Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  I’m so pleasantly surprised at this moment of empathy and rare support for her brother that I don’t even scold her for mouthing off.

  “Okay, Toms, go out to the shed and bring up the ladder, will you?”

  “What do you need a ladder for?”

  “Outside lights.”

  “All right!” Shawn pipes up, the first sign of excitement I’ve seen from the kid in a while. “Can we use icicle ones like Granny uses?”

  At least someone has the Christmas spirit. “Yes, we can. Granny left hers. They’re in that bag in the hall closet. Bring it out, will you, Shawny? I bought some garland and a few more ornaments, too.”

  Ari trudges into the room and drops a box onto the floor.

  “Sheesh, Ari. Careful. You’re going to break all of your Hallmark ornaments.”

  She rolls her eyes. “What a tragedy.” Nice attitude. Grinch.

  “Well, one of these days, you’ll be glad to have them.”

  She saunters back toward the hall where the stairs to the attic are tucked into a little alcove. “I could use a little help, here.” Her gaze spears Shawn. He looks away like he’s suddenly been stricken deaf. “Mom, tell Shawn to help me. Will you?”

  I look at my son, who is looking back with pleading eyes. Of all my children, he likes busywork the least. I hesitate just short of calling him lazy. Still, in all fairness . . .

  “Sorry, buddy boy. Gotta do your fair share.”

  “Nuts!”

  I ruffle Jakey’s hair. “Want to come help your mom stretch out the lights along the porch?”

  He nods and his mouth stretches into a grin. My heart thrills to the sight of his two missing front teeth. My favorite stage of childhood. The “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth” stage. So cute.

  “Go get your coat and hat,” I say to my youngest. He hops to it. I suspect he’s just glad to have something to do. It’s been a little hard on the kid, adjusting to limited Nintendo playing. But he discovered Junie B. Jones books at Sadie’s house, and I bought him the entire kindergarten year and most of first grade. We read, we laugh, I love it.

  We grab the new lights and step onto the porch. Tommy is just coming around the side of the house carrying the ladder.

  “Just right there, Tommy,” I call when he’s at the corner. “And hang around; I could use some help.”

  “Can’t, Mom. I have band practice.”

  “Band practice? Since when are you in band? What are you playing and how much is it going to cost me?”

  “Not the dorky school band. The guys and me got up a band.”

  Oh, please, Lord, not a band band. In my mind’s eye I can see it clearly. Long-haired, headbanging, electric-guitar-playing rockers. And my son is one of them.

  “Wait. Where are you practicing?”

  “The garage. They’ll be here any second. Can I order us a couple of pizzas?”

  Okay, on one hand, this is my chance to be the cool mom. To make my son happy and support his new endeavor. On the other hand, this is my chance to nip this whole fiasco-waiting-to-happen in the bud before I get a ticket for disturbing the peace. With a sigh I opt for the former.

  “All right, go ahead and order. But get the special. I’m not made of money, you know!”

  “Thanks, Mom!”

  “Send Shawn out to help me, will you?”

  “Can’t. Shawn’s playing keyboard for the band.”

  Oh, good, then it’s not heavy metal. Suddenly I’m picturing ’NSync, and I feel better about the whole “band” idea. My sons—perhaps they’ll launch the next era of boy bands. Shawn’s had lessons for four years. He’s a natural and will probably be the only band member with an ounce of musical ability.

  “Fine. Don’t sing any nasty songs or I’m putting a stop to the whole thing!” I call after him. Like I have any chance of knowing what the words are, if his band is anything like the music he listens to in his room. Every so often I grab his CDs and do a lyrics check. Oy.

  I look at Jakey as Tommy flies on out of the vicinity. “Looks like it’s just you and me, bud.”

  “I’m cold, Mommy. Can I go in?”

  “You don’t want to help me with the lights?”

  “Can’t I just look at them after you get them on the house?”

  His lips are trembling and maybe tinged just a little blue. I guess it is pretty cold. “Sure, slugger. Go inside and ask Ari to make you a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up.”

  His gap-toothed grin widens his mouth once more and I laugh, despite the fact that I am about to be forced to hang lights all by myself. And I’ve never done it before.

  I sing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” as I string the lights across the porch, then plug them in. Something about plugging in the little white icicle lights steals my breath. This is going to be the best Christmas season ever. I am going to put all my worries behind me and just celebrate the birth of Jesus.

  I have more time to get into the “’Tis the season to be jolly” frame of mind since I’ve stopped the family counseling sessions. The doctor agreed that he’s done all he can do with us as a family. I guess he means until I’m ready to face things. Or maybe he just figures it’s all out there now and, really, it’s my choice.

  Regardless, Shawn will stay in one-on-one counseling. The doctor feels it will benefit him to have someone to talk to outside the family. Shawn has always been the most sensitive of the children. I can’t help but wonder what is going on behind those expressive blue eyes and his ornery grin. I’d love to hide a bug in that office and listen in to what he’s telling the doc. But then, maybe I don’t want to know. He’s been laying pretty low, not getting into trouble in school—as in no more nasty notes lately. I can only hope the therapy’s doing its job and he doesn’t have something else up his sleeve for Ms. Clark.

  I unplug the Christmas lights and grab the little plastic hangers to stick along the frame of the house so I can hang the lights without hammering nails. With the package in my hand, I ascend the ladder. Okay, have I mentioned I do not like heights? Now I remember why I don’t hang Christmas lights. I definitely need two hands to climb this thing. I stop my ascent and slide the package between my teeth. Then I grab the ladder with both hands and continue the climb. How come this awning is so high up all of a sudden?

  A gust of wind blows out of nowhere, sending a jolt of fear through my stomach. I grab the ladder tighter and give a little yelp. The package of plastic hangers falls from my mouth. Shoot! Now would be a great time for a little help. But of course the kids are doing their thing and wouldn’t hear me if I screamed my head off.

  Now I’m going to have to climb all the way down and get those hanger things and climb all the way back up here. Only, you know, this is really a lot higher from this angle than it appears from the ground.

  Gulp and a half.

  I’m not budging. Couldn’t if I wanted to. Which I don’t.

  So I hold on for dear life and pray. “Lord, if You will get me down from here, I’ll—” Okay, I’m thinking. Already attending church regularly and doing my Beth Moore Bible study, not to mention my daily reading in Purpose-Driven Life with the kids. I’m doing my exercises almost every day. Hired someone to clean, spending time with the kids—seems to be going well, this week anyway. Have made a friend and was willing to wear fuchsia if necessary to be her matron of honor (thank goodness she’s on her second time around and has developed a little taste in her maturity). I will even be taking my shrimp pasta salad to the ladies’ Christmas luncheon for Darcy despite the circumstances.

  I don’t mean to go all Mary Poppins on God, but I’ve been working on me pretty hard, and hey, I really am practically perfect in every way.

  Another gust of wind. I know, I know. The whole Rick thing. But come on, God, Rome wasn’t built in a day. I mean, okay, it was eventually built, so I can’t use that one forever. But you and I both know I’m going to bite the bullet and let this thing go someday. I’m trying, Lord.

&nbs
p; Mom always says, “You can either say Yes, Lord, or No, sir,” I remind myself, in a very Forrest Gump-ish sort of way.

  But I’m not saying no to God. I’m trying in a subtle way to find it in my heart to say to Rick, “I forgive you.” But not yet. Not even to get down from the ladder. But I have another idea. “All right, Lord, here’s the deal. I will fast for one we—”

  “You okay, Claire?” Greg’s voice comes out of nowhere.

  Okay, does that bargain actually count if I didn’t get the last word all the way out?

  “Greg. I’m scared.” I feel like bawling. But I refuse to do it. I cried last time I saw Greg, and I’m not doing it again. And that’s that.

  Oh, sure, now Tough Chick shows up. Now that I have to be rescued like a maiden in a tower.

  “Shall I let down my golden hair?” I’m trying really hard to control the tremor in my voice.

  “Leave your hair just like it is. I’m coming up to get you.”

  “Greg Lewis, don’t you dare step one foot on this ladder. There’s not room for us both.”

  “Sure there is. I’ll be there in a minute. Hang on.”

  “No! Greg. I’ll get down on my own.”

  “Think you can do it?”

  Uuumm, nope. Not a chance. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

  “All right. I’m coming to get you.”

  I’m not even bothering to protest. If he doesn’t climb up and get me down, I’ll be here until I die from hunger. I keep my eyes shut and try not to panic as the ladder shakes with every step he takes. He stops when he’s two rungs below me.

  “All right. Take one step downward.”

  I shake my head with gusto. “I can’t. I really can’t, Greg. I mean really, really.”

  “Claire, if I come up any higher we could slip. Take one step down. If it looks like you’re going to miss, I promise I’ll tell you.”

  I have to do this. It’s not going to be easy. But it’s not impossible. People have been climbing ladders forever in the history of ladders. The fact that they’ve also been falling from them as well slips through my mind, taunting me with its horrific images. I hang on tight with both hands while I take one step down.

  “There you go. You’re doing great. One step at a time.” His encouragement sounds just a tad patronizing at this point. And even in the face of almost certain death, I find myself rebelling. Inwardly. But the stubborn streak I inherited from my dad serves me well and gets me all the way to the bottom of the ladder.

  Greg’s chest is puffed out and he’s sort of strutting in that “Me man, you woman” kind of guy thing. He grabs the lights from the porch and the hangers from the ground. “Let me do it for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I’ve actually never put up outside lights before. I don’t know why I thought I’d start this year.”

  But he insists. So I watch him go up the ladder like he’s a big heroic fireman. It strikes me that Greg rescued me from a tower. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching Shrek and Shrek 2, it’s that when a prince rescues a maiden (or a matron, as the case may be) from a tower, he must marry her. It’s just the way it is. He doesn’t know it yet. But hey, I didn’t make the rules.

  26

  Ice balls from heaven. It’s like the world has been hit with some ultra-freeze ray gun. Two days ago the high temperature was sixty-two. Who would have thought that today I’d be standing in the freezing cold, wearing a black spaghetti-strap bridesmaid’s dress and trying my best not to break my neck in the three-inch strappy heels Linda insisted would be sexy?

  It just so happens, I’m not real concerned with sexy at the moment. I just wish the bride and groom would stop taking their time and get out here so we can blow our bubbles and get out of the arctic air, which slid down from Canada overnight.

  And just for the record, I think the whole concept of blowing bubbles at a winter wedding is kind of dumb. I mean, what happens to liquid at thirty-two degrees? Exactly. Just what we need—more ice balls pinging our windshields.

  But then, tossing birdseed on the happy couple is kind of dumb, too. In my opinion. I guess I can understand banning the age-old tradition of tossing rice. Besides the painful experience of being chunked in the head by some smart aleck teenager who decides it might be funny to not open the bag before throwing it, there is that humane factor of preventing bird deaths. You’d think a bird would know better than to eat something that is going to cause it to bloat up until it dies, but then you never can tell about birds, can you?

  Funny where my thought processes are taking me as I shiver beneath the lacy shawl Linda thought would be oh-so-elegant. Too bad she didn’t like the idea of a nice elegant parka. We’ve only been out here for about five minutes. But if those two don’t come on pretty quick, they’re going to have a coup on their hands. Instigated by a disgruntled and half-frozen matron of honor.

  I am looking at the doors, willing the happy couple to hurry already when, amazingly, warmth envelops me. I turn to find Greg standing next to me, his coat draped across my shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he says.

  “I passed freezing about two and a half minutes ago,” I shoot back in my oh-so-clever quippy way. “I’m frozen solid.”

  He smiles and I feel myself thawing. “Put your arms through the sleeves. You’ll be warmer.”

  “I can’t take your coat.” Of course I can. And I’d like to see him try to take it back.

  He smiles. “I still have on a jacket. I won’t miss my overcoat nearly as much as you would.”

  I grin through my chattering teeth. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

  Finally, the door opens and the couple arrives on the steps of the church. They wave like a king and queen making a showing for their subjects. I take one look at my friend’s face and all of my irritation slips away. My breath catches in the light of such radiant happiness as they walk hand in hand. I’m so mesmerized, I forget to blow my bubbles. Linda reaches for me as she passes. I take her hand and she squeezes, looks not so subtly at Greg, and then gives me a wink before letting go.

  I’m not sure if he saw the exchange, but Greg slips his arm around me. I try not to read too much into that. Most likely he’s just trying to warm me up. And, if that’s the case, boy, did he ever meet his objective.

  I stare at the buffet line. My spirit wars with my flesh. I’m down seventeen and a half pounds. The question of the day appears to be: Do I want to forfeit the half pound for a wedge of Mrs. Devine’s magic cookie bars?

  I give it serious thought and I’m coming up with a resounding, “You betcha.”

  I reach, I touch—too late to put it back now. I take a decadent bite with relish. I have to force myself not to close my eyes and let out a “Mmm.”

  Darcy breezes by. “What do you think?” she asks in a needy sort of way that I completely understand.

  My mouth is filled with the heady delights of coconut, pecans, chocolate chips, and graham cracker crust, so I give her a hardy thumbs-up. Her luncheon is an enormous success. She’s won over every woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty who attends the church. Before we began the gluttonous part of the day, we heard a wonderful lesson about Mary’s response to the angel Gabriel when she was told she would bear the Messiah: “Be it unto me according to Thy will.”

  Chills, and a few tears, made the rounds in the room. It was a message of surrender divinely inspired and taught by none other than Pastor’s aunt. Which I thought was a stroke of genius on Darcy’s part to even ask her. I mean, come on. It also just goes to show you how God can use anyone.

  “Oooh, give me one of those before they’re all gone,” Darcy says, nodding toward the magic cookie bars on the buffet line. I grab one and hand it over.

  “So, you think the Christmas tree is offending anyone?” she asks as we walk to a table with a couple of empty seats.

  I glance around at the groups of laughing, talking, stuffing-their-faces women and I have to be honest. “No way.”

&nbs
p; The decorations are a hodgepodge of traditional and modern. Beautiful poinsettia candle-ring centerpieces with fat red candles add a soothing atmosphere to each table. In one corner of the room, she has set up the nativity. Somehow she’s fixed the baby Jesus and the shepherd’s staff and it looks brand-new. “It’s perfect, Darcy. You’ve done a fabulous job.”

  Her face pinkens with pleasure. “Thank you, Claire. I was so nervous.” She leans a little closer. “Mrs. Devine hasn’t frowned at anything so far.”

  I pat her hand. “I think she chilled out once she saw most of the women backed your idea. She’s not a bad woman, you know. She’s just got some funny ideas about what is or isn’t proper. Maybe this is a new phase of her life, her ‘Be it unto me according to Thy will’ stage.”

  “Claire, I think you are so wise in so many ways.” Her eyes well up with tears. “Thank you for coming today and supporting me. I know it’s not always easy for you right now.”

  For crying out loud! Why can’t she just leave well enough alone? Here we are, all getting along, and she has to go and bring up that of which we don’t speak. I am about to tell her to take a chill pill when her eyes go wide with horror. Alarm shoots through me. “What’s wrong?”

  Without a word she bolts from the table. I bolt after her and into the bathroom. “Darce? You okay?”

  Her response comes from the stall, but not in words.

  I hope I don’t catch her flu the week before Christmas.

  She emerges moments later, pale and shaken. I hand her a wet paper towel.

  “Do you need me to finish up here for you?”

  She spits out a mouthful of water and shakes her head. “I’ll be okay. I think that cookie was just a little too rich. Thanks for coming after me.”

  Her heels click-clack on the floor as she dries her hands and heads for the door. I lean back against the sink and try to figure out how she can go from happy-go-lucky to Barferella then back to fine-and-dandy in a matter of minutes. A cookie? That’s ridiculous. The only time anything rich like that made me sick was when I was preg—