The Great Christmas Bowl

by Susan May Warren

  I hung Neil’s ornaments, poured myself another cup of cocoa, and opened Brett’s box. I laughed aloud at the one of Santa on his sled, the little runners of the ornament long broken off. How many times had I found Brett with his ornaments off the tree, arranged on the sofa, coming to life under the magic of his imagination? Almost every one of his ornaments—the beaver with the fishing rod, the marshmallow men with the roasting sticks, the marching nutcracker soldier (for the year we saw The Nutcracker in Minneapolis)—had pieces broken off. They took their place on the tree, worn but loved.

  Then, of course, Brianna’s horse collection. Year after year she begged us for a pony—even drew a map for Santa one year, detailing our house and yard with her suggestions of where the pony could live (conveniently next to my garden). With some melancholy I gave her a different horse ornament every year, wishing it could be a live animal. (Never, declared Mike, who’d grown up on a farm.) The Appaloosa, the Arabian, the Clydesdale—the entire corral went on the tree.

  Amy’s box held ornaments I’d picked up at craft sales—many of them from exotic places around the world brought back by missionaries passing through. The little Thai girl and the Mexican boy. The Russian matryoshka and the Danish clogs. Amy’s heart had been born across the ocean, it seemed, and she’d spent her life longing to travel.

  I opened Kevin’s box last. He’d been the hardest to buy for, the hardest to understand. The youngest has a way of adopting the traits of those who went before, the hardest time finding his own groove. Inside, the box evidenced his eclectic mix of passions—a miniature figurine of a firefighter the year he had visited the fire station on a school field trip, a dogsled for the years he wore out our Balto tape. A soccer ball, for his victory years as a footballer. A miniature Swiss Army knife for the first canoe trip he took with Mike and the boys.

  I had purchased a football player for this year—a little snowman with a helmet, pads, and a ball under his arm. I would wait and give it to him to add to the tree.

  I finished decorating the tree with my few ornaments and the ones Mike brought into our marriage. I knew I’d hand the kids’ personal collections off to them one day, but until they had families of their own, I fully intended to hold these ornaments hostage.

  Probably I should have given Neil his . . . and I would—when he came home for Christmas. Maybe I should remind him of that. Or perhaps simply box them up after this season and send them down to Chicago.

  Packing up the boxes, I returned the mess downstairs, then sat next to the tree. It had long ago turned dark outside, and the colorful lights glinted off the windows, adding glamour to the room.

  I pulled up a blanket, giving the tree a good scrutiny for clumped ornamental groupings. How many years had I rearranged the trees after the children’s wild decorating? Now I wished for one of the branches to be dangling low with added weight or one ornament to be hung on another.

  In a way, the tree was too beautiful, too perfect.

  Lights panned across the windowpane, and relief washed through me as Kevin pulled up. I heard him stomp into the house, pounding his feet on the mat to loosen snow. A few minutes later, he stood at the entry to the living room.

  As he was silhouetted in the light from the tree, I couldn’t help but notice how he’d filled out, how much he resembled Mike. His broad shoulders had defined with his football workouts, and he no longer carried himself like a child.

  Silly, tired tears whisked my eyes. I smiled through them. “How’s the team?”

  He said nothing for a moment. “The tree is really nice, Mom.” He stepped closer, inspecting the ornaments, smiling as some of them helped him capture a memory. He pulled a dolphin off one of the branches, took it in his large hands. “I remember when I got this. It was that year we went to Cancún for Christmas.”

  Oh yeah, the year Christmas nearly passed us by. Mike, who had to leave the country to get a day off, had concocted a brilliant vacation idea—head to Mexico, where there wouldn’t be any icy roads or snow-entombed vehicles, where we could get a tan while the rest of our Minnesota pals waxed pale in the waning sunlight. I’m not sure how he got me to agree, but we spent the holidays in a condo overlooking the surf. Desperate for a tree, I found a palm leaf and set it up on the coffee table. Then, after scouring the shops, I purchased four aquatic creatures fashioned for tourists as ornaments.

  Kevin sat down, examining the dolphin, a strange smile on his face. “I think that was my favorite Christmas.”

  I stared at him, not sure exactly how to take that.

  “Remember how we ate mangoes for breakfast that morning? You’d brought along our stockings, and they were filled with swim goggles and suntan lotion. I remember wondering how Santa would find us all the way in Mexico. After that, I never doubted again.”

  “Yeah, well, that Santa, he’s pretty sharp.”

  Kevin looked at me, warmth in his eyes. “Yes, he is.” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the dolphin. “Isn’t that where you got the clam chowder recipe you serve every year?”

  “I got it from the cook at the resort where we stayed. I remember thinking how weird to find a New England soup in Mexico, but you all loved it so much, I decided to bring back our memories and make it the next year for Christmas Eve. Sometimes you just gotta try something new and see if it takes.”

  Kevin considered me a long moment. “I guess it took. It’s my favorite part about Christmas Eve.”

  The soup was his favorite part? I suppose . . . after all, he’s a boy.

  “I think because it was something different, but also, it was something that made me realize that Christmas isn’t just one place and one way, that it could follow us to Mexico or wherever we went.” He got up, putting his ornament back on the tree, and stood for a moment with his back to me. “I wasn’t at the hospital. I went to Bud’s. He needed some wood chopped.”

  My last conversation with Marge drifted back to me. “You Wallaces have some sort of a guilt complex?”

  “Were you at the Finlaysens’ on Thanksgiving?”

  He turned, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I was worried they’d be snowed in and he’d have another heart attack and not be able to get help in time, so I shoveled their walk.” His face turned dark. “Bud has to have a new heart.”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  Kevin blew out a breath. “And we don’t have a kicker.”

  “I’m sorry, Kev.”

  He gave me a small smile. “It’ll all work out though, right?”

  I pulled the blanket to my chin, stared at the sparkle of lights reflecting against the windows. “Yes, Kevin. I believe it will.”

  Chapter 9

  “We’re having soup?”

  The way Gretchen said it, it sounded like I’d suggested having kitten à la king. She looked positively ill, and Muriel matched her expression with a dash of horror thrown in.

  “Soup?” Gretchen repeated, for extra whammy.

  We sat in the church basement, another hastily called hospitality meeting in progress.

  “It’s a Wallace family favorite. I promise, it’ll be delicious. I found the recipe when our family vacationed in Cancún. It’s got potatoes and bacon and clams—”

  “Seafood?” This from Jenni, who was rocking her baby with one foot on the car seat. “I hate seafood, and so do a lot of other people.”

  “We can make two pots, maybe one can just be potato soup, but I promise, you won’t even notice the clams—it’s delicious.”

  The dubious looks from my committee told me I hadn’t yet sold them.

  “C’mon, you’ve all had clam chowder before, right?”

  “I just keep thinking of the cost.” Gretchen leaned back, folding her arms over her Christmas patterned vest.

  Around us, her beautiful china stacked beautifully in piles told me that she and perhaps Muriel had arrived early to unpack. Admittedly, the ivory china gave a festive aura to our dismal church basement. Festooned with Christmas garland, perhaps a small t
ree, and Christmas music, the basement could host a simple yet elegant sit-down tea.

  Besides, at least I knew how to make the soup, which, after a little sleuthing, I realized was the main job of the hospitality chairperson. After my conversation with Kevin, I couldn’t dislodge the idea of serving my tried-and-true recipe to our congregation. Maybe it would be exotic enough to entice others to check it out. Wasn’t that the key ingredient of an outreach event?

  “It’ll be cheaper than Swedish meatballs,” I offered. “Which means we can make more, maybe invite more people.”

  “Which means more babysitters.” Jenni pulled out her BlackBerry and scrolled down a list. “I’m running out of people to call.”

  “The church can only hold a hundred,” Muriel offered.

  I’d done some research. “We had twenty-three last year. I think we’re safe.”

  Gretchen gave me a look that might have withered a woman who hadn’t been a Trout for the past three-plus weeks.

  “Do these dishes look like they should have soup served in them?” Gretchen stood and picked up a bowl. The design of holly and wreath, entwined in gold ribbon, ran around the fluted rim.

  I kept my voice soft and even. “I wasn’t aware that the bowl got to decide what it is used for.”

  Gretchen opened her mouth slightly. She quickly regrouped. “Have the invitations even gone out yet? or the newspaper been called? It’s only two weeks away!” She shook her head. “What have you been doing, Marianne?”

  A retort scraped the back of my teeth as I closed my mouth. I glanced at Rachel, who openly displayed fear, and found a smile. “I’m the chairperson, and I think soup is a great idea. I would really appreciate your support and help in this.”

  Rachel gave a tentative smile.

  Gretchen sat down, holding her china bowl. She ran her finger along the edge, slowly. I think I heard a shuddering sigh.

  Muriel put her hand on Gretchen’s arm.

  I felt like I’d called off Christmas. Glancing at Jenni, I saw that she had picked up her baby, rocking her, patting her back. She didn’t look at me.

  “Please?” I added.

  Gretchen put the bowl on the table. “I guess I should start washing.”

  Muriel got up, and they carried a stack to the kitchen.

  I stayed for one stack, but they so neatly ignored me that I decided perhaps they needed a chance to talk behind my back.

  Besides, I had some shopping to do.

  I stopped by the grocery store, first doing a quick reconnaissance to make sure Jenni hadn’t pulled up also (in which case I would have had urgent business at, say, the post office or pharmacy) and priced out the cost of enough potatoes, bacon, onions, celery, and canned clams to feed fifty (why not shoot high?). Then I stopped by the newspaper office to talk to Robyn, who would place our ad.

  “Do you want to mention the menu?” she asked as she took down the details.

  I debated for a moment. “Maybe just say casual theme and a Wallace family favorite.” I smiled conspiratorially. “We’re having soup.”

  Robyn raised an eyebrow as I left. I had a feeling that by the end of the day most of the town would know that Marianne Wallace had fully lost her mind.

  Why stop at being a Trout? Let’s upset a century of tradition.

  I wrapped my scarf around my mouth and bent against the wind as I hustled back out to my SUV. The lake had frozen over, the harbor one smooth ice-skating rink. In the park, moose-shaped lights fed on snow-covered cedar bushes. Red ribbons curled up our old-fashioned streetlights, and a giant wreath hung on the Welcome to Big Lake sign. Town spirit for the Trouts mingled with the Merry Christmas greetings now appearing on the windows.

  “To the dome!” a voice shouted from across the street. Gil Anderson hung out of his truck window, pumping his fist. I raised my hand in greeting.

  To the dome! I’d let all the Christmas preparations and the Christmas Tea battle overshadow the fact that in three short days we’d be playing for the state championship.

  I needed to snap out of my gloom and get my priorities straight. Make sure the Trout was in good working condition.

  When I arrived home, I pulled out my recipe book for the clam chowder. I had a general idea of the ingredients, but I needed to make sure I’d remember everything. I’d forgotten half-and-half.

  I was searching the pantry for nutmeg when the phone rang. I scooped it up and set it against my ear. “Hello?”

  “Mom—I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “Neil! How are you?”

  “Great. . . . Listen, Mom, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, especially so close to Christmas, but Anya and I aren’t going to be able to make it. She wants to go home for the holidays, and since we spent last Christmas with you and Dad, I guess it’s her turn.”

  I closed my mouth, fearing what it might say. Not return home for Christmas? But they hadn’t been here for Thanksgiving either. I had half a mind to remind him of the hostage ornaments. Thankfully, my parenting and public relations instincts instinctively took over. “Oh,” I said. “Okay. I guess I can understand that.”

  But I couldn’t. Her family didn’t even have traditions—I knew, because last year she’d oohed and aahed over our tree, our soup, our Christmas Eve readings. Her family threw frozen pizzas on the table for Christmas Eve, had ham sandwiches for Christmas Day dinner. They didn’t even hang stockings!

  “We’ll miss you,” I managed, hating how my voice broke, just a little. “I gotta run—”

  “Mom—”

  “Really, Neil, that’s fine. Have a wonderful holiday. We’ll call on Christmas Day.”

  I hung up fast, fearing he was onto me. I never wanted to be the kind of mother whose children had to cater to her.

  Much.

  I found the nutmeg, shook it, and decided to add it to my list of ammunition to destroy the Christmas Tea. Then I went down to the laundry room to take out the fresh batch of linens I’d washed.

  On the way, I yanked out the Christmas tree lights from the socket. No use wasting electricity on just me.

  Championship game day arrived partly cloudy, with the sun jockeying for real estate between the clouds. I commiserated, freshly acquainted with how it might feel to be edged out, as I loaded the Trout and my cheering paraphernalia into the SUV in the wee hours of the morning. Kevin and his team had headed down to Minneapolis the night before, staying overnight in a hotel.

  “All set?” Mike asked, as he came out of the house. He’d squeezed himself into his letter jacket and wore a Big Lake Trout cap.

  I smiled.

  He handed me a thermos of coffee. “I’ll drive.”

  The last time I’d been to the dome was the year the Minnesota Twins had grabbed their last World Series title. Mike had scored us a couple tickets for game six. I remembered the immensity of the arena, how small I felt, so insignificant, how the field looked a thousand miles away. Yet the excitement in the stands soon energized me, and I experienced the exhilaration of being a part of something larger than myself, especially in victory.

  Similar to how I felt on a Sunday morning when worship was overwhelming or the revelation of God’s goodness in my life found my heart anew.

  Perhaps that was what celebrating Christmas was supposed to feel like too.

  We landed a parking space across from the dome, and I used the passes Coach Grant had given me to walk through the tunnels and onto the field.

  The trapped air of the stadium lent an unfamiliar reverence to the game before us. It seemed our entire town had made the trek south, yet our population took up only one small section on the fifty-yard line. I dropped my gear and my costume—I would suit up in the hallway—and scanned the opposite side of the field, easily a couple miles away. I spotted the Forest City Falcons fans dressed in black and red, clustered in their group, nearly the same pitiful size as ours.

  But hey, we were playing in the dome. I could be standing right where such greats as Fran Tarkenton, Carl Eller, and Chuc
k Foreman once stood.

  Except, probably not, since the dome had been built after the reign of the Purple People Eaters.

  I jumped up and down on the spongy turf.

  “What are you doing?” Mike asked.

  “I’ll bet you wish they had the dome when you played state.”

  He gave me a “did you have to?” look. His state championship game had been played at Met Stadium, in a blizzard and freezing drizzle.

  “Hey,” I said, punching him on the arm, “they made football players tough in those days.”

  “Please don’t.” But I saw the smile as he turned away.

  “I’d better get dressed.”

  Because we were indoors, I wore only a thin pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt, thus slipping into the costume easily. I donned my baseball cap and Mike adjusted the head. “I can’t believe you get to be the team mascot in the big dome game.”

  “I know,” I said, pulling my fins onto my hands. “It should be Bud in this costume.”

  Mike gave me a funny look. “I sorta wish it were me.”

  I gaped at him, unable to speak.

  He shrugged. “You always step in and help, and frankly, I should have lowered my pride to be the Trout. And now you get all the fun.”

  Fun? But I had to admit, despite the humiliation, being the Trout had made me see myself in a new, um, skin. And allowed me to be a part of Kevin’s victory too. I guess I could understand Mike’s melancholy. “Well, you can be the Trout’s favorite fan.”

  Mike smiled. “That I am.” He held on to the sides of the head, reached in, and gave me a kiss.

  We headed out to the field. The Big Lake High band had begun playing our fight song. As Mike climbed into the bleachers, I led them in a wild Trout dance.

  Then I jogged to the entrance and stood proudly as our team was announced. They ran through, in clean uniforms, their eyes wide as they finned me for luck.

  “Go, Kev!” I said as he ran by me. He flashed me a smile.

  While the Falcons poured out next, I ran back to the stands, picked up my cymbals, and roused our fans to a pregame thunder.