by Bill Higgs
Over the last week, he’d contracted for a concrete slab to be poured for the service station building, scheduled excavation for the two gasoline tanks, and lined up the electrical work. His bulldozer man agreed to level off another spot for their home, for only a few extra dollars. Deeds had been executed, permits secured, promissory notes signed, and the first shipment of building materials for the Zipco Super Service was on its way.
The figures were scary. Two pages of proposals for the concrete work, and a frightening dollar amount. A handwritten estimate from the backhoe operator, with another jaw-dropping number. The blacktop company had provided yet another. Of course, there were all the franchise costs from Zipco to consider. He added up the sums on a second sheet of yellow paper, comparing it against his line of credit with the company. It could be done, but barely.
Yesterday had been a holiday, so the Zipco offices were closed all day. It was just as well—his wife had insisted he put his paperwork away and celebrate Thanksgiving. She’d made something called a turkey loaf, and heated up a can of cranberry sauce. When she’d asked what he was thankful for, he’d drawn a blank. Certainly he was grateful for her, he’d said, which made her smile. He’d also mentioned Zipco and his business education. Maybe even his family; he couldn’t remember. Their little broken-down home at the tourist court, such as it was . . .
Home?
“JoAnn, get your coat. We’re going house hunting!”
“Not until we’ve had lunch. We’ve got leftovers in the refrigerator, and I’m eating for two now. Remember?”
“But we just had breakfast!”
“Neil, that was three hours ago. You’ve spent the entire morning going over all those papers and haven’t spoken a word—at least not to me.”
He sighed. Perhaps he had lost himself in this project. How could he have known how much it would cost to build a Zipco Super Service station? “I’m sorry, JoAnn. Lunch, then we go for a drive.”
JoAnn ate two platefuls, and he ate more than he expected, given the morning’s discouraging progress. Afterward, they bundled up and climbed in the Chevy, drove across the railroad tracks, and pulled into a small lot behind the cold storage plant. He smiled. “Well, here we are.”
“Neil, this is a trailer park.”
“It’s a manufactured housing dealership. I talked with the manager a couple of days ago, and he’s got a fabulous deal on a slightly used unit.”
“Then it’s where trailer parks come from. Surely you’re not thinking . . .”
“Come take a look. It’s in great shape, and we could be in our own home within days instead of weeks or months! And we would only live there until we build your dream house.”
She simply glared at him.
“JoAnn, we’ll soon have a growing family and will need somewhere larger than a room at the Sleepy Head Tourist Court.”
“You keep swinging for these pitches, Neil. Someday you’re going to strike out.”
The manager, a likable fellow, was indeed offering for sale a slightly used mobile home. “Only four years old, traded in for a new model. The furniture store repossessed the couch, but the dinette and curtains go with it.”
JoAnn sighed, and agreed to look at the pink-and-white house on wheels. “It’s ugly. But it does have the necessities and comes with a screen door and two bedrooms, which is twice the number we have now.”
“So?”
“Well, I suppose it’ll have to do.” Without a further word, she turned on her heels and walked deliberately to the car.
Within five minutes, Cornelius had signed the papers and returned to the Chevy, doing his best to keep smiling. “Great news, JoAnn. He’ll be able to deliver it as soon as the excavator can level a spot and we have the electrical and plumbing ready. With luck, we’ll be in our new home in Eden Hill by Christmas.”
She brightened a bit and dabbed at her red eyes with a tissue. “By Christmas?”
“Well, that’s only four weeks away. But I think it might be possible.”
Nervous or excited, which was it? Reverend Caudill climbed the steps to his pulpit on Sunday morning. His sermon was well prepared—and honestly, one of the best he’d ever written—but instead of the thunder and lightning his congregation was used to, it was more like a light and nourishing spring rain. He’d opted for the gentler approach that his Bible college professor had modeled for him, thought-provoking rather than incendiary. But would it keep his people’s attention? More importantly, would he bring honor to his calling and the gospel? Still, amid his prayers for this message, he was somehow assured that these were the words they needed to hear. After all, these were the words he needed to hear himself.
After Toler led a dirgelike rendition of “Come, Ye Thankful People, Come,” and one of the deacons gave a rather anemic reading of the text, he stepped behind the pulpit and faced a flock sagging in their seats. Not a good way to begin a sermon. But Reverend Caudill took a deep breath and began.
“Through the apostle Paul, the Lord has promised that all things are for your sakes. Are you worried about tomorrow? All things are for your sakes.”
His voice was calm and steady. Talking, not shouting. “Are you staggering under financial burdens? All things are for your sakes. Are you grieving over a flagging relationship with a spouse, a friend, a child? All things are for your sakes.”
The reverend hardly dared to look up, but when he did, he saw curious and interested faces. Certainly there were scattered glassy-eyed stares and some looks of surprise, but more than a few were, if not hanging on his every word, at least attentive and engaged. Listening. Leaning forward in anticipation, not shrinking back in fear.
Reverend Eugene Caudill suddenly realized the difference. He wasn’t angry anymore. At God or for God. It may not be fiery rhetoric, but it was hitting home, and God was showing himself faithful yet again.
ON DECEMBER 24, in spite of the snow and mud, a large truck carefully backed the pastel mobile home into its new location in Eden Hill. The electrician hooked up the wiring and turned on the lights, the propane man tied in the gas and lit the pilot, and the water and septic were connected. The driver had fitted a metal stairway up to the front door, and JoAnn hung a small wreath under the little round window.
“Well, JoAnn, we’re here by Christmas. Just as I promised.” Cornelius stuck the small evergreen he’d cut from the back fencerow into an abandoned flowerpot, and draped a single string of colored lights around its branches.
She threw her arms around him and gave him the closest thing to a bear hug that an expectant mother could manage, and a grin sprang across his face. Moments like this made him want to promise her the world.
“Neil, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s go to the Christmas pageant at the church next door? The sign out front said it starts at seven thirty.”
He broke their embrace and looked at the aging building next door with its sagging roof and crumbling front steps. Christmas pageant? Something inside balked at the idea. The only pageant he knew about was Miss America, and he certainly wasn’t up for Bert Parks. Or maybe it was his father’s distaste of anything religious, or his own stubbornness. Whatever the case, one look at his wife’s earnest eyes filled with longing, and all his aversion melted away.
“Yes, JoAnn, I think we can.”
“Hurry up, Vee,” Mavine called up the steps, wrapped in her coat and scarf. “We can’t be late for the Christmas pageant, and we want to see the Stacys’ decorations first.”
Virgil shook his head, hoping she wouldn’t see. He never quite saw the point of the outrageous display. For most folks in Eden Hill, Christmas looked pretty much like any other early winter day, only a little more festive. Gladys put candles in the windows of the Glamour Nook, and he’d put out the big sign with the life-size picture of Santa Claus holding an automobile battery—If your car isn’t ready to start, ask Santa for a Reddy-Start—but most just put up a tree and a few ornaments and let it go at that.
Not so with the Stacys. The grocery
sparkled with red-and-green tinsel garlands, strings of colored lights illuminated the checkout counter and the lunch meat case, and bells of silver paper dangled from the ceiling next to the flypaper. Their house was equally overdone.
On Christmas Eve the entire town liked to drive by to see the spectacle before attending the pageant at the First Evangelical Baptist Church; it gave them something to talk about while waiting for the piano music to change to “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” which was the cue to get quiet. Eden Hill’s own Christmas parade.
“Virgil T. Osgood Jr., it’s time to go!” The boy was stubborn, a trait he’d inherited from his father.
Vee finally sauntered down the steps, dragging an old Welgo shopping bag and looking despondent. Virgil checked his watch. “We’ve only got twenty minutes before you need to be there. Let’s move.”
There were several vehicles in line in front of the Stacys’ home, all familiar. Arlie and Lula Mae rode in their truck in the very front, with Welby and Alma following a couple of cars back. The show was as flashy as expected. Santa and his sleigh flew toward the chimney, held in place with thin wire fastened to nearby trees. Rudolph’s nose glowed red as a cherry, and the reindeer danced and swayed with every gust of wind. Dozens of brightly colored bulbs blinked on and off, while “O Holy Night” played through a small loudspeaker on the porch.
“What do you think of that, Vee?” Virgil turned to the back seat, where Vee looked glumly out the window on the other side.
“Neat. Can we go now?” Vee, it seemed, was unimpressed. Apparently something else he inherited from his father.
Welby and Alma were settled in their usual spot near the aisle when the Osgoods entered, Alma dressed in a red suit with her Christmas hat, and Welby in a crisp white shirt and a fashionable knit tie. In addition to her purse, Alma held a small leatherette case. Welby motioned to the Osgoods to join them.
“Alma brought her Brownie to get some snapshots of Vee.” Welby grinned. “He’s going to do a great job tonight!”
Mavine beamed. “Vee’s really looking forward to it.”
Virgil truly hoped his wife was right. But it seemed to him that Vee was most certainly not looking forward to it. He was dreading it, with fear and trembling. Their son would be playing Wise Man #2 this year and would have to carry a little filigreed jewelry box atop Mavine’s white embroidered couch pillow. His costume consisted of Virgil’s old flannel robe and a crown made out of shirt cardboard and gold wrapping paper. All these things had been stuffed into the paper bag along with a pair of squeaky brown flip-flops from Welgo. Vee would also have to sing “We Three Kings,” with the right words like in the hymnal, not the ones Mavine had caught him and Frank Prewitt singing about smoking on a loaded cigar. Besides, old Toler was keeping a sharp eye on the boys from his music stand near the choir loft.
In a way, Vee was lucky. Virgil had seen the script Vee had brought home. Frank had been tapped to play Joseph opposite his younger sister Darlene’s Mary, and so would have to be the one holding Baby Jesus, played by Darlene’s Betsy Wetsy doll wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Reverend Caudill had arrived in time to pray with the children, whom he found ready and waiting in the vestibule. Surprisingly, they were all there.
And not surprisingly, he could hear them arguing by the time he took his seat at the side of the platform. He surveyed his congregation and sighed, content to see nearly his entire church family gathered together this holy night. And as he looked toward the entryway, where the costumed cast had convened, a bit of movement to one side caught his eye. A young couple, almost concealed by the shadow of the balcony, slipped in and found seats in the back row. He recognized neither of them. Visitors? But he had little time to ponder this, as the music began and all eyes were drawn to a slight commotion in the doorway to the vestibule.
“Stop poking me, Vee.”
“I’m not poking you, Frank. That’s your cue.”
Toler was waving his hands in time with the music. They were up to the part about the Virgin when Frank, as Joseph, finally came through the door with Darlene in tow. She had missed her cue as well—probably flirting with Vee like she did on Sunday mornings. Fortunately, she’d remembered the baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Reverend Caudill’s eyes were drawn to the young woman he’d seen come in; she wore an angelic smile and placed a hand over her midsection as she watched the holy family climb the steps to where the iconic Christmas scene awaited.
Mavine’s magazine rack served as an acceptable manger and was filled with Arlie’s straw. Mrs. Crutcher was complaining loudly from the front row that in her Bible, Mary wasn’t delivered of the child until after they reached the stable, and that Reverend Caudill should be more careful to avoid scriptural error. Joseph, clearly not concerned with such details, took the doll from its mother and placed it on his shoulder according to the script. The organist was well into “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks,” with the congregation following, when two adolescents wrapped in bathrobes joined the tableau.
“Whatcha got there, Frank?” Eddie, Shepherd #2, had observed the obvious.
“Shaddup,” Frank grumbled above the music.
“Looks like a baby doll, Frank.” Richard, Shepherd #1, was covering his mouth, equally sympathetic. The organist was slowing down even more for the final stanza, while Toler, in the choir loft, was watching the commotion and glaring.
“Shaddup. You didn’t have to hold a sheep!”
“Shhhhh, you’re going to get us in trouble.” Darlene glared at both boys.
Reverend Caudill scanned the congregation again, particularly noting the parents among them. Arlie and Lula Mae were about two-thirds back on his left, directly in front of Eddie’s parents. Welby, Alma, and the Osgoods were in the front to his right. Everyone—so far—seemed pleased with the progress of the pageant. Except Toler and Madeline Crutcher, of course, who were never pleased with anything. And the young man who sat squirming under the balcony. The woman—his wife?—leaned her head onto his shoulder, but he shifted in his seat and divided his attention between his wristwatch and the church exit.
By now, two shepherds, one adoptive father, and one choir director were all grimacing, with the young virgin mother trying to restore order. As the last line of the carol echoed through the sanctuary, Frank looked straight at Eddie and said loudly, “Hold the baby.”
Before Reverend Caudill or anyone else could intervene, Frank slapped the bundle on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezed.
“Aw, man!”
Eddie froze for a moment, then fingered the damp splotch on his chest and shoved the doll into Richard’s arms, who handed it back to Frank, who, having run out of shepherds, gave it to a startled Darlene. Someone was heard to mumble, “I’ll get you,” under his breath.
“Shhhhh! Be quiet!” Darlene began to cry.
Reverend Caudill, who had up to now enjoyed a stellar day, began to lose a bit of his smile. Fortunately, the lights were dim where he was sitting, so hopefully no one would notice. He could be grateful for that. And for the Goody’s headache powder he kept in his office for afterward.
Just then, somebody plugged in the drop cord that powered the light bulb in the tin star hanging over the baptistery. Apparently this was the cue for the organist to launch into “We Three Kings.” Toler, always more a follower than a leader, frowned some more and began waving his arms to the music. Wise Man #1 was by now halfway down the aisle with his bottle of green Kool-Aid, and Vee stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the vestibule.
Mrs. Crutcher was right on cue with her biblical insights. “The magi found the babe in a house, not a stable. Why isn’t there a house?”
Vee, undeterred by the theological controversy, made his own entrance, a small jewel box balanced precariously on Mavine’s pillow.
At that moment Alma turned, pointed the Brownie camera, and tripped the shutter. The flashbulb went off with a spectacular poof, the organist lost her place, and Toler abandoned what was left of hi
s composure. Mrs. Crutcher shrieked and threw her bulletin in the air. Vee walked into the side of a pew and then tripped on the dangling sash of his bathrobe, launching the jewel box down the aisle.
Reverend Caudill watched helplessly from the platform as Vee dusted himself off and limped to the side of the manger. Wise Man #3, Toler’s grandson, was nowhere to be seen. He could be heard, however, sobbing in the vestibule when the music finally and mercifully ended. His grandfather, whimpering, motioned to the organist, who began “Joy to the World” in a surprisingly upbeat tempo. Someone was sent to unplug the tin star but pulled out the wrong cord instead, knocking out the lights to Toler’s music stand as the last chord sounded.
Someone turned up the lights, and the pastor rose for the closing prayer. Maybe he wouldn’t need the medicine after all. The pageant had gone much better than last year.
But when he looked up after the closing prayer, he was surprised and a bit disappointed. The back pew, where the young couple had sat, was empty.
“VEE, YOU DID a wonderful job tonight!” Mavine put her arms around their son, who turned his red face away. The day had been a long one, and Welby and Alma had joined the Osgoods for their traditional Christmas Eve dinner and tree decorating.
“You certainly did.” Alma passed the bowl of green popcorn back to Mavine, who was spearing a puffy red kernel with a large needle. “I can’t wait to see the snapshots!”
“Thank you, Aunt Alma.”
Mavine knew her son well. He was being polite and trying hard to look pleased, but it was obvious his leg hurt from walking into the pew, and the taste of humiliation was no doubt still burning his mouth. “How about some music? Maybe there’ll be Christmas carols on the radio.”
“Yes, thank you. May I have some more hot chocolate, please?”
