“No!” I said quickly. “It’s, uh, a Christmas gift for you. A surprise.”
“All right, but don’t forget to lock the truck before you come in. I’m still not comfortable with all the weird things that have been going on around here lately.”
I grabbed a sweater from a hook by the back door and hurried out to the truck. Opening the passenger-side door, I popped the lock on the glove box, still hoping.
But the red plaid bag, with its jaunty bow, was untouched.
I left the bag where it was and closed the door. I stood by the truck, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth. “Annie,” I called softly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
CHAPTER 19
I smoothed my grandmother’s starched white damask cloth over the battered pine harvest table in the dining room, and with my fingertips, traced the tiny patches where she’d so painstakingly mended it. If I looked closely, and I did, I could see the faintest ghost outlines of stains from family dinners long ago.
The pale pink splotch on one corner, I was sure, was the remnant of a red wine spill, probably from one of the bad uncles at Thanksgiving dinner. There were numerous small grease stains—my Meemaw served gravy on everything—even eggs. There was a single scorch mark near the middle of the rectangular cloth, and this, Mama had told me, was the result of my sixth birthday party, when I’d blown out the candles on my cake with such gusto that I’d sent one candle flying onto the tablecloth, where Daddy had extinguished the resulting flame with the remnants from a coffee cup.
I had plenty of beautiful linens I could have set the table with that night. Years of dealing and collecting old textiles had yielded a closet full of them. I’d considered using the gorgeous Irish linen cloth with the hand-tatted convent lace that had been a wedding gift to Mama, who, saving it for “nice,” had never once used it before handing it down to me at my own ill-fated wedding to Talmadge Evans III.
But Meemaw’s tablecloth, with all those tangible reminders of happy family occasions, was the only one that would do for such a special night.
Circling the table, I dealt out the dishes, not fine bone china, which I had plenty of as well, but instead, my favorite flow blue china in a pattern called Claremont, by Johnson Brothers.
I’d found three of the flow blue dinner plates years and years ago at the Junior League Thrift Shop in Atlanta, when Tal was still in school at Georgia Tech. At two dollars apiece, they were a big splurge at the time. Over the years, I’d managed to fill out those original plates to a service for twelve. I rarely buy Claremont anymore, though, as the plates now sell for close to $150 apiece.
We’d actually have thirteen at the grown-up table tonight, but I had another flow blue plate, from a different but similar pattern, that I would put at my own place at the table.
After the china was placed, I added etched wineglasses from several different patterns, and topped each plate with a heavy damask banquet-size napkin with a gorgeous rococo monogrammed W, and added my wedding silver, which I’d stubbornly kept buying long after my wedding was history.
I placed two cut-glass bowls of white roses down the center of the table and scattered about my collection of sterling candlesticks, no two of which matched.
“Wow,” BeBe said, popping her head in from the kitchen. “It’s beautiful, Weezie. Like a painting or something.”
“It’s not too fancy?” I asked anxiously, remembering those dreaded stiff dinners in the Evans family dining room.
“Elegant, but not off-putting,” she declared, dragging in two of the wooden folding chairs she was loaning me for the children’s table.
“But not too casual, right? I mean, I want it to be really special tonight. Daniel’s brothers have never stepped foot in my house. I don’t want them or their wives to think I’m poor white trash.”
“They won’t. You aren’t,” BeBe said, gazing down at the card table I’d set up for Daniel’s four nieces and nephews with green Depression glass plates and a centerpiece of green-and-red gumdrop trees.
“This is cute,” she said, flicking the edge of the tablecloth, a vintage forties luncheon cloth with a bright poinsettia motif border.
“This was in that box lot of stuff I bought at Trader Bob’s,” I told her. “The one that had the blue Christmas tree pin.” I patted the collar of my cream satin blouse, where the brooch was now securely pinned. “And this,” I said, pointing to the frilly white taffeta apron I’d tied over my black silk slacks.
“Something’s dinging in the oven,” Harry Sorrentino announced as he entered the dining room with a large silver bowl heaped high with boiled shrimp.
“Harry, you’re an angel,” I said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Are these your shrimp?”
“Yep,” Harry said, blushing a little.
“Our shrimp,” BeBe corrected. “You may have caught the little buggers, but I’m the one who headed ‘em, deveined ‘em, and marinated them in the lemon juice and capers.”
“But it was my recipe,” Harry countered.
Before the good-natured bickering could continue, I heard the key turn in the front door and Daniel stepped inside carrying a foil-wrapped platter.
“Thank God,” I breathed, hurrying to take the ham out of his arms. “It’s past seven. I was halfway afraid you were going to be a no-show.”
He followed me into the kitchen, closing the door behind us.
I made room for the platter on the kitchen table and popped the foil off the ham, which smelled heavenly, with its dark brown maple-sugar-and-orange glaze. He’d even sliced the ham at the restaurant and garnished the platter with gorgeous clusters of sugared grapes.
“It’s amazing,” I said, kissing him gratefully. “You’re forgiven for being late. Now get out of that jacket and give me a hand with the rest of this stuff.”
He stepped out of my embrace and looked away.
“What?” I said, knowing in my gut what he was about to say.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “Eddie’s car got T-boned on Eisenhower this afternoon. He’s in the hospital.”
“Oh no,” I said, alarmed. Eddie Gonzalez was Daniel’s best line cook. He’d worked at Guale since the beginning. “Is he going to be all right?”
“Couple broken ribs and some cuts on his face,” Daniel said. “But in the meantime, we’re swamped. I gotta get back. Forgive me?”
I shrugged. This was the restaurant life, I knew, although I couldn’t help but wonder if a part of Daniel wasn’t glad to be missing out on this family dinner which he’d only reluctantly agreed to.
“Go,” I said, shooing him out of the kitchen.
He gave me a grateful kiss. “I’ll call you,” he promised. “Maybe things will slacken up a little after nine.”
We both knew that was wishful thinking.
I was lifting a bubbling earthenware dish of hot crab dip from the still-dinging oven when Mama and Daddy came in through the back door.
“Merry, merry,” Mama chirped, holding out a gaudy green plastic tray.
“I made your favorite,” she said.
Gingerly I lifted the edge of the linen napkin covering the tray to view something brown and vaguely cinnamon scented.
“Yum,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Zucchini bread,” Daddy said glumly. “Here I thought she’d given it all away last summer, but there was still one last loaf on the bottom shelf of the freezer.”
“Luckily,” Mama said.
“Where’s Danny?” Daddy asked, making me cringe involuntarily.
“You just missed him,” I said lightly. “He brought the ham, then he had to dash back to the restaurant. They’re booked solid tonight, and his best cook got in a car accident today.”
Mama took her coat off and handed it to Daddy. “Never mind,” she said. “Just put me to work instead,” she ordered, rolling up the cuffs of her Christmas sweater.
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “Out to the living room with the both of you.” I gave them
a little shove. “I’ve got my staff helping tonight. You and Daddy are strictly company. I forbid you to lift a finger.”
From behind Mama’s back, Daddy shot me a grateful wink.
“Come on, Marian,” he said, taking her arm. “The front doorbell is ringing. You and I will be official greeters. Is that okay, Weezie?”
“Perfect,” I said. I handed Daddy a tray with the crab dip and a basket of Triscuits. “And you can also pass this around and get everybody’s drink orders when they come in.”
“Just ginger ale for me,” Mama said quickly.
“And cranberry juice,” I agreed. “To make it look festive.”
From the direction of the living room, I heard BeBe greeting our guests, and recognized James’s and Jonathan’s voices. Then the doorbell rang, and I heard more voices. Daniel’s family. I untied my apron, put on some fresh lipstick, and went out to the living room to witness the meeting of the families.
“Well, hello strangers,” I said, swooping down on Derek and Sondra, who were standing in the middle of the living room, still wearing their coats, with Sondra clutching a plastic-wrapped casserole dish. I introduced them around, and Harry, bless him, took their coats and fixed them drinks.
“Daniel sends his regrets,” I announced before anybody else could ask. “He’s hoping to make it back here before dessert, if things slow down at the restaurant.”
“Where are the children?” I asked, giving Derek a quick hug.
Sondra blinked. “Children? You mean Sarah Jo and Hollis? They’re at my mother’s house. They always spend Christmas Eve with their cousins there.”
“But look who we did bring!” Derek said, reaching into the huge tote bag on Sondra’s shoulder and bringing out the tiniest, most rodentlike animal I’d ever seen.
“Say hello, Barkley,” he instructed, rubbing his nose against the animal’s snout.
The dog’s ears lay flat against his skull and he bared his little fangs and lunged in my direction.
“Rowrowrowrowrow.”
“Jesus!” I cried, jumping about a foot in the air.
“Barkley!” Sondra said. She shook a finger at the animal. “That was naughty, naughty.”
She laughed apologetically. “Barkley didn’t mean it. Our vet says he’s overcompensating for being the smallest of his litter with inappropriate aggression.”
“Derek?” She narrowed her eyes at her husband. “Sweetie, did you give Barkley his meds tonight? You know he doesn’t transition well without his Paxil.”
“Wait,” Derek said. “You mean Barkley gets the Paxil? Uhoh. I thought he got the Flintstones chewables. I gave the Paxil to Sarah Jo.”
“What?” Sondra shrieked.
“Just kidding,” Derek said with a chuckle.
The look Sondra gave him would have melted cast iron.
Then the doorbell rang again, and Harry ushered in Eric and Ellen and their two children, Stoney, a seven-year-old who was too busy playing with his Game Boy to say hello, and five-year-old Stormy, who clung to her mother’s side like stink on a dog.
Once Ellen saw Sondra, she and Stormy beat a hasty retreat to the den, where Daddy, Jonathan, and Uncle James had already retreated to watch football on television.
“I’ll just put the ice cream in your freezer, Weezie,” Eric said. “What about this rice? Where do you want Ellen’s rice casserole?”
“Just put it on the dining room sideboard, please,” I said.
When I turned around, Sondra had moved to the corner of the living room, standing ramrod straight, eyes focused on nothing in particular, still clutching her casserole dish. In her middle thirties, Sondra was thin to the point of emaciation, and had raven black hair and skin so milky pale you could see a fine network of blue veins in her face. Daniel referred to her as Morticia when his brother wasn’t around.
“Here,” Mama said, taking Sondra’s dinner contribution. “I’ll take this into the dining room. Mmm,” she enthused. “It smells wonderful. What is it?”
“Tofurkey,” Sondra said shyly.
“Oh.” Mama’s smile dimmed somewhat. “I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten tofurkey before.”
“You’ll love it,” Derek said, putting an affectionate arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Sondra is an amazing cook. You should taste her lentil cakes.”
Eric returned to the living room, with two beer bottles in hand, one of which he handed to Derek.
“Yessir,” Eric drawled. “Ol’ Sondra here whomps up a mean tofu stew. I was just saying to Ellen on the way over here tonight, ‘I hope ol’ Sondra brings some of that make-believe meat of hers.’”
“Can it, Eric,” Derek snapped. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are.”
“Hey,” I said brightly. “Daddy and the other guys are watching the ball game in the den. Want to join them?”
Mama had somehow enticed Sondra to sit on the sofa beside Miss Sudie and BeBe, and I noticed with relief that they seemed to be having a pleasant conversation.
Just then Harry sauntered into the kitchen to get a beer.
“How’s it going in the den?” I asked. “Is everybody behaving themselves?”
He popped the cap on a Heineken, took a long swig, and considered the question.
“So far so good, mostly,” he said. “They’re all hunkered down around Derek’s videotape of the 1980 Georgia-Florida game. You know, their championship season. But at halftime I did overhear Eric telling a fag joke to your uncle James.”
“Oh no.” I moaned, covering my eyes with my hands.
“James was pretty cool about it,” Harry said.
There was a scratching at the back door, and Harry went over and looked out. “Hey, Jethro, buddy,” he called, opening the door.
“Wait!” I started. “He can’t—”
But it was too late. Jethro bounded into the kitchen, delighted to be invited to the party, and hearing voices coming from the living room, he dashed off in that direction.
“Oh no. You’ll have to help me catch him now. He can’t stay in the house. There are too many people. And Sondra and Derek brought this little dog Jethro could swallow whole in one bite.”
“Rowrowrowrow,” I heard. We ran into the living room in time to see Jethro, on his haunches, backing away in terror from the attack midget hanging out of Sondra’s tote bag, which she’d set on the floor beside her chair.
“Jethro! Here!” I called.
He turned, gave me a reproachful look, and retreated to his favorite hiding place, under the coffee table.
“Rowrowrowrow.” Barkley was out of the tote bag, his ears twitching in indignation at this new interloper.
“Here, Jethro,” Harry called, getting down on his hands and knees. “Come here, buddy. Come see Uncle Harry.”
But instead of going to Harry, Jethro scooted out the other side of the coffee table, where he spied the hot crab dip on top of the table.
He was on it in a flash, wolfing down the entire contents of the bowl before anybody could stop him.
“Jethro! Bad!” I hollered.
He gave me that reproachful look again, and trotted off in the direction of the den.
“I’ll get him,” Harry volunteered.
“Sorry about the dip,” I told the womenfolk. “But dinner’s almost ready anyway, and now you won’t spoil your appetites.”
“Well, I believe I’ll just go out to the kitchen and help you get dinner on the table,” Mama said, getting to her feet.
“Owowowow!” Barkley yelped.
“You stood on his tail!” Sondra cried, snatching the dog into her arms.
“Owwooooo,” Barkley howled.
“Poor baby,” Sondra cooed, cradling the dog in her arms. “Poor angel.”
“So sorry,” Mama said. “I didn’t even see him there.”
“You could have killed him!” Sondra said.
BeBe and I followed Mama into the kitchen.
“I should have killed him,” Mama muttered. “Who brings a dog to a
dinner party?”
“For that matter, who brings tofurkey?” BeBe chimed in.
I was transferring the real turkey to a serving platter when I heard a screech coming from the den.
“Good Lord!” Mama said. “What now?”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, hurrying away. “Everything’s ready to go out to the sideboard. Except the gravy. Let’s leave it on the stove until everybody’s seated.”
In the den I found the men huddled tensely around the television, watching a twenty-six-year-old football game whose outcome was already etched in their brains. A glance at the screen told the tale—Georgia was trailing Florida 21–20. They were all on their knees, all except Eric. He and Ellen were trying in vain to quiet Stormy’s sobs.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Your dog!” Eric shouted at me. “Your goddamned dog—”
Jethro cowered in the corner.
“He bit her?” I asked in disbelief. “Jethro’s never bitten anybody in his life.”
Wait. Suddenly I smelled it. A hideous, disgusting smell.
“No!” Eric said. “He puked all over my kid’s shoes.”
“Her brand-new patent leather Stride Rites,” Ellen said, her lips tight.
“My shoeeeeees!” Stormy howled.
My crab dip, I wanted to cry.
For the first time, Derek turned away from the television to address his tear-stricken niece.
“Stormy, honey,” he said kindly. “It’s fourth down and there’s less than two minutes left in the game. Buck Belue’s fixin’ to throw that tater to ol’ Lindsay Scott, and your uncle Derek wants to hear Larry Munson scream ‘Run, Lindsay, run,’ but we can’t do that until you shut the fuck up.”
“Derek!” Ellen screeched, clamping her hands over her daughter’s ears.
“My shoeeees,” Stormy wailed.
I sighed and held out my hand to the child. “Come on, Stormy,” I said. “Let’s go upstairs and get you washed off. I’m sorry about your shoes. I’ll buy you a new pair.”
“I’ll buy her a fuckin’ pony if you get her out of here right this minute,” Derek called over his shoulder.
Blue Christmas Page 11
