by Dyan Sheldon
Asher said he was.
But when he pulls up to the garage on Monday afternoon it is Asher who gets out of the car and just stands there for several minutes, staring at his home. He’s been living in a space the size of the downstairs shower room for two days, and suddenly the house he grew up in looks too large. Too large for two people. Even if they had dogs and cats and a talking parrot it would be too large.
That’s when he hears Marigold in his head saying, I guess you’re going to be real glad to get home…
Now he isn’t so sure.
Chapter Twenty-one
Christmas Present, Christmas Past
Jack Frost nips at noses, silver bells ring, and cash registers hum. Lawns and houses blaze with coloured lights; smiling Santas wave from rooftops, wink from windows and peek out of chimneys. There is a manger in front of three of the local churches, a lighted tree on the town green, and Frosty the Snowman and a posse of elves roam through the mall handing out candy canes and coupons. Artificial snow falls outside the entrance of Toys for Tots. It’s Christmas-time in the suburbs.
And nowhere is it more Christmas-time than at 24 Wolff Drive. The dove of peace has been nesting on the Liottas’ roof for the past couple of weeks, cooing and stretching its wings. This visitation, so in keeping with the holiday season, has a lot to do with the fact that Mr Liotta has been away on business since the beginning of December. The Liottas have always gotten along a lot better when they’re not together than when they are. It’s difficult to carry on the hand-to-hand combat of domestic warfare when one of the fighters is in a hotel three thousand miles way. Their nightly phone calls are pleasant and affectionate. Mrs Liotta catches her husband up on what’s happening in Shell Harbour without once raising her voice or bursting into tears. When he’s home, Mr Liotta sometimes complains about his family or things that happen in the house, but when he’s not his complaints are all about other people and the things they’ve done wrong. All of which makes a nice change. When they’ve finished talking, Marigold is called in to say hello and goodnight to her father. He always asks her how school is and what she’s been doing, as if she’s ten. “I’m really looking forward to Christmas,” he says every night. “I miss the two of you so much.” They tell him that they miss him, too. They can’t wait for him to come home.
All of which also makes it easy to forget that he is a man who has been known to punch a hole in a wall, and that she is a woman who has been known to hurl a hot chicken pie across the kitchen at his head (narrowly missing). And Marigold does forget all that.
Because, despite the number of times it has ended in tears (or possibly because of them), Marigold has always loved Christmas. Everything looks so much prettier and brighter. Happier. And people are happier, too. ’Tis the season to be jolly, after all. They smile. They hum along with the radio. They shout out, “Happy Holidays” to everyone they meet. Marigold throws herself into the preparations with enough enthusiasm to sail a sled across the skies. Christmas music plays morning, noon and night. She dashes around the mall with Claudelia and Georgiana, dodging elves and ticking things off a list. She buys enough gift paper to cover the Pentagon. She spends hours deciding what to wear to the holiday parties. She and her mother bake gingerbread cookies and decorate the house inside and out, even going so far as to put lights around the rear window of the car and around the birdhouse on the front lawn. Mrs Liotta signs and addresses dozens of Christmas cards while Marigold, a halo of silver tinsel on her head, decorates the tree and the Crystals sing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town”.
“Even though Rose can’t get home, this is going to be the best Christmas ever,” says Marigold’s mother. “Don’t you think so, honey?”
“You bet,” says Marigold. They will Skype Rose on Christmas Day, waving at each other from the screens of their laptops. “It’s going to be awesome.”
It would have to work pretty hard to be the worst Christmas ever.
But, of course, neither of them mentions that.
On the day Marigold’s father comes home, Marigold stays behind while her mother drives to the airport to pick him up. It will be hours before they return. She makes herself a snack, then goes into the TV room and settles down to watch a movie. The movie she puts on is an old version of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol (old enough that it was originally made in black and white). The story is so familiar that although Marigold has never watched any version from beginning to end she feels as if she has. Which means that she doesn’t have to give the movie her undivided attention. While the ghost of Jacob Marley visits Ebenezer Scrooge, Marigold finishes writing her cards. As the Ghost of Christmas Past arrives, Marigold wraps the last of her gifts. She begins painting her fingernails red and green during the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Present.
It’s right at the end of this ghost’s visit that he pulls back his robes to reveal two emaciated children crouched beneath them.
Marigold looks up, holding the red nail polish brush in mid-air.
There was one other thing that Marigold put completely out of her mind while she was shopping, wrapping and stringing cards across the mantel. And that one other thing is Sadie Hawkle. It is only now, staring at the haggard faces of Ignorance and Want with their wide, dark, deadened eyes, that she remembers her.
That afternoon when she took the books over, it was such an uncomfortable meeting that she couldn’t get away fast enough. And as soon as she was on the sidewalk, she called Claudelia and talked to her all the way home, putting Sadie so far out of her mind that she couldn’t find her way back. Until now. Now, of course, Marigold can’t stop thinking about her. She tries to concentrate on finishing her nails, but she can’t get rid of the sad and sallow face of Sadie Hawkle staring at her like the ghost of some poor Victorian flower girl who froze to death in the snow. Sadie standing beside her mother on the afternoon Marigold went to her house. Silent and still as a corpse.
As that image comes back to her, with it come all the questions Marigold didn’t ask herself at the time. Was Sadie lying when she said her mother was sick the morning that she didn’t go to school? Or was Sadie’s mother lying when she said that Sadie was sick? But why would Mrs Hawkle lie? She certainly didn’t look sick. She looked as if she was going out. But Sadie didn’t look sick, either. She looked as if she’d already been out. And why did Sadie rush to the door when she saw Marigold, then act like she’d been struck dumb? Why was it so hard to get her to take the books?
Almost as if she’s being directed by some external force, Marigold suddenly turns off the television, and goes over to the cabinet where her mother keeps the old photo albums. She goes through half a dozen before she finds the one she’s looking for. The picture taken late in the evening of the Christmas That Almost Never Was. She sits back on the floor with the album on her lap. There they are, she and Rose, sitting side by side in front of the tree, each of them wearing one of their gifts and holding another. She can hear her mother saying, in her chirpy, cheerleader voice, “Come on, girls. Give me a really big smile!” And they do. Both of them are smiling. But only with their mouths. If their expressions were a sound, it would be a cry for help.
Now who does that remind her of?
Chapter Twenty-two
Merry Christmas, Mrs Kilgour
Although she knows her mother can be very persuasive (Adele Shiller can take almost anything back to the store and get a refund, even if whatever it is has been opened and used), Georgiana didn’t really expect Mrs Kilgour to accept the invitation to Christmas dinner. She had no trouble imagining what Mrs Kilgour would have to say about the invitation – or with how much sarcasm and contempt. Why would she want to spend the day with a bunch of strangers? What was she, the last charity case left in town? Had they run out of one-legged dogs and one-eyed cats? Did it make the Shillers feel good to drag some poor old lady into their home and make her eat food she has trouble chewing that’s too rich and not good for her? What were they hoping, that she’d drop dead and they’d
see an angel? Are all the soup kitchens going to be closed for the day so that they can’t go to one of them and bother the homeless?
But what Georgiana overlooked was that Mrs Kilgour isn’t just as stubborn as blood, she also enjoys being difficult. Contrary. Doing exactly what Georgiana doesn’t expect her to do. According to Adele Shiller, when she extended the invitation Mrs Kilgour said none of the things Georgiana imagined. She didn’t even hesitate and ask for time to think it over. She said, “Thank you very much, Mrs Shiller. I’d love to come.”
When her mother reported this conversation, Georgiana stood beside her mother’s workstation for several seconds, watching reindeer dance across the screen and trying to process what she’d just been told, squeezing out a smile the size of the last drop of toothpaste in the tube. “Did you say she accepted? She said yes?”
“Of course she said yes. She was thrilled to be asked. And we had such a nice chat.”
A nice chat? With the woman who makes the Grinch seem jolly? Was that even possible?
Mrs Shiller shook her head, not the first parent to be baffled by the ways of her child. “You never mentioned what an interesting woman she is. How charming.”
“Gee whiz.” Georgiana slapped her forehead. “How could I forget that?”
“Well, I really don’t know.” The maternal head was shaking again. “She’s extremely intelligent and knowledgeable. If I didn’t know her age, I’d’ve thought she was a much younger woman.”
Georgiana laughed. Her mother must have spoken to some other old lady. Whoever was on reception must have put her through to the wrong room.
“Take my advice,” said Adele. “Don’t ever take drugs, Georgie. God only knows what you’d be like if you did.”
On Christmas morning, Georgiana is sent to pick up Mrs Kilgour. Naturally, she hasn’t told her mother how difficult their guest can be. Partly because she doesn’t want to discourage her, and partly because her mother wouldn’t believe her. Especially not after she found Mrs Kilgour so interesting and charming over the phone.
But on the way to St Joan’s misgivings about the day ahead start to settle in Georgiana’s heart like pigeons on a wall. There are a few things about their guest that it might have been useful for Adele Shiller to know. Maybe Georgiana should have told her mother – a woman known for her sophistication and fashion sense – about Mrs Kilgour’s car-crash style of dressing. Maybe she should have mentioned how ungrateful and complaining she is. How she has the personality of a stink bomb. How she thinks Georgiana is shallow as a stream in a drought and has poor-quality air for brains. How she never has a good word to say about anyone. How she falls asleep. The image of Mrs Kilgour, dressed in a mixture of plaids, stripes and floral prints and a baseball cap, sound asleep at the dinner table, her head nodding dangerously towards the roast potatoes, dances in Georgiana’s head all the way to St Joan’s. It is only the thought of finally finding out more about Anderson that stops her from turning the car around and telling her mother the old lady wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come after all.
Mrs Kilgour is sitting on her bed, waiting, wearing a velvet suit that doesn’t clash with her hair, a corsage of tiny bells and balls and plastic holly and a string of pearls. Beside her are her walking stick, a sober grey coat and hat, and a canvas bag.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, heaving herself to her feet. “You look like you were expecting someone else.”
Georgiana isn’t sure that she didn’t get someone else. Mrs Kilgour looks as if she was once First Lady. “Nothing. I’ve just never seen you dressed up. You look nice.”
“Well, how did you think I’d be dressed? It is Christmas, isn’t it? Not Groundhog Day.”
“I guess I figured you’d dress like normal.” And Georgiana is caught so off guard that she says, “I didn’t really think you’d come.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Mrs Kilgour grabs her cane and thumps it on the floor. “It has to be better than staying here eating turkey roll and listening to them all sing ‘Away in the Manger’ off key.”
Georgiana certainly hopes so.
In another surprising move, Mrs Kilgour doesn’t once criticize Georgiana’s driving the way she often criticizes her pushing of the wheelchair. Instead, she chats away happily, pointing out things that weren’t there before – that development, that business park, that shopping centre – and things that have disappeared, mainly trees.
When they reach the Shillers’, she greets Mrs Shiller with a hug. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she says. “I haven’t been in a real home since I moved into St Joan’s. It’s like being in jail, but the food’s slightly better.”
Mrs Shiller says the pleasure is all theirs. She’s really been looking forward to meeting her.
Mrs Kilgour settles onto the sofa, exuding peace and goodwill and complimenting the Shillers on their lovely home. “And you also have a terrific daughter, of course,” says Mrs Kilgour. “She’s a real credit to you.”
Georgiana gawps at her, smiling and holding a glass of sherry. Like the First Lady at a reception for foreign dignitaries. She doesn’t sound as if she’s being sarcastic.
“When you get to my age, people treat you like you’re a very young child or just very stupid. But not Georgiana. She treats me like I’m a real person.”
“You mean because we always argue?” asks Georgiana.
Everybody laughs.
Georgiana’s aunt and uncle arrive with their dog, Hank, two seasonal shopping bags and hugs all around.
Liz and Bruno also find Mrs Kilgour charming and delightful.
“Now it really feels like Christmas,” says Liz, squeezing Mrs Kilgour’s hand.
Bruno, who owns an antique store, is interested in the vintage corsage pinned to her jacket. “I haven’t seen anything like that in years.”
“Has to be at least sixty years old,” says Mrs Kilgour. “I probably bought it in the five and ten.”
Hank sits on Mrs Kilgour’s lap. Apparently she’s always loved Jack Russells. And they her.
Mrs Shiller bought several small gifts for Mrs Kilgour. Georgiana told her not to bother. “She can be kind of fussy,” said Georgiana. Meaning that she wouldn’t like them. “And it’ll be embarrassing that she has no presents for us.”
“It’s more embarrassing for her to sit there like a hostage while everybody else opens theirs,” countered her mother.
But of course Mrs Kilgour, who is determined to disprove everything Georgiana knows about her, loves her gifts.
“How thoughtful,” she coos over the slipper socks. The bolster cushion is just what she needs for reading in bed. And a box of chocolates, what a treat! She hasn’t had Belgian chocolates since her last visit to Brussels. “Which, believe you me, was a very long time ago.”
In the canvas bag are presents for the Shillers.
An antique silver fountain pen for Mr Shiller.
“It’s a beaut,” says Mr Shiller. “It reminds me of one my grandad had.”
“Spanish.” Bruno turns it over in his hand. “Early nineteenth century.”
“It belonged to my husband’s father,” explains Mrs Kilgour. “He never used anything else.”
A pale blue glass vase for Mrs Shiller.
“It’s exquisite.” Mrs Shiller holds it up to the light, the glass so fine it seems spun out of air.
“I picked it up in Venice,” says Mrs Kilgour. “God knows how we got it back here in one piece. But my husband was a genius at packing.”
A hand-embroidered Chinese wedding blouse for Georgiana.
Once again, Georgiana can’t hide her surprise. A wedding blouse! It has to be the blouse Mrs Kilgour would have worn if she’d married Anderson. For once, Georgiana has nothing to say except, “Thank you.”
Even Bruno has never seen anything like the wedding blouse before.
“I was hoping I’d find the right person to pass it on to. I’d hate to think of it just going to the Goodwill. But you should save it for a sp
ecial occasion.”
“You must have done a lot of travelling,” says Mrs Shiller.
“In my day,” says Mrs Kilgour. “Mr Kilgour and I worked as a team for many years. We were always going somewhere.”
All the while the presents were being opened, Liz kept looking at Mrs Kilgour. As if she thought she knew her. Now she says, “Kilgour… Kilgour… You know, that name is so familiar. From when I was a kid, I think.” Liz grew up in the area. “I’m sure my parents knew someone named Kilgour.” She shakes the red bow she’s still holding in her hand. “Their name was Fieldstone. Ring any bells?”
“Richard and Agnes!” says Mrs Kilgour, as if she’d only been waiting to be asked. “Your father had the newspaper store at the junction. My husband was Mordecai. They played poker together.”
“Mordecai!” Liz claps her hands. “That’s it! Mordecai Kilgour. Morty. He did magic tricks. And he ran the Valley Herald.”
“That’s right. We’d been living in New York when we weren’t on assignment, but we came out here and took over the paper when Morty’s father passed.”
“That’s right,” says Liz. “I remember my mom talking about it. You were a reporter before that, weren’t you?”
So at least now Georgiana knows what Mrs Kilgour was doing in Vietnam.
But Mrs Kilgour doesn’t mention Vietnam. She just nods.
“The Valley Herald was a fine paper,” says Bruno. “One of the best small presses in the country. It was still going strong when I moved out here. Didn’t you win a Pulitzer?”
In fact, the Valley Herald won three Pulitzer Prizes when the Kilgours owned it: two for local reporting and one for public service.
“We loved the Herald,” says Mrs Kilgour. “We both did a lot of things we enjoyed or were proud of. But the Herald was the best on both counts.”
