Ta-ta, indeed.
Mike arrived home with flowers. A rare and momentous occasion that only slightly soothed my ragged spirit. I had pieced together a tuna casserole for supper. Kevin, Mike, and I ate it in quiet, me unable to find words for how my life had gone from victory to vanquished in one short day. Mike also stayed silent, afraid of what I might say should he open his big mouth and offer condolences about an event he had gotten me into.
Kevin twirled his fork through the noodles, consumed with some dark thought. “I’m worried about Mr. Finlaysen,” he finally said. “Me and some of the guys went up there after school, and he couldn’t even get out of bed. He looks bad.”
I thought of his bad grammar and then of Marge, alone in her old trailer. I didn’t know what kind of relationship she and Bud had, but no one should lose her husband over the Christmas holidays. I glanced at Mike as he scooped up the paltry tuna casserole I’d made as if it were a steak dinner. He had become so much a part of my life, my thoughts didn’t include one without Mike in it. Long ago I’d dreamed of the day when, with our children out of the house, we’d get to travel or sleep in or just snuggle together on the sofa with full possession of the remote control.
Now it seemed those days were nearly upon us, and the thought of losing him at our prime made the tuna stick in my throat. I gulped it down with some milk.
“Me and some of the guys thought that maybe we’d head up there on Christmas Eve, maybe sing some carols or something.”
“Some of the guys and . . . oh, forget it.” I knew I was deflecting the issue.
“And then Coach Grant invited us over for Christmas dinner. You know, just us seniors for a little postgame celebration.”
I was going to have to kill that man next time I saw him.
I nodded, forcing a smile. “That sounds fun.” I breathed a long breath. “I was thinking that I would just call off the tea—or rather the soup kitchen.”
Mike looked at me, a worried frown on his face.
Kevin seemed bewildered. “Why?”
“Well, Gretchen Gilstrap and the Knitters are furious that we’re going to desecrate their china, and Jenni thinks I’ve sold her and the other young mothers into slavery. Pastor Backlund is worried about a city fine, and Rachel just wants everyone to get along and live happily ever after.” I put down my fork, wiped my mouth. “The thing is, regardless of what we serve, we’re supposed to be doing it with a loving attitude. Do you see love anywhere on that list?”
“Rachel wants you to be happy.”
“Rachel wants us to live in Gumdrop Land. The fact is, sometimes a little suffering is part of love. According to the Bible, love is sacrifice and serving. And the Christmas Tea—” I added finger quotes to my words—“should be, more than any other event, about exactly that.” I tossed my napkin on my plate, then picked it all up to bring to the counter. “I clearly wasn’t the one to do this.” I meant that as a zinger to Mike, but he was dishing himself another scoop of casserole.
Kevin, however, stared at me, a strange look on his face. “You’re going to cancel the Christmas Tea?”
You’d think I’d just suggested selling everything we had to go live in an igloo in Alaska.
“Yes. Life will go on. Did you know that the real meaning of hospitality is ‘giving comfort to strangers’?” I knew my voice had reached a shrill. “It shouldn’t even matter what Gretchen or Jenni wants but what ministers to our community. If we want to have a party for ourselves, then let’s just call it that. Not try to make ourselves feel better by saying it’s outreach.”
Mike had stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth.
Kevin put his down. Took a breath. “It’ll work out, Mom.”
This time, it wasn’t a question.
I stared at my son, who had somehow grown up right under my nose. Then I turned away and ran water to send my dinner down the drain.
By Sunday I knew I was in trouble. The tea was set for the next Wednesday night, four days before Christmas, and as I walked into church, I felt like the Grinch. No “Merry Christmas” greetings for my ears, no warm hugs. Gretchen shook her head in dismay as I passed by her and slouched down in our family pew, staring at the bulletin.
I signaled to Pastor Backlund as he made his preworship service rounds. I could barely speak above my shame. “There’s no tea this year,” I said.
“What?” He looked at me with concern on his face. I realized, after a moment, that it wasn’t a cry of horror, but truly, he couldn’t hear me.
“There’s no Christmas Tea this year,” I said louder.
Of course, that’s when the organist chose to end her prelude, leaving my voice to rise into the silence, resound along the rafters, and settle like an executioner’s verdict among the congregation.
It spread like wildfire. “No Christmas Tea?”
Pastor’s hand landed on my shoulder for a moment and squeezed; then he continued on his way to the pulpit. Mike slipped his arm around my shoulders.
I forced myself to stay in the pew and sing Christmas carols. The moment the sermon ended and the benediction was pronounced, I got up. I nearly knocked the pastor off his gait as I ran out of the sanctuary, grabbed my coat, and hightailed it to the car.
Mike joined me moments later. “I think this is some kind of record.”
“Just drive.”
We were halfway home when Mike leaned over and took my hand. “I feel really awful to have to tell you this, but . . .” He sighed, and something in his tone ESP-ed the message to me.
“Brett’s not coming home for Christmas,” I guessed.
Mike withdrew his hand. “I’m so glad he talked to you. He called me at work yesterday and told me that his car was in the shop, and he didn’t have the money to take a flight and rent a car.”
“I’d go get him. . . .” But as I turned and looked out the window, at the now-glassy lake, the snow-topped trees, I realized that I needed to surrender.
No more perfect Christmases. It was over, the season when my children would join me to chop down our tree, decorate it with oohs and aahs. The precious Christmas Eve dinners by candlelight, when we told each other the gifts we’d give to the Baby Jesus. The magic when they’d arise from their beds, surprise in their eyes as they opened their stockings.
Over. I’d had my mom season.
And now, it was just me and my fake tree and a really big turkey.
Chapter 11
I wasn’t sure what to do with my thirty pounds of potatoes, two pounds of onions, four bags of celery, eight half-gallons of half-and-half, twenty cans of clams, and four pounds of smoked bacon. Budgeting my pennies, I’d decided to order it all from a local restaurant that offered me a deal, right before the championship game. Perfect timing as usual.
I asked Kevin if he knew of any needy families. I still hadn’t gotten reimbursed from the church for the cost, so I figured I’d donate it to charity.
Kevin carted it all away without comment.
I kept the smallest amount for our family . . . well, apparently just for me. Even without my family around to celebrate, I just couldn’t bear the idea of going soupless on Christmas Eve.
I had started to wonder if perhaps my traditions were more for my sake than anyone else’s.
I planned on spending Wednesday—the former day of the Christmas Tea—hiding in my home. Kevin had started Christmas break that day but left early anyway, and Mike received a call on his pager about a snowmobile accident in the woods. The house creaked in the wind, silence filling the rooms with memories as I got up and padded downstairs.
No kids for Christmas. In the three days since Sunday, the truth had sunk into my bones, a dull ache that persisted despite Mike’s hugs and occasional jokes about no wrapping-paper mess or kids clamoring for batteries.
I had adult children. Their gifts didn’t require batteries anymore. (Besides, I had a veritable military stockpile of batteries in the cupboard, just in case.)
The thermometer had begun to
rise over the past two days. Icicles dropped water from my overhanging roof onto the deck, and to my dismay, the snow that dripped from the clouds looked more like rain.
I’m dreaming of a gray, slushy Christmas. . . .
I turned away from the window, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat on the sofa, staring at our Christmas tree. Gracie settled down at my feet, sighing as only dogs can.
I put my coffee on the end table and noticed my Bible sitting there with the stack of other Bibles and reference materials I’d assembled during my hunt for the meaning of hospitality.
With some shame, I realized I hadn’t cracked my Bible open in weeks.
I picked it up and thumbed through the pages until I got to Psalms. My marker ribbon opened to Psalm 81, and as my eye scrolled down the page, it stopped on verse ten: “I am the Lord your God, who brought you up out of Egypt. Open wide your mouth and I will fill it.”
I couldn’t help but think of the Trout. But then I thought of those Israelites and their grumpy obedience. Or often, disobedience. I thought of God’s provision despite their bad attitudes—of manna and then victory over their enemies. I glanced at the verse again, almost hearing God say, “It’ll all work out.”
Sure it would. The words now mocked me as I closed my Bible, set it back on the table. Somehow, despite my good intentions, I’d made a mess of everything.
In trying to please everyone, I’d ministered to no one.
As I stared out the window at the drizzle and cold, it occurred to me that perhaps there was one person—or rather two—to whom I could show real hospitality.
I turned up Christmas music as I looked for my clam chowder recipe. I thought I’d taped it to my Christmas Eve dinner list, but it had vanished. I didn’t need it, of course, but I thought somehow seeing the smudged little card would bring comfort, tell me that despite the defection of my family, I’d still done good.
I cut up and fried the bacon, onions, and celery together, added the potatoes and water, dropped in the chicken bouillon cubes. I brought it to a boil, let it simmer until the potatoes were soft, then added the clams, the half-and-half, and the nutmeg.
Heating it through, I then covered it to stay warm while I showered and dressed. I dug through my garage for a box and packaged the soup up for delivery.
I added a few other things to the box—some fudge I’d decided to whip up and a dozen gingersnaps that I’d baked last week. I also put in a pair of wool socks I was going to use for a stocking stuffer for Anya and Neil’s new scarf. I’d probably overpurchased anyway.
The afternoon sun had sunk into the horizon and bled out through the clouds. I glanced at the clock, wondering how it had gotten so late.
I recalled the directions to the Finlaysens’ easily, driving through the mud and crusty snowdrifts to the back lot of the trailer park. I expected lights to gleam through the dingy windows of their mobile home, but aside from a few haphazardly strung Christmas lights, the place was dark.
I sat there in the car, motor running, fearing the worst. Certainly Mike would have called me if Bud had been rushed to the hospital. I didn’t know whether to leave the soup or not, so I turned around and headed back to town.
Darkness slunk into the early evening and I turned on my lights. Maybe I’d just stop by Mike’s office and see if he knew anything.
The EMS bay was quiet when I pulled up. Odd, since the ambulance stood in the bay, and I knew the ambulance attendants had a five-minute dispatch requirement, which meant they had to be nearby.
I got on the cell phone and called Mike, but it flipped over to voice mail. Kevin’s did the same.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, reluctant to return home with my goodies. Not only was I hungry and my loot in danger of being consumed, but our big, empty house in the woods seemed like a tomb to me, albeit a well-decorated tomb.
I sighed and opted to head for the harbor, where the charm of the city lights against the water might cheer me. I put the car into gear. It wasn’t until I’d turned left onto the back roads that I realized the route would take me by the dark church. The place of all my failures.
Where was my fish head to hide under?
Two blocks from the church, I spotted cars lined up, people exiting their vehicles. Someone must be having a holiday party.
I slowed, curious as to who might have invited the entire town, passing the Jamesions’ house and the Guenthers’, the Thompsons’ and the Haydens’. Their houses, aside from the twinkling lights and a few puffy snowmen, remained dark.
I braked for a family of five crossing the street. They waved to me, but I barely noticed.
My gaze had stopped on the church.
Our well-lit, decorated church—the one with the line of people extending out the door, up the sidewalk, around the side, and into our tiny dirt parking lot. I let my foot off the brake and rolled nearer. A large, white, painted sandwich board stood on the sidewalk, outlined in red and green lights, with a flashlight pointed to the words Soup Kitchen, 6–8 p.m.
What on earth?
I had to drive two blocks and circle around to the alley behind the church to find a parking spot. I left my goodies in the car and got out, glad that I’d at least showered before I left my house because to a one, every person in line greeted me.
“Hey, Mrs. Wallace, what a great idea!”
“Merry Christmas, Marianne!”
“Community Church has the Christmas spirit!”
I pasted on a smile to cover my bewilderment, excused myself through the line at the door, and wedged my way into the kitchen.
Gretchen Gilstrap stood at the counter, dressed in an apron, ladle in hand. When she looked at me, we shared a moment of strained, disbelieving silence. Then she smiled. “Wonderful soup recipe, Marianne.”
What?
Muriel was beside her, with her own ladle. “It’s not fishy at all.”
“Hey, Mom!” Kevin, in a white apron, appeared from behind the serving area, carrying a pot of steaming soup in his kitchen-mitted hands. “Comin’ through, ladies; comin’ through.”
I stood back as he poured soup into the kettles Muriel and Gretchen were serving from. As if they’d worked in a cafeteria all their lives, they poured out ladlefuls into paper bowls and handed them to eager hands.
Beyond them, our tiny church basement had filled to nearly maximum capacity. The latest soup recipients moved out of sight.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“The sanctuary.” Pastor Backlund came through and grabbed one of our large garbage cans. “The pews are fuller than I’ve ever seen on a Sunday.” He grinned, though I wasn’t so sure he should be excited about that.
Then I heard a voice, laughter that I hadn’t heard in months, sweet and teasing. When it ended with “the queen would love it!” I pushed past Gretchen and Muriel and rounded the corner.
There, cutting up celery, was . . . Amy? All the way from London? Dressed in a pink vest and a pair of blue Uggs, as if she had just come in from band practice.
She stopped when she saw me, a smile curling up her face. “Hey, Mom.”
The figure at the sink, elbow deep in suds, also turned. “Hi, Mom.”
Brett? He looked bigger than I remembered when I saw him last summer, his brown hair longer over his eyes.
“Okay, these are the last of the clams.” Brianna came in holding a box. “Howdy, Mom,” she said over her shoulder. She had her hair up and looked collegiate in a maroon University of Minnesota sweatshirt.
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop the tears from filming my eyes. The room turned fuzzy, and I covered my mouth with my gloved hands. I had to be dreaming.
“Hey, Mom. Merry Christmas.” Hands pressed my shoulders. I stared at Neil, who looked at me as if he might be surprised to see my shock. Had my son grown old enough to look normal in a dress shirt, rolled up at the cuffs? “Kevin called, said you needed a little help.” He pulled me into his arms. For a second, I jus
t stood there, smelling the scent of my eldest son, the one who used to climb into my lap day after day begging for a story.
Anya scooted by me and dumped a load of spoons into the sink. “I really need this recipe someday, Mom, if I’m going to carry on the Wallace family traditions.”
I looked at my brood, cooking, cleaning, bringing in supplies, and shook my head. “Kevin called you all?”
“Not only us, but apparently the entire town or at least your hospitality committee.”
“He read us the riot act about hospitality. That it’s supposed to be kindness to strangers.” Rachel came into the kitchen with her coat on. “Do we have more hot cider?”
Kevin did this? My loafing child Kevin, who, three months ago, couldn’t pick up his dirty laundry, couldn’t make his bed?
Then again, maybe a clean room wasn’t the true meaning of growing up either.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Amy said as she stopped cutting, came over, and kissed me on the cheek, holding her gloved hands up. “I’m sorry we didn’t stop home first. Dad left early this morning to get me and Brett from the airport, and we got here just in time to start cooking. Good thing Kevin took your recipe.”
So that’s where it went.
“Where do you want these potatoes, Bri?” Kevin came in again, carrying a bowl of freshly peeled and diced potatoes.
He winked at me. “See, I told you it would work out.”
I met his eyes. For a moment, we shared a truth that only Kevin and I could understand.
“Open wide your mouth and I will fill it.”
With state championships. And clam chowder. And kids who grow up even as you blink.
“Where do you want me?” I said to Brianna.
“I could use some more of those onions cut up, and we need a table cleared out there.”
“I’m on it,” a voice said, and I saw Jenni, her baby in a front pack, sweep through the kitchen with a tray. She looked at me as she passed. “Someday I need to know all your secrets.”
Me too. I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed a couple of cellophane gloves and a knife. “Move over, Amy,” I said. “Mom’s in the kitchen now.”
The Great Christmas Bowl Page 10
