“It’s like an assembly line in here,” Ronnie said to Jules as Mae prepared the turkey and Bertha made the stuffing.
“Yeah, and I think we better not get in the way.”
Kelli stood at the refrigerator. “I don’t think we have enough rolls. How could we not have enough rolls?”
“We’ll go,” Jules said quickly.
Ronnie caught her look and ran upstairs to change into jeans, still wearing her new sweatshirt.
A few minutes later, they were in the car.
“We escaped.” Ronnie let her head sag against the headrest.
Jules smirked. “I know. But it’s later I’m going to want to escape. What were we thinking, inviting all these people for dinner?”
Ronnie glanced over. “Kelli seems tense. Is she gonna be okay, seeing her dad with another woman?”
Jules didn’t answer immediately. “I’m not sure how that’s going to go. For Kelli or Marianne.”
She parked in the lot of the grocery store and turned to Ronnie. “This might be a good time to call your mom.”
Ronnie blanched. “I can’t. What if he answers?”
“I can’t believe Steve would keep you from talking to your mom on Christmas Day. You have to try. I’ll bet she’s waiting, hoping you’ll call. She doesn’t have a number for you, so it’s all on you to take that step.”
Ronnie pulled out her cell phone and stared at it.
“Take as long as you need. Come find me inside,” Jules said as she got out of the car.
Jules took her time wandering the aisles. She picked up more eggnog and Christmas candy, wishing the employees working there a Merry Christmas and thanking them for working. Ronnie found her in the frozen food aisle.
“She answered. We talked. I can’t believe it’s been so long. Thanks for pushing me to call. It was good to hear her voice.”
By the time they got back to the house, they could already smell the turkey roasting. Kelli put them to work setting up an extra table and chairs. The cats wandered around the kitchen meowing hopefully for scraps of anything.
When the doorbell rang, Kelli jumped. Jules opened it to find Marianne and the kids, who had brought their new electronics. She made the introductions, and then Ronnie and the kids disappeared upstairs to the office to play computer games.
Marianne poured herself a large glass of wine. “Hope we have plenty of this today.”
When the bell rang again, Kelli and Marianne stared at each other.
“I’ll get it,” Jules said.
“Jerry,” she said when she opened the door to find Kelli’s father standing there. She gave him a hug and stepped back as he held the storm door for the woman with him.
“Jules, this is Evelyn. This is Kelli’s partner, Jules.”
Jules shook hands with a woman in her sixties who handed Jules two Tupperware containers.
“I know you probably have a mountain of food, but here’s a spice cake and a pumpkin pie,” Evelyn said.
“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.”
Jerry took Evelyn’s coat.
“Jerry, can you take the coats up to our room? The kids are in the office with our friend, Ronnie. I’ll take care of Evelyn.”
Jerry gave her one worried glance before heading upstairs.
Jules led the way into the kitchen and made another round of introductions. Kelli came over to shake Evelyn’s hand.
“I’ve heard so much about you and your sister from your father,” Evelyn said, glancing toward Marianne, who was busily laying cheese and crackers on a platter without acknowledging Evelyn at all. “Your home is lovely.”
“Let me show you around,” Kelli said, turning to glare at her sister.
“She’s not much to look at,” Marianne muttered as Kelli led Evelyn away to the pottery studio.
“And if she was all made-up and pretty, you’d say all your dad saw was her looks,” Mae said. “You had your mind made up not to like her, no matter what.”
Jules covered a smile.
“What I see is a nice, down-to-earth lady who probably makes your father happy,” Mae continued. “And a spoiled daughter who is too busy with her own life to keep him company, but doesn’t want him to move on.”
Marianne’s cheeks colored at this brutal assessment of the situation, but when Kelli returned to the kitchen and Evelyn asked if she could help with anything, she said, “You can help me with the appetizers if you don’t mind.”
Kelli turned to Jules with a questioning look.
“Mae strikes again,” Jules said in an undertone.
By the time Toni got to the house, there was barely room to move in the kitchen with all the women swarming about. Jerry and Jules wisely stood out of the way, munching on slices of Evelyn’s spice cake.
“Oh, my gosh, everything smells heavenly,” Toni said when Jules answered the door. She held out a bag. “I don’t really cook, and now it seems like a good thing I didn’t try to. Here’s some wine. White, not red, so no stains.” Jules took her jacket. “It’s so nice of you and Kelli to invite me. I thought I was going to have a quiet Christmas by myself, but this is so much nicer. Do you always have such a houseful?”
“No,” said Jules. “This is the first year. But something tells me it won’t be the last.”
She was just leading Toni toward the kitchen when the doorbell rang again. “We’re not expect—”
She opened the door to find Donna there, holding a bag.
“Sorry to barge in,” Donna said. “I spent Christmas morning with my family and then thought I might join you guys.” Her face lit up as she saw Toni standing behind Jules.
Jules stepped aside—as it should be. “Come on in. You make us an even twelve. A much better number.”
Donna followed Toni into the kitchen where Jules heard Kelli’s exclamation of welcome. She went upstairs to the office where Ronnie and Marianne’s kids were sprawled on the floor.
“Donna’s here,” she said as she picked up the office chair. “Need an extra seat.”
“Really?” Ronnie closed her laptop and followed Jules downstairs to greet Donna.
Jules found Kelli setting another place at the table. They listened to the voices and laughter coming from the kitchen.
“So much for a normal Christmas,” Jules said.
“Maybe this is our normal from now on.” Kelli’s eyes shone with tears when she looked at Jules. “Our family looks a little different now, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” Jules wrapped her arms around Kelli. “You okay?”
Kelli held Jules tightly. “As long as I have you, I’m okay.”
“Then you’ll always be okay.”
If you enjoyed this short story, you might want to read Caren Werlinger’s Turning for Home, the novel which introduced Jules, Kelli, and their family and friends.
CHATTING WITH CHARLIE
by Catherine Lane
Sweat dripped down my back, and my sweatpants stuck to me in all sorts of unpleasant places. What was it, a thousand degrees? I glanced at the school’s temperature gauge at the edge of the softball field. It was only pushing ninety, but still, way too hot for this time of year, even for Los Angeles.
I could already hear the whining, loud and clear, that would come at my off-season practice after school.
“Coach, can we have a water break?”
“I think I’m getting heat stroke.”
“Run laps? You’re kidding. Do you really want a call from my dad’s attorney?”
No, seriously, I got a call from a lawyer once after a particularly tough conditioning day. If I were smart, I would race to the storage shed right now, fill the ice buckets and hope that a water fight would cut the complaining by half.
When had it come to this? When had I turned into a glorified babysitter?
Eighteen years ago, I took a team all the way to the Division Championships. Our banner hung in the gym to prove it: a gigantic softball and our 24-0 record stitched in royal blue against the white background. But that was then. Now, I was surrounded by girls who barely cared. Joining the softball team was just a way to fill in another line on their college applications or get out of regular P.E. I loved the game, but often felt like the only one.
“Hey, Alyx. You going to the thing?”
I looked up to see Julie James, the adorable sculpture teacher, bouncing toward me as she cut across the field from her studio at the far end of our campus. Her curly brown hair swung around her shoulders, and her sundress hugged her in all the right places. She looked impossibly fresh in this unseasonable heat. A Santa Claus pin, a jolly nod to the holiday season, sat right at her breastbone.
“What thing?” I hadn’t read the school bulletin this morning and had no idea what she was talking about.
“You know, Chatting With Charlie. That thing in the Black Box Theater where the kids get up and speak about whatever is meaningful to them for five minutes.”
“Shoot. That’s today?”
Julie glanced at her watch. “Yeah, in ten minutes. You coming?”
The right answer was no. I had a dozen scheduling calls on my to-do list, and those pesky ice buckets wouldn’t fill themselves. But why not? I needed a break from my funk, and walking to the Black Box with Julie would be just what the doctor ordered. Truth be told, I had a little work crush on Julie. It would never go anywhere, of course. She was straight, and I was very happily married to my wife, Demi, for over seven years now. But I looked forward to chatting with Julie; her enthusiasm for life was infectious. I always came away from our moments with a big smile on my face.
Except today.
“I’m so excited,” Julie said as we started down the concrete path that led to the Black Box Theater. “Next week this time, we’ll be on winter break, and William and I will be in Germany on our river cruise. He said he booked it for the Christmas markets and just to get away, but I think—at least I hope—he’s going to pop the question.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I think so. He and my dad went out to lunch last weekend. He said they were discussing an investment opportunity, which could be true. I mean, William is an investment banker, after all. But the timing seems a little coincidental, don’t you think?”
She seemed to need confirmation, so I nodded.
“William’s an old-fashioned guy, and my mom keeps looking at me with these big doe eyes. So I’m kind of thinking… I can’t imagine anything more romantic. Getting down on his knee with the river and the twinkling lights of the shore at his back. Can you?”
“I can’t really say. I don’t have much experience with marriage proposals.”
“But you and Demi are married, right?”
“Yeah, we are. But we kind of rushed into it.”
“You don’t have a proposal story?”
“No. We did it quickly because of that craziness with Prop 8 a couple of summers ago.”
Julie tilted her head.
“We were worried that Prop 8 would take away the right for us to marry here in California. Which it did, of course. So we just got married before it was too late. Looking back, honestly, it was more a political statement.” I didn’t want to meet her gaze, which was suddenly flooded with sympathy, so I trotted up the stairs to the Black Box a step ahead of Julie.
“But surely one of you must have asked the other?” Julie scampered after me. “Getting married doesn’t just spontaneously happen.”
“No, of course not. But you’re not going to believe me—I don’t remember the exact moment we decided to get married. We had already been together for over thirteen years before the wedding. There was just a before and an after. It’s not a big deal.”
“Huh.” Julie clearly wasn’t convinced.
Neither was I. Frankly, I always wished we had navigated that part better. I wrenched open the door to the Black Box and thankfully stepped inside, away from the conversation. True to its name, the room was square and dark. I could easily avoid Julie’s concerned gaze here.
The room was organized for the event. At the far end, a podium with a microphone and a large white screen sat in front of a thick, black curtain. Folding chairs in neat, symmetrical rows backed up almost to the door. Students and other teachers sat in groups of their own kind, chatting quietly and waiting for the show to begin.
We squeezed by two administrators who stood at the door, trying to look important and only pulling off slightly uncomfortable. I quickly found two seats at the edge of a back row, and as soon as we slid into them, the lights dimmed. The annoying tap, tap, tap of someone hitting the microphone jumped out of the speakers. We had just made it, and I settled back in my chair, hoping that whatever the kids’ topics were, they would take me out of my sour mood.
“Good afternoon, and welcome to Chatting With Charlie. Today, as we ring in the holiday season, we have something very special for you.” The debate teacher, Mark “Charlie” Charles, wore red and green and danced with excitement at the podium like a Christmas elf. His deep voice rang throughout the room as he waved his hand at three people sitting in the front row. “Not the students and friends you see every day in our classrooms and hallways, but alumni who have come back to speak about ideas and events which have moved them after high school. A holiday gift, shall we say, as these young men and women from the past hope to inform all of our futures with their recollections. I am so proud to present our first speaker: Sara Banks, class of 2000, who has just won the prestigious Animal Veterinarian of the Year Award. She will speak on why we all need to…” He froze dramatically. “Stop, and Listen to the Birds.”
Charlie threw out his hand in an affected flourish, and a tall, thin woman with loose, dark hair glided to the podium. I tried to rearrange her adult features back into the face of a child I might have known, but had no luck.
My back tensed against the thin cushion in the seat as Sara smiled out into audience and began. Apparently being a vet was unbelievably rewarding. That was a shocker. Had she come back just to tell us how fulfilled she was since she left high school? Lucky her.
I watched Sara’s lips open and close, but all I heard was the go-to joke of the P.E. office: “If you can’t do, teach. And if you can’t teach, coach.” I had always laughed, along with the rest of my colleagues. The joke was that coaching was hard work—managing hormonal adolescents with subjective standards that no parent really understood. And all wrapped up in long, long hours. But now the punch line was a full-blown commentary on my life. I certainly hadn’t won any awards lately. What exactly was I doing with my life? I rolled this and other negative thoughts around in my head until a bird’s melodic trill echoed through the room, jolting me back into the moment.
“And that’s why we all need to stop and listen to the birds.” Sara bowed her head as the crowd burst into applause. Lost in my own mind, I had missed the whole point. This funk was now officially a depression.
“That was great!” Julie whispered. “Who knew she had that kind of insight in her?”
“You remember her?”
“Not well. She took pottery.”
Julie didn’t even teach her, and she still knew who Sara Banks was.
I had to get out of there and scanned the room looking for a way out. The administrators stood by the doors like prison guards. It was a no-go. I wasn’t getting sprung until the next two special gifts had spoken.
The second student, a man now in his late thirties, spoke in a quiet, uninspired voice about paying it forward. I tried to listen to every word. Maybe he would say the one thing that would change my world.
Nope. He was a big fat dud.
Julie leaned over again when the man had finished, her shoulder brushing against mine. “That was nice. But we’ve all he
ard it all before.”
Finally, the third speaker stood up and faced the audience on her way to the podium. My heart pounded in my chest. No introduction was needed; I would have recognized her anywhere even though she looked nothing like she did in high school.
It was Jenny Marsh, perhaps my biggest failure as a coach.
Jenny had been a great player, a terrific catcher and a steadying influence on a temperamental team. We had been making a real run for the play-offs and a second championship when she edged up to me at lunchtime the day before our biggest game.
“I can’t play,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“You mean tomorrow?” My heart and all hope sank, and full irritation rose quickly in its place. We had no backup catcher.
“No, I mean anymore. I have to quit.”
“What? You can’t quit!” My surprise sounded harsh and judgmental even to me.
“Coach, I can’t do it anymore.” Real emotion cracked in her voice as she took a step back from me. “It’s too hard.”
I took a deep breath. Then another. This was far more than a teenage girl flaking out. “What’s too hard?”
“The whole competition thing. I mean, I get it’s a sport and all, and there has to be a winner and a loser by definition. But I don’t understand why we cheer for our great plays and not for the other team’s. Shouldn’t we be celebrating the great plays on both sides? Isn’t it about coming together as a whole sporting community rather than separating into two different teams that want to destroy each other?” Her plea rang out with passion and eloquence, and even though I had spent my whole life on one softball field or another chasing the win, I nodded.
“Yeah, Jenny. You make a good point.”
Her whole body sagged in relief, and I saw what it had taken for her to speak with me. Even so, I gritted my teeth as I spoke next.
“Okay. I can see how hard this was for you. And I want you to know that I respect you for your beliefs. And if you don’t feel that you can play anymore, I can appreciate that. But do me a favor: take a day to really think about it, and if this is what you truly want, I will drop you from the team.”
Do You Feel What I Feel. a Holiday Anthology Page 24
