Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” she said flatly. “I can’t rent a car.”

  “Oh.” I paused. She’d been picked up for DUI and lost her license? “How come?”

  She set the mug on the table next to her. “Because I don’t have the money to rent a car.” She looked up, her face sober, her brown eyes grave. “I only have enough money to get by on. And no credit cards,” she added. “I cut them up.” She made a scissoring motion with her fingers.

  Oh, rats. If there’s anything worse than Sally when she has a lot of money to burn (or rather, when Juanita is burning through Sally’s money), it’s Sally when she’s broke and wants to borrow money. We’ve had it both ways.

  “I see,” I said. It was time for some straight talk. “Okay. Well, then, why exactly did you come to Pecan Springs?” I gave her a direct look. She could say she was here to see Brian. She could say she was here to borrow money, or get a new start, or . . . Whatever it was, I needed to know. I needed it spelled out.

  She heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, to tell the truth, China, I’ve had some trouble.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Nothing very serious, I hope.”

  “I wish.” She sighed again. “You heard about the flooding in the Kansas City area a month or so ago? I was renting a really cute little house not far from a creek, with trees and everything. A really nice neighborhood, you know? But there were these horrible storms, one after the other. They just wouldn’t quit. The creek came up and the house got flooded. All my stuff . . . well, it was ruined. Clothes, TV, furniture, everything. I lost it all.” Her eyes were filled with tears. She gulped back a sob and looked down at herself. “What you see is what I’ve got, China. I’m homeless.”

  It was impossible for me to stay neutral in this kind of situation. “Oh, gosh,” I exclaimed impulsively, reaching out. “I’m so sorry, Sally. That is too bad. Really.”

  Now, my history with Sally is not a pleasant one. She has an amazing theatrical talent for self-dramatization that could have landed her on the stage, if she’d had the discipline to pursue an acting career. She has always seemed to me to have no secure, sustained interior life—she’s all surface, and much of that surface is deceptive. With Sally, what you see is not what you get. I’ve learned to discount at least half of what she tells me and seriously question three-quarters of the rest. Or maybe (as she claimed in one instance) it was Juanita who was telling the lies. Who knew?

  But all that history was swept away by a sudden and overwhelming surge of pity. McQuaid and I have too many friends who have gone through devastating hurricanes along the Gulf and the coastal bend of Texas and Louisiana. They lost everything, too—homes, neighborhoods, jobs, pets, even loved ones—and it’s costing years of their lives to put the pieces back together and get to the point where they can go on. But their experience of disaster has made them vulnerable and fearful. Even after they’ve restored their lives to some measure of normalcy, most will never be the same. They’ve lost too much, and they’re afraid of losing it all over again. Every time I hear from one of these friends or see images of those hurricane-ravaged cities, I share their pain, at some deep level. It’s a potent reminder of how fragile our lives are and how easy it is to lose a home. That was what made me reach out to her. It was an impulse, and it was genuine. I meant it.

  Sally took my hand, held it for a moment, then let it go. “Thank you,” she said, making an obvious effort not to cry. “But that’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid. I had a job selling advertising, but the newspaper where I was working—the Star—cut back on the payroll. I mean, I know I’m not the only person this happens to. Lots of people lose their jobs. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.” She straightened, tried to smile, and I saw a flash of the old, confident Sally. “It even happens to people who are good at what they do. Like me.”

  She had lost her job? This was even worse. And of course she was right: it happens all the time. Not to me (at least not yet, knock on wood), but to people I know. When it happens, it hurts—and must hurt a lot worse when you’ve just lost your home, as she had. I shivered, thinking how awful that would be and wondering how I would cope. Probably not very well.

  Sally leaned forward, giving me a straight look. “Like I said, China, I don’t have a place to live. I don’t have a job. And I don’t have much money. I’m here because I want to spend some time with my son. I’ve missed a lot, and I’d like to catch up. But I also need . . . well, I need some downtime. Time to get my act together. I know I’m not the best mom in the world, and I know you don’t like me very much.” Her lips trembled and she paused, pressing them together. “I’ve been a pain in the you-know-what for both you and Mike. I admit it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the boot. But it’s Christmas. Can you find it in your heart to—” Her eyes filled with tears. “To be a friend and take me in for the holiday? Please?”

  Back when I worked in the tough, competitive world of cutthroat litigation, I developed a remarkably tough skin and an exceedingly hard heart. I learned how to see through liars as if they were transparent. I could stand up to anybody, look him straight in the eye, and deliver a powerful, pithy, and final No. Hell, no, when the occasion warranted, which it often did. Even today, when someone tries to lie to me, my antennae go up and I get a feeling across the back of my neck, unmistakable but hard to explain. I haven’t lost my nay-saying habit, either. I say no when people ask me to take on more projects than I can manage or when I’m asked to give money to a cause I can’t support or when somebody asks for something I don’t have.

  But in this case, I didn’t hesitate. Whether it was Sally’s homeless-ness, the loss of her job, or her honest admission that she had been a troublemaker—whatever it was, my heart was touched, and I heard myself saying something I never thought I’d say.

  “We’d be glad to do what we can.” I didn’t ask myself who we was. I knew I couldn’t speak for McQuaid, who was going to be very, very angry when he found out what I was about to offer. He hadn’t even wanted me to invite her to dinner, for pete’s sake.

  “You will?” she breathed. “Really?”

  “Sure,” I said generously. “The guest room at our house is empty. You can come and stay with us. Brian will love it.” Would he? I wasn’t even sure he would want to see his mother again, after she skipped his last birthday.

  “Oh, gosh,” she said, clasping her hands. “That would be wonderful!”

  “And if you need a car,” I went on recklessly, “we can probably work something out. We might even be able to help you find a short-term job.” Short-term. At last. I was exhibiting some sanity.

  “A job? Really? Really, truly, China?” The tears shone in her eyes, but she was smiling. “I can’t believe you would do all that for me, after all the pain and trouble I’ve caused you.”

  I couldn’t believe it, either, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up. “It’s getting late, and I need to take some herbs up to the loft to dry. We’re closing at five. If you’ll stick around, you can go home with me.”

  “I’ll help you hang them,” she offered eagerly. “It’ll go faster with two of us.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m always glad for a little help.” Well, almost always. But I was stuck with her, so I might as well make the best of it.

  Impulsively, Sally threw her arms around me. “Thank you!” she whispered. “Thank you, China, thank you! You’re a true friend. I promise you won’t be sorry for taking me in. I promise!”

  As it turned out, it wasn’t a promise that Sally could keep. I was sorry. Very sorry.

  But that wasn’t her fault. At least, not entirely.

  Chapter Four

  Christmas decorations are said to be derived from a custom observed by the Romans, of sending [holly] boughs, accompanied by other gifts, to their friends during the festival of the Saturnalia . . . The origin has also been traced to the Druids, who decorated their huts with eve
rgreens during winter as an abode for the sylvan spirits . . .

  An old legend declares that the Holly first sprang up under the footsteps of Christ, when He trod the earth, and its thorny leaves and scarlet berries, like drops of blood, have been thought symbolical of the Saviour’s sufferings, for which reason the tree is called “Christ’s Thorn” in the languages of the northern countries of Europe. It is, perhaps, in connexion with these legends that the tree was called the Holy Tree, as it is generally named by our older writers . . . Pliny tells us that Holly if planted near a house or farm, repelled poison, and defended it from lightning and witchcraft, that the flowers cause water to freeze, and that the wood, if thrown at any animal, even without touching it, had the property of compelling the animal to return and lie down by it.

  Maud Grieve, A Modern Herbal, 1931

  McQuaid, Brian, and I—and now Caitlin—live in a big white Victorian house just off Limekiln Road, about twelve miles outside of town. If you’re looking for us, turn left when you see a wooden sign painted with bluebonnets and the words Meadow Brook—the whimsical but descriptive name given to the house by its previous owners, who were planning to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. You’ll be following a gravel lane between rocky pastures grazed by our neighbors’ longhorns and spiked with prickly pear cactus, agarita (a holly look-alike), and twisted-leaf yucca—Yucca rupicola, meaning “a yucca that loves rock.” Stay on the lane past Tom Banner’s maroon mailbox, which is shaped like a Texas A&M football helmet and bears the words BANNERS FOR AGGIES! A quarter of a mile later, the lane ends in a circular gravel drive in front of our house, a big white two-story Victorian with a porch on three sides and a turret in the front corner. There’s a wide lawn in the front and a garden in the back, the whole thing separated from a patch of thick woods by a low stone fence.

  In summer, the lawn is green (at least until August, when the rains stop and the heat cranks up); the garden is rich with herbs and vegetables; and the stone wall is nearly obscured by blossoming wildflowers. But it’s December now. The lawn is biscuit-brown and frostbitten, the garden debris needs to be cleared away, and the wildflowers are taking their usual midwinter snooze. But we love the place in all seasons, and for our own private reasons.

  McQuaid covets the workshop in the back, heated in winter and air-conditioned in summer, where he can use his gunsmith’s tools and lock up his gun collection.

  Brian adores the creek that meanders between the garden and the woods, inhabited by all the frogs, lizards, and snakes a boy could ever hope to collect and house in cages in his bedroom, from which they occasionally escape and turn up in odd places, like the laundry hamper or the washing machine. (Don’t laugh—it has happened.)

  For me, the attraction is the sunny space behind the house, just right for a large garden, where I can grow plants that don’t fit conveniently into the display beds at the shop, and (until it became Caitlin’s) the round room at the top of the turret, which is the perfect place to read and dream.

  With its five bedrooms and large downstairs, the house is too large for us. When we bought it, I liked the previous owners’ idea of turning part of it into a bed-and-breakfast and filed it away as something to do when I had the time. This hasn’t happened yet, and as long as both kids are with us, maybe it won’t. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have strangers in the house. Unless we need the money, when it might be the lesser of two evils, one of which is not being able to pay the bills.

  For now, the extra elbow room helps to keep the peace in a family where something always seems to be going on. It proved to be a very good thing when McQuaid requisitioned the big corner room downstairs, the one with the outside entrance, as the office of his private detective agency, M. McQuaid and Associates. “Associates” does not refer to me or Ruby, if that’s what you’re thinking, in spite of our occasional involvement in criminal mischief. McQuaid draws a strict line between business, family, and friends, and I promised him I would not intrude.

  And now that Caitlin—Caitie, as McQuaid calls her—has come to live with us, I’m glad of the extra room. When she visited the house with her father last spring, she was entranced by the round room in the turret: the Magic Tower, she called it. When she disappeared from the family gathering, I found her there, asleep on the window seat, my tattered child’s copy of The Secret Garden open on the floor beside her. The room belongs to her now. We painted it pink, like the room she had when her father and mother were alive, and she hung her drawings of fairies on the walls and filled the shelves with books and stuffed animals. She spends a lot of time here, reading and looking out the window. I’m hoping that her Magic Tower will be a magical place where she can heal.

  WE’VE made it a rule that we all sit down to supper together, around a real table, with real food on it. We eat in the kitchen even when we have company, because the dining room table is usually taken over by our various projects (the kids’ homework, McQuaid’s paperwork, my crafts). Tonight, we had company. Sally was joining us. McQuaid—who was helping me fix the food—was irate.

  “I can’t believe you invited her,” he growled. “For supper, yes. But the whole freakin’ holiday? Damn it, China, you know what Sally is like. She’ll do whatever it takes to make us miserable.”

  “Shh,” I cautioned, ladling the corn chowder into the bowls—my favorite blue Fiestaware, which I save for company. “She’s in the dining room. She’s helping Brian with his calculus.”

  “Helping?” McQuaid snorted. “That woman has no clue when it comes to calculus. She’s number-phobic.” He finished shredding the cabbage and tossed it into the bowl with the shredded carrots and chopped pecans. “When we were married, we were constantly overdrawn at the bank. She’d write five or six checks and forget to enter them. Or maybe it was this other character—Juanita—who wrote them, and Sally who forgot to put them in the register.” He slammed down the knife. “Whoever did it couldn’t subtract worth a damn.”

  In his dog bed beside the kitchen range, Howard Cosell made a whining noise. Howard is McQuaid’s elderly basset hound. It upsets him when we argue.

  “Well, she won’t have that problem now,” I replied in a reasonable tone. I lined up the filled bowls and dropped a healthy dollop of sour cream into each. “She doesn’t have any money, so she won’t be bothering with checkbooks.”

  “So she says.” McQuaid made a disgusted noise. “She got to you, huh? You felt sorry for her. Poor Sally. Poor, mistreated Sal.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “I thought you were too smart to fall for that woman’s sob story, China.”

  Now it was my turn to be angry. I spun around to face him. “You bet I felt sorry for her, McQuaid. She lost her house and everything in it, and then she lost her job. She lost her car, too—a little yellow convertible she really loved.” I could feel my temper flaring. “And she’s not just ‘that woman,’ damn it. She’s Brian’s mother, she’s homeless, and it’s the holiday. The least we can do is give her a place to stay and extend some friendly—”

  Howard Cosell clambered out of his bed and lumbered in our direction. He tries to get between us when we argue and generally ends up standing on both our feet. This usually serves to distract us, as it did now.

  “Hey.” McQuaid put his hands on my shoulders, then bent and kissed me. He is six feet tall and still has the slim hips and well-muscled shoulders of a football quarterback, which he was, once upon a time. When he kisses me, I know I’ve been kissed.

  “I apologize,” he muttered, stepping back and shoving the dark hair out of his eyes. “I admit it—I don’t want Sally staying with us. I don’t trust her. I have too much history with her, and I’m suspicious of whatever she says. Remember when she was in jail for forging that check, and she told us she was in the hospital?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, “but—”

  “And the time she borrowed money for a medical bill and used it to go on a cruise?”

  I sighed. “You’re right about that, too, but—”

  He silenced
me with a quick kiss. “But you’re doing what you believe in, China. I’m registering a protest, but that’s as far as it’ll go.” Dodging Howard, he headed to the fridge to get the mayonnaise. “So okay,” he said over his shoulder. “So she’s here. Is that going to change anything about the holiday?”

  “I don’t see why it should. I thought we could lend her Brian’s car, so she’ll at least have something to drive.” Brian doesn’t have his learner’s permit yet, but Blackie Blackwell, the Adams County sheriff and a friend of McQuaid’s, gave us a deal on his used Ford that was too good to pass up. Brian sometimes goes outside and sits in the car and (when he thinks nobody is looking) pretends to be driving it. He’s already saving his allowance for gas and insurance. I hoped he wouldn’t mind if his mother borrowed it.

  With a scowl, McQuaid added mayo, pecans, and vinegar to his coleslaw. Basil vinegar, which gives it a totally different zip. “Make sure her license is current. And that she’s covered under our insurance.”

  “I will.” I fished a chunk of sausage out of the chowder and gave it to Howard, who gulped it down. “About the holiday, nothing is going to change. She can go with us to take the kids out to get the Christmas tree tomorrow evening and—”

  A stricken look crossed his face, and I stopped. “What? You forgot? You scheduled something else?”

  “Yeah, I forgot,” he replied glumly. “I’m sorry, China. I promised Charlie Lipman I’d fly up to Omaha to interview a guy. I’m going tomorrow. I’ll be back on Friday night.”

  “Omaha!” I squawked. “But we agreed! The kids are looking forward to getting the tree, and Donna is planning a hayride and a bonfire, and caroling, too. It’ll be something new for Caitie. She’ll love it. I don’t want her to miss it.”