by Leslie Meier
“I just don’t get it,” complained Bill. “When I went to college it was fifteen hundred a year, and that was everything. Tuition, room and board, the whole shebang. I had a five-hundred-dollar scholarship, and Mom got a part-time job to pay the rest.”
“Well, I’ve got a part-time job,” said Lucy. “But I sure don’t make thirty thousand dollars. Most people around here don’t even make that with a full-time job.”
“What’s the matter with the state college? That’s what I want to know,” demanded Bill, turning toward Toby.
“I’m applying there, too,” said Toby, shoveling a big forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “But my guidance counselor says I should try some of these other schools, too.”
“I think we’ll qualify for financial aid,” said Lucy, hoping to ease the tension that was building up between father and son.
“Well, frankly, before I break my butt trying to pay for a fancy education for the young prince here, I’d like to see a little more initiative, if you know what I mean.” Bill gestured angrily with his fork. “His room’s a mess, if you let him he’ll sleep until two or three in the afternoon, and when he borrows my truck he always brings it back with an empty gas tank.”
Toby didn’t respond, but kept his head down, steadily scooping up his spaghetti.
“You know what I did today?” said Lucy brightly, changing the subject. “I interviewed Santa Claus!”
“The real Santa Claus?” Zoe was skeptical.
“I think so. It was the Santa at the Ropewalk. It didn’t seem polite to ask for his credentials.”
“I don’t suppose you need a driver’s license for a sleigh and reindeer, anyway,” observed Elizabeth, who was the proud possessor of a learner’s permit.
“What did he say?” asked Zoe.
“Well, he said it’s very warm here, compared with the North Pole.”
Bill chuckled. “The North Pole is probably the only place colder than here.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t want to go to the state college! I want to get out of this freezing cold place where there’s nothing to do,” exploded Toby, who had been on a slow simmer. He threw down his napkin and marched out of the room.
“I wish you wouldn’t be quite so hard on him,” said Lucy.
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t spoil him, now would I?” said Bill.
“So, Sara, how was your day?” asked Lucy, determined to get through the meal with some semblance of civility.
“We had an assembly. A man came who used to be a drug addict. He told us how he ate food from garbage cans and . . . ”
“Drugs are terrible,” said Lucy. “What made him decide to give them up?”
“Well, he had really hit bottom. He was lying with his face in a pool of vomit . . . ”
“Do you mind? We’re having dinner,” complained Elizabeth.
“Well, Mom asked. I’m only telling what he said.”
“I think we get the idea,” said Lucy, glancing at the old Regulator clock that hung on the wall. It was almost six-thirty, she had to get a move on. “You girls can clean up and have some frozen yogurt for dessert. I’ve got to change my clothes.”
Hauling herself up the steep back stairway took every bit of energy that Lucy had. She had to concentrate to lift her feet from one step to the next. It had been a long day, she thought, but she wasn’t usually this tired. No, it wasn’t tiredness, she realized; it was depression.
She pushed open the door to the room she shared with Bill and flicked on a lamp. It was peaceful up here; she could just barely hear the girls’ voices in the kitchen downstairs as they squabbled their way through the dishes.
The dormered room was spacious and uncluttered. The dresser tops were neatly organized, a rocking chair in the corner held only a needlepoint cushion and the wood grain of the blanket chest gleamed in the lamplight. The bed was neatly made, covered with a white woven bedspread.
It looked so inviting, thought Lucy. It wouldn’t hurt to stretch out for a minute or two, just to put her feet up and rest her eyes.
Falling back on the pillows, Lucy stretched her arms and legs and made a conscious effort to relax. She tried to push the dark clouds from her mind and to think of the enjoyable evening ahead. But instead, she kept replaying Bill’s voice. His tone had been so antagonistic, calling Toby “the young prince.” What was that all about?
Sure, Toby was lazy and liked to sleep late on weekends. And he was messy, but no more so than his friends. But, to give him credit, he was a pretty good kid. He got all As and Bs in school, he had been captain of the soccer team this fall and he’d scored an impressive 1450 on his SATs.
With that package and any luck at all, thought Lucy, feeling her spirits brightening a little, he would get into a really good college. Oh, probably not Ivy League like Richie, but he could certainly get into one of the top twenty liberal arts colleges. Which would it be? He had shown interest in Amherst and Williams, and of course there were Bates and Bowdoin and Colby right here in Maine.
Wasn’t it lucky, she thought, that she had a new car. A fire had totaled her old Subaru wagon, and she had a spiffy new model. It would look great with a classy college decal on the back window. Of course, she thought, with a little pang of jealousy, her sticker wouldn’t be quite as prestigious as Rachel’s Harvard sticker. But then, Rachel had to put her sticker on a very elderly, rusty Volvo.
She suddenly felt much better, she realized, hopping off the bed. She’d talk to Bill and find out what was bothering him. But down deep, she knew, he wanted the best for Toby just as much as she did.
Lucy opened a drawer and took out a bright red sweatshirt with a huge Santa printed on the front. Just looking at the ridiculous thing made her smile; it had been a gift ftom Zoe last Christmas. There weren’t too many occasions that it was suitable for, but it would be perfect for the cookie exchange. She took off the plain blue sweater she’d been wearing and pulled on the sweatshirt, added a pair of Christmas ball earrings and gave her hair a quick brush. She was ready.
She bounced down the front stairs, sending up a quick plea to the Spirit of Christmas Present: Please let my cookie exchange be a success.
Chapter Three
Still 16 days ’til Xmas
Of course it would be a success, she thought, smoothing her sweatshirt nervously as she checked the living room and dining room one last time. The holiday decorations were festive, and Bill had even laid a fire for her in the living room fireplace. She took one of the long fireplace matches out of its box and lit it, bending down to set the fire alight. Then she lit the candles on the mantelpiece and on the sideboard, and switched off the brightest lamps. Studying the effect, she nodded in satisfaction. In candlelight, the odd stains and worn spots disappeared, and the rooms looked quite lovely.
She only saw two storm clouds on the horizon: Lee Cummings’s separation and Richie’s acceptance at Harvard. But thanks to Sue, she knew all about Lee’s tendency to monopolize the conversation with her separation. If that happened, resolved Lucy, she would just have to change the subject, firmly. The cookie exchange wasn’t a group-therapy session, no matter what Lee might think. And Sue would help out, too. In fact, she’d promised to come early.
As for the matter of Richie, well, Lucy suspected that his early acceptance at Harvard might have put quite a few maternal noses out of joint. Andrea Rogers was particularly competitive; she had been ever since Toby and Richie and the other boys had all been on the same Little League team. Thank goodness Marge had said she was coming, having completed her first round of chemotherapy. She was so down-to-earth and unpretentious, and could be counted on to express her genuine happiness for Richie’s success to his mother, Rachel. With Marge on hand the natural competitiveness of the group would be kept in check.
Pushing open the kitchen door, Lucy saw that Sara was almost finished wiping the counters.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she said. “You did a really good job.”
“No problem, M
om. Oh, Elizabeth said to tell you that the upstairs toilet is clogged up again.”
“Oh, no. That’s all I need tonight.”
“Want me to tell Dad to fix it?”
“No. Not now.” Lucy knew that Bill’s plumbing projects tended to get very messy indeed. “He’ll have to take it apart, and that means turning off the water. Listen, just do me a favor and ask everybody to use the downstairs toilet, okay?”
“Do we have to? I hate having to be polite and talking to your friends. Mrs. Orenstein always wants to know what books I’ve been reading and Ms. Small pinches my cheeks.”
“Use the back stairs. You won’t have to talk to them then.”
“Okay, Mom.”
The doorbell rang just as Sara disappeared up the stairs and Lucy looked at her watch. Only six-fifty. It was probably Sue, keeping her promise to come early to help out. But when Lucy opened the door she recognized Stephanie Scott, one of the young mothers from the day-care center Sue had suggested inviting.
“Hi, Steffie. You’re the first. Come on in.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I came a little early,” said Steffie, carefully maneuvering her tray of cookies through the door. “Tom—that’s my husband—he asked me to bring some MADD pamphlets. But I wanted to make sure it was OK with you, so I thought I’d better get here before everybody else.”
“Mad pamphlets?” asked a puzzled Lucy, taking the cookies and leading the way to the dining room. She lifted the foil and peeked, nodding with satisfaction at what looked like old-fashioned mincemeat cookies.
“Right,” said Steffie, with a nod that made her perky short blond hair bounce. “Mothers Against Drunk Driving. They have a campaign this time every year to cut down on holiday accidents.”
“These look yummy,” said Lucy, setting the cookies down on the table.
“Just an old family recipe, they’re quick and easy,” said Steffie, slipping out of her coat and handing it to Lucy. She began digging in her enormous leather shoulder bag. “Now, about the pamphlets—I thought we could just put them out next to the cookies.”
Lucy regarded the handful of brochures doubtfully. “I don’t think . . .”
“Oh, but nobody could object, could they?” asked Steffie earnestly. “After all, we’re all mothers, and this is from Mothers Against Drunk Driving. And Tom, that’s my husband, tells me they are doing an absolutely fabulous job. He’s a police lieutenant, and he has the utmost respect for MADD. He says they’re one organization that is really making a difference.”
Steffie’s blue eyes were blazing and she was speaking with all the zeal of a true convert. Lucy felt a little prickle of resentment. This was her party, after all. Steffie had no business promoting her agenda in Lucy’s house.
“It’s certainly a worthy cause . . .” began Lucy, intending to firmly reject Steffie’s offer, but realizing in mid-sentence that there was no way she could decently refuse. She could hardly argue in favor of drunk driving. What was she going to say that wouldn’t sound irresponsible? She realized she was trapped, and began to think she really didn’t like Steffie all that much.
The phone rang just then, and Lucy seized on the opportunity to avoid the issue. “Fine,” she said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, reaching for the receiver.
“Lucy, this is Marge.”
Oh, no, thought Lucy, watching as Steffie began arranging her pamphlets on the table. She can’t come.
“Hi. How are you doing?”
“Not so good—that’s why I’m calling.” Marge spoke slowly, as if even talking on the phone was an effort. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t make it tonight.”
Lucy had known this might happen, but she was still disappointed.
“That’s too bad . . .” she began, passing the coat back to Steffie and pointing her to the coat closet.
“I know. I was really hoping I could come. I got the candy cane cookies all made, and Sue’s going to pick ’em up and bring ’em. But I guess making the cookies used up all my energy. I’m beat now.”
Lucy hoped it was the effects of the chemotherapy that was making Marge feel bad, and not the cancer, but she didn’t know how to ask.
“I heard you’re having a rough time with the chemo.”
“You can say that again. If I can just survive the treatment, I’ll have this thing licked,” she said, with a weak chuckle. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
“You hang in there,” said Lucy. She thought of Marge’s husband, Police Officer Barney Culpepper, and her son, Eddie, who was Toby’s age. “Barney and Eddie need you.”
“I know they do,” replied Marge, with a little catch in her voice. “They’ve been terrific, you know. Hardly let me do a thing in the house. They keep saying I’ve got to save my energy to fight the cancer.”
“They’re right. You concentrate on getting well. I’ll make sure you get your cookies. I’ll bring them over one day this week.”
“That’ll be great. Thanks, Lucy.”
What rotten luck, thought Lucy, slowly replacing the receiver. Marge was barely forty and the rumors around town were that her prognosis wasn’t good, but she was fighting with every ounce of strength she had.
That’s all you can do, thought Lucy, who feared every month when she examined her breasts that she’d find a lump.
“That was Marge Culpepper,” Lucy told Steffie by way of explanation. “Her husband is on the police force, too.”
“I think I’ve heard Tom mention his name.”
“Well, Marge can’t come tonight. She’s been having chemotherapy and doesn’t feel very well.”
“Cancer?”
Lucy nodded. “I have a few things to do in the kitchen, so why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll be right back.”
She hurried into the kitchen, where she set up the coffeepot and filled the kettle with water for tea. Then she filled the sugar bowl and creamer and carried them out to the dining room, setting them on the sideboard along with the cake. Turning toward the living room, where Steffie was perched on the couch and leafing through a coffee-table book, Lucy thought it was about time for Sue to show up. After all, Steffie was her friend.
As if by magic, the doorbell rang just then.
“Come on in,” cried Lucy, welcoming reinforcements in the form of Juanita Orenstein and Rachel Goodman. Juanita’s little girl, Sadie, was Zoe’s best friend.
“Before I forget—congratulations, Rachel. Toby told me all about Richie.”
“Thanks, Lucy,” said Rachel, glowing with maternal pride. “I can still hardly believe it myself, and I was the one who encouraged him to give Harvard a try.”
“You never know unless you try,” added Juanita, sagely.
“What? What’s happened?” asked Steffie, joining the group in the hallway.
“Oh, where are my manners?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “Let me introduce Steffie Scott. This is Rachel Goodman—her son was just accepted at Harvard—and . . .”
“Harvard!” shrieked Steffie, sounding like one of the hysterical winners in a Publishers Clearinghouse commercial. “That’s fantastic!”
Lucy and Juanita’s eyes met. Lucy raised her eyebrows, and Juanita gave a little smirk.
“Actually,” said Rachel, whose glow of pride had been replaced with a blush of embarrassment, “the best part is having the whole application process over with. I’m so glad he decided to try for early decision—now he doesn’t have to worry and can enjoy his senior year.”
“Well, I’ve been reading up on this,” said Steffie. “My son, Will, is only three, but it’s never too early to start planning. And the experts say that early decision definitely increases your chances at the top schools.”
“Does it really? I didn’t know that,” said Rachel. “Actually, Richie’s grandfather went to Harvard, and I think that had more to do with his admission than anything else.”
“Really?” asked Steffie, her eyes round in surprise. “I didn’t know they took Jews way back then.”
For a moment the women stood in shocked silence. Then Rachel spoke. “You’re probably right, though I’m sure it’s nothing they’re proud of today. And anyway, it was my dad who went, and he’s not Jewish. My maiden name is Webster. For the record, Bob’s folks are Jewish, but I have to confess we don’t really practice any religion at all.” She chuckled. “On Sunday mornings we walk the dog and read the paper.”
“I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression,” said Steffie, realizing she’d made a blunder. “It doesn’t matter to me what religion you are. Can I help you with those cookies?”
Hearing a knock, Lucy opened the door. As she suspected, it was Franny, who preferred a quiet rap to the gong of the doorbell.
“It’s just me and Lydia,” she said, with a nod toward her friend, kindergarten teacher Lydia Volpe. “I hope I parked OK. I didn’t want to block anybody in.” She was looking anxiously over her shoulder.
“She’s parked fine,” said Lydia, with a shrug. “I kept telling her.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. Let me take that,” said Lucy, reaching for the cookie tin Franny was clutching to her bosom.
“Just the same old Chinese noodle cookies—I’m not much of a cook and you don’t have to bake them. You just melt the chocolate and add the noodles and peanuts and drop them on waxed paper. I could never make pizzelles like Lydia—I don’t know how she does it. They seem so difficult.”
“Not really,” said Lydia. “Trust me. I’m not really a good cook—not like my mother.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re both delicious. As always. My kids love them. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.”
“You’re sweet to say so, Lucy,” said Franny, idly picking up one of the pamphlets.
“If we brought mudpies, Lucy would find something nice to say,” joked Lydia.
“Don’t the cookies look good this year? Don’t tell me you made this cake, Lucy. It looks delicious,” said Franny.
“Mmm, it does,” agreed Lydia. “Now what can we do to help?”
