Taw McBryde picked at his own helping of country-style steak. "Well, that's good, Tavy," he said. "You look better." He supposed he'd be doing research, too, if he had been given a death sentence. Second opinions; experimental treatments; hell, faith healers. But the words of encouragement he wanted to utter stuck in his throat. He hoped Tavy wasn't going to be bilked out of his life savings by some quack who couldn't give him an extra hour of life. "What kind of new treatment is it?"
"It isn't about me," said Tavy, shaking his head. "There's not much point in fretting over that. But I've got a little time left, and I figured I'd spend it on something worthwhile. Leave a mark, you know."
"Yeah."
"Get the bastards who did this to me."
Taw speared a forkful of fried apples, avoiding his friend's eyes. "You're still going to the doctor, aren't you?"
"Of course I am. I need all the time he can give me, and I sure as hell don't need any pain. He says if it comes to the worst, he can fix me up with a black box on my side that'll pump morphine directly into me any time day or night, if I need it for the pain."
"I thought that stuff was illegal."
Tavy's smile was grim. "Well, Taw, do you reckon I might get hooked?"
"You're a hell of a dinner companion these days, I tell you that," said Taw, reddening. "You don't eat enough to choke a cat, and your idea of small talk makes me want to hang myself."
Tavy grinned. "If you ever start being polite to me, I'll know my time is up. But that's okay. I don't want you to humor me, but I might need some help getting even. If I run out of steam, I want you to keep up the fight."
His friend looked uneasy. He speared a chunk of fried steak, looked at the congealing gravy dripping from it, and put down the fork. After a moment, he said, "You heard from the congressman yet?"
"Yeah. I got the letter right here." Tavy waved an official-looking envelope postmarked Nashville. "Looks like a form job to me. Share your concern ... blah blah . . . Have no jurisdiction in North Carolina . . . These things take time . . . Making every effort." He sighed. "I bet 162
if we sent that joker a complaint about sighting a UFO on the top of Lookout Mountain, we'd get the same damn letter."
"But at least you let the congressman know about the problem," said Taw. "That's what the newspaperman told you to do. Did you write any of the bigger papers?"
Tavy nodded. "Knoxville Journal Not that it'll do much good. And I called the Environmental Protection Agency, and got the runaround. So I decided to get the facts for myself."
"So what's in the rest of the folder?"
"Photocopies of articles. I've been spending time in the library in Johnson City, doing some research on this pollution business. I figure the next letter we write ought to contain less bitching and more facts."
Taw grunted. "Facts like what?"
"I got hold of a book called Green Index: A State-by-State Guide to the Nation's Environmental Health. And according to it, the South ranks in last place."
"Meaning?"
Tavy ran a bony finger down the page. "Out of seventeen states with the highest toxic chemical emissions, nine of them are in the South. Out of twelve states producing the most hazardous waste, same nine Southern states."
"Including Tennessee?"
"It's North Carolina we have to worry about, buddy. The good old Tarheels sending some of that tar down the river toward the Volunteer State. And we just volunteered for cancer. Speaking of which, it says here that out of 179
plants constituting the greatest risk of cancer, more than a hundred of them are in the South."
Taw frowned. "That don't seem right. I thought we lost the Civil War 'cause we weren't industrialized. How come all of a sudden we have all these killer factories?"
"Well, we're not the only states in trouble. The fat cats who run the industries got their own way for a long time without having to clean up diddly squat. Oh, yeah, it's a mess in the Great Lakes region: bad air, polluted water, toxic waste. And out West they got permanent smog, but those folks got smart faster than we did. They started passing tougher laws to stop all that shit. All we seem to be doing is trying to lure new factories into locating down here." He sneered. "God forbid we should discourage them with a few environmental restrictions."
Taw reached for the paper, and skimmed the list of statistics, his lips moving as he read. Finally, he looked up at his friend. "Tavy, you don't have time to run for Congress, and I sure can't do it."
Tavy let the manila folder fall shut. He closed his eyes. "No. But we have to do something. Something."
At the sheriff's office Martha Ayers had strung a ribbon from the bulletin board to the calendar nail, and now she was balanced on a chair, slipping Christmas cards over the ribbon to form a line of colorful greetings. Joe LeDonne, reared back in his swivel chair with his feet up on his desk, watched her in bemused silence.
"Well, we need a little festivity around here," Martha declared. "It's going to be Christmas pretty soon, for God's sake! And it's not like we have any prisoners around so that we have to act all strict in front of anybody. I just wish we had a better class of cards."
"What do you mean?" asked LeDonne. "They look all right to me."
"They're just impersonal, Joe. Look at this one: We Wish Our Customers Happy Holidays, from your friends at the Power and Light Company. Big whoop. And Have Yourself a Sober Little Christmas, from the Tennessee Highway Patrol. You'd think some of the people in this town could send us a Christmas card, considering all we do for them!"
"Arresting their kids for vandalism?" Joe was grinning, but Maitha refused to abandon her cause.
"Like watching their houses day and night every time they take off for Myrtle Beach. And going out and helping to get their cows off the road every time the fence breaks! I'd just like to see a little more appreciation from the citizens, that's all."
"They can keep their Christmas cards," grunted LeDonne. "All I want for Christmas is not to see the inside of the emergency room, so if the people of Wake County would just stay off the damn road on Christmas Eve, and not shoot their in-laws at the Christmas party, I'll be happy."
"You'll get part of your wish, Joe. Spencer's on patrol Christmas Eve. No ER for you." Mar-
tha balanced a red-and-white Noel card on the end of the ribbon. "That one is from Mrs. Arrowood," she said. "It was nice of her to send us one. That reminds me, I've got the best present for Spencer. It's perfect! Do you want it to be from both of us?"
"That depends," said LeDonne. "If it's candy-cane underwear, then I'll pass."
The dispatcher made a face at him. "Very funny. I don't know his size—just yours! This is just perfect for Spencer. I mean, it's kind of a gag, but I think he'll really like it, anyhow, even if he pretends he doesn't."
"What'd you get him?"
Martha reached into her desk and pulled out a small envelope marked Ticketron. "I'm going to put these in a great big box and make him dig through a mess of tissue paper to find them. It's a ticket to the Judds' farewell concert in March!"
LeDonne raised his eyebrows. "Just one ticket?"
"Well, it was eighteen dollars, Joe. I'm not made of money. Besides, as gone as he is on Naomi Judd, I didn't think he'd want to take another woman along to distract him. This way he can see her one last time before she retires from show business. I think he'll like it, don't you?"
"Yeah, probably." LeDonne reached for his wallet. "Here's a ten, Martha. Put my name on the card, too."
Martha sighed. "Well, that's most of my 166
Christmas shopping done. I just wish you were that easy to buy for."
The deputy smiled. "Why, just tie a bow around your waist, Martha." He ducked as a paper clip came flying in his direction.
The Shiloh Church Ladies' Circle (and formerly Sewing Society) was meeting on a small farm outside Hamelin, at the carefully decorated home of Barbara Givens. Because her husband worked in Johnson City, Barbara Givens was able to afford a nicer house than many of her
rural neighbors, and she had lavished time and energy embellishing the place with country decor. At the Ladies' Circle Christmas party, Laura Bruce devoted much of her attention to surreptitiously observing the Givens's furnishings. If Will hadn't been a minister, Laura would have written a catty but hilarious letter detailing the more virulent excesses of Barbara Givens's country mania. . . . The bathroom is definitely not for claustrophobics. This overwrought room, the size of a broom closet, is completely shrouded in dark brown wallpaper with little tiny pineapples all over it. The facial tissue is disguised as a crocheted country cottage, and the bathtub is lurking behind ruffled curtains of brown satin. The toilet evidently has delusions of being an art gallery, because it is surrounded by about a dozen little archly precious pictures of flowers and childlike animals. ... Laura realized that the Givens's rustic splendor was the envy of half the church Circle, but that knowledge did not help her fight off the
urge to smirk when her gaze encountered a duck decoy. Laura had no doubt that Will would find the house equally silly, but she knew that he would not approve of any ridicule on her part. The house is immaculate, and Barbara is terribly proud of it, Laura told herself, as a concession to her husband's generosity of spirit. Surely kitsch is in the eye of the beholder.
The truth was that she found the entire event tacky, but she refused to acknowledge this fact, even to herself, because she felt that such superficial judgments would be a great failing in a minister's wife. So Laura smiled and tasted bizarre dessert recipes, and maintained an expression of rapt interest through discussions of the fabric store's monthly sale, applesauce cake recipes, and the minor ailments of everyone they knew. She parried questions about Will's experiences overseas, her age, and she resisted all eiforts to make her take sides in local squabbles.
They almost got her, though, with the childbirth horror stories. Laura's "condition" seemed to remind every woman of some tale of protracted labor or agonizing complication, and every time Laura changed the subject, someone else would begin a new reminiscence.
"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, dear," Mrs. Hoskins assured her. "Although you did wait a bit late to have a first baby."
"I wanted to be married first," said Laura, unable to resist the quip.
The others laughed merrily. In old ladies and pregnant women, displays of temper passed for 168
wit. "Is Reverend Bruce going to get to come home for the birth?" someone else wanted to know.
Laura felt a sting in her eyes, but she swallowed air until it went away. "No. The Red Cross will get the word to him as soon as they can. Unless he gets sent home before April. We could always pray for that."
"Is it due that soon?" asked Amy Jessup. "You aren't showing very much."
Laura was saved from another tart reply by the hostess's announcement that it was time to open the gifts. The Ladies' Circle observed an old-fashioned custom of choosing prayer partners each September. Each Circle member drew the name of someone else in the group to be her prayer partner; the information was a secret: each woman knew whose name she had drawn from the box, but she did not know who had drawn hers. For the next three months, Circle members prayed for their prayer partners, but they might also send encouraging notes in the mail or do favors, like leaving a jar of preserves at the door. The prayer partner's identity was revealed at the Ladies' Circle Christmas party. Under Barbara Givens's beribboned chintz-and-bunny-"country" Christmas tree lay packages, one for each member of the Circle. Each gift was from a prayer partner, and her name was revealed on the card inside.
Laura's prayer partner had been Sarah Nevells, a fourth-grade teacher at Hamelin Elementary. Laura had been too busy to do much in the way of thoughtful kindnesses over the past 169
few months, but she did send a greeting card to the school once, saying Teachers are a National Treasure, which Laura sort of believed, but mainly she had sent it because she thought Sarah Nevells would appreciate the sentiment. She had signed it Your Prayer Partner, which seemed very silly to her.
Choosing a gift for a stranger (under five dollars, the rules specified) was more of a challenge. After wandering around the mall for an hour, debating every possible purchase, Laura decided that the task was impossible. Scented soap: Would she take that as an implication that she needs to wash? A book: What if she doesn't like it or thinks I intended some message in choosing it? Earrings: Are her ears pierced; does she even wear earrings? Finally, in a last-minute panic, Laura bought her prayer partner a box of flowered stationery. It wasn't exciting, but at least she couldn't think of any way for it to be offensive.
Laura wondered who had drawn her name. She had come to church one Saturday to find an arrangement of flowers on the altar, with a note saying, Arranged by Laura's Prayer Partner, but other than that, there had been no sign of a benevolent hand at work on her behalf.
At least it would make a good story to tell Will, she thought. It proved that she was attempting to observe the parish customs. As the others tore into their packages of scented soaps and paperback romance novels, Laura carefully unwrapped the small box in her lap. Inside was 170
a homemade baby bib, appliqued with a scene of black sheep grazing beneath an apple tree.
"That must be from Barbara!" cried Lois Hoskins. "A country bib! Isn't it precious?"
"It is," said Laura, holding up the needlework for everyone to admire. "It's wonderful." Oddly enough, she meant it. Country didn't seem silly at all on baby things, she told herself.
Sarah Nevells thanked Laura profusely for the floral stationery. Her gift to her own prayer partner had been a note saying: "As your Christmas gift, I rescued a kitten from the Johnson City Animal Shelter. You may have it, or 1 will keep it for you, but it owes you its life. "
"I wish I'd thought of doing that," said Laura wistfully. It was just what Donna Reed would have given a prayer partner.
"Well, Anne Louise, you didn't get a present!" Barbara Givens remarked, seeing one member of the group without a package.
"No. My prayer partner was Janet Underhill. I guess she must have drawn my name as well."
Everyone fell silent for a moment, thinking about the murdered woman.
"Well, it's a great pity what happened to her," Millie Fortnum declared. "I just shudder every time I think about it."
Lois Hoskins nodded. "I wouldn't have believed it, though. Josh Underhill used to come to Sunday school every now and then, and he was always such a nice boy."
"They say you can't tell about murderers," said Millie Fortnum. "Or maybe he was drunk. Being in the rescue squad, I can't tell you all 171
the awful things I've seen happen on account of drunk people."
"He didn't drink, Millie," said Mrs. Hoskins with a steely expression.
Anne Louise Barker was still staring at the tabletop Christmas tree, shining with tartan ribbons. "I felt like I ought to get her something," she said at last. "It isn't as if I forgot her."
"What did you do, Anne Louise?" asked Laura Bruce. She had been thinking how glad she was that she hadn't drawn the name of the murdered woman. Even having to choose floral stationery was better than that.
"Well, I baked some Christmas cookies, and I took them to her children. I thought if it was me, I'd want someone to look after my young'uns." She sighed. "I hope they'll be all right out there alone on that dreadful farm."
"What are they doing for Christmas?" asked Lois Hoskins.
"Well, I asked them, and the boy said they had plans. Going to relatives, I guess."
But Maggie is singing at the Christmas Eve service, thought Laura. And they don't have any close relatives. She made a mental note to check on them when the weather was better.
Dallas Stuart had just purchased a new desk calendar of lawyer quotations for the coming year, and he was busy entering his court dates and other commitments on its pristine pages. He liked to get his duties taken care of before the chaos of the holidays was upon him. Soon 172
grandchildren would be arriving, and his wife
would start accepting party invitations from here to Knoxville, and his schedule would be shot until after New Year's. He always left spaces between his appointments during the early part of January to accommodate all the divorce cases that would spring up during the Christmas season. He must remember to advise his young partner, who handled the criminal cases, to leave open spaces on his schedule, too, for the assault cases and the shoplifters. Tis the season, Stuart thought sardonically.
He missed the old days, the holidays of his boyhood. Depression-era Christmases may have seemed spartan at the time, with some hard candy, an orange, and a baseball being the sum total of his gifts, but as the years passed, those days took on a luster in his mind unequaled by the affluence of later holidays. Modern holidays emphasized material things at the expense of real joy. Take his grandkids, for instance; a darling pair of children, but between his wife and his daughter-in-law, spoiled rotten. Why, at the end of Christmas day, those young'uns probably couldn't tell you all the presents they'd received, and they wouldn't play with half of them ever again. They wouldn't know what it was like to try to make one pair of shoes last until June. Times had changed in the mountains.
On his desk, the intercom buzzed, and Alva's voice interrupted his thoughts. "The Underhill boy is calling, Dallas. He wants to talk to you. Line one."
Dallas Stuart looked a little shamefaced as he 173
picked up the phone. He reckoned affluence wasn't everybody's problem, after all. "Is that you, Mark?" he said genially into the receiver. "I was just thinking about you and your sister. How are you?"
"We're fine, Mr. Stuart," said Mark Underbill. "I wanted—"
"Glad to hear it," the attorney replied. "Because I'd been meaning to give you a call myself. A couple of days ago, my wife asked me to find out if you young people had any plans for Christmas. We've got the family coming in this year, and we thought a couple more youngsters would just add to the merriment." Eleanor would give him a piece of her mind for inviting strangers home for Christmas without consulting her, but he'd get around her. He'd simply explain that the thought of those two orphans alone in that tragic house had hit him all of a sudden with more guilt than he cared to bear during the Yuletide season. She wouldn't mind really; she just didn't like domestic surprises when she'd already planned her menus.
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