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Our good friend Nikki Kallio shares two stories this week created from a Three Word Wednesday writing prompt   (http://www.threewordwednesday.com). If you like them, please let us know by leaving a comment, or by visting her blog. (http://morepurplehouses.blogspot.com)

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The words are advance, pander, shuffle.

Mornings came earlier and night came sooner and people seemed more tired, hungry. Truckers wedged themselves into vinyl seats and made her feel important. She was the go-between, the pander for their addiction to coffee and stale danishes. Old men with crossword puzzles, young men with want ads. The old men wanted to chat, the young men didn’t. Times were tough but people still ate out. They saved money by not tipping. She saved money by not paying her bills. If her phone got turned off, so what? She only heard from creditors and her ex. They sounded the same. She’d pin the phone between her ear and her shoulder and say, yes, I know, and shuffle through her deck of dollar bills – once fifty-two of them, exactly – and think about how quickly they’d be dealt. Hospital, credit card, electric. Babysitter, phone, gas. Rent, groceries. Every month was a test: All of the above, none of the above, or choose A and B? Maybe she’d “borrow” another bag of bread, another giant can of vegetables from the diner. If Emil noticed he never said. Maybe he knew that the deck was stacked against her. Once he advanced her a check when her car wouldn’t start – something with the transmission, the mechanics told her, and then handed her an estimate for seven hundred and some. No car, can’t get to work. No work, no rent money. Pay for the car, rent goes unpaid anyway. Sleep in the car, lose the child. She smiled through it, smiled at work, because if you didn’t smile and pretend then you made even less money. She was an actress paid to perform. A tight-wire act. 

Charlene and the Chocolate Factory

The words are pulse, shard and weary.

Another time or place she would’ve made other choices but she found herself chasing one weary day with another, stacking time and building hours while other people lived better lives.
The shakers continuously pulsed, ridding the chocolate pieces of excess covering. Perfect pieces for perfect people in perfect houses. Sweetness all around her but all for someone else.
She turned and felt her elbow bump something that shouldn’t have been there. The bottle hit the cement, broke into a couple of large pieces and a few chips, some of them sharp.
The chocolate skittered by on the shaker. Pieces of glass on the floor, dangerous.
She bent, touched the imperfect pieces.
One sliver, tiny but strong. A little pressure would break skin.
Just one shard, pressed hidden in a perfect piece. It traveled down the line on its way to a pretty box, to a lovely store, to some perfect someone.
Licked her fingers. Hummed.

The Pastor

by Colleen Sutherland 

(Note: "The Pastor" is the last of the depressing Christmas stories this season, to the relief of many of our readers.  It will also be the final story in the collection I hope to publish next summer.  It pulls all the other stories together.  Refer back to "The Rapture," "A Candle in the Window", "Shades of Green," and "The Cat".)

Reverend Peets hid, rubbing his aching knees. Through a crack in the curtains that covered the glass windows in the secretary's office, he peered out at the congregants assembling in the narthex for Christmas morning services, shaking hands and wishing each other a not so enthusiastic “Merry Christmas.” They were tired and so was he.

A Sunday morning Christmas was the worst thing that God could inflict on a Methodist pastor. When Christmas fell on a weekday, all he had to worry about was Christmas Eve, mostly music and very little sermon. No one listened anyhow, so absorbed in their holiday. It was all lights, carols, schmaltzy tradition and no theology on this pagan holiday dreamed up by the Romans and carried on by the barbarians. There wasn't much for him to do. The choir director, Sunday school and the organist took care of the inspiration. On a Sunday Christmas Day, however, he was in charge of his flock, mostly the old faithful who would show up no matter what the occasion, from baptisms to funerals. Yes, they were all out there, leaning on canes and walkers as they took off their cloth coats. Mostly women, their white hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights at the entrance. They seemed to be missing one or two of their chirpy group. But there were also a few others. Family members from faraway places had been dragged in, hungover and grumpy, there only to make sure they were still included in the will.

If it weren't for the money Christmas services brought in, he would have had a theological discussion with the church council, suggesting cutting back to bare bones services. But there were those out-of-towners, big city people who liked to flash bills as they threw them into the collection plate.Christmas was a budget balancer.

There was Fran, already gearing up for the city's primary election in February, haranguing anyone who didn't move past her through the narthex and on into the church. Pastor Peets had tried setting off a non-political area but Fran was above any rules, above any sanity when it came to political matters. He was thankful that Christmas fell nowhere near the November elections. It slowed Fran down a bit when the congregations were smaller.

The pastor had already asked the ushers to steer Democrats and other liberals to another part of the church.

“Where?” the head usher asked.

“Anywhere but next to Fran.”

They all laughed. Easy for them, once Sunday was over, they could avoid her for another week. He had to listen to her in committees, Bible Study, and finance meetings.

Oh God, there was the Dreadnight family. They usually attended The True Gospel Church but it wasn't having services today, because their so called minister with his degree from some strange theological college in North Dakota was a circuit rider who had another church. So Miranda came with her three children, and Argyll came along to instruct people, especially Peets, about the Bible, on which he thought he was the ultimate expert. There would be no escape from him after services. The children seemed exceptionally happy so Miranda must have worked one of her miracles. They wore clothes that looked new but probably came from a thrift store. Argyll didn't believe in spoiling the children. He watched as the ushers conferred. If he knew Jimmy Ellsworth, Argyll would be seated next to Fran. Jimmy had a wicked sense of humor.

There was the choir's best alto, charging in late. She was always late. Time was something she didn't observe. He suspected she had never gotten around to changing her clocks after daylight savings time shift, but wouldn't that make her early? Never. The choir director would like to give Agnes the heave hoe in a polite Christian way, but Agnes could read music and rarity of rarities, could stay in tune. No Agnes, no choir.

There was the worst soprano. Abby was usually off key but she was faithful. She looked harried and where was that precious son of hers? Ah yes, she had some of the Avery Gazette's with her. She was handing them out to some of her son's customers, who shuffled the flyer-heavy papers from hand to hand and finally stacked them on top of the coat racks. Charles must be sick. She wore wet running shoes and jeans, but once in a choir robe, it made no difference, as she often pointed out to him. He figured that was why she sang in the choir at all. Poor Abby had so little and singing in the choir meant she could attend church without having her clothes commented on. She usually arrived early, the last to leave, her body encased in the olive green choir robe for the duration.

Who else? Oh yes. Byron. Dressed in a sparkling jacket, a green tie and underneath that a shirt with homoerotic naked Santas chasing each other. Why be so obvious? Especially at Christmas? But Byron looked like he had been up all night. Perhaps it was his way to finally come out to his elderly mother and father. Yes, that was it. They were there, all right, their lips pursed tightly, their wrinkles even more wrinkly than a week ago. Oh God, they would want to talk to him after the service to ask for an intervention and to convince their darling to seek treatment. He would be lucky if he could get away with a brief prayer.

In his own prayers, he had taken to praying a simple “Thy will be done.” Why did these people think they could tell God what to do. As if God cared, one way or another.

At this point in his life, the Reverend Peets had taken to believing only on odd days, leaving even days open for his own mental debates and Sundays as work days to be slogged through. He thoroughly hated Christmas. His depression began just before Thanksgiving, coinciding with his last hunting trip of the season. It lasted through February and his mood never improved until Easter, the resurrection which was theologically so satisfying, especially when it fell just before the opening of trout season.

His wife was as dutiful as the minister's daughter she was, but she told him two years ago that though Christmas used be her favorite holiday, filled with lights, music, presents and Santa, he pulled her down with him. She took Ralph and Jennie and went to visit her parents for the holidays, coming back mid- January. One of these years, they wouldn't come back at all, he knew that, but he was too old to start a new career. So he went on, hating his profession, despising the people in the congregation, even kicking the cat on bad days.

He rubbed his knees again. Last night, after services, he had opened a bottle of whiskey. Someone gave him the first bottle years before, though Methodists were known to be teetotalers. Most of his flock drank, but as their shepherd, he had to set an example. He carefully put it in the back of the kitchen larder. “You never know when someone who is not in the congregation might have a need for it,” he told Janey. She rolled her eyes and said nothing. Whenever he was at an out of town conference he shopped in liquor stores. He had replaced the bottle several times, always finding the exact same brand until the manufacturer changed the label. He carefully refilled the old bottle from the new bottle and hoped Janey didn't notice the torn neck label. He suspected she did, but always dutiful, she said nothing, but that bottle might have had something to do with her holiday escapes.

Last night, after services, he had a drink...maybe more than one...and he slipped going upstairs and landed on his knees. They hurt like the blazes of hell, probably what he deserved.

He leaned back in the secretary's chair. In a minute or two, he would have to put on his robe. They all knew he was in there. His car was outside and every one knew that.

There was a knock on the door. Reverend Peets waited for a brief second, sighed and got up.

“Yes?” he asked.

“We're running out of grape juice, Pastor.”

Dammit all to hell, thought Pastor Peets, knowing that the thought was as bad as the word and the word as bad as the deed. He had forgotten it was a communion service. In a moment of pastoral enthusiasm, he had agreed with the worship committee that it would be a good idea to serve communion to those who only came to church once a year, as if that would do much for their immortal souls. He knew that what had probably happened that long ago passover was just Jesus having a drink or two with old friends before going off to be killed. How was that any different than young soldiers going off to war?. How many of them left for their wars hungover?

He opened the door to talk to Scott, the head usher.

“You'll have to thin the grape juice out with water,” he said.

Scott's mouth fell open. “Is that OK? Will that work?”

“We're Methodists. It isn't the blood of Christ in our tradition. It's a remembrance,” Pastor Peets said. “You can remember with just a touch of grape. Or tell you what. Put it all in one cup and we'll have everyone dunk in the bread.”

“Isn't that what Catholics do?”

“No. They use wine.”

“OK. But I think we need to keep better track of the grape juice in the future.”

“I'll put you in charge,” Peets said, but Scott backed away. There was nothing like asking someone to volunteer to make them shut up. At least to him. Scott was already heading in the direction of Fran, who loved to stir up complaints against anyone in power. It was her specialty.

Peets was about to turn back when he saw Fred, the lonely old solder come in. He liked Fred, who had never harmed anyone since he came back from Vietnam. No one but himself, Peets amended. There had been those drinking years. Fred always sat on the other side of the church from his neighbors, the Barneys, whose son was off in Afghanistan. Or was it Iraq? And where were they anyhow? He hadn't received their usual prayer request.

Fred caught his eye and shook his head. He slid sideways to the door.

“No prayer request today from Frank and Alice. Johnny didn't make it. He's coming home the hard way.”

As Peets closed the office door, he cursed the Deity. He cursed the war. He cursed the government. Poor Johnny. Poor Frank and Alice who would never again have a happy Christmas. He thought about the whiskey bottle. He would have a drink in remembrance of Johnny tonight.

He put on his robe and draped the green Christmas cowl over it, the one Janey had embroidered with the flame and the cross. Out of habit he went to the little altar in his office and knelt to say a before service prayer, but couldn't find the words.

Never mind he thought and tried to push himself up. He couldn't. He found his legs wouldn't straighten. He could not get up. His knees had finally given out in this last act of faith.

Skinny Ray

Skinny Ray always said that between the suicides and fires, he'd just as soon skip December all together. After reading Ray's obituary, Mike felt a quiet anger growing in his stomach. From the way the obituary was worded, highlighting the fire fighter's distinguished service awards and all the lives he saved, but tiptoeing around the actual cause of death, Mike knew Ray had killed himself. The bastard had finally found a way to skip December, and no one had bothered to let Mike know.
 
In fact, Mike had missed the funeral altogether. He had only found out about it all by clicking the wrong link on the computer, getting the obituaries instead of the hockey scores. Now Ray's body was on the way to some cemetery in Kansas of all places, and it would be a bugger to find out where the place was. Not that knowing the exact location would help him now, Mike thought, it would probably be a few more days before they put Ray in the ground, so there wasn't anything for him to go visit, now was there?

“Hell with it,” Mike said to a shaggy brown dog resting in the corner, “We're going Christmas shopping.”

Grizzly thumped his tail against the floor, and headed for the foyer. Mike grunted as he got up from his chair, pushing off with his left arm to ease the ache in his leg. The dumb dog didn't know Christmas from Mickey Mouse, otherwise he might have started asking his owner questions. But all the dog knew was that he was going for a ride. Grizzly was already dancing at the door, looking between it and Mike as Mike got his coat on. Damn dog is always ready before me, Mike thought.

“Must be good to be a dog,” Mike said, opening the door,“let's go.”
 
Mike flipped through the channels on the car stereo. Christmas music, switch. Holiday sale, switch. More Christmas Music, switch. Another Holiday sale – off.

“Damn airwaves are cluttered with crap,” he said to Grizzly, who looked briefly at Mike before going back to stare at the waving kids in the next lane over. Grizzly let out a soft woof.
 
“Let them be, Griz,” Mike said, “They're probably doped up on candy canes on the way to Grandma's house.”
 
Grizzly didn't seem to care. His tail twapped the seat and dashboard, making a sound like a boxer pummeling a canvas bag.
 
“Ai!” Mike said, slapping the dog's haunch. Grizzly slid down the seat and looked back at Mike.

“You're better off, Grizzly,” Mike muttered, “in their condition they're as liable to try riding you like a reindeer as blast your ears out with off-key caroling.”

Grizzly thumped his tail twice, and settled down for a rest.

The Fleet Farm parking lot was full. The store smelled like perfumed cinnamon sticks, and you couldn't escape it even if you were in the middle of the tire racks. He had to maneuver around carts three abreast in aisles only wide enough for two. He and an woman wearing a Santa hat exchanged four letter words over a box of silver bell ornaments. Mike had to wait twenty minutes while some guy who had only been hired on last week went to the loading dock to try and find more. There were no more.

He went to three Christmas tree lots and scowled at the Douglas Firs, Norway Spruces, Blue Spruces, and White pines. He finally found an eight-foot Noble Fir, and grudgingly paid seventy dollars for it. The tree was the only one he saw that actually looked the part of a proper Christmas tree: tall, symmetrical, good stiff branches, and actually smelling like it came from the woods. Grizzly gave his approval by trying to lick the pitch oozing from the trunk.

“Ai!” Mike said, pulling at the leash, “I don't want pine-scented dog puke in the car. Let's go home.”
Mike surveyed his tree. Fifty dollars of LED lights in blue, red, and green slowly winked. Thirty dollars of glass bulbs in silver, gold, and red hung secure in the tree's stiff branches. Mike decided the silver bells wouldn't have added much. Tinsel garland crisscrossed the tree like a princess's bodice. And at the top, a stained glass angel blew a golden trumpet.

“Look okay to you, Grizzly?” Mike said.

Grizzly looked up and wagged his tail. Mike reached down and mussed the shaggy fur on the dog's head.

He owed something to Skinny Ray. While hunting, the man had showed Mike where his femoral artery was by way of plunging his thumb in the hole left by some jackass's stray round. The thumb had hurt worse than the bullet, but it had kept enough blood inside him to make it to the hospital. Two weeks in the hospital, Christmas laid up on the couch in a cast, and six months in rehab to start the new year. And every day since then, an ache to remind him what had happened. Still, Mike thought, better than bleeding out in a backwoods swamp.

Starting around each Thanksgiving, the dreams would come. The bullet taking him in the in the upper thigh. The impact throwing him onto his back. A pale sky, bare branches, and a fountain of red spraying up from somewhere below him. Twigs cracking and popping behind him. Skinny Ray, pulling a knife and cutting away at his pant leg. The gaping red hole, blood pulsing out as if through a garden hose. Skinny Ray jamming his thumb into the wound, sending fire through Mike's body. Waking up in bed, clutching at his leg.

Skinny Ray had told Mike to forget about it when Ray tried thanking him. Ray acted like he was embarrassed about the whole thing, mumbling something about how he could now write off the paramedic training on his taxes that year. After that, they hung out less often, eventually reaching the point where they only nodded at each other in passing.

“Ready, Grizzly?” Mike said. He pointed at the ground. “Stay.”

Normal Rockwell himself couldn't have improve his tree. The lights reflected off the tinsel and ornaments perfectly, sending small sparkles of light into the snow. The angel at the top glowed with a kind of warm light that reminded Mike of candlelight services his grandmother's church used to have every Christmas Eve. The glow lit up the whole back yard like a beacon, blotting out the smaller stars in the cold night sky. He stared at it and raised a glass of egg nog.

"To you, Ray."

The nog tempered the whiskey well. He closed his eyes until the warmth of the liquor seeped its way to his fingertips. He set the glass down and picked up a red jug sitting next to him in the snow. As he walked to the tree, Mike hummed a song to himself, a song that just today had been passed over on the radio. He anointed the tree's branches with gasoline, some of the excess melting the snow revealing old ash and coals at the fire pit's bottom. Mike took in a deep breath, savoring the petrochemical fumes mixed with sharp herbal pine.

He hummed louder in the back of his throat as he brought out the lighter and lit the kindling. He leapt back as it went up with a foosh and a crack, and hobbled back to the patio where Grizzly and the whiskey bottle awaited. Thick black smoke rose in the air, and brought with it a stench of plastic, noxious pine resin, and sharp tang of metal. Tiny pops and sighs filled the air as the fire breached lights and ornaments. Sparks flew out like fireworks, reminding Mike to unplug the extension cord.

The loss of the electricity didn't matter. The whole tree seemed lit from within, yellows, greens, and oranges limned the dark branches. A few moments later, the fire spread to the outer branches, and the tree seemed taller as a wind came up to whip the flames. Heat washed over his face. Mike dumped more of the whiskey into his half-full nog glass. The angel's glass cracked, then shattered. Its wings blackened. The angel tipped back like a jazz trumpeter taking a solo. The music in the back of Mike's throat burst out.

"Noel, Noel!" Mike sang at the top of his lungs, thrusting his glass into the air, "Noel, No-el-el!"

Grizzly barked and ran around in circles. While they sang, Mike's leg didn't bother him a bit.

The Cat

by Colleen Sutherland 

     The cat crouched under the Victorian settee. His eyes gleamed golden in the darkness of a late night in December. The white tip of his otherwise black tail flashed back and forth, back and forth in the only light in the room, the television playing yet another version of A Christmas Carol. He was half beginning to understand the words. He stared at the human on the floor, contemplating his next move.

     The old woman was flat on the floor. The stroke had thrown her backwards, almost in a perfect line, the rolls of fat sinking into the floor. She was alive, barely. Her eyes moved from side to side, but the rest of her was frozen. Even if she had one of those emergency button devices to push it would be useless. Her hands were dead. All she had left was her brain and her senses. And that damned cat. She could hear him moving around the house.

     This was not the way her life was supposed to end.

     Elinor never wanted a cat or any other pet. Cats were sneaky. Dogs required too much upkeep. Birds scattered seed all over the floor. She remembered all that from her childhood. Her brothers and sisters always had pets and that had meant messes that she, the oldest girl, had to clean up. Her parents brought the babies into the world. Elinor had to raise them. It was one diaper after another in that Catholic family. A pet was just     another chore, nothing but that. The children were enough trouble.

     “Preparation for the nunnery,” her father joked once to his friends. “She's the plainest of the lot and none of them are lookers. When she's old enough, we'll ship her to a convent. No expensive wedding there. She'd be good taking care of brats in an orphanage.”

     But Elinor put her foot down. She had other plans. She saved towards that college education. It meant saving every penny including the lunch money she was given at school. Two precious quarters each week. She set them aside and didn't eat the school lunch. Her small allowance went into the bank as well. There were no malts at the dairy store. There were no movies either. She spent a childhood depriving herself so that she would have a golden future.

     There were occasional dates, farm boys looking for hard workers... and breeders, her father said. But her father was right. She was plain. Her clothes were hand-me-downs from cousins, or things the nuns gave her in pity. She didn't care. She kept putting the money aside and studying as if her life depended on it, because it did. The boyfriends grew up, gave up, and found other plain women to marry.

     There wasn't enough for a big university but there was a business college. That would do. She won a scholarship and worked through the two year course. Typing, shorthand, business machines, she excelled at every course. In the end, she had a degree and finally, a job. At first, no one wanted to hire a plain, chubby girl with no clothes sense, but then she interviewed with a woman trying to find the perfect secretary for her husband.

     “He has roving eyes,” the wife said. “He doesn't need an attractive secretary.”

It was a cutting remark, but Elinor knew exactly what she was, and it was a job. She stayed in the company, moving from one office to another, always the perfect secretary that no wife could complain about. She never let those women know that a plain secretary meant nothing when the men had mistresses on the side. She kept the secrets and the jobs. In time she found herself in the human resources department, working for the man who hired and fired. She delivered the pink slips to the fired and called the lucky new employees. It was only a job either way.

     And she saved, as she had always saved. Some day, when she retired, all her investments would pay off. She would have a pension, all she had earned in the stock market, and oh, the fun she would have traveling. Until she could do it right, she wouldn't do it at all. Her vacations were usually spent in her little house, something of an investment, her banker had told her, sure to be valuable one day. On her free days, she scraped paint, caulked tiles. It was lonely, but she saw her pension grow and rejoiced when the mortgage was paid off.

     She never meant to include a mean spirited cat in her home. Yet there he was. The old cuckoo clock on the wall behind her went off again. She wondered how many hours it had been since she had been able to move. The lights on the Christmas tree were unblinking. Wouldn't they cause a fire in time? Then someone would come, or she would burn to death. Better than this.

     The cat twitched his tail. The woman was late with his supper. He had been here a little more than a year and that was all the two had in common. She fed him and changed the litter. He hid in the dark until she left for some errand or other, then he found a sunny spot, often on her bed, but usually on the couch. He waited for excitement. He wanted to be outside. He was meant for adventures. In his previous life, he was a wanderer, a proud tomcat who spend his nights serenading the ladies and catching rats. He knew his place in the world. He survived cold winters in dumpsters. He found what he needed to eat behind the best restaurants....until he was captured by some stupid well meaning humans and had his private parts cut off. Then he was put into a place with similar cats. They were a scruffy lot. All ex-toms who fought whenever they were let out of their cages, so there they stayed. He hated the people who thought they were being kind by taking him off the street.

     Then he was brought to this place to be company for the old lady.

     Once, just once, there was a romance for her, though it was unrequited. She noticed the young man in the elevator, and he noticed her. “Have a pleasant day,” he said to her when she saw him in the morning and “Have a pleasant evening” as they rode the elevator down. As the weeks went on, he added a smile and once when she was preoccupied, a little hug. “I'm Ronnie,” he said. “And who is this stranger who passes me by?” So it began, a bit of flirtation in the hallways, a handsome man charming a much older woman. He seemed to be everywhere. Sometimes, he would stop at the door of her office and give her a wave. At the yearly Christmas party, he made sure she had a good plate of food and a bit tipsy, flirted with her.

     Curious, she checked his file in the human resource department. He was married, of course, but that meant nothing in the corporate world. Wives came and went.

     When it came time for Ronnie's file to be reviewed by the head of human resources, she doubled checked it, threw in some good comments she gleaned from other files and took out any adverse comments. Over the course of five years, she steered his career, floor by floor, until he managed pensions in the finance department. He expressed his gratitude, telling her it was the best place for him. He would stay there for a while.

     The cat was hungry. She fed him cheap kibbles and the only treat he got was an occasional dose of hairball remedy, and she didn't even know enough to get the salmon flavor. He pawed at the cupboards. The lower ones only had clankypots. He pulled open another. Things in cans. He jumped up on the top of the cupboard and nosed at the can opener. He stared down at the old lady. She was watching him, but doing nothing about it. Yes, her eyes moved from side to side. But she wasn't screaming at him and she screamed at him all the time. She didn't like him, but more than that she feared him. He considered that. Yes, she was afraid.

     That damned cat. She could hear him prowling around. He had been neutered, but he was still a tomcat, like all the men she had worked for, each one worse than the last.

     Ronnie was different, or so she thought. “My angel,” he said whenever they were alone together on the elevator. He told her about his family. His wife had never understood him, he told her, but he was a Catholic, so he would not get a divorce. That would mean leaving his religion and he would never do that. He crossed himself often whenever they were alone. He didn't seem to have mistresses like the rest of the officers. He never took his ring off. He had photos of his wife and children on his desk and always touched them gently. She loved him more each year, each month, each day.

      She would soon retire, she was too old for him, she knew that, but he was her first and only love, this gentle   young man. She changed her will. Her family had never paid any attention to her, except to send her a Christmas card and occasionally visit to double check on her money. They would be surprised to find out it would all go to Ronnie. He could use it to send his children to college.

     But that was years in the future. She was going to travel first, enjoy the world. She had been saving brochures for years. Every wall in her house had carefully framed photos of every place she had dreamed of. An outdoor bistro near Sacre Coeur in Paris. The statue of David in Florence, carefully posed so his genitals weren't exposed. Cancun, the Great Wall of China, the Grand Canyon. They were all there. She looked at them fondly, dusted them daily.

      As her retirement approached, she called a travel agent and began to discuss plans. Which place would be the first? Money would be no object. A lifetime of saving for a few years of total pleasure. She would be someone in the neighborhood, the woman who traveled, an interesting soul. She would buy fine objects to put around the house. When guests came over, she would show them off and talk about her travels.

      But who would those guests be? She had no friends outside of her work. She began to plan that part of her retirement, too. She started paying more attention to her clothing, finding flowing styles that hid her belly fat. She even tried makeup.

     For the first time since she left her family, she joined a church and soon, the women's group. Fran was the leader of the older women in the congregation by dint of arguing the loudest and longest. Elinor was used to bosses and was able to tolerate her. She went to church meetings and began to make friends. She went on planning.

      She daydreamed sometimes that Ronnie would leave his wife and would come to live in her little house.

She had a spare bedroom with its own bath. He could have that rent free. She would cook his meals, do his laundry. Oh, to have him by her side forever. She would make him happy, she knew she could do it.

     The cat put out a paw and batted her arm. The old lady didn't move. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling. He pushed in closer and tried out a purr, but it came out more like a growl. She lay on her back. He climbed up on her chest and stared into her eyes that stared back. Her eyes never moved. How did she do that? He stared. She stared. She never turned away. He finally backed off slowly and slipped off her body.

     The cat watched. She still lay on the floor, her eyes staring at the ceiling. He admired the stare. She wasn't blinking much at all. That was a stare a cat could admire. He twitched his tail. He considered her again. It was long past his supper time.

      Her last day of work finally came. She had mentioned it to several of her new friends. She thought there would be a cake, and mementos from her years at the company. She took a morning coffee break, unusual for her, but no one was in the break room. She heard giggles down the hallway and waited for the cries of “Surprise,” but none came. Lunch came and went. She ate her sandwich as she always had. No one stopped by her desk. She didn't bother with the afternoon break, and spent the time packing up her belongings. She had been taking things home all month, so there was very little to pack. She called a temporary agency and ordered someone to take her place on Monday. Then she said to her boss, “Well, that will be all then.”

     “See you on Monday,” he grunted.

     “No, you won't. I retired today.”

     He looked at her in surprise. “Today?”

     “Yes, I gave you a memo to remind you.”

     “I must have misplaced it.” He looked around the room. “Here,” he said, “ and handed her a vase of fake gardenias. “I'll have to contact the pension people and get that in order. Sorry about that.”

     Forty-five years, and Elinor was going home with her only farewell gift, fake flowers from the Pottery Barn his wife had brought in to decorate the office. As she went past a large bin, she dropped them in. No tears, she was far too strong a woman for that. There would never be any tears for this damned company. But at least her dedication would give her enough to live on for the rest of her life. When she came down the elevator, she saw Ronnie, her dearest friend and secret love. He was talking quietly to a young man.

     “Ronnie,” she called out to him.

     He ignored her.

     “Ronnie,” she repeated.

     He turned to her frowning, then smiled a little.

      “I wanted to talk to you before I left.”

     “Can it wait until Monday, dear?”

     Dear. He always called her dear. The darling man.

     “I won't be here on Monday. This is my last day.”

     Ronnie glanced at his companion and then looked back at Elinor.

     “Your last day?”

     “Yes, I've retired. I thought you knew but you know Ogilvie, he messed up. He forgot to get the paperwork up to you. You'll get it on Monday if I have to come back and take care of it myself.”

     “The paperwork,” he looked at her doubtfully.

     “Yes, for the pension.”

     “The pension.”

     “Yes, the money you've been investing for me for over ten years now. I've been looking forward to it. I have plans...”

      She stopped as he took a step backwards into his friend, who steadied him.

      "Not a good time to retire. The economy is bad, you know that.”

      “But the stocks you bought for me have done well in spite of that. I read the last report you sent me.”

      "Oh, yes, yes....I'll see to it. But how about Wednesday, or even better Thursday.....”

      “Thursday will be fine.” She smiled. “And Ronnie, I still want to see you from time to time.”

     So she went home, cleaned, organized her files, talked to her lawyer, talked to a travel agent, picking Italy as her first destination. The days sped by, and then it was Thursday and she found herself once more taking the elevator to the 14^th floor to the finance department. Odd, people who had ignored her for years were now staring at her, whispering. Had they missed her after all?

     Mr. Ogilvie was standing at Ronnie's desk, talking to a man she didn't know.

     “Where's Ronnie?”

     “God, Elinor, I'm so sorry.”

     “What? Did something happen to Ronnie?”

     “He's gone.”

     “Gone? Where to?”

     “No one seems to know. He didn't come to work on Monday, never a call to say where he was.

We thought he might be sick or something so we finally had someone in personnel go to his apartment to see what was wrong.”

     “Apartment, he lives in a house.”

     “No, a two bedroom condominium in Glen Oaks. A very expensive place, I gather.”

“Two bedrooms? That wouldn't be enough for his family. He has two girls and a boy.”

     Mr. Olgivie coughed. “He's not married. You didn't know?”

     It took the police investigators hours to convince her that Ronnie had been embezzling, getting signatures from older female employees that allowed him to take their pension money and gamble with high risk stocks. They all called him Ronnie and thought of him as a son, just the way Elinor had. For a while, the police had questioned HER, wondering who had doctored his employment records. But she was so obviously a victim, they left her alone. My God, his name wasn't even Ronnie, he was a con artist who had assumed an entire different persona to get the job.

     He was gone. So was her pension. She couldn't sue the company because her signature was everywhere and then the company would find out she had forged his recommendations. She could have gone to prison. All she had left to live on was social security, her house, and a few savings. Her dreams of foreign travel evaporated.

     A few weeks later, she had her first stroke. The women from the church took charge of her, took her to doctor's appointments, found her a walker, brought her food. She put on weight from all the food. With nothing to do, she ballooned up and took to wearing long mumus. Then Fran brought her the cat. That damned cat.

     The cat walked across the living room, crossing her by hopping on her breasts, stopping to stare at her and smell her lips. He suddenly leaped off and tore around the room, jumping up on furniture that he didn't belong on. He was testing her in every way and he was having fun doing it, too. He skidded to a stop in front of the little Christmas tree.

     Elinor could hear the ornaments smashing on the floor. She didn't care. The Salvation Army had dropped the tree off, something from a store display, she thought, a store that took down Christmas a week before the holiday and donated the remains to charities for the tax discount. It was an ugly blue tree The cat batted at the pink ornaments and in the end toppled the little tree. If she were capable of laughing she would have. She didn't give a damn and would have laughed at the cat's panic stricken flight away from it. She hated the tree. She hated the cat. Let them have at each other.

     After that first stroke, she had to put up with Fran. Fran was a loud mouthed, ignorant woman but Elinor knew there was no point in disagreeing with her because she only got louder and angrier. If Fran stopped visiting, there would be no one else.

     Fran would be at midnight services tonight. Would she stop by tomorrow? Probably not. Fran only played Lady Bountiful when it fit into her schedule. And what about the Salvation Army? Would they bring her Christmas dinner or was she supposed to go down to the center? She couldn't remember. She had written it down and put it on the refrigerator. She thought about that for a while.

     Fran had brought her the cat.

     “You need company, dear.”

     Dear, Ronnie called her “dear”. She hated being called dear.

     “I don't want a cat.”

     “You need company. It's no good living alone and obsessing. It will give you something to love. Look, I've brought you everything you need. A litter pan, litter, kibbles. Give it a try. If it doesn't work out, we'll take him back to the pound.”

     But the cat had stayed. When she called the pound to take him back, she found out that she would have to pay a fine for his return. She found out that the litter, litter pan and kibbles had come from the pound. Fran had paid nothing out of pocket. But she said nothing because no one else visited her except for annoying Christians who felt sorry for her. Forty five years working and people felt sorry for her. It was awful, yet worse were the days when no one stopped by.

     She warred with the cat who wanted to leave the house. She changed his litter and thought about all the diapers she changed when she was young. Forty five years. Forty five years and she was back where she began, taking care of something else, having nothing for herself.

     She could smell the cat feces. The litter box needed changing. Another day and the place would reek.

     The cat pawed at his litter box, throwing his turds in the air in abandon. No one could yell at him, he would do what he chose. He hovered close to the door. If anyone came through, he would be out of there in a flash of black and white fur. Once out, he would go back to his old life.

     He crawled around the counter tops, prying open doors, searching. Glasses smashed to the floor. Nothing. The old bitch had hidden the kibbles where he couldn't get at them, in a metal canister with a latch. Nothing to eat. He looked down at the old lady. He jumped down and walked over to her. Food, he wanted food. He pawed at her. She watched him, her eyes moving slowly as he walked over her body. Pay attention, he meowed. He gave her a nip. Nothing. No screaming, no swatting. He bit her arm hard. Nothing but the salty taste of blood. He had forgotten how he liked the taste of blood, but now he remembered his days of catching rats and the joy of chewing their heads off and disemboweling them.

     He backed off . He would give her another six or seven hours. 

     By morning, he would begin his Christmas feast.

Upstanding Citizen

“Left, please.” Flash.

“Front please.” Flash.

“So tell me, Benny,” said Mel, blinking away the purple blobs floating in his vision,“how is it that you picked me up in two hours, but there's nothing you can tell me about the guys I called you about two weeks ago?”

Benny shrugged and motioned him over to a table with an ink pad and a sheet of paper already filled out with Mel's personal information.

Benny said, “Maybe if you hadn't driven directly home from the scene on fresh snow, it would have taken us a bit longer.”

“Too bad there wasn't any snow when my place was hit, huh?” Mel said.

“I guess it's just one of those things,” Benny said. “ Now just let your hands go limp. It'll work better if I roll them for you.”

The ink pad reminded Mel of creosote. As his fingers were rolled one by one across the paper, he couldn't help but think about the ashen fingerprints and smudges left on the walls where the jerk offs had dumped out the ash bucket by the fireplace.

“Hey,” he said, “why didn't you take fingerprints at my house? They left them all over.”

Benny shrugged. “They wore gloves, Mel. Nothing turned up that we could use.”

Mel let out a bitter laugh. “So all us taxpayers will show up right away on fingerprint searches, but the real criminals on the street just get to keep on laughing.”

“It's an imperfect world.” Benny said.

Benny handed an alcohol wipe to Mel for the ink on his fingers, and took him by the arm back to a green metal desk. Benny took a pile of paper from a nearby chair and elbowed a tabletop Christmas tree aside to make room next to a buzzing computer. He gestured for Mel to sit down.

“The case fan on this thing is always giving me grief,” Benny said and smacked the computer's side a few times, causing the buzz to change pitch. “The city's IT guy says he can't do anything about it, and the department's budget says we can't replace it for at least another year.” Benny shook his head.

“But the paper said you're all getting those new hot-rod squad cards this year,” Mel said. “Just get something else, and you could buy new computers all around.” The solution was so simple, thought Mel.

“You would think so, but no,” Benny said, “Different budgets. Can't just use one to cover the other.”

Mel rolled his eyes. Damn government. He had made due with a '95 F-150 pickup and an old Dell from 2001. But the police department could just spend his tax money any way they wanted.

“Now Mel,” Benny said, “I can answer most of the questions for you on the booking form myself, you know, the name, address, that kind of stuff. But is there anything you want to tell me about what happened tonight?”

“Not hardly.” Mel said. “Not until I get a lawyer in here, though lord knows how much more that's going to cost me.”

“We can provide you with one, if you like.” Benny said. “Marge Kauffman's son is the usual public defender. He's not too bad.”

“I'm not a charity case, Benny. I'll get one on my own.”

“Suit yourself.” Benny squinted at the computer screen and tapped at a few keys. “The only other thing here I need is a list of aliases. You go by any other name but Melvin?”

“How about the 'Mad Upstanding Citizen'?”

“I'll take that as 'none,'” Benny said, hitting a few more keys. “You can never tell when smart-ass comments like that come back to bite you.” He looked up from the screen. “I'm sorry as hell about all this, Mel. But you know what they say, two wrongs don't make a right.”

“Mmm.” Mel grunted. “So do I get a phone call or what?”

Benny lifted a phone from behind the pile of papers and balanced it on the desk's edge next to Mel.

“Make as many as you want while I fill this in, just don't make any long distance ones. The sheriff will have a bird if he sees something like that showing up.”

Mel thought about whom to call. Pam, his girlfriend, was still pissed at him for going hunting the weekend his place got robbed, and was now out the pair of emerald earrings she picked out and had never unwrapped. She'd probably dump him once she found out about all this. His mother would never let him hear the end of it; she was already calling him after every episode of CSI, NCIS, and Law and Order with ideas he could pass along to help the police investigation. His ex-wife would happily come for him, and then squeeze the details out of him for ammunition in the next custody battle. That left only his brother George.

“Hello?” George said over a din of twangy music and raised voices.

Mel plugged his ear with a finger to keep out the computer's buzzing. “Hey, it's Mel. I need you to come bail me out.”

“From like jail or something? What'd you do?”

“Nothing, just a misunderstanding.”

“I'll bet. Say, they catch the guys who robbed your place yet?”

“No,” Mel said, looking pointedly at Benny, who didn't seem to notice. “Seems they haven't been able to find those guys. Look, can you get me out or not? Where are you?”

“I'm at She-Bangs, watching the game.” His words slurred, like he was trying to fit She-Bangs into a single syllable.

Mel's heart skipped. She-Bangs had been right across the street. Maybe George had been too interested in the game and his beer to bother looking out the bar's front window.

“You know what, George? Forget about it. I'll call someone else,” Mel said.

“Hey!” George said, “That reminds me. The Salvation Army got robbed tonight. Cops all over the place. Is that what they got you for?”

“No.” Mel's mind raced and he blurted the first thing that came into his head. “DUI.”

“Those bastards,” George said. “What'd you blow?”

“I uh – point one-oh.”

“Hell, that ain't nothing!”

“Maybe so. You coming to get me or what?”

“I'd love to, but I'm drunk too.”

What a surprise, Mel thought. “So?”

“So? What's it going to look like if one drunk shows up to drive another one home? They'll put me right in there with you. That ain't going to help either one of us.”

“How long until you sober up?”

Benny looked up over the computer screen and raised one eyebrow. Mel shot him a look and turned his back.

“Not until tomorrow, 'spect. I'm trading shots with the bartender on every score, and you know Minnesota can't play defense.”

“Well can't you stop and come here in a few hours?”

“What? Why should I miss out on my fun because you're a jackass? Tell you what – I'll show up first thing in the morning, hangover and all. How about that?”

Mel wanted to slam the phone in his brother's ear, but then he'd have to call someone else. He forced the words out of his mouth.

“Fine. See you then.”

Mel sat in the cell, a ten-foot by ten foot room made of white painted cinderblock, white bars, and lit by a fluorescent tube behind Plexiglas. A thin plastic mattress the color of pistachio pudding was the only thing between him and the cinderblock alcove built into the back wall. It wasn't all that comfortable to sit on, and would probably be a lot worse to sleep on come bedtime, or was it called “lights out” around here? Maybe they kept the lights on, and he wouldn't sleep at all. At least the cell block was empty. He didn't think he could use the toilet with someone watching.

Mel was glad George's present, a camouflage baseball hat, had been stolen too. He was going to tell his brother it had been new Benelli semi-auto shotgun. Damn the luck anyway, the stuff from the Salvation Army store had all been donations anyway, right? The stuff no one wanted anymore. People could have just as easily put it out on the curb for the garbage truck. It wasn't like the Salvation Army paid for any of that stuff. Could it really be stealing if the stuff he grabbed was essentially worthless?

It would all come out now, of course. He'd get either dirty squints from the town busybodies or worse, well-meaning charity types. He might be able to keep it quiet for as long as Christmas, maybe even into the new year. Maybe no one would know until much later. Sometime after the holiday season. Because he didn't want to be a charity case -- no way.

The door to the cell block opened, and Benny appeared at his cell with tray of food. He slid the tray through a slot in the bars.

“What the hell is this all?” Mel said as he looked at the heaps on the tray. Turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, vegetables, rolls and gravy.

“Christmas dinner,” Benny said. “They tell me it's all organically grown too.”

“But this is better than what I have at home! How much did this cost the city?”

Benny held up his hands.“Separate budgets, Mel, that's all I can say. I'll get you a cup of coffee when you're ready for the pie,” Benny said, “Just yell out when you're ready.” The deputy turned and began walking out.

“I'm not a charity case!” Mel yelled at Benny's back.

Benny waved a hand acknowledgement as he shut the cell block door.

“The coddling we give these convicts. No wonder the prisons are full,” Mel said.

He wouldn't eat it. He wouldn't. He wouldn't stoop so low as to take a jailhouse meal. He was an upstanding citizen who had been pushed too far, and made a mistake. He'd take whatever the judge handed out and not gripe once about it.

His stomach rumbled. He hadn't had anything since the Slim Jim and granola bar before the break-in. The smell of the rosemary and sage in the stuffing made his mouth water. A curl of steam rose from the potatoes. On the other hand, Mel thought, he might as well eat the meal. It wasn't like they could do anything but throw it away if he didn't eat it, and that was a wasting food. Even more, he was pretty sure that his taxes paid for this meal, so in effect, he was paying his own way, wasn't he?

Mel reached for his fork.

Shades of Green

By Colleen Sutherland

“Keep your mouth shut,” Mama said, as she stowed Abby’s deviled eggs in the refrigerator. “Don’t say anything and Grace won’t get started. She’s worse when you argue with her.”

So when Grace and her husband arrived, Abby kept her mouth shut. She listened to Grace natter on about her two daughters, her clubs, her church, her home, her activities. Abby said nothing about her friends, her writing, her magazine column, her art. She said nothing about the men in her life, current or ex. She bit her cheek and rubbed her fingers against her arm, back and forth, back and forth. A nervous habit. But she kept her mouth shut, collecting affronts to report to her therapist.

Grace made some triumphant point and pursed her lips. At fifty, her lips carried vertical indentations that were turning into a perpetual frown. From her lofty social position as a small town banker’s wife, she knew the world and disapproved of it on Christian principle. She certainly disapproved of Abby, her divorce, her men, her freedom. Grace set her limits. She expected everybody to do the same. But Abby said nothing.

“Mustn’t brag, dear. You know how it upsets your sister,” Mama whispered to Abby over the supper dishes, wiping her hands on her stained polyester pants. Papa had towered over her, brow-beating her to obeisance. When he died, Grace took over. By tomorrow, Mama would be on her sofa with a sick headache, not answering the phone or door bell, escaping with Oprah.

Now finished with worrying about a Sunday dinner for four, Mama began to fret about Christmas. Eighteen people around the table. Eighteen people who did not like each other. Things might not go well. Things usually didn’t. “Could you make cole slaw?” she asked Abby.

Grace came into the kitchen with multiple copies of her Christmas list, suggestions for presents for her husband, her daughters, and her. “I know what you need for Christmas,” she told Abby. “A job.” Freelance writing was not real work, in Grace’s view. As Abby threw the silverware into their slots in the drawer with loud clinks, Grace checked the dried dishes for stains before she put them into the cupboard.

“It’s all part of your dysfunctional family,” Abby’s therapist said. “You can endlessly talk about your problems or you can accept things as they are. Or you can avoid the Christmas situation entirely.” 

Abby wished her therapist would give her more answers and fewer choices. She’s like God, Abby thought, never exactly answering prayers, but giving just enough reassurance to keep the patient praying. 

“Use your car keys as a security blanket,” her therapist suggested. “Always have them with you, in your pocket. Then you know you can eventually escape.”

After the dishes were wiped and put away, Abby said nothing. She sat quietly on the print sofa, grasping her car keys, planning her escape. She was quietly good until the keys imprinted themselves on her palm.

“I have to get home to Charles,” she said suddenly, using him as an excuse. Her strong-willed son waited at home, refusing to have dinner with Grace.

“Oh, Charles,” Grace said, disdainful. Her lips pursed. Abby gazed at the permanently creased lips, and pictured perpetual displeasure, forever etched even onto Grace’s final laying out in the funeral parlor. At the image, Abby felt guilty pleasure."

What a shame you raise him all wrong,” Grace intoned. “Really, Abby, you should never allow him to be so fussy.” Charles did not like Grace’s baked beans. “And why, at his age can’t he do his own cooking?” Charles was twelve. “Now my girls…” And Grace was off for another five minutes as Abby stood mutely by the door. Her head pounded. But she was good. She said nothing. And escaped.

****

Crucified by criticism, Abby retreated to her own house for a martyr’s sleep. She had this, her home, her bedroom, her green and white haven with its white bedspread, white curtains, mint walls. Spider plants and philodrenda leaves spread over her headboard, a living green drapery. Potted summer plants rescued from her garden lined the space under the windows. Geranium petals fluttered to the floor. An antique olive frame hung over the dresser, empty. It was meant to border a black-and-white sketch of Charles as a baby, a reminder of another task unfinished, another success put off until it became failure. The frame’s ornate plaster was falling apart. She vacuumed up chips from time to time.

The kelly green afghan Grace knit was draped over the old rocking chair. It was always there, even when there was an overnight male in Abby’s bed, ever, ever a reminder of Grace’s disapproval.

“Why do you keep it there?” asked the therapist.

“It’s my style,” Abby nervously laughed. “Sex with guilt.”

The alarm shrilled at 5:30 Christmas morning. It was paper route time. Abby stumbled down the old narrow stairs, barely missing the black cocker spaniel who lay in wait in the dark landing. Vertigo reminded Abby of her premonition that someday she would die on that staircase.

But not this day. “Charles,” she screamed as she filled the tea kettle at the sink.

Charles exited from his room, carefully closing the door as always to hide the contents. He was green, truly green, the color of a squished grasshopper. He didn’t make it to the bathroom. He vomited. He spewed out vomit all over the kitchen floor and half-way up the cupboards. He spared not a glance at the Christmas tree, his presents sprawled out. By clever arrangment, Abby tried to make it look like he was getting more.

What a mother must do, Abby did. First the child. She put him to bed, hers not his, because he probably caught whatever bug he had in that pit of filth and creativity. They stumbled together up the stairs to her bedroom. She strained to lift him onto her bed. Abby scuffed back down the stairs for a bucket and a bottle of tepid soda she found under the sink. Up the old staircase again, she warned Charles to swill his mouth out but not drink until the bubbles were mostly gone. She covered him with Grace’s kelly green afghan. One part of her said, it's warm. The other part thought, perhaps he’ll puke all over it. Decision made for her, she could throw it away.

On Christmas Sunday, at 6:00 a.m , which of Charles’s friends could she call for his paper route? No one, all the substitute carriers had left for Christmas vacations in sunny Florida and other places she and Charles could never afford. Abby realized the route was hers, all eighty papers, three pounds each. On this holy day, the retailers were preparing for the post-holiday sales.  

The cocker spaniel had eaten most of the vomit. Abby cleaned up the rest. She shrugged on an old army coat and lurched through winter drizzle to hump in the five bundles left on the curb, two of newspapers, three of inserts. She began the laborious task of stuffing and folding. 

Insert, insert, fold. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

After twenty papers, she ran up to check on Charles. He vomited one more time into the bucket, then there was nothing else in his stomach. He retched and sipped warm soda. Abby hurried down the stairs to empty the evil-smelling mess in the toilet, rinsed the bucket and took it back to Charles. 

Inert, insert, fold, stack. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

The tea kettle whistled. Abby found some lime Jell-O in the cupboard, old but still good enough for Charles’s lunch. She made herself a cup of mint tea to take on the route. She listened at the stairs. No sound.

Insert, insert, fold, stack. Insert, insert, fold, stack.

At 7:00 a.m., Abby drove her old Buick through the dark town. She parked on each block and slogged, slipped and slushed through the route, referring to the newspaper route cards by the greenish glare of street lamps. Where do I put the paper? She wondered. In the door, or in the mailbox? Rather than ring doorbells, Abby decided to use the door every time. How should I know? she excused herself. Besides, everyone would be using their front doors today. It was Christmas! She jerked at each storm door, flipped the paper up and slammed the door before the paper fell. Wreaths jingled, bells rang.

After twenty papers, she hurried back to check on Charles. He slept, forehead damp and hot. She stirred the hardening Jell-O and rushed back to the streets.

By 9:00, she had delivered forty more papers. Charles was still sleeping. She showered quickly, hoping her hair would be dry soon enough to go out again. She wished once more for a hair dryer that actually worked. She took three phone calls, customers complaining that the paper was in the wrong place.

“You mustn’t rude to the customer,” she always told Charles. “Don’t talk back.” She apologized calmly and explained her son was ill. One lady told Abby how sorry she was for Charles, such a little boy to have to work so hard. “But I suppose he has to since you don’t work.” A bellicose male said being sick was no excuse. “A job worth doing is worth doing right.”

Mama called. “When are you bringing the cole slaw over,” she asked querulously. “Aunt Ruth and Uncle Archie are here already. “ Exasperated, Abby chopped savagely at a head of cabbage to make the slaw for the family dinner, dressing it with a jar from the store.

She went out in the cold air, hair still wet, to deliver the last twenty newspapers, then dashed home to check on Charles, still sleeping under the green afghan. His color was better, his forehead cooler. She woke him up to force feed him soda and Jell-O. She carefully brought up the television, installed it on the dresser, and gave him the remote control. “Why can’t we have cable?” he asked, knowing the answer. They could not afford it.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” she said.

Abby drove the cole slaw the two blocks to Mama’s house. Ten of the family were already there, her fat, self-satisfied, married brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles. Abby placed her cole slaw in the refrigerator and slipped gift certificates under the tree. She turned to see Grace parade through the house with her husband and daughters, each of them laden with baskets of gaudily wrapped gifts.

“Feliz Navidad!” Grace shrieked, drawing attention to herself. She had been taking Spanish lessons for the trip to Mexico she and the banker were taking in the New Year. As if she would go anywhere near anyone of Hispanic descent, Abby thought. Grace prided herself on finding resorts with “white” staff that could speak English.

Grace waited for a response.

“Another year,” Abby said hastily. “I have to go home. Charles and I won’t be here for Christmas dinner.”

“We must all be together on Christmas,” her mother whined, tears forming. “That is what being a family is all about. If you don’t stay, Christmas is ruined for us all.”

“Charles has a bad case of the flu,” Abby said. “I can’t leave him home alone and I can’t bring him here or you will all catch whatever it is he has.”

“You know why he’s sick, don’t you?” Grace, knowingly nasal, pulled the jacket of her chartreuse pant suit over her complacent belly. “It’s a plea for attention. You spend too much time away from home. Now I think a woman should stay home with her children. I never worked away from the house….”

“Shut up!” Abby screamed. “All of you, just shut up! Can’t you mind your own business!” Abby cried out her frustration. “I work at home just so I can be there when he gets home from school! I do the best I can!” She howled out her anger and guilt. “What is the matter with you? Can’t you leave us alone?” She burst into tears.

Mama started to cry, too. Grace settled into her chair, glancing around at the relatives. Their eyes gleamed. Like Grace, they knew it all along. Abby couldn’t control herself. That’s the way she was.

***

“I haven’t seen any of them since Christmas,” Abby told her therapist at the end of their first session in January.

“This week, think about what you really wanted to tell them. We'll discuss it next time.”

“It doesn’t make any difference! You don’t understand! Grace won!” Abby sobbed. “She won again!”

In the winter's early mornings, Abby lay quietly in her green haven, the spider plant babies dangling over the bed. She practiced deep breathing exercises. She read philosophy. She listened to the sparrows singing in the bushes outside. Everything was as it was, except for one thing. Grace’s afghan was folded away in her closet.

“Why keep it at all?” her therapist asked.

“It goes with my room,” she answered. “It goes with my life to keep things, to keep them hidden.”

***

Easter came early that year, with Mama’s ham supper and Grace.

Abby said nothing.   






(Note:  This is the third in a series of depressing Christmas stories.  They date back to a beautiful Christmas Eve when I came back from church services all aglow and paused on the steps to look up and down the street.  Some houses were filled with merriment, but others were dark, though I knew the families were home.  I began to wonder what their Christmases were like. How do dysfunctional families spend the holidays?  "The Rapture" and A Candle in the Window" have already been posted here.  There are more to come.)