Well, if they can, I’m hoping they will cooperate.” She stirs the batter just until everything is incorporated; she is sure not to overstir, just as her mother cautioned on the recipe. After pouring some pecans into the top of the nut grinder, she lets Gigi turn the handle. Christopher reaches up, wanting to help, and Gigi sets the grinder on the floor in front of him so he can turn the handle, too.

  “He can’t do it,” Gigi says, disappointed or flabbergasted at her brother.

  “Put your hand on top of his,” Joan says, pulling the bananas from the oven. “This just seems so wrong to do to these. They’re black.” She uses a knife and fork to open the peels and then scoops the mushy bananas into a bowl, where she mashes them with the potato masher. In order to complete the batter, Joan asks if she can finish crushing the pecans and takes the nut crusher from Gigi and Christopher, making him cry. She adds the bananas and one cup of the nuts to the batter and stirs it with a spatula.

  “Looks like vomit,” Gigi says, squinching up her face.

  Joan agrees but knows if she says it out loud that Gigi will never try a bite. “Oh, this is just part of this cake’s walk. Wait till you see what the cake looks like at the end of its journey!” Joan lifts the recipe card again, realizes she forgot to prepare the pans, and groans, wondering if she’ll ever get the hang of cooking.

  May 2012

  Lauren waits inside the small patient room at the walk-in clinic and flips through the same magazine she’s been reading for the last thirty minutes. When she hears someone opening the door, she looks up to see Debra, the physician assistant who was helping her earlier. “Your urine test results came back,” Debra says, leaning up against the exam table, smiling. “You’re pregnant.”

  Lauren’s face drops. “What?”

  “Pregnant.”

  “Pregnant.” Lauren says the word as if she’s trying to pronounce it for the first time.

  “Is this good news?”

  Lauren shakes her head as if rattling it so an answer will spill out. “I guess! I mean, yes! We just didn’t plan it.” She looks down at the floor and back up at Debra. “I thought it was food poisoning! Then I thought I had a virus! Did you suspect that I was pregnant when I came in here?”

  Debra chuckles. “Do you know how many women I’ve asked if there’s any chance they’re pregnant who have said, just like you, ‘Nope. Not possible’? With the kind of symptoms you had, I knew it was a good possibility, but we always need to make sure.”

  Lauren leans her head back against the wall. “I actually think Andrea knew before me!”

  “Who’s Andrea?”

  “A woman I just met a few days ago. She must think I’m a dope.”

  Debra laughs and hands Lauren a prescription for prenatal vitamins. “If you don’t have an ob-gyn, I can recommend some for you.”

  Lauren looks down at the prescription. She’s pregnant. There’s a baby growing inside of her, and she’s her mother. Or his mother! The thought terrifies and exhilarates her as she slips the prescription into her purse.

  FIVE

  May 2012

  Travis is using a Weed Eater around each pine tree that was planted in October on the edge of the Grandon ball fields. He’s wearing the tan pants and navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up that the parks department employees wear, and he has a Grandon Parks Department ball cap pulled over his short-cropped brown hair. Earphones prevent his hearing Lauren’s car in the parking lot behind him. She walks through the grass toward the row of pines and stands for a moment, watching him work. Travis has a sense of fun and wonder that she lacks and is kind with an easy way about him. She smiles, thinking about him; this baby will have the best father in all of Grandon. As he moves to the other side of the tree, Travis spots Lauren and turns off the Weed Eater.

  “Hey!” he says, pulling off the earphones. “What are you doing out here?”

  Grass is clinging to the bottom of each pant leg and bits of grass cover his forearms and hands; his face is wet with sweat, and he runs the palm of his hand across his forehead. Lauren smiles looking at him, thinking him the most handsome man she’s ever met. “You’re awfully cute covered in grass.”

  “Then you should go see Tim over on field eight. I bet he’s absolutely adorable right about now,” he says. She laughs, reaching into her purse. “So, what’s up?” Travis says. “I thought you were at Glory’s Place this afternoon.”

  “Well, I was, but I thought you should see this.” She hands him the prescription, waiting.

  He looks at it and up at her. “What is this?”

  She smiles. “It’s the name of a prenatal vitamin the doctor wants me to start taking.”

  “A prenat…” He looks down at the prescription again and then to her face. “You’re pregnant?”

  She shrugs. “It’s definitely not a virus!”

  Travis lifts the Weed Eater into the air, whooping as he does. “I’m gonna be a dad!” he yells for all the pine trees to hear. He grabs Lauren and lifts her off her feet, swinging her around and kissing her as she laughs. Setting her down, he yells across the ball fields. “Hey, Tim! I’m gonna be a dad!”

  “What?” Tim shouts, cupping his hand to his ear.

  “I’m gonna be a dad!” Travis hollers back.

  “I don’t have it,” Tim shouts. “It’s back at the shed.”

  Lauren and Travis laugh, and he kisses her forehead. “So, when will the baby be here?”

  “In December. A Christmas wedding and now a Christmas baby.” Her eyes open wide at the thought. “Travis! We aren’t ready for a baby! Our extra bedroom is filled with junk and we don’t even have a kitchen table to eat off of!”

  He puts his hands on her shoulders. “Then we will get rid of the junk in the spare bedroom and we will buy a kitchen table. Done. Nothing to worry about.” He kisses her forehead again. “You are one hot mama! Do you know that?”

  She shakes her head, walking toward her car. “I can’t even with that,” she says over her shoulder.

  “Sexiest mom in Grandon!”

  “That just sounds wrong!” she says, opening the car door.

  “Own it!” he yells, loud enough for her to hear inside the car. She shakes her head, backing out of the spot. “I love you!”

  She rolls down the passenger-side window and says, “I love you, to
o, my baby daddy!”

  May 1972

  John Creighton taps a nail through a long, narrow piece of plywood and barely taps the nail down into the top of the black walnut slabs he glued together two days ago. “Don’t botch this,” he mutters beneath his breath. Using the jig, he holds a pencil at the side of the plywood and slowly turns the jig around the top of the wood, drawing a seventy-degree circle. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the circle is just the size he had determined. Picking up a woodworking book on the workbench behind him, he reads once again how to use the router to cut out this circle. He puts his earmuffs and safety goggles on as he reaches for the router. “Really don’t botch this,” he says, leaning over his work.

  Inside their home, Joan pats dry a whole chicken, bending over and reading her mother’s recipe as she does. The hummingbird cake fell slightly on top; she took it out too early, but John raved about it. He ate two pieces the night she served it, teasing her that he hoped she would love him when he gained an additional thirty pounds. When no one was looking, she had a few bites of what was left of the cake this morning for breakfast.

  She reads her mother’s writing: Sprinkle salt and pepper inside the cavity and over the chicken. Cut up three tablespoons of butter and put it inside. Cut up another three tablespoons of butter and place it around the outside of the chicken. Joan does as instructed and uses a paper towel to wipe the butter from her hands. She peels the skin from a clove of garlic and puts it inside the chicken, along with half a lemon and a chopped stalk of celery with its leaves. Having placed the chicken inside the preheated oven, she sets the timer for an hour and fifteen minutes and picks up the second recipe, this one for rosemary-parmesan potatoes.