by Dyan Sheldon
Georgiana sits back, listening and thinking. She’s learning a lot about Mrs Kilgour, but none of it, of course, is what she expected to find out. Not even close.
Unless universal peace were declared or Santa himself made an unexpected appearance, the day couldn’t go better. There are no awkward moments, no embarrassing scenes, no tempers snapping like turtles. No one dozes off over her roast beef. By the time dinner is done Georgiana’s pigeons of misgiving are all sound asleep. Georgiana, however, is wide awake, mesmerized by this new Mrs Kilgour. Who is easily the star of the day. Where hasn’t she been? She’s crossed the Himalayas, driven across Europe, sailed the Java Sea. Whom hasn’t she met? Presidents and peasants, celebrities and criminals, generals and gangsters. Her stories are more interesting than most Hollywood movies, and more entertaining. Georgiana’s only disappointment is that she never mentions Anderson. She never says, “When I was in Vietnam” or “When I was with Anderson”. Never suggests that anyone ever died in her arms. The pain must still be too great.
After dinner the men take Hank for a walk. Moving into the living room with coffee and cookies, the women start chatting about Christmases past. Favourite relatives. Funniest stories. Best memories. It’s that kind of holiday, of course. Georgiana can see that she’s not going to hear anything about Mrs Kilgour’s lost love now, and excuses herself to take a call from Claudelia. Because it includes a list of what presents they got, it’s a long conversation. When she returns, Adele Shiller is talking about Georgiana’s grandmother. There’s something in the tone of her mother’s voice that makes Georgiana stop rather than stride into the room. Not eavesdropping, but definitely paying attention. No one seems to notice that she’s there.
“It was just terrible,” her mother is saying. “It was a Saturday morning. We’d only gone into town to do some shopping. When we got back, my mother-in-law was at the foot of the stairs, dead, and Georgiana was beside her, holding her hand and crying. Poor Georgiana. She was only four.”
Apparently someone did know she was there. Mrs Kilgour looks over at Georgiana, rooted to a spot just outside the door. “What a terrible thing for you,” she says.
From somewhere very far away, Georgiana mumbles, “Yeah.”
But she has no memory of that morning at all.
Until this moment – her mother, aunt and Mrs Kilgour now all looking at her, the tree lights blinking, the sunlight leaning against the living-room window – Georgiana had always thought her grandmother died when she was a baby. Hundreds of miles away.
So now she not only knows why Mrs Kilgour was in Vietnam, she also knows why she’s always been so afraid of old people falling down and dying – so afraid of death.
Chapter Twenty-three
Another Christmas Not a Million Miles Away
It’s Christmas morning. All over the country children are shrieking, lights are shining and presents are being unwrapped. Though not in the Grossmans’ house. The only sign of this joyous season are the cards Mrs Swedger has put on display in the living room on silver ribbon. Most of them are from companies and corporations. There’s no tree, no lights, no Yule log in the window and no wreath on the door. Why bother? When Asher was little they always had a six-foot tree and blue lights strung along the edge of the roof. More recently, however, Asher and his father usually stay in New York over the holidays because Albert has so many social engagements to attend, and that tradition has been abandoned.
But this year they aren’t staying in the city, either.
Asher, still in his pyjamas, pads into the kitchen in his bare feet. He makes himself a cappuccino and puts on the radio. Bing Crosby starts singing about a white Christmas.
There are seven large and very expensive hampers lined up on the kitchen table. They contain smoked hams and sausages; exotic cheeses, fruits, chutneys and jams; tins of crackers and cookies and chocolates; jars of nuts, pickled fish and unexpired caviar. The hampers are presents from some of Albert Grossman’s satisfied clients. They come every year, as much a part of the Christmas ritual as the tree at Rockefeller Center. If Albert Grossman were here, he’d take out what he wanted and regift the rest, but Albert Grossman isn’t here. This year Albert’s in Dubai and can’t get home.
“You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you,” he said to Asher after he broke the news. It wasn’t a question. “You can go to friends.”
“Sure, of course I’ll be OK,” Asher assured him. “There are a couple of parties happening. Claudelia’ll be at her grandmother’s in Massachusetts, but I can go to Will’s on Christmas Day.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Albert promised. “Soon as this business is settled.”
“That’d be great, Dad.” But the thought that skulked into Asher’s head like an uninvited guest was: When?
Asher has been ignoring the hampers for several days, but now he stands, cup in hand, gazing at them as if they’re a flock of birds trapped in an oil spill and wondering what to do about them. He’s already given one to Mrs Swedger to take to her family, and he can bring one to the Lundquists’, but what about the other six?
And then he has the very vivid image of Mrs Dunbar, running around the centre in a Santa hat, handing out the oranges and miniature candy bars she managed to talk one of the big supermarkets into donating to the under-fives. It’s a no-brainer! Why didn’t he think of her before? The centre is closed today, of course, but every year the Reverend Dunbar’s church makes a Christmas dinner for people who claim to have nowhere else to go. Mrs Dunbar will be able to use the hampers. He picks up his phone from the counter, not so much as glancing at the time. He’s pretty sure that Mrs Dunbar never sleeps.
This is how Asher had planned to spend the day. He would mooch around the house in his pyjamas all morning – maybe watch a movie or catch up on the news, check his emails, call his aunt in Toronto. At around one he’d get dressed (black suit, red shirt, green tie, suspenders decorated with reindeer and elves) and drive over to Will’s for dinner at three. He’d spend the afternoon and some of the evening there, and then he’d come home and call Claudelia at her grandmother’s. A perfect day. Peaceful. Calm. Festive but measured.
If he’d had more foresight and included giving the hampers to Mrs Dunbar in these plans he would have arranged to drop them off on his way to the Lundquists’. When he was on a tight schedule.
“I’m at the church,” says Mrs Dunbar, after she stops thanking him. “You better bring them right over so I can see what we can use today and what can be put aside for something else.”
Asher looks at the coffee machine with longing. He was going to have a second cup. Since it’s Christmas. “Now? But it’s not even nine o’clock.”
“It’s all systems go here,” says Mrs Dunbar. “Our first sitting’s at 1.30 p.m. If you have some hams in those hampers they could really come in handy. Looks like we’re going to have them lining up in the street.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” promises Asher.
Carlin is waiting in the parking lot to help him unload the car. They go down to the basement and into the dining room, where trestle tables have been set up on either side of the room. Paper chains cross the ceiling from all directions, and on every table there is a centrepiece – tiny trees or tiny wreaths – each handmade by the ladies of the church. The paper tablecloths feature poinsettias. There’s a small but real tree in one corner of the room, decorated with paper doves.
In the kitchen several harried-looking women and men peel, chop and stir, moving from stove to counter and counter to stove as if they’re on wheels. They are all wearing either antlers or elf hats. Organ music drifts down to the basement from the church above.
He and Carlin set the hampers down on a table in one corner.
Mrs Dunbar rushes over. She is wearing an apron with a Christmas tree and at least half a pound of flour on it, and a mop cap of the type favoured by Mrs S. Claus and Betsy Ross. She has a dripping spoon in one hand.
“Will you look at all this!
I can hardly believe my eyes! What isn’t in these baskets?” Mrs Dunbar flips open the lids, excited as a little girl opening her Christmas presents. Asher’s not sure if she’s flushed from the heat of the kitchen or from amazement. “It’s incredible. They’re like mini gourmet delis!” She has that God-works-in-mysterious-ways look on her face as she turns to Asher. “How can we thank you? It may not quite be the miracle of the loaves and fishes, but it’s close enough for us. I have to tell you the truth. I was really worried. I’ve been up since four trying to figure out how we’d ever manage to feed everybody.”
“Glad I can help,” Asher mumbles, and automatically starts to back away.
Mrs Dunbar slaps a floury hand down on his shoulder. He should never have worn the suit. “Where are you going?”
Where does she think he’s going? To check the sheep?
“It’s Christmas, Mrs Dunbar.” As if she doesn’t know that. Even Carlin is wearing a festive tie with his usual flannel shirt.
“But surely your family doesn’t eat this early. It’s still morning.”
The suit is supposed to be his insurance policy. That’s why he wore it. So it’s obvious that he’s going somewhere and she doesn’t think of something else for him to do. Only it doesn’t seem to have worked.
“Yeah but—”
“Oh, I know. I know.” She thumps his shoulder again. “It’s Christmas. You have things to do.” She waves the spoon at him and the hampers. “And you’ve already done so much. I was just hoping that maybe you could spare an hour to give Carlin a hand.”
Say no! Asher urges himself. No! I can’t give Carlin a hand. I have to go! For Christ’s sake, it’s Christmas!
“A hand with what?” asks Asher.
Carlin is delivering meals to those who can’t make it to the church. Archie Shiplock was supposed to help him, but Archie’s car won’t start.
“Carlin can do it by himself,” says Mrs Dunbar, “but it’d be so much quicker if the deliveries could be split in half.”
“I don’t know…” Everyone’s looking at him as if he’s trying to steal Christmas from the orphans. Asher Grinch.
“I’ll pay for your gas.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mrs Dunbar. It’s not the gas. It’s just that… How long will it take?”
“Oh, not long!” Mrs Dunbar claps her hands together, whacking him with the spoon. “With two of you doing it? An hour. An hour and a half tops.”
When they get outside, Carlin tells him to go on home. “I’ll handle this, Asher. Mrs Dunbar will never know. Your dad’s waiting for you. You should be with him on Christmas Day, not driving all over Queen’s Park.”
Possibly because they’re standing outside the church, Asher hears himself telling the truth. “Actually, it’s not my dad. He’s … he’s away. You know, for work. I’m having dinner at my friend’s.”
Carlin’s nod is non-committal. “Same difference. Your buddy’s waiting for you.”
“Yeah, but it is still early.” Asher makes a show of checking the time. “I have hours yet. They don’t expect me before two.”
“Well, that would be very copasetic,” says Carlin.
The morning goes quickly. Everybody is so glad to see Asher, you’d think he was a long-lost son or grandson. Grandson mainly. In one case, a great-grandson. Everybody wants to talk. How are the roads? Did he see that special on TV last night? Does he know anything about computers? They offer him cups of tea and coffee, cans of soda. Tell him how the arm was broken and why the daughter or the sister couldn’t come this year. Some of them try to give him a tip.
Nonetheless, by one o’clock he has only one more delivery to make. And for the first time Asher recognizes the name on his list. Shelley Anne Rebough was the last person he saw when Mrs Dunbar roped him into doing the job application advice session. The one with the children, whose husband died and who has never worked outside the home.
Shelley Anne is living in a trailer. A small one.
Shelley Anne recognizes him the second she opens the door. And she, too, is glad to see him.
“Hey, I remember you! Merry Christmas! How’re you doing?”
Asher says he’s doing fine.
Which is more than can be said for Shelley Anne. She hasn’t found a job yet, and they lost their house. “But, really, I can’t complain,” she says. “We’re pretty lucky. At least we have a place to live.” She nods to the box in his hands. “And Christmas dinner.”
Inside, the trailer looks even smaller than it does on the outside. Possibly because there are four people and a dog living in it. There are Christmas lights around the walls of the living area, and the tiniest artificial tree he’s ever seen on the coffee table.
“This is great,” says Shelley Anne as he puts the box down on the counter. “You tell Mrs Dunbar thanks like ten million. I would’ve liked to come to the church for the dinner – it’d be nice for the kids to get out.” She shrugs. “But, you know, it’s a pretty long walk into town and there’s no bus today.”
The other thing they lost was the car.
Asher looks at the kids, sitting on the couch in a row. A few minutes before they were staring at the TV, but now they are staring at him. The dog, sitting on the lap of the smallest Rebough, is also staring at Asher. The whole trailer would fit into the Grossmans’ kitchen (though you’d have to take out the utility island first). And this is the Reboughs being lucky.
“Well, you know,” says Asher, “if you want, I could drive you all to the church for the dinner.”
“Oh no.” Shelley Anne shakes her head. The children all raise theirs. “No, we couldn’t ask you to do that. I’m sure you want to get home to your own dinner.”
“It’s not a problem,” says Asher. “Really. We’re not eating till later.”
“Thanks, but I really couldn’t impose like that.”
The children haven’t moved but it feels as if they’re sitting on the edge of their seats.
“Look.” A new thought has occurred to him. “If you’re worried about getting back, I can bring you guys home. That’s not a problem, either.”
“No, that—”
“I’m telling you the truth, Mrs Rebough. My family’s not having Christmas dinner till way later.”
Depending on when Albert Grossman finally has time, it could be next year.
A chorus of “Please, Mommy, please” erupts from the sofa.
“I don’t know…” If the rope in a game of tug-of-war could make a face it would be the one made by Shelley Anne. “Well, if you’re sure…”
“Sure I’m sure.”
While the Reboughs are getting ready, Asher calls Will to tell him he’s going to miss dinner.
“I’m not even going to ask,” says Will.
Asher doesn’t arrive at the Lundquists’ until long after dessert.
Will answers the door. “Geebus, María and José, dude,” says Will . “What the hell happened to you?”
Asher’s suit is rumpled and decorated with a variety of stains, he’s lost his tie and he’s wearing antlers.
Asher hands him the hamper he’s brought them. “It’s a long story.”
“Asher!” Mrs Lundquist appears in the hall. “You finally made it! Come on in. Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” says Asher, and steps inside.
Chapter Twenty-four
Just When Things Seem to Be Going So Well
Sadie Hawkle is having a brand-new year. She’s reading by herself at home a little each night. She’s been enjoying the mystery she and Marigold read together every week. And, although she can still get that who’s-the-informer look on her face and answer in monosyllables, most of the time she talks to Marigold as if she wants to (not the way she used to, as if someone was holding a gun to her head). She’s full of stories about school. About her teacher and her classmates and her friends. Sometimes her teacher is really unfair and picks on her. Sometimes the boys tease her. She likes a girl named Charlie and one called Lil, bu
t she doesn’t like Kitty Johnston; Kitty Johnston’s really mean and stuck-up.
Sadie also talks a lot about her dad. She had so much to say about her visit to him at Christmas, you’d think she’d been there a month. He thinks it’s great that she’s into detective stories. He called her a “chip off the old block”. “That’s what he said, ‘a chip off the old block’,” Sadie repeated. “Just like him.” He took her to a bookstore and let her choose a book to read when she visits him. His present to her was a bright pink cell phone, and he must be calling her more, because she is full of things he said and did; things the two of them are going to do together. “What I like about him best,” says Sadie, “is that he never yells at me.”
On this afternoon, Marigold closes the book with a happy smile. “Only one more chapter to go, Sadie. That’s a whole novel you’ve done. You’ll have to pick what we read next.”
“I did. The one with the ghost detective. That one looks cool.”
This is another night when Sadie’s mother is late picking her up, so they walk out together to wait in front of the school for her. At least, that’s what Marigold thinks they’re doing.
That’s not what Sadie thinks. As soon as everyone else has gone Sadie says, “It’s OK. You don’t have to wait with me. My mom said I should just go home.”
Marigold looks down at her. “By yourself?”
“Yeah.” Sadie nods. “She lets me. I know the way. It’s not far.”
It isn’t far; a couple of blocks.
“But it’s dark.” Marigold points at the sky as proof. “You can’t walk home in the dark by yourself.”
“Yeah, I can. I know what to do.” She pats her pocket. “That’s why my dad bought me a new phone. For protection.”
What’s she supposed to do? Throw it at the kidnapper?
“I still don’t like the idea of you going home all by yourself,” says Marigold. “Why don’t I just walk with you to your door? Since it’s only a couple of blocks.”
