by Peggy Webb
Champ says, “Good evening” all around, then, “All set, Callie?”
I reach for my wrap, but Jack already has it. He takes what feels like two weeks draping it around me. Then with his hands on my shoulders and his body heat burning through the back of my cape, he proceeds to treat Champ to a long-winded lecture.
“Be careful tonight. There’ll be lots of Christmas shoppers out, and some of them will be driving like maniacs.”
“I know. I’ve had my license a while.”
Lovie and I giggle at Champ’s dry wit, but Jack remains poker-faced.
“Stay away from the mall. After what happened today, I don’t think Callie should be near there.”
“On that, we agree,” Champ says.
“If you have to get coffee, go to Starbucks on West Main. And be sure Callie has decaffeinated. Caffeine keeps her awake at night.”
“Do you have an instruction manual, Jack? Maybe I ought to read it before we go.” Champ is grinning and taking all this bad advice in stride, which just shows the kind of good man he is.
“I’ll print one up.”
I wouldn’t put it past Jack. I wiggle from his grasp and steer Champ out the door before my almost-ex thinks up any more absurd reasons why I shouldn’t be going out.
“Have fun!” Jack is standing in the doorway looking like he means every word. Which I know good and well he does not. He ought to be an actor.
So should I. Here I am in the car with a really good-looking, really great guy who is probably going to propose, and all I can do is wish I were at the hospital checking on Uncle Charlie or at my house making sure Jack takes care of his leg.
“You look gorgeous in that red sweater.”
So much for Jack’s advice. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything in particular you’d like to do tonight?”
“Actually I’d like to go to the library.” Nobody is going to get down on their knees at the library. Unless it’s to beg for a current bestseller they’ve been waiting on for three months. “I need to check on some things without having a bossy audience.”
“The same audience who’s going to write an instruction manual called Taking Care of Callie?”
“One and the same.”
“I always did like libraries.” Champ heads straight toward the corner of Madison and Jefferson Streets. Any woman in her right mind would fall madly in love with this man.
The Lee County Library on the corner of Jefferson and Madison is a square brick structure with tall, narrow windows, typical of the architecture of the seventies. A mural of all things Mississippi—mockingbird, magnolia and Tupelo gum trees, Civil War battle scenes, Native American scenes—occupies the east wall. A twelve-foot Christmas tree with glowing lights sits in front of the mural. I mist up when I see it.
“Callie, what’s wrong?”
“I am just thinking about poor dead Ruldoph and wondering if somebody really was after Uncle Charlie.”
“I figured that’s why you wanted to come here. How can I help you?”
“I want to find out the names of everybody who has played Santa at Barnes Crossing Mall.”
“Done.”
“Thank you.”
We walk toward a bank of computers, and Champ finds two unoccupied, side by side. Grateful, I slide into my seat. “This is not much of a date for you. I’m sorry.”
“Callie, being anywhere with you is fun.”
Blinking back tears that have been threatening since Uncle Charlie got shocked off Santa’s throne, I try not to feel guilty. Fortunately, I get caught up in the search. Old newspaper articles from the Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal show the opening of Barnes Crossing Mall and their first Christmas court. Front and center is Santa.
“Champ, are you finding what I’m finding.”
“Only one Santa?”
“Yes. If there is a killer loose, was he after the original Santa or Uncle Charlie?”
After we leave the library, we head to Starbucks—on West Main, as Jack instructed, I notice. Feeling guilty that I’ve deprived Champ of his evening, not to mention his chance for a romantic Christmas proposal, I don’t talk about murder anymore. Still, as soon as we finish our coffee, we head home.
Thank goodness, I don’t have an audience when I get there. Still, I don’t linger on the front porch, and I don’t invite Champ inside for a cup of coffee. I need a serious conference with Lovie. In spite of my assurances to everybody concerned that Steve Boone’s death was an accident, my instincts are screaming otherwise.
The minute I walk inside, I know I am not alone. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. Jack is sitting on the sofa in the dark, barely visible by the light from the electric candles in the front windows.
“Did you have a good time, Cal?”
What’s this I hear? Uncertainty? That is so un-Jack-like I forget to turn on the overhead light.
“Champ’s a really great guy.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
Speechless, I unbutton my cape. Jack leaps off the sofa and helps me, taking his own sweet time.
“I made hot chocolate from scratch. Want some?”
Hot chocolate is my favorite winter drink, and he knows it. I follow him into the kitchen, but when I head to the cabinet for cups, he pulls out a chair at the table.
“Sit down. You’ve had a hard day.” I sink into the chair, happy to let a man on a crutch wait on me. Lulled by his chivalrous act, I fantasize how things might have been—me wrapping presents, Jack putting the star on the tree, and little baby Jones cooing in a cradle nearby.
He sets a cup in front of me and I take a sip. If chocolate is nectar for the gods, I guess I’m a goddess. I think it was invented for me. Nothing makes me feel better than the warm, sweet creamy taste of 60 percent cocoa with just a touch of cinnamon and red pepper. Well, almost nothing, but I’m not getting into that.
“Jack, this is very pleasant.”
“Yes, it is.” He studies me over the rim of his cup. “What did you and Mr. Wonderful do this evening?”
Strike pleasant. “Nothing that would interest you.”
“It couldn’t have been much. You’re home early.”
“For your information, some people respect that I’ll be up at the crack of nine so I can play elf all day.”
I march off in such a miff I leave half a cup of good hot chocolate on the table. But I’m not about to go back in the kitchen. Too many memories of cozy late nights with my almost-ex and too much chance he’ll make another smart remark that feels like the truth.
I dress in pajamas, then hole up in my bedroom with the door shut to wait for Lovie. What’s taking her so long? I can hear Jack whistling as he hobbles up and down the stairs. My conscience twinges that I’m not helping him with his evening meds and refilling the pitcher of ice water he keeps beside his bed.
What can I say? I’m not perfect. Except for my hair and my style. And maybe the way I take care of everybody.
Elvis hops onto the bed with me. Dogs can sense when you need comfort. I stroke his warm fur.
“Were you a good doggie while I was gone?” He licks my hand. “Were you nice to Hoyt and the cats?”
“Say yes, Elvis,” Lovie says as she bursts through the door with the fanfare of a three-ring circus. She throws herself onto the bed and kicks off her boots.
“Wayne volunteered to be Santa at the mall. He’s fabulous.”
The way she says fabulous, all long and drawn out like a sigh, I don’t think she’s taking about his prowess as Santa Claus.
“Call him and tell him no thanks.”
“The mall manager promised there will be no power to the throne tomorrow. Besides, I already told Wayne yes.”
She probably told him yes more times than I want to know. “I’m in no mood to hear about your love life.”
“For Pete’s sake, Cal, who pulled your chain? As if I don’t already know.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Lovie. I spent the evening
at the library with Champ.”
“Kinky.”
“For your information, we didn’t kiss behind the stacks.”
“Why not?”
“I had more important things on my mind. Like using their computer so Jack wouldn’t be snooping around seeing what I’m doing.”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Lovie hops off the bed and jiggles out of her clothes and into a nightshirt that asks Who died and made you queen?
She might be acting like somebody who doesn’t want to hear the latest bulletin, but she’s not fooling me, even when she heads into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I trail right along behind her and prop myself in the door frame. “Jack’s cautions tonight were over the top, even for him. I got to thinking maybe he suspects something about the mall accident he’s not telling.”
“Why spoil the mood with murder?”
“Whose mood?”
“Mine.” Lovie stows her toothbrush, then plops onto the bed, pulls up the covers, and turns her back to me.
I count silently to ten. By the time I’ve reached five she pops upright, sits cross-legged, and says, “All right. Tell all.”
“I found a list of everybody who has ever played Santa Claus at Barnes Crossing Mall.”
“You’re assuming today’s events were attempted murder and the alleged killer was after Santa and not Rudolph.”
“The electricity came from the throne, and you can’t see Santa’s Court from the power switch. The killer couldn’t have known Rudolph would be clutching Santa’s hand, grounding the killing jolt.”
“Have you caught Aunt Ruby Nell’s murder-on-the-brain syndrome? Nobody is going around killing Santas at Christmas.”
“I’m serious, Lovie. Wayne shouldn’t come tomorrow.”
“Are you planning to be in Santa’s Court?” She’s got me there. “I thought so. Since Wayne’s going to be in the family, he might as well start now.”
“I notice you’re not flashing a ring.”
“Yeah, but I flashed everything else.”
“I’m not even going to respond to that.”
“Okay.” Lovie lies down and turns her back to me. “ ’Night, Cal.”
“Furthermore, I’m going to keep my list of Santas to myself.”
“I’ll live through it.”
“Let’s hope so.”
I make my voice as dark as possible. I make it so gloomy I sound like Bobby. I might as well go ahead and tell Lovie that Santa is in danger from a dark-eyed stranger, Bobby’s favorite prediction.
Which has come true more times than I care to think about.
Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Wish Lists, Wayne’s Act, and Christmas Cookies
Listen, if you think I spent the evening playing with the silly stray cats Callie rescued and calls the Seven Dwarfs, you’ve put too much whiskey in your eggnog. The only one I can halfway stand is Happy, and that’s because she has sense enough to let a basset hound snooze in the sun in peace. The rest of the stupid cats think bouncing on the basset is a game. Let me tell you, I know how to send them running. And I’m not talking about a polite warning growl. I’m talking big bad dog here. Snarls and an impressive show of teeth followed by a howling rendition that tells cats “There’s No Tomorrow.”
But only when Callie and Jack are not looking. Though he tries to hide it, he’s as tenderhearted as she is. I don’t want my human parents to think their favorite dog has a dark side.
Anyhow, I managed to get by with a show of temper without getting busted, and by the time Callie returned from her so-called date, I had my belly full of dog chow, plus a side helping of scraps from Jack’s hamburger, and was snoozing innocently on my guitar-shaped silk pillow.
Before you get to thinking the dog’s life is cushy, just remember that I once played a gold-plated piano (a gift from Priscilla), could buy all the steak I wanted, and had the world at my feet. Now I’m lucky if I can get the Valentines to fetch and carry for me. Still, “Que Sera Sera.” I could have come back as a potbellied pig.
The next morning I wake up to the smells of coffee and bacon and eggs, plus buttermilk biscuits. Today is going to be a good day.
But what’s this I hear? Jack and Callie arguing in the kitchen.
“I’d rather leave Elvis here, Jack. Why don’t you want to keep him?”
“You’re twisting my words, Cal. I love Elvis.”
“Then let him stay home today.”
“Since you insist on going to mall and I can’t be there to protect you, Elvis is going with you.”
“For your information, I don’t need protecting.”
She does, though, and today that’s up to me. Lovie left early so she could go to the hospital to see Charlie, then hurry to the mall and give her fiancé last-minute instructions on being Santa Claus. Fiancé, my left hind paw. Lovie will no more marry her latest hot fling than I would walk “Five Hundred Miles” to hear some of these upstarts who call themselves entertainers. With their grungy hair and torn blue jeans, they look like railroad tramps. Listen, I could tell them a thing or two about the importance of sequined jumpsuits with capes that make you look like Captain Marvel come to save your soul. Image. That’s the thing. Of course, you have to have the pipes, and I’m glad to report I still do.
“Maybe you can handle everything,” Jack says. “But you’re not going to win this argument. You’re taking Elvis.”
A little intervention is in order here. Grabbing my four-legged Santa suit in my mouth, I hustle down the stairs, then sashay my ample butt into the kitchen, looking cute. If I didn’t have a mouthful of red cloth, I’d treat my human parents to a snazzy rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
At the sight of me, my human mom melts, and before you can say “Pass the buttered biscuits,” I’m on the way to the mall as Santa Paws.
Though I’d love to give the kids a thrill with another Christmas concert, today my job is bodyguard. Starting with Lovie’s so-called fiancé.
This Wayne character has more charisma than I’d counted on. He calls my human mom “Miss Callie,” which fluffs up her feathers and improves her opinion of him. “Don’t Ask Me Why.” He’s already in his Santa suit when we get to the dressing room, and believe me, I priss my scintillating self in there with my human mom. I don’t care if Lovie’s current Mr. Wonderful did say he’d wait for Callie outside the door.
While Callie’s getting into her elf costume, I put my famous nose to the ground. There are more fresh scents in here than those of Charlie, Callie, and Wayne. Trust me. The strange odors I’m picking up are more naughty than nice, and I don’t think those people were in here “For the Good Times.”
I sashay my little Santa self behind the curtain to warn Callie. “I Got a Feelin’ in My Body” that doesn’t have a doggone thing to do with Christmas cheer.
“Not now, boy.” She leans down to scratch behind my ears and adjust my little Santa cap. “We’ll get a treat after the first break.”
Usually my human mom is more in tune with my moods. I chalk it up to stress.
When we exit the dressing room, the mall manager is standing outside with Wayne. He sees my human mom and says, “Don’t worry about a thing. The power to the throne is off. There will be no incidents today.”
I wouldn’t call murder an incident. But let me tell you, it’s not happening on my watch today. I strain as far out as I can get on the leash and run ahead, sniffing for trouble.
Well, bless’a my soul. What’s this I smell? Cookies.
A sweet-looking gray-haired lady is holding a basket full of cookies sprinkled with colored sugar and shaped to look like Santa, Frosty the Snowman, and Ruldoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She bends over and says, “My, my. Aren’t you the cutest thing!”
I lick her legs. If I had one my famous silk scarves, I’d drape it around her wrinkled little neck. She smells like baby powder and old age. A comforting combination.
“This is Elvis.” I hear pride when Callie introduces me. Always a
good sign.
“Well, I’m Opal Stokes. Can I give this cutie pie a cookie?”
My human mom is quick to say yes. Thank goodness, Christmas cheer rules the day.
Miss Opal passes out cookies to the children while Wayne does his act as Santa. And a fine act it is. Take it from one who knows. Like Charlie, you can’t tell this man from the real North Pole version. Maybe I’ll have to rethink my opinion about his future as part of the Valentine family.
Suddenly I feel the call of nature. Doing my little whirling dervish dance that tells Callie “Take me outside now,” I get her attention. As we race toward the exit, I see at least fifteen mothers racing toward the toilets with little kids in tow. Looks like their urgency for the bathroom has suddenly become bigger than their urgency to tell Santa their wish list. Their squinched-up faces tell me they’re in the same situation I am. Emergency.
But as Charlie, who is fond of quoting Shakespeare, would say, “All’s well that ends well.”
Lovie’s booth is packed all day, Darlene has painted more jingle bell nail art than my friend Trey (Jarvetis’ best redbone hound dog) has fleas, Bobby finally has two people show up to talk about the free jazz funeral, and nobody in Santa’s Court gets shot at, knifed, or fried on Santa’s throne.
After we leave the mall, we head to the hospital to see Charlie, where I have to cool my paws in the truck again. It’s worth the disgrace of being treated like an ordinary dog to see Callie’s smile when she gets back in the truck. Ruby Nell is with her.
It turns out Charlie is feeling much better. We take Ruby Nell back to the farm, a beautiful spread south of Mooreville where I love to chase rabbits while my ears blow in the wind.
“Mama, you should stay home and rest tonight.”
“All I need is a change of clothes and my car. I’m not fixing to loll around on my royal you know what and leave Charlie in the hands of Nurse Ratched.”
“But Uncle Charlie said for you to stay on the farm.”
Callie might as well save her breath. Ruby Nell will never “Surrender.” In fact, she says, “Flitter,” and that’s her last word on the subject.
