Christmas Bliss

by Mary Kay Andrews

  James started the car but he didn’t stop fussing. “What if they’re skipping church? What if they’re just running out to get a carton of milk?”

  “Cindy wouldn’t go to the trouble of loading Opal and her walker into that van just for a trip to the store. They’re going to church. Now, can we pleeeease get moving? I hate to mention it, but I need to use the bathroom again.”

  I glanced over and saw his ears had turned crimson.

  * * *

  “Kill the headlights,” I said as we rolled up to the house.

  “I thought you said the coast was clear,” James said.

  “It is. But there’s no reason to take chances.”

  He switched off the headlights.

  “Park with the car facing out toward the road. Just in case we have to make a fast getaway,” I said.

  “Dear Lord!”

  I traded the floppy hat for a black knit ski cap and handed him a matching model.

  We got out of the car, and it struck me what a very odd-looking couple we made. James Foley was dressed in baggy black faded slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt that looked like relics from his priest days. His thinning silver hair glowed in the moonlight. I’d tucked my hair up under the cap, but there was no way I could tuck away the baby. I wore black maternity leggings, one of Harry’s oversized navy blue sweatshirts, and a pair of black flats. I carried a flashlight. James carried a lifetime of Catholic guilt.

  “Look,” he whispered, pointing to a dilapidated shed on the east side of the house. “There’s a car under there! Somebody’s home. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shh.” I walked as quickly as I could toward the shed, with James a couple of steps behind. The car was an old beat-up blue Honda Accord. I played my flashlight over it. The hood and trunk were covered with dust, spiderwebs, and pine needles.

  “It’s a junker,” I said. “Probably been here for years and years. Come on, let’s go take a look at the house.” I had a dim memory of a wide back porch that ran the width of the old farmhouse, with a glass-paneled door leading into the kitchen.

  “This way,” I said. We made a wide berth around the front porch and picked our way through overgrown shrubs and foot-high weeds. Each time a twig snapped underfoot, James froze.

  “Relax,” I muttered.

  The undergrowth was so dense here, I felt sure nobody could spot us even if they’d been looking. I switched on my flashlight and we followed a faint footpath that had been beaten through the brush.

  In a few minutes, the back of the farmhouse loomed before us. If the front of the house looked bedraggled, the back looked worse—forlorn, even abandoned. As I played the light over it, it appeared that the roof had caved in on an ell that curved out from the porch—a room I remembered had once been Richard’s grandmother’s laundry room. Most of the paint on the house was long gone, and the brick steps leading up to the porch were broken and crumbling. But the kitchen door was right where it should have been.

  “Come on.” I gestured toward the porch. As we got closer, I could see that it was in bad shape too. The floorboards were warped and rotten—a large sheet of plywood had been clumsily placed atop what must have been a particularly questionable spot on the floor.

  I started toward the steps, but James grabbed my arm. “Let me go first. If one of those boards gives way beneath you…”

  Was he making a crack about my weight? I didn’t care. It was a sweet gesture, and I wasn’t exactly eager to test just how sturdy the floorboards were.

  I handed him the light, and he climbed the steps slowly. He put one foot on the first board and tested it, then another, then another. I followed close behind, until we were now standing in front of the kitchen door.

  He played the light over the door, which had pale blue blistered paint. “Just so you know, I’m not picking any locks. I draw the line at that.”

  I reached around him and turned the knob. Rusty hinges rasped, but the door swung slowly open by a few inches and then stopped. I stepped around James and gave the weather-warped door a shove with my hip and almost fell into the kitchen.

  * * *

  Not much had changed on the inside of the house. The olive green linoleum floor was faded and worn—but clean, as was the rest of the kitchen. The dark pine cabinets and red Formica countertops were as I remembered them. There was a wire dish drainer in the sink, with a dish towel placed neatly atop the still damp dinner dishes.

  “Be back in a minute,” I told James. I found the downstairs bathroom with no trouble, and afterward, dried my hands on a prim monogrammed linen hand towel that screamed faded fortune.

  James was standing in the living room. A lamp on an end table gave off a weak light, but it was enough to see what we needed to see. An old-fashioned lumpy brown sofa stood on a threadbare Oriental rug. A leather recliner faced the television, with duct-tape repairs on the arm and a crocheted afghan neatly folded on the chair back.

  I leafed through a stack of magazines on the coffee table, unsure of what I was looking for—some sign, I guess, that Richard was in residence. But there were no back issues of Hustler, just some well-thumbed Reader’s Digests, a five-year-old copy of Guideposts, and the December issue of Southern Living.

  “What now?”

  I pointed toward the dining room. A massive antique banquet-sized mahogany table was too large for the room, and the ornately carved Chippendale chairs looked out of place in such a simple farmhouse. The furniture had probably come from Richard’s parents’ home—a beautiful circa 1910 house on the bluff at Isle of Hope where our engagement party had been held—and which had been sold shortly after the end of our ill-fated marriage.

  There were three place mats at one end of the table, and the other end held neat stacks of papers and file folders—as though it were being used as a makeshift office.

  “I’ll go through the papers to see if there’s any mail for Richard, or any other signs he’s been here,” I said. “Why don’t you go check in the bathroom and bedrooms?”

  “Check for what?” James glanced uneasily around the dining room and checked his watch for the tenth time since we’d entered the house. Note to self—never invite a priest, even a former priest, along for any extra-legal outings. James made the world’s worst accomplice.

  “Signs that a man is living here,” I said. “You know, like men’s clothes or a shaving kit or pornography—if you find any smut, give a holler. That means Richard is either living here or hanging out here.”

  Rifling through the mail was a depressing project. Lots of bills, most of them marked past due, final notice, etc. If the sad condition of the house hadn’t been enough to convince me that Cindy and Aunt Opal had fallen on hard times, reading their mail did the job.

  At the bottom of a thick stack of catalogs and junk mail I found a tidy package of mail bound tightly together with rubber bands—all of it to Richard Hodges and sent to this address.

  I held my breath as I unsnapped the band and looked through the envelopes. None of it was particularly interesting. There were bank statements, credit card offers, even, ironically, half a dozen unopened solicitation pleas from various nonprofits, including the American Heart Association, the World Wildlife Fund, and Richard’s alma mater, William & Mary.

  Naturally, I checked the bank statements. Richard had a checking account with a local bank, and the October statement showed a balance of less than $200. Not surprising, but it did make me wonder if he’d been able to find a job after his release from prison.

  I thumbed through the mail a second and third time, hoping to find something like a pay stub or any indication of employment, but I found nothing.

  “BeBe?” I turned to see James standing in the doorway from the hall. “Something down here you might want to see.”

  I followed him down the hall, past two small but tidy bedrooms, to the last door at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, so I peeked in.

  The room was starkly furnished. There was a single narrow four-poster bed
, with a heavy woolen blanket stretched taut over a sagging mattress, and two wafer-thin pillows in white cotton cases. On the wall opposite the bed was a chest of drawers with a mirror. A wooden kitchen chair had a neatly folded stack of white bath towels. The closet door was open. Wordlessly, I walked in and thumbed through the garments hanging on wire hangers.

  I pulled out a heavily starched white cotton dress shirt. The label was from John B. Rourke’s men’s shop. It was a long-sleeved white oxford cloth button-down, size 14½/36. Richard had shopped at Rourke’s since his freshman year at Savannah Country Day. He never wore anything but white oxford cloth button-downs, and he had an unusually thin neck and long arms.

  I held the shirt up to my nose and sniffed, then dropped the shirt as though I’d been burned. My hands were shaking and my heart was beating a mile a minute. I sank down onto the bed.

  James sprung into action. “BeBe? Are you all right? Talk to me. What’s going on? You’re not going to faint, are you?” He was patting my hand and fanning my face at the same time.

  “He’s here,” I said finally, nodding toward the closet. “Those are his clothes. His shirts. His aftershave. Richard’s, I mean.”

  I had a fresh crop of goose bumps on my arms.

  James sat down on the bed beside me. “You’re sure?”

  For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Somehow I felt Richard’s presence pressing in on me, sucking the breath out of my chest. And then I was right back in that dark place again, in a marriage to a man who’d managed to hide his true self from me for months and months, until I was forced to face the awful truth of who he truly was.

  And then I felt a tiny little butterfly kick to my rib cage. And I remembered, somehow I’d managed to survive that time. Richard was the past. I’d rebuilt my life from the ground up, in a new place with a new man, and there was a new life force just waiting to make an entrance into this world.

  I took a deep breath and the darkness receded.

  “I’m fine,” I said, squeezing James’s hands. I looked around the room one last time. “Really. Now I know he’s living here, I’ll come back. I’ll make him sign the divorce papers. Then I never have to see Richard Hodges or deal with him. Ever again.”

  “Do you want to wait around for a while? See if he shows up?”

  “Better not.” I stood up and took one more look around the room. “It’s nearly nine now, and Harry worries about me. If we hurry, we can stop at Target and do a little Christmas shopping.”

  “Sounds good,” James said. “You don’t happen to play bridge, do you?”

  Chapter 19

  Weezie

  By my third day in the city, I was starting to feel like an old pro. I’d successfully managed to ride the subway to and from Central Park without getting lost or mugged; I’d window-shopped down Fifth Avenue and eventually found my way to Rockefeller Center to admire the Christmas tree.

  I’d even slipped inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral and sat for a few minutes in a pew, admiring the magnificent vaulted ceiling and stained-glass windows. Uncle James, I thought, would love this place. Not long after moving home, James met Jonathan McDowell, a dashing, ten years younger assistant district attorney. To my parent’s astonishment and my own delight, he and John had become a couple only weeks after meeting.

  James had given up his collar, and although his church would never recognize or approve his relationship with Jonathan, he still attended mass every Sunday, often picking my parents up at home and ferrying them to Blessed Sacrament Church and then out to lunch afterward at their favorite all-you-can-eat buffet. It was the high point of their week—especially Daddy’s, since I knew it was likely to be the most edible meal of the week.

  Sitting in that pew, watching tourists file through, stopping to genuflect before the altar or drop some coins in the poor box, I thought about Daddy now. I hadn’t heard anything from Mama all week. She was probably mad at me for leaving this close to Christmas and the wedding. It didn’t take much to get her mad at me, but I decided I wouldn’t dwell on that now.

  That morning I pawed through my long-lost suitcase, trying to decide what to wear for my Broadway debut. I knew it was only a matinee, but I wanted to look nice, especially since it would be the first time this week that Daniel had seen me dressed up.

  Despite his best intentions, we hadn’t seen much of each other at all. He’d had to work most of Tuesday and by the time he got home at two in the morning, I was fast asleep. Today would be different, though, he promised. Carlotta had given her word that she’d make sure he could sneak away from the restaurant by no later than one, sharp. The plan was for me to meet Daniel at the restaurant, where we’d have a special lunch, and leave in plenty of time to make the two o’clock curtain. Two o’clock curtain!

  I finally decided to wear the only dress I’d packed for the trip. It was a vintage 1960s long-sleeved peacock blue tissue-weight wool dress with a close-fitted bodice, a wide black patent belt at the waist, and a narrow skirt. It no longer had a label, but from the quality of the fit, workmanship, and fabric, I felt sure it had to have been the work of a major designer. As soon as I zipped it up and stepped into my black suede pumps with the gold buckles on the toes I felt glamorous and, yes, positively soignée. Like something out of a Mad Men episode. I added a pair of vintage gold Chanel button earrings, and finished off the outfit by fastening the rhinestone Christmas tree brooch I’d bought the Christmas Daniel and I got engaged.

  The day before, on my walk around the Village, I’d found a tiny vintage clothing boutique on Sixth Street, but when I stepped inside the shop, I realized the merchandise wasn’t really my kind of thing.

  The shop was so narrow that you could stand in the middle aisle and touch the racks lining both walls. And those racks? Stocked with dozens and dozens of pairs of gnarly blue jeans, seventies rock concert T-shirts, leather garb, and vintage eighties fashions. Waaay too hipster for me.

  I was about to turn around and walk out when I spotted a lone garment hanging on a hook near a curtained-off dressing area; it looked nothing like the other clothes in the shop.

  It was a circa 1950s black lamb shearling car coat, with dolman sleeves and a high funnel neck. I tried it on. It fit like it was made for me. And then I checked the price tag and almost choked. Only $30. Could that be right?

  I found the shop’s proprietor sitting on a high stool behind the cash register. I handed her the coat and dug my billfold from my pocketbook. “Is that the correct price?” I asked timidly, afraid that maybe I’d overlooked a missing zero.

  “I could do twenty bucks if you’ve got cash,” she said. I handed her a twenty-dollar bill and donned the coat as I was walking out the door. It had a red satin lining, and for the first time in three days I finally felt warm.

  And by Wednesday, I was ready for a day on the town with Daniel.

  He’d written the restaurant’s address on a slip of paper before leaving for work that morning. “Take a cab,” he’d advised.

  But I hated to waste money on a taxi. As soon as I stepped outside the town house, I was thankful for my new coat. It had snowed again overnight, and although the temperature had risen enough to start melting the snow, the wind was still cold and raw. I picked my way carefully down the sidewalk to the subway entrance, but after only a block or so, my beautiful black suede pumps were soaked from the accumulated slush.

  Still, I couldn’t help feeling smug as I went through the turnstile and stood on the subway platform, telling myself I looked just like any other seasoned commuter. When my train pulled up, I stepped inside and found the last available seat in the car. The doors slid shut, and we were all jammed inside, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Music wafted back from an unseen source at the front of the car, a horn solo of “Silent Night.” I found myself humming along under my breath, checking the faces of nearby passengers to see if they were doing the same, but everybody else seemed preoccupied, texting on phones, checking e-mails, or reading books or newspapers.

  M
e? I clutched my purse tightly on my lap and watched the scenery. Ten minutes later, I had to forcibly shoulder my way through the throngs to exit at my stop.

  Emerging from the subway station into daylight, I stepped under a nearby overhang to try to get my bearings. The earlier sunlight had faded and it had started to sleet. Did I turn right or left? I wasn’t certain, so I turned left, but after a block realized I’d done the exact wrong thing. I did an about-face and headed right, the sleet coming down so hard it felt like needles piercing my bare head and face.

  The sidewalks were as jammed as the subway car, and I felt myself being carried along with the tide of humanity. We came to an intersection. The light turned and I stepped down from the high curb and into the street. And into a six-inch puddle of melted black slush.

  The shock of cold startled me so that I gave a quick, sharp shriek at the same time I hopped out of the puddle. I looked down just in time to see my right shoe go floating off down the street in a river of slush. It bobbed along for a few feet, with me in hot pursuit, but as I watched, it flowed right into a large metal storm drain and disappeared.

  I stood and stared at the drain for a moment in disbelief. But only a moment, because my shoeless right foot was freezing. I hop-walked for the next block until finally I spotted a cheery red-and-green-striped awning with the Cucina Carlotta logo.

  Never had I been so happy to see a restaurant. I pulled the heavy plate-glass door open and stepped inside. It was barely noon, but the foyer was already crammed. I tucked my one remaining shoe in my pocketbook and in my wet stocking feet edged my way over to the maître d’s stand.

  The hostess was tall and willowy, with a cascade of long auburn hair and huge eyes fringed with extravagant black lashes. She wore a short, tight black dress with a plunging neckline and thigh-high black patent leather boots right out of a dominatrix catalog. She held a phone to one ear and was staring down at the open reservation book on the stand. I waited patiently for her to finish listening, conscious that my wet hair was plastered to my face, and what little makeup I’d applied that morning had probably washed away, like my shoe. I looked like a drowned rat, I was sure.