A Redbird Christmas

by Fannie Flagg

  “Who?”

  “Oh, Frances, Mildred, and Dottie; probably Betty Kitchen is in on it, too. I can’t prove it but I’ll tell you this: Anytime you see all of them wearing polka dots on the same day, watch out.”

  Just then the door opened and Frances Cleverdon walked in, looking sunny and cheerful. “Well, good morning, Mr. Campbell,” she said with a smile. “How are you getting along?”

  “Oh, fine,” he said.

  “I hope you’re coming to the annual Christmas Eve Dinner at the community hall. Roy’s coming, aren’t you? We’re going to have a lot of good food.”

  Roy said, “I’ll be there. Hey, Frances, have you seen the tree yet?” He winked at Oswald as she turned around and looked across the street.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake!” she said, feigning surprise. “When did that happen?”

  “Last night.”

  Frances turned to Oswald. “Last year the same exact thing happened on the twenty-third. I just wish I knew who was doing it.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Roy. “I was just telling Mr. Campbell, it’s a mystery, all right.”

  Walking back home Frances was so pleased. The Polka Dots had done it again! Frances and Betty Kitchen had started the club twelve years ago and the founding members, after herself and Betty, were Sybil Underwood and, later, Dottie Nivens and Mildred. They had named themselves after a Mardi Gras group over in Mobile because they wanted to have fun as well as do good works. And thanks to Dottie Nivens and her amazing ability to make delicious highballs, which they drank out of polka-dotted martini glasses after every meeting, they did have fun. When their friend Elizabeth Shivers over in Lillian heard about it she started another secret society, the Mystic Order of the Royal Dotted Swiss. They also did a lot of good work, but Frances was convinced that they could never top the Mystery Tree caper.

  The Christmas Dinner

  OSWALD HAD ALWAYS been shy and was no good at social events. Although it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do, it seemed that on Christmas Eve he had no choice but to put on his one blue suit and tie and go with Betty and her mother to the Dinner and Tree Lighting Ceremony at the community hall. It was made clear to him over and over that everyone was expecting him. So at five-thirty he and Betty Kitchen and her mother, Miss Alma, wearing three giant red camellias in her hair, strolled down the street. It was still about 69 degrees outside and hard for Oswald to believe it was really December twenty-fourth. When they arrived, the hall was already packed with people, and the minute they saw Oswald everyone made a point to come up and shake his hand and welcome him to the area. After about thirty minutes of being pulled around the room like a wooden toy, Oswald was thrilled to see Roy Grimmitt come in, looking as uncomfortable in his blue suit and tie as Oswald felt in his. At around six-thirty, after a prayer was said, it was time to eat and someone called out, “Let Mr. Campbell start the line.”

  Oswald was handed a plate and pushed to the long table, full of more food than he had ever seen: fried chicken, ham, turkey, roast beef, pork chops, chicken and dumplings, and every kind of vegetables, pies, and cakes you can imagine. At the end sat two huge round cut-glass punch bowls of thick, delicious-smelling eggnog. One was labeled LEADED, the other bowl said UNLEADED. Oswald hesitated for a moment and seriously thought about it, but at the last second went for the unleaded. He did not want to get drunk and make a fool out of himself and embarrass Frances. After all, everyone knew she was responsible for getting him there. The long tables with the white tablecloths had centerpieces decorated with sprigs of fresh holly and pinecones that had been dipped in either shellac or gold or silver paint and sprinkled with glitter. On the pine walls, huge red paper bells hung from twisted red and green crepe paper that wrapped around the room, interspersed with pictures of the nativity. Oswald sat next to Betty’s mother and Betty sat on the other side and about halfway through dinner the old lady punched him in the ribs and said, “Ask me what time it is.”

  “OK,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “Half past kissing time; time to kiss again!” she said, then screamed with laughter and continued to repeat it over and over until Betty had to get up and take her home. It seems Miss Alma had gotten into the leaded eggnog.

  Oswald had just dropped whipped cream from the sweet potato pie all down the front of his tie when Dottie Nivens, the president of the association, made an announcement. “Before we start the program this evening, we have a first-time visitor with us tonight and I would like for him to stand up and tell us a little bit about himself.” Everyone clapped and they all turned around and smiled at him and sat waiting for him to speak.

  Oswald’s ears turned as red as the bells on the wall. Frances, seeing how uncomfortable he was, quickly stood up and said, “Keep your seat, Mr. Campbell. Mr. Campbell is my guest tonight, and I can tell you he came all the way down here from Chicago to get away from bad old cold weather and to spend the winter with us and maybe longer, if we don’t run him off with all our crazy doings.” They all laughed. “So welcome to the community, Mr. Campbell.” They all clapped again and he made an attempt at a nod.

  The program for the evening was a reading of “ ’Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Dottie Nivens, an unfortunate selection for a woman with a lisp, followed by a solo rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” played on the musical saw, and ending with a visit from Santa Claus, who came in the room with a large sack thrown over his shoulder.

  Santa sat in the front and called out the names of the children in the room, and one by one each went up for their present. Oswald noticed that when they got back to the table and opened their packages, they all seemed to like what they got. After everyone had received gifts, Santa Claus stood up and said, “Well, that’s all, boys and girls.” But then, as he lifted his sack, he pretended to find just one more present. “Oh, wait a minute,” he said. “Here’s another one.” He read the card, looked out, and asked, “Is there a little boy here named Oswald T. Campbell?” Everybody laughed and pointed. “Come on up, Oswald,” said Santa. When he got there Oswald saw it was Claude Underwood under the beard, who asked, “Have you been a good boy?” Oswald laughed and said he had, received his present, and went back to his seat.

  The evening ended with the lighting of the tree. As soon as everyone was outside they all mashed together in a large clump, and Oswald found himself in the middle. He could not help but think about the photo in the old hotel brochure of those thirty people standing under a rosebush. People in Alabama must love to stand around in clumps. Butch Mannich was stationed in the doorway. When the children, standing over to the side mashed together in their own smaller clump, started singing “O Christmas Tree,” he switched on the lights and they all applauded.

  After it was over, Oswald walked home with Frances and Mildred. He told them the most amazing thing about the evening to him, besides all the food, was that all the kids seemed to love their presents. He said he almost never liked what he had gotten for Christmas. They smiled and explained that the reason they were all so pleased was because each year Dottie Nivens, the postmistress, opened the letters they had written to Santa Claus and told their parents exactly what they wanted. As they walked farther up the street, Oswald noticed that one side of the sky seemed to be glowing red off in the distance. Frances told him it was caused by the fires the Creoles lit along the riverbanks every Christmas Eve to light up the night for “Poppa Christmas” and help him find his way to the homes of the Creole children. “We used to go and watch him come up the river, but we don’t go over there anymore,” she said.

  Although it was around ten o’clock, the night was still mild and it was very pleasant with the moonlight shining through the trees, walking past all the houses with their Christmas lights twinkling in the windows. As they strolled along in silence listening to the night birds singing, Oswald suddenly began to experience an unfamiliar feeling he could not quite identify. He was actually glad he had gone to the dinner; it had not been that bad after
all.

  When he got home, Betty, who was downstairs in her nightgown with cold cream on her face, said, “You don’t have to worry about waking Mother up tonight, she’s as drunk as a skunk and out like a light, so maybe I’ll finally get some rest.”

  When he got upstairs to his room, he unwrapped his present and saw that it was a brand-new hardcover copy of Birds of Alabama. It was signed Merry Christmas, from the Lost River Community Association. It was just what he wanted. And he had not even written Santa a letter.

  The gift was really from Claude and Roy. A few days before Christmas, Claude had told Roy he felt sorry for Mr. Campbell.

  “Why?”

  “Aw, the poor guy, he comes down to that dock waiting for the mail, and all he ever gets is some pension check from the government. The whole time he’s been here, he hasn’t received one personal letter, not even one lousy Christmas card.”

  What they did not know was that Oswald did not expect to receive any mail. He was down at the dock every day only because he did not have anywhere else to go, except to the store and back to his room again. All he was doing was just sitting around killing time, looking at the birds and waiting to die.

  Being aware that his days were numbered was not easy. Oswald found the hardest part was to wake up each morning with nothing to look forward to but getting worse. From what the doctor had told him, Oswald had assumed that as time passed he would start to feel weaker and weaker. However, on December 31 he woke up and noticed he was not coughing as much as he used to. He was really starting to feel pretty good, and somehow for the first time in his life, certainly for the first time since he was fifteen, he had actually managed to get through Christmas sober. In the past he had never been able to get more than one year in AA because he could never make it through the holidays without falling off the wagon, usually on Christmas Day. And also for the first time, he was experiencing another unfamiliar feeling. He was proud of himself and wished he had someone to tell. Not only had he made it through Christmas, he had also put on about five extra pounds since he had been there and he noticed in the mirror that he had a lot more color in his cheeks. This place was obviously agreeing with him. Damn, he thought. If he hadn’t known better he could have sworn he was better.

  On New Year’s Day, Frances and Betty and everybody up and down the street made him come in, and they all insisted that he eat a big bowl of black-eyed peas. They said it was good luck to eat them on New Year’s Day, and by that night he was up to his ears in black-eyed peas. Maybe they were right. Maybe he would get lucky and last a little longer than he had expected.

  A few mornings later when Oswald sat down for breakfast, Betty announced, “Well, Mr. Campbell, you’re famous. You’ve made the papers,” and she handed him a copy of the local newsletter that came out once a month.

  ALONG THE RIVER

  The Lost River

  Community Association Newsletter

  Oh, my, what a busy and happy Christmas season we had on the river! Everyone agreed that the “Mystery Tree” was prettier than ever this year. Kudos to those secret elves, who must have come down from the North Pole to surprise us yet again! If we only knew who they were we would thank them in person.

  Christmas Eve Dinner was especially delicious. We are mightily blessed with an abundance of good cooks down here and mucho thanks to the good ladies and gents who made the hall so festive and so full of Christmas cheer. A special nod goes to Sybil Underwood, who supplied the centerpieces; we are all amazed at what she can do with only simple pinecones and a few sprigs of holly. Thanks also to husband Claude for the fried mullet. Yum, yum. We had the largest crowd ever and it was good to see Betty Kitchen’s mother, Miss Alma, out and about again. As usual, the highlight of the evening for the children was a visit by good old Santa Claus himself. All the boys and girls loved their presents, including our newest member, Mr. Oswald T. Campbell. Welcome!

  The evening ended as usual with the annual tree-lighting ceremony, and amid the oohs and ahhs of the crowd I heard someone say that those folks up at Rockefeller Center in New York have nothing on us. I could not agree more.

  And so ends another Christmas season, with all of us worn down to a frazzle and exhausted from all the busy activity but already looking forward to next year’s happy Noel. In the meantime, all you lovebirds out there, married or single, don’t forget to grab your sweetheart for the annual Valentine’s Dinner on February 14. Yours truly and Frances Cleverdon will be the hostesses again this year, and we promise that love will definitely be in the air!

  —Dottie Nivens

  After he finished reading, Betty said, “You know, Mr. Campbell, Dottie’s no stranger to the written word. When she was younger she had herself quite a little literary fling up there in Manhattan.”

  “Is that so?” he said, although he was not surprised. She certainly did look the artistic type, since she usually wore a long black scarf and a black velvet beret on her head.

  “Oh, yes,” said Betty. “She lived in Greenwich Village and was a genuine bohemian, from what I understand. Dottie told me she thought she was going to be the next Edna Ferber or Pearl Buck, but it didn’t work out so she had to get a job.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Yes, but she’s a good sport about it. When Dottie became our official postmistress she said she’d always hoped she’d wind up a woman of letters, but this was not quite what she had in mind.”

  Oswald understood how she felt. He had always dreamed of becoming an architect someday but instead wound up working as a draftsman all his life. His ambitions had never quite panned out either. He might have a lot more in common with her than he had thought, which would please Frances. Although Oswald did not know it, in her secret scheme to get him married, Dottie Nivens was second in line to get him if he and Mildred did not work out. And at the moment that did not seem to be going anywhere, at least as far as she could glean from Mildred. After that first dinner with Oswald at her house she had tried her best to get at least a clue as to how she felt. After he had left that night she had asked Mildred, “Well, what do you think?” Mildred had looked at her as if she had no idea what she meant. “About what?” She knew full well what Frances had meant and was just being cantankerous to irritate her. But far be it from Mildred to tell you what she was really thinking!

  Sunday mornings in Lost River were quiet. Almost everyone, including Betty Kitchen and her mother, went over to the little town of Lillian for church. Frances and Mildred had asked Oswald to go with them, but he was not a churchgoing man. Another person who did not go was Claude Underwood, who went fishing. When asked why, he told everyone that he attended the Church of the Speckled Trout and would much rather be on the river than be in a suit and tie cooped up in some hot stuffy building.

  One Sunday in early January, Claude rode by the dock, noticed Oswald sitting there in his chair with his book, and pulled over to him.

  “I see the girls haven’t drug you off to Lillian with them,” Claude said, smiling.

  “No, they tried, but I escaped.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing, just looking.”

  “Then why don’t you come fishing with me?”

  “I don’t know how to fish. Could I just tag along for the ride?”

  “Sure, get in.”

  It was a clear bright blue morning and the sun sparkled on the water as Claude rode all the way up to the wide part of the river. Flocks of pelicans flew beside the boat, almost close enough to reach out and touch. While they were sitting in the middle, the river was so still and peaceful; the only sound was the faint whirring of Claude’s fishing reel and the soft plop as the lure hit the water. Oswald was amazed at the ease and grace with which Claude cast his line out and drew it back, with almost no effort.

  While they were sitting there in the quiet, Oswald heard church bells ringing way off in the distance. He asked Claude where they were coming from.

  “That’s the Creole church across
the river. You can hear it sometimes if the wind is right.” He laughed. “Sometimes on Saturday night you can hear them playing their music, whooping and hollering and carrying on. They like to have a good time, I’ll say that for them.”

  “Do any of the Creoles ever come over to our side of the river?”

  Claude sighed. “They used to, but not anymore.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Most of them are as nice as you could want, would give you the shirt off their backs. I had a lot of good Creole friends at one time, but after that thing with Roy and Julian we just don’t mix. After that happened everybody was more or less forced to take sides. Since the Creoles are all pretty much related to one another they had to side with Julian whether they agreed with him or not, and all of us over here had to do the same. It’s sort of a Hatfield and McCoy kind of a thing, I guess. We don’t go over there; they don’t come over here.”

  Oswald, curious, asked, “What happened?”

  “Didn’t the women tell you about it?”

  “No.”

  Claude threw his line out in the water and began to reel it back in. “Well, back about seventeen or maybe eighteen years by now we had ourselves a real-life Romeo and Juliet situation, and it’s a dang miracle somebody wasn’t murdered over it. It was touch and go there for a long time, with threats going back and forth across the river. Roy swore he was going to kill Julian and Julian swore he was going to kill Roy, and to this day there’s still a lot of bad blood between them. I think if either one of them got caught on the wrong side of the river, look out.”

  Roy seemed like such an even-tempered man to Oswald. “Do you really think Roy would kill him?”

  “You better believe it. Julian would do the same if he got the chance, and it’s a damn shame, too. Roy was practically raised by Julian and thought the world of him until that mess over Julian’s daughter. I don’t know the exact details of what happened, but the women do. I’m sure there is right and wrong on both sides, but I do think Julian’s pride caused most of the trouble.”