Sugarplums and Scandal Page 8

  ———

  Nearly half an hour later, we arrived on the front steps, and when the door opened, the pleasant aromas of a feast assailed us. Mother fussed, but was so pleased that she beamed as she berated me for a slowcoach and meanderer. Dash dragged himself in, gave an aggrieved woof, and immediately departed for his basket. Father mumbled that the cold weather was too much for me and searched my face anxiously.

  I could not help but smile.

  As I entered the hall, it was as though I saw the house and its decorations anew. The holly and ivy garlands were a beautiful token of Christmastide, a reminder of our eternal life after death. They were also emblematic of man and woman united.

  Shortly thereafter, Tommy led me into the dining room. “So, Mags. Did you like my Christmas present?”

  I held out my wrist. “Yes, thank you, Tommy. As I mentioned this morning, the coral bracelet is very pretty.”

  “That wasn’t what I was talking about,” he said, pinching my arm. His glance darted over to where Mr. Chandler stood behind his chair, nearly obscured by the monstrous pyramid of fruit on the table. While the others exclaimed at the platters of turkey and beef that arrived, Mr. Chandler watched only me, and I fancy I saw a faint grin, confused and boyish, play across his lips.

  “Just make sure that he can stay until our dance on Twelfth Night,” I whispered, letting Tommy seat me.

  Judith McMonigle Flynn tossed aside the photograph folders, chucked the phony holly, and rang the ancient farm bell.

  “I found it!” she called to her husband, Joe. “The bell was in with some of the old stuff in the wrong box you brought from the basement.”

  “Then how can it be wrong?” Joe said in his musing, mellow voice. “It has the right bell.”

  Judith gripped the kitchen counter and pulled herself to her feet. “But it’s labeled MISC.X,” she said, pointing to the black marker letters on the carton. “The bell should be with the fireplace wreath and the Nativity set and the parlor candles.” She gave the bell another shake. The sound was hollow, yet resonant. “This must be a hundred years old.”

  “Did your mother buy it when she was a teenager?” Joe asked with a mischievous glint in his green eyes.

  Judith frowned at her husband. “Mother’s not that old. Her family had it on the farm when they lived up toward the mountains.”

  “That property’s a strip mall now,” Joe said. “Bill and I drove by there last month when we went fishing.”

  Judith shook her head. “I know. I suppose it’s been sold ten times over since Grandpa and Grandma Hoffman owned it.”

  Joe glanced up at the schoolhouse clock. “Speaking of family, what time does everybody arrive for the Christmas Eve festivities?”

  “Around five,” Judith replied, placing the bell next to the computer on the counter. “Renie’s coming over early to help me get ready.”

  “When’s Bill coming to help me?” Joe asked in a plaintive voice.

  “Help you do what?” Judith responded. “All I need you for is to put up the draperies between the living room and the entry hall to cordon off the tree and the presents until Santa arrives. You and Bill can watch pro football the rest of the day. Husbands get in the way at holiday time. My cousin and I need to focus on the food.”

  Joe seemed dubious. “You sure?”

  Judith nodded. “This year we have no B&B guests for the Christmas holiday. I’ve gotten too old to deal with outsiders while we entertain the family. The extra money’s nice, but I prefer my sanity.”

  “Good plan,” Joe said, removing the lid from a Christmas cookie tin. “Are these your spritz or Renie’s?”

  “Mine, of course,” Judith replied. “Why?”

  “Hers taste like plaster. I thought you two made the spritz together.”

  “We did,” Judith said, watching Joe devour three cookies, all shaped like camels. “Hey, you ate breakfast less than an hour ago. You should watch your waistline, especially this time of year.”

  “I can’t see my waistline,” Joe said. “How can I watch it?”

  “My point.” The phone rang. “I don’t want you turning out like Dan,” she added, referring to her first husband who had weighed more than four hundred pounds when he died at the age of forty-nine. “Hello?”

  “I’m ready,” Renie announced in a foggy voice. “Shall I come over?”

  “It’s not ten yet,” Judith said in surprise. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

  “Not today.” Renie definitely sounded only semiconscious. “It’s Christmas Eve. Got to get ready for Santa. He’s going to the German deli and can drop me off on his way.”

  Renie’s husband, Bill Jones, had played Santa for years, taking up the mantle—or the sleigh—from Grandpa Grover. The tradition involved closing off the living room at the Grover family home, which Judith had converted into Hillside Manor Bed and Breakfast some sixteen years earlier. Every Christmas Eve, Santa stood in the dark and talked to all the relatives who were gathered in the dining room, entry hall, and the staircase. His arrival through the French doors was announced by the old farm bell. After Santa left, the tree lights were turned on and the draperies were removed. A glut of colorfully wrapped presents covered half of the floor and the Douglas fir stood shimmering in all its Christmas splendor. The tradition and the mystery delighted everyone, especially the children. For aging adults such as the cousins’ generation, Christmas Eve was a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

  “Come ahead,” Judith said. “Say, maybe Joe can go with Bill to the deli. I’ve got a couple of things I need from there.”

  “Sure,” Renie said. “I’ll tell… Bill, right? Damn, it’s early. G’bye.”

  Joe didn’t have to be coaxed into making the trip to the south end of the city. He might be Irish, but he liked German delicacies, especially the various wursts and the tubes of raw meat for spreading on crisp sesame crackers.

  While Joe got to work on the heavy dark blue drapes that served to hide the living room, Judith put back the items she’d found in the box where the bell had been misplaced. She should throw out the artificial holly; she hadn’t used it in years. But Judith hated to get rid of things, no matter how old, how worn, or how useless. The holly went back into the carton, along with a defective string of Christmas bulbs, the faded red velveteen wreaths that had hung in the parlor windows when she was a child, and a half-dozen Christmas cards from years past and persons long dead.

  The phone rang again. “Okay, twerp,” Auntie Vance barked into the phone, “what shall I bring for tonight? And make it snappy. We’ll have to wait forever to catch the ferry over to the mainland. We may not show up until New Year’s.”

  Auntie Vance and Uncle Vince had retired to an island in the sound. They called it “The Rock” and pretended that they’d isolated themselves from the rest of the family. But despite Auntie Vance’s rough tongue, she had the proverbial heart of gold—or, as Renie sometimes said, a lot of guilt. She and her husband visited frequently, usually bringing lunch or dinner for Judith’s and Renie’s invalid mothers.

  “Shrimp macaroni salad,” Judith said, glancing at the list she’d made earlier in the week. “Your beef-noodle bake. And Grandma’s sugar cookies.”

  “Forget the cookies,” Vance snapped. “They taste like Grandma made them—before she died thirty years ago. Hey!” she shouted away from the phone. “Wake up, Vinster! Your head’s in the soup kettle. Again.”

  Uncle Vince had a life-long habit of falling asleep—anytime, anywhere, under any circumstances, including at the wheel of his car. Some family members marveled that he hadn’t gotten killed years ago. The rest of the relatives marveled that he hadn’t killed Auntie Vance.

  Renie and Bill arrived just as Auntie Vance hung up. Bill waited in the driveway for Joe who went out the back door as Renie came in.

  “Good morning,” Joe said to Renie.

  “What’s good about it?” Renie muttered, brushing past him. “It’s not even ten-thirty yet. I should be e
ating Cheerios and reading the paper.”

  “I don’t think Joe heard that last part,” Judith chided as Renie staggered down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. “Gee, you look really awful this morning. Worse than usual.”

  Unfazed by the comment, Renie glanced down at her attire. Her blue jeans were spattered with mud and her frayed sweatshirt was emblazoned with JOYEUX NOEL, which lighted up. Apparently the battery was defective—or Renie was—since the only glowing letters read “Jo e No .”

  “Now I see why Joe didn’t stick around,” Judith said. “You probably insulted him.’”

  Renie was still studying her chest. “Oh—right. This thing’s really old. Bill bought it for me. He knows I don’t do electrical. Anyway, if we’re going to cook, I didn’t want to ruin my clothes.”

  “Too late for that,” Judith said dryly.

  “Uh.” Renie was unperturbed. “Who’s the guy in the driveway?”

  “What guy?”

  “Tall, thirties, sharp overcoat, muffler.” Renie frowned. “Maybe I imagined it. I dreamed I lost Bill in Brooks Brothers last night. He got scared by the price tags.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Judith said. “Bill’s not a Brooks Brothers type. Have your kids all arrived in town?”

  “All except Anne and Odo,” Renie replied. “Their flight’s due this afternoon. I was so afraid none of them would get here. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.”

  “Of course not,” Judith agreed. “Mike and Kristin and the boys will be here around four. Assuming, of course, they don’t have another rock slide on the pass.” She frowned, thinking of all the times her son and his family had been prevented by bad weather from making the fifty-odd mile trip from their cozy cabin at the summit. But Mike loved his job as a forest ranger, and the Flynns were lucky that his current posting had been so close to the city. Renie and Bill weren’t so lucky—all three of their children lived great distances away. Worse yet, none had produced children since they’d gotten married. “I was just going to start the potato salad,” Judith said. “You can get out the paper plates and plastic tableware. It’s all in the pantry.”

  Renie started to reverse her path, but stopped when she saw the carton on the counter by the computer. “What are these old pictures?” she asked.

  Judith began removing potatoes from a bag by the sink. ‘”I only looked at the one on top. It’s from 1941—the Christmas after Pearl Harbor.’”

  Renie opened the gray folder. “We’ve got one of these somewhere at home,” she said. “My God, look how young everybody is!”

  “Sixty-odd years makes a difference,” Judith allowed, looking over Renie’s shoulder. “Our parents were half our age. You’re a toddler. I’m an infant, just two months old.”

  “I haven’t looked at our copy in ages,” Renie murmured. “Out of Grandma and Grandpa’s six kids, only three were married by then—our dads and Aunt Ellen. Of course Uncle Al never has abandoned bachelorhood.”

  “Too busy gambling and running his tavern with the illegal off-track betting,” Judith said with a smile. “But he’s still got his girlfriend, Tess. She’s coming tonight, too.”

  Renie tapped several family members who were all standing by a Christmas tree that looked almost exactly like the one in the same place where this year’s evergreen dominated the big living room. Judith not only hated to throw things away, she didn’t care much for change. Routine offered security; the unknown created dread.

  Judith began putting names to the smiling faces: Grandma and Grandpa Grover; their eldest son, Cliff, married to Deb against whose knee Renie was resting; Donald, the second son, and his wife, Gertrude, who held Judith on her lap; Uncle Al; Auntie Vance; a pregnant Aunt Ellen and her husband, Win, visiting from their home in Nebraska; Uncle Corky, whose given name was Charles. They were all tall, as Judith herself had grown to be upon reaching her teens. Renie was the runt of the family, a skinny two-year-old in pigtails.

  “A good-looking bunch,” Judith declared, “and thank God all the men lived through the war.”

  “Our dads didn’t fight,” Renie recalled. “They were too old, but they served as air raid wardens.”

  “You remember the war,” Judith said as Renie closed the photograph folder, “I don’t.”

  “I can even remember that picture being taken,” Renie said. “Your mother was holding a yellow squeaky toy to make you stop crying. They airbrushed it out of the photo. I thought that was dumb at the time. You were only a baby, for heaven’s sake. Why shouldn’t you cry?”

  Judith smiled fondly at her cousin. Neither had ever had siblings, and they’d grown up like sisters. Judging from Renie’s reaction as a toddler, the bond between them had already been forged.

  “What’s this one?” Renie asked, picking up another folder. “It looks really old.” Judith watched while Renie opened the brown folder. “Your mother’s First Communion,” she said, answering her own question. “Did she ever look that sweet?”

  “A fluke of the camera,” Judith replied, taking in the white dress, veil, and pearl rosary beads. “Or Divine Intervention. Come on, we have to get to work.”

  “I have to wake up,” Renie asserted. “Here, this big photo’s even older.” She opened a fraying black cover to reveal two middle-aged adults and five young people, all dressed in their finest World War One-era clothes. “Oh—your mother’s family. Isn’t she the only one who’s still alive?”

  Judith nodded. “Mother was the youngest. Uncle Ed died in his forties. Heart, I think, like my own father. Aunt Charlotte was fairly young, too. Cancer. Uncle Jack got hit by a bus. And Uncle Bart…” Judith stopped. “I never did know what happened to him. He must have been the black sheep of the family. Mother’s hardly ever mentioned his name.”

  “Which one is he?” Renie asked.

  Judith pointed to a strapping young man with dark hair. “He was a handsome guy, the second oldest, after Uncle Ed. I think there was at least ten years between Mother and her two older brothers.”

  Renie closed the folder and turned it over. “The family tree’s on the back. It shows your grandmother and grandfather, and all the kids, but the only line that’s continued is your mother’s.”

  “That’s because she put it together,” Judith replied. “Come on, coz, get cracking. You seem awake.”

  “But whoever started the tree spelled Hoffman H-O-F-M-A-N-N. That’s not the way Aunt Gert has always spelled her maiden name.”

  “It was probably some immigration clerk’s mistake,” Judith said impatiently. “Grandfather came to the United States from Germany before the turn of the century. There were lots of mix-ups with foreign names at Ellis Island in those days. Put a dozen eggs on to boil.”

  Reluctantly, Renie set the photos back into the carton. “I’ll get the plates and stuff first.”

  “Fine. Just do something. Time’s a-wasting, as Grandma Grover would say.”

  Renie went into the pantry and returned with two big shopping bags filled with disposable tableware. As she unwrapped plates, cups, and napkins, her eyes kept straying to the carton where she’d placed the photographs.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” she finally said. “We know so much about our fathers’ Grover side of the family, but not about our maternal ancestors. Of course my mother was an only child. But you must have all sorts of cousins on the Hoffman side you’ve never met.”

  “Could be,” Judith allowed, running water over the potatoes. “Mother’s family didn’t stay in the area. Uncle Ed and Uncle Jack moved to southern California and got into the oil business. Then they went to Venezuela—Maracaibo, I think. Aunt Charlotte married a Canadian and settled in Toronto. She and Mother kept in touch, but were never close. They visited once when I was about six with a couple of boys who were several years older than I was. Naturally, they kept their distance from a mere little girl like me.”

  Renie unfolded a large plastic tablecloth decorated with poinsettias, “And Uncle Bart?”

  Judith shrugged. “He ju
st sort of… faded away. I told you, Mother never talks about him. Goodness, she doesn’t talk much about her other siblings, either. Once they left the area, she considered them deserters. All she could ever say about Uncle Ed and Uncle Jack was that they went to California to become big shots. She didn’t approve of California—or big shots. And Charlotte was always that ‘foreigner’ after she moved to Canada.”

  “Odd,” Renie remarked.

  Judith turned away from the stove where she’d put the kettle of potatoes on the back burner. “What’s odd?”

  “Your mother was the only one to stay around here,” Renie said.

  “Nothing odd about it,” Judith responded. “Where are those eggs?”

  “I’m getting them,” Renie said, opening the fridge. “Everybody else in her family seemed to have wanderlust.”

  Judith poured water into another kettle. “Put the eggs in here and salt them in case they crack. Mother was the youngest. She was eighteen when her own mother died, and her father lasted only another year or so. Mother was on her own, except for a maiden aunt who lived here on Heraldsgate Hill. That’s when Mother moved into the city and went to secretarial school. She stayed with her mother’s sister, Aunt Effie.”

  “Except for being raised on a farm, the movie people didn’t use any of that in her life story,” Renie pointed out.

  “That was about the only fact they did use,” Judith said, referring to Gritty Gertie, the film that had been based on Gertrude as a member of “The Greatest Generation.” When a Hollywood producer and his entourage had stayed at Hillside Manor, the screenwriter had become intrigued with Gertrude’s life story and talked her into using it as the basis for a movie about a so-called typical woman whose life had spanned most of the twentieth century. The end result was neither typical nor true, portraying the on-screen Gertrude as brave but bawdy. “No wonder Mother hated watching it.”