Catching Christmas
Lori Borgman
Copyright 2010 by Lori Borgman
Smashwords Edition
In the spirit of "A Christmas Story" and "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" comes a light hearted tale that captures both the imagination and the essence of the Christmas season . . .
Catching
Christmas
by Lori Borgman
Copyright Lori Borgman © 2008
All rights reserved
The names, characters, place and incidents in this book, or are the products of my imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER
1
Walter
Walter
Hawkins had taken his eyes off the road for two seconds, maybe three,
when his front right tire glanced off the curb. He jerked the
steering wheel hard to the left, and in the process sent an adrenalin
rush through the driver in the car next to him, who instinctively
laid on her horn.
Walter glanced at the driver. Spiked hair, multiple piercings, and a bobble-head Santa shaking on the dashboard. Looked like the type that might or might not have a small handgun on the seat beside her. Walter was about to make one of those apologetic nods drivers make when they know they’ve done something stupid and are profoundly grateful it didn’t result in an accident, when the driver smacked her thumb and index finger, shaped like the letter L, to her forehead and mouthed a word Walter could clearly make out as “LOSER!” She surged ahead with Santa’s oversized head bobbing wildly and leaving Walter in a putrid cloud of exhaust.
He began searching again, but this time keeping one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the road. He rummaged through a pile on the passenger seat -- loose papers, file folders and an empty sack from Freddy’s Fried Chicken. He stretched his arm, reached into the glove box and gave it a good ransacking, but no go. He popped open the console between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat and dug around in there. Christmas CDs, straws, gloves, salt and ketchup packets, napkins – bingo -- sunglasses.
No wonder he had a hard time finding them. It had been ages since he’d needed his sunglasses. Ever since Thanksgiving it had been the Twelve Days of Darkness. For nearly two weeks, people had plodded through their daily routines beneath low-lying clouds that looked like dryer lint suspended from the sky. Today, all that had changed. This morning the sun burst through the clouds, turning the sky a glorious pink and orange. The glare of the sun was nearly blinding. It was hard going for Friday morning commuters traffic headed east.
Walter enjoyed the drive to the Cypress Academy. He had been a commuter in D.C. before his recent move. He and his family had lived in one of those satellite suburban communities that ring the Capitol. It was a newer neighborhood where all the houses on all the streets in the entire subdivision looked exactly alike, were it not for two small details. One, each homeowner expressed individuality in the choice of color for the shutters, and secondly, the builder had flipped the floor plan on every third house. Each and every house sat on a postage-size lot and sold for three times what it would have in the rest of the country, California excluded.
In D.C., Walter would have driven ten minutes to the train station, parked the car, taken a twenty-five minute inbound train, then walked another ten minutes from the station to the office. Roughly fifty-five minutes one way; nearly two hours round trip; ten hours a week, forty hours a month, 480 hours a year. Walter had a thing for numbers. Numbers and efficiency.
Walter’s work in the Capitol had been with the President’s Faith-Based and Community Initiative. He had been offered the position of a middle manager who would oversee distribution of funds to religious charities and grassroots groups that provided services for the poor.
Walter appropriated monies to thousands of faith-based organizations across the country, from day care centers to homeless shelters, and assorted groups that served as putty in the cracks through which the lost and forgotten often slipped. His specialty, however, was schools -- urban partnerships hammered out between faith-based groups, private organizations and corporate sponsors. All in all, it was a rewarding job. Or at least he told people it was.
In reality, over time Walter Hawkins found himself morphing into the dreaded policy wonk, tending decimal points, flipping through computer printouts, reciting boring statistics on education and philanthropy that nobody gave a blast about, all in an isolated four-by-six basement cubicle under the ghastly green cast of fluorescent lights.
When Walter got a call from an old friend about a faith-based K-through-12 school in the Midwest needing a headmaster, he knocked over his desk chair, two computer monitors, and a trash can to lunge at the opportunity. He couldn’t wait to roll up his sleeves and actually do something hands on. This would be dealing with people, not paper, and real-time as opposed to distant projections.
The timing for the job offer had been perfect. Both Walter and his wife, Claire, had never seen themselves in D.C. for the long haul. They’d hoped to get back to the Midwest eventually. Their oldest boy was in grade school and the youngest hadn’t started, so the trauma of changing schools would be minimal. Walter and Claire Hawkins didn’t need any more trauma with the boys. Some days the two Hawkins boys were a trauma unit in themselves.
Just this morning the boys had attempted to launch themselves from the top bunk bed after wrapping one another in bubble wrap and mailing tape they “borrowed” from the packing supplies Claire had on hand for shipping out-of-town gifts. Walter heard the crash from the kitchen and knew immediately it had come from the boys’ bedroom.
“What going on up there?” he yelled.
“Nuttin’!” a voice answered.
It always spelled trouble when the boys were engaged in “nuttin’.” Walter slammed the coffee pot back on the warmer and raced up the stairs. Claire bolted out of the bathroom with toothpaste still foaming in her mouth, grabbing a hand towel on her way.
Griffin, the older of the two boys, was sprawled on the floor, momentarily stunned. Quinn was oblivious, stomping on a sheet of bubble wrap that had ripped loose from his projectile brother. No serious collateral damage, other than one sore bottom belonging to Griffin and a blue wad of Crest that had dripped on Claire’s white sweater.
Claire had been ready for the move back to the heartland and family roots as well. They sold the cookie-cutter house, packed a moving truck, and headed for The Cypress Academy. The founders had thought that a good name when they began the school twelve years ago. Cypress is the wood Noah used when he built the ark. Jim Ross, one of the original founders and still a board member, noted that in some translations the wood is called gopher wood, but Gopher Academy hardly seemed fitting for a school committed to rigorous academics. The founders shared a common belief that a school is like an ark, a place of safety and refuge from turbulent waters, so they settled on Cypress.
The Cypress was only a fifteen-minute drive from the Hawkins’ home. That was a commute time savings of forty minutes a day, three and a third hours a week, thirteen hours a month, 156 hours a year. The first month or so at Cypress, Walter recited those statistics almost daily, puffed up and pleased with his efficiency. Then one day Claire asked what he planned on doing with that extra 156 hours a year and he stopped mentioning it.
“See you around six,” Walter had called to Claire earlier this morning as she and the boys waved from the front door.
Claire would drive Griffin and Quinn to school later, dropping them off at the lower elementary. Carpool would bring them home at three forty-five and Walter would bustle in five seconds before they sat down for dinner. He had an uncanny way of sliding in under the wire.
“See you later, Dad!” the boys yelled. They smashed their hands and faces against the window, leaving ghoulish impressions of their foreheads and lips dripping in the condensation.
Five blocks, one left turn, and Walter was on the thoroughfare that cut a swath through the south side of the city. The boulevard was where Walter had begun fishing around for his sunglasses and had the near accident only moments ago. But now traffic was flowing smoothly and he would be at the Cypress Academy in only nine more minutes.
A wide grassy median separated northbound and southbound traffic on the parkway. Old-money mansions lined both sides. They were grand homes tooled in Federal style, with Palladian windows. There were Italianate manses with second floor porticos, and magnificent Tudors with heavy wooden doors. Many of the homes along the parkway were trimmed with ropes of live greenery wrapped around columns, doorways, and balusters. The mercury had plunged below freezing last night, leaving a heavy frost glistening on the lawns. From just the right angle, prisms of color flashed in the sun’s rays. Many of the homes had enormous wreaths and boughs of evergreens accented with artificial fruit hanging on their front doors. When Walter had mentioned to Claire that, other than the Harry and David Fruit of the Month Club, he didn’t grasp the new fruit trend that accompanied Christmas this year, Claire just smiled and told him that sometimes he thought too hard.
Walter and Claire’s house was nowhere as grand as these. Nor did it have any fruit on it. They had found a comfortable three-bedroom, two-story traditional red brick home with white trim and green shutters in an older neighborhood adjacent to the parkway. The mailbox, attached to the front of the house, was dark red with a flip top lid and large white letters that said POST. The mailbox, like the chimney with the ivy crawling up the sides, had a warm and friendly aura about it. The house had hardwood floors, paned windows, pocket doors and a stone fireplace.
As of this morning, the Hawkins family had been in the house one year, six months and four days. Walter didn’t know how he did it, but he remembered numbers in detailed ways. This would be the Hawkins’ second Christmas in the charming house and Walter’s second Christmas as headmaster at Cypress Academy. For any school administrator, private, public or charter, the month of December was second in activity level and energy demands only to the month of May, when students graduated. Walter knew this from experience and, of course, he had statistics to back it up as well.
Even without his Blackberry in view, Walter had a clear idea of how the day would unfold. It was Friday, his final chance to catch up on a growing mound of paper before the weekend. At eight-ten there would be announcements, followed by an eight-twenty-five meeting with the director of development, followed by a nine o’clock meeting with the counseling staff, followed by an open window of time to put out assorted brush fires, followed by time allotted to work on the accreditation forms. At noon he would meet several of the Parent Teacher Fellowship board members for a working lunch. In the afternoon he would answer emails, return phone calls and clarify guidelines for the upcoming, and much ballyhooed, senior class trip. The high school principal had informed Walter that there were going to be some changes this time around. Last year, several students had gotten a little too friendly at the back of one of the charter buses late at night. This year the high school principal wanted guidelines requiring girls and guys to return to their separate sides of the bus by one a.m.
Walter shook his head, remembering the principal’s description of breaking up a lip lock with plunger-strength suction. He tried to remember if he had been like that as a teen. His memory slowly returned and brought with it the year he was seventeen and enamored with Lisa Wilshire. Long legs, pretty smile, blonde hair, blue eyes. As the memory of Lisa Wilshire grew clearer and clearer, he recalled having the exact same proclivities as the students on last year’s class trip and made a mental note to suggest the deadline for assigned seats be moved up to right after sundown.
He wheeled into the parking lot and was delighted to see that vehicles were sparse. He’d have time to get a few steps ahead of the crowd. The basketball coach’s SUV was parked in the auxiliary lot and the coach was opening up the practice gym. One of the fellows from maintenance had his truck parked by the doors that opened to the heating and cooling units. The only other vehicle he recognized was a maroon minivan belonging to his administrative assistant, Peggy Valentine.
“What in blazes?” Walter muttered, as he eased into parking spot No.112.
Either Peggy had decorated her minivan for the holidays, or her vehicle had been carjacked and vandalized by craft maniacs armed with glue guns and garlands. Silver aluminum garland, the kind that went out of style in the ‘60s, and giant, plastic red bows had been wrapped the entire length of the luggage rack on top of the minivan. There was a big silver wreath with a white dove attached to the grillwork on the front of the minivan. He peered inside and saw Christmas lights wrapped around the interior, with some sort of adapter dangling from the cigarette lighter. A Christmas tree shaped deodorizer that said “Wise Men Still Seek Him,” hung from the rearview mirror.
Walter liked his assistant Peggy, he really did. The students did, too. They were all fond of her. She was bubbly, enthusiastic, a regular Old Faithful when it came to creative ideas. He couldn’t do his job half as well without her. She kept her ear to the ground, he could trust her to keep private information private, and her energy was infectious. But Peggy had become an empty nester this year. Her last one had gone off to college and Peggy’s extra energy seemed to carry over to the job. Often it was welcome, but sometimes it was simply over the top.
“Yes,” he said to himself, surveying the vehicle, “Peggy has become the X in Xmas. X for excess.”
He could hear Claire’s voice in his head telling him he was being critical again. He didn’t mean to be critical. It was just that Christmas seemed like it was getting further and further away from Christmas. And, now, he was having a hard time reconciling the Son of God leaving the heavens and humbling himself to take on the flesh of humanity to a minivan wrapped in garland and outlined with twinkle lights powered by a cigarette lighter.
Maybe he did have a critical side. Maybe Claire was right. Ever since Thanksgiving, his critical vein had been bulging. Bulging nothing, it had gone varicose. Lately, when he had felt his critical spirit rising to the surface, he had begun praying the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. The classic prayer helped him focus on being a servant meeting needs, as opposed to being a critic delivering commentary. He prayed silently as he walked to the building, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred; let me sow love; Where there is injury, pardon; Where there is doubt, faith; Where there is despair, hope: Where there is darkness, light; And where there is sadness, joy.”
He finished the prayer and felt considerably more charitable in spirit. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Peggy had also painted a large icthus fish on her back windshield with artificial snow. He prayed once more, “And, Lord, where there is excessive ornamentation, let me sow simplicity.”
Walter loved walking into the main building on the Cypress campus. He liked the pull of the big wooden doors, the smell of polished wood, and the three-step jaunt up the stairs in the foyer and through a second set of double doors that opened into the main hall. The school had once been the largest high school building in the greater metropolitan area. There wasn’t just one building to the school, there were three academic buildings on the campus in all. An elementary building, a middle school, a high school, and a small maintenance building. This campus had once been a major hub of the city. Everybody who was anybody had gone to school here in the ‘40s and ‘50s.
The school had borne witness to fashion changes from poodle skirts and Bobbie sox to disco and pastel polyester prom tuxes with Bozo the Clown-size bowties. The one change the school had not been able to weather was the exodus to the suburbs. Last one out, turn the lights off. The school closed and, with the exception of social calls from rats and cockroaches, every building on campus sat vacant for years. Finally, the district decided to put them on the auction block.
In a huge step of faith, or a lapse of sanity, several couples with a vision for a faith-based school that would draw from urban and suburban communities alike offered a bid. This old campus and these large buildings had been an answer to prayer.
Today, Cypress contained kindergarten through high school, with thirteen hundred kids on one sprawling campus. Two-hundred seventy-six different churches were represented here. Talk about diversity. Cypress enjoyed a reputation for strong academics. Kindergarteners studied the paintings of Georgia O’Keefe, third-grade students read Homer’s “Iliad,” and fourth-grade students learned Latin. Students came from all over the city, urban and suburban, a colorful mix of black, white, and brown.
Walter thrived on the people, the vision, the noise, the challenge, and the excitement. In his quieter moments, he also enjoyed savoring the architectural details of the buildings. In the elementary building, where Walter’s office was, there were wide hallways and massive wooden staircases. At the back of every classroom was a cloak room with hooks for coats and a bench for taking off snow boots. Walter loved the building and everything that happened within its massive walls – learning, discovery, exploration, succeeding, failing and trying again.
This morning, he was early enough that only the security lights were on in the entryway. He rounded the corner to his office and saw light spilling into the darkened hallway from an opened door. He was delighted to hear the whir of the copier. Not only did it mean his assistant Peggy with the wildly decorated minivan was already at work, it meant the copier was still working.
He poked his head in the workroom. “Good morning, Peggy.”
“Good morning, Mr. H. Did you see my minivan?”
See it? He was nearly blinded by it. “I did,” he said. “That’s really something.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even a half-lie. It was the truth. Her minivan really was something.
“Isn’t it fun?” she said. “I got the idea when I was flipping channels between Christmas at the Biltmore and the Amy Grant and Vince Gill Christmas special! The idea hit me between the eyes.”
“And what an idea it was,” he said, again weighing his words carefully. He’d recently heard white lies described as “social tact.” He had contemplated the concept briefly and decided a lie was still a lie. That was Walter in a nutshell, heavy on the black and white, skimpy on the shades of gray.
“Actually,” she said, “what you saw is my plan B. My original plan was to write ‘Jesus, the reason for the season’ on the side windows with aerosol spray snow.” She thrust her hands in the air like a film director framing a scene. “I tried it on the passenger side, but the letters went downhill and I ran out of room before I finished season. I thought of taking some of the vowels out of season to make it fit. You know, just spell it s-e-s-n. I mean, the kids would get it, that’s how they all do that instant messenger talk on the computers. No vowels, just a lot of consonants. But Carl said it was beginning to look more like a ransom note than a Christmas greeting.”
Walter offered a silent prayer of thanks for Carl. Every pot has a lid, as Walter’s mother would say, and thankfully Peggy found hers in Carl. Carl was the sensible voice of restraint to her often-unbridled enthusiasm.
Peggy continued chattering, “So I washed it off. Who knows, I still have some spray snow left. I may try some stenciling on the windows tonight. Anyway, I’ve got some garland left over if you’d like me to put a little holiday zip on your car.” She clucked her tongue, did a little cha-cha-cha action with her shoulders, and waited for Walter’s response.
“I don’t think so. I was thinking of taking it through the car wash later this afternoon, but thanks for the offer.” It was true. He had a mental picture of driving his car through the car wash the instant Peggy mentioned putting “zip” on his car.
“Oh, well that’s fine,” she said curtly, turning back to the copier. “I guess some have more spirit than others,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” Walter said.
“I said, you have some more messages on your desk from late yesterday afternoon. Some man called twice. Wouldn’t leave a name, but said he has something that belongs to you. Sounded gruff, if I might make an observation.”
Peggy was long on making observations. Sometimes her observations were mildly annoying, but more often than not they were spot on.
Walter strode down the hall and turned into the reception area of the main office. Peggy’s desk was the hub of the main office. During December, she always kept a holiday sweater either draped over her desk chair or draped over her shoulders. Today’s sweater, presently resting on the back of her chair, was dark blue with snowflakes covered in pearl white sequins. Peggy had more holiday sweaters than all the kindergarten teachers combined.
Red and white striped candy canes filled a big glass apothecary jar sitting on the corner of Peggy’s desk next to a small plastic crèche with glitter on the roof of the manger. All of the candy canes had been turned upside down to remind kids that they were “J” for Jesus. Peggy was also quick to point out that the cheap plastic nativity was made in China, although the Chinese had no real freedom to worship Christ. Though Peggy was not a certified teacher, she was of the firm belief that every moment with a child was a teachable moment.
Walter strode into his office, shook off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. He did a double take. A sprig of artificial holly and red plaid ribbon now adorned the top of the coat rack. Was there no escape? He sat down at the desk, glanced out the window and saw two cars pulling into the lot. Time. There was never enough. He rifled through papers to sign and sorted phone messages. The phone rang and he deliberately ignored it, letting it ring over to voicemail. Technically, the office phones weren’t open for another fifteen minutes.
Forty-five minutes later, foot traffic was beginning to pick up in the hall. Locker doors began slamming and kids’ voices now filtered into his office. The background chatter steadily built momentum. Peggy was now at her office desk. Walter, responding to a backlog of emails, could hear her laughing with some of the students and yakking away with a gaggle of moms.
Every now and then a kid would lean in Walter’s office and, as the kids call it, give a shout out. “Hello, Mr. Hawkins, how you doing?” Walter would nod and respond, wave them on with his hand, all the while still working away. Walter had an open door policy, so he was quite accustomed to the steady stream of interruptions.
“Live one on line three!” Peggy yelled. This was her cue that she was putting through a call to Walter. He wished she wouldn’t refer to callers as “live ones,” but in Peggy’s words, that was just her way of “keeping it real.”
He lifted the receiver and said, “Walter, here.”
“Headmaster?” a gravely voice asked.
“Yes,” Walter said, “how may I help you?”
“Yes, Hawkins here.”
“Walter Hawkins in the old P.S. building on Jackson Street?”
“Is something wrong with our connection?” Walter asked, mildly irritated.
“No, just making sure you’re the right one.”
The voice was rich and deep. Too old to be the parent of a student. Could be a grandparent or guardian though.
“Well, this is Cypress and I’m the only Walter Hawkins, so you have the right one.” Get to it, man, thought, I don’t have all day.
“I have something you might be interested in. Something that belongs to that school of yours.”
“Really?” Walter said detached, pulling open his middle desk drawer.
“Sure do.” The man sounded confident.
“What is it?” Walter asked.
“I’d like to show it to you,” the caller said.
“Sir, I have a school to tend to. If this is some kind of sales call --.”
“No sales,” the caller said.
“Sorry, I don’t have time –.” Walter was about to disconnect when the voice on the other end said something that drew him back.
“What was that?” Walter said. He froze.. “Go on, I’m listening.”
A small group of upper elementary students filed into Peggy’s office for morning announcements. This morning, Mrs. Moffat’s after-school French Club would be singing “Ah! Quel Grand Mystere.” That was, if they could contain themselves. They were giggly, squirrelly, and bouncing all over the place.
“Hold on, will you?” Walter asked the caller.
Walter dropped the phone, lunged for the door and swung it shut. He was back on the phone, pen in hand, taking notes.
“You’re sure?” Walter asked with an air of disbelief. “Absolutely sure?”
He brushed stray crystals from a used Sweet ‘n Low packet off his desk top, exhaled and said, “Sure, I’ll be there.
“East on 28th Street, then north. I know right where it is. I’ve driven by before. I’ll be there Saturday. Right. Ask for Ludwig. OK, see you then.”
CHAPTER
2
Bonus
Bucks
The
digital clock on the nightstand beside the bed said four-twenty when
Walter renewed his tossing and turning routine. It was too early to
get up. If he got up now, he’d disturb Claire and risk waking the
boys. He rolled another quarter turn to the right. He waited five
minutes, then rolled another quarter turn. He was now face down, all
air passages buried deep in his pillow. All this rolling made him
feel like one of those ballpark franks that turned on metal rollers
at the high school concession stand. The franks rolled slowly and
continuously, just like Walter was doing now. All he needed was some
mustard and chopped onions.
Concession stand. He wondered if Mac had followed up with the exterminator. The Booster Club had been setting up the snack bar for a regional basketball tournament when several of the boosters disturbed a bed of roaches. Jenna Wagner was scooping lard into the melting pan of the popcorn machine when a couple of roaches jumped out like so much Jiffy Pop. Walter happened to be passing through the gym at the time. Why Jenna thought it necessary to blast the roaches with the fire extinguisher was beyond him. Overreaction. But then, that could describe several of the parents at the school.
He rolled another quarter turn, kicked off the blankets and sent them Claire’s direction. She was always cold; she wouldn’t mind the extra layers. He would go see Ludwig later today. Was it really possible?
There were a hundred things to do this weekend and things wouldn’t be slowing down any time soon. There would be the faculty Christmas luncheon next week and the all-school Christmas chapel on the Friday before break. Chapel. He needed to work on his message.
By five o’clock, Walter’s mind had shifted to family responsibilities. He was reminding himself to check mileage on the car, to see if it was time for an oil change, to change the filter on the furnace and . . . light bulb . . . filter . . . oil . . Walter passed the marker for drowsy and was surfing the gentle waves of light slumber when, through his closed eyelids, he had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was shining a bright light directly in his face. He opened his eyes and shot straight up in bed. A brilliant light flooded the entire bedroom. Tree branches outside threw claw-like shadows on the wall.
Light ricocheted off the mirror above the dresser and bounced directly onto Walter and Claire’s bed.
“What in blazes?” he muttered.
“What is it, Walter?” Claire mumbled, half asleep.
“Ahhhhhh,” he growled. “It’s just the Schumachers.” Walter ripped the covers back and bolted from bed.
He knew exactly what the light was. It was from the Schumachers’ headlights. They were headed to Bonus Bucks Day. Again. Bonus Bucks day was a marketing shtick at Bloomberg’s department store. The first three hundred shoppers in line were given twenty-dollar gift cards that could be spent like cash. One Saturday, Betty and Bill had been able to pass through the line, circle back, get in line again, and net a total of $80 in Bonus Bucks.
Walter shielded his face with his arm, his right eye peering above the crook of his elbow. Headlight beams swung across a dried floral wreath and paused briefly on a framed needlepoint that said, “Be Still and Know That I Am God. -- Psalm 46:10.” One of Claire’s friends stitched the needlepoint for her when the family left D.C. It was supposed to be a gift for Claire, but Walter knew it was really a meta-message for him. The car’s headlights panned the armoire, then disappeared. Walter was wide awake now and figured he might as well get up and start the day.
Betty and Bill Schumacher lived next door. They were in their seventies, drove a silver Ford Taurus with a moon roof, leather seats, digital compass and six-CD changer. They were the type of retirees that gave retirement a bad name. Betty and Bill had not slowed their pace of life one iota to accommodate their golden years. They had ratcheted up the golden years to accommodate their breakneck speed of life.
Betty was known for a spotless kitchen, bug-free begonias, and having her hair done every Friday. She was a block captain for the homes association, a doe in good standing at the Elks Club, and always on the front step with a hot dish whenever anyone was sick or had major surgery. Betty was a woman who knew how to “do life.” She changed seasonal wreaths on the front door of their house with such regularity that the widow Princeton once said she didn’t need a calendar. If she needed to know what month it was, she just looked out her kitchen window and checked the wreath on the Schumachers’ door. Betty and Bill occasionally served as surrogate grandparents to Griffin and Quinn. They occasionally looked after the boys whenever Claire and Walter had found themselves in a pinch.
One of the side effects of all of Betty and Bill’s vitality (and generous quantities of strong black coffee), was that their place was immaculate. Truth be told, their perpetual neatness gnawed at Walter. Leaves barely had time to hit the ground on the Schumachers’ lawn before Bill had them raked, bagged and ready for pickup with the flick of a twist tie. Crabgrass never darkened his sod nor did dandelions see the light of day. Bill was the type guy that salted his driveway an hour before the snow fell, always kept a fresh can of Fix-A-Flat under the front seat, and new jumper cables in the trunk. His garage was so neat and orderly that no one would have been surprised to see it featured on one of those television shows on how to organize tight workspaces.
Walter couldn’t compete. Not that Bill had invited him to compete, but Walter always felt a subtle, silent pressure. Walter hadn’t been able to squeeze both cars into their two-car garage since they moved in. There was never enough time -- to sort through the clutter, to organize, to get ahead of the game. Walter admired the Schumachers’ efficiency and orderliness and quietly wished he had more of it himself.
Their two houses were positioned such that whenever the Schumachers went somewhere at night, their headlights shone on the back wall of the Hawkins’ master bedroom. The headlight angle and bedroom window conundrum wouldn’t have been an issue if they had substantial window coverings, but two months after they moved in, Claire set her sights on redecorating the bedroom. Claire announced the heavy window coverings in the bedroom were complete dated. Down they came, replaced by sheers. Sheers looked flimsy to Walter, but he knew better than to balk. Actually, he didn’t have to say a word. The first time he stepped directly out of the shower and into the bedroom stark naked, Claire decided to enhance the window treatments with light filtering privacy shades. Shades they had both obviously forgotten to lower the night before.
Walter squirted some shaving cream into his hand and Walter wondered if Betty and Bill had ever heard of International No Shop Day. Meanwhile, Bill Schumacher was flipping on his turn signal, sailing onto the entrance ramp that would lead he and Betty to the Glen Oaks Mall.
The first three hundred shoppers in line at Bloomberg’s department store would indeed receive bonus bucks in the form of twenty-dollar gift cards, redeemable on any purchase made that day. It was the second year for the promotion. Store managers found the gift cards to be one of the most cost-effective promotions since the President’s Day free cherry pie give-away. Bonus Bucks drew an enthusiastic opening crowd. The buzz those shoppers made once they were unleashed inside the store generated an additional four percent in sales during the 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. window.
There were more cars in the Bloomberg’s parking lot than the Schumachers expected.
“We should have come earlier,” Betty fussed.
“There can’t be more than fifty people in line now,” Bill said. “We’re in good shape. If we wanted, we could wait in the car a few minutes before we get out and freeze to death.”
The open door warning chime was dinging before Walter had time to finish his sentence. Betty darted across the lot and claimed her place in line.
A strong gust smacked Bill in the face as he emerged from the car. Dry leaves skipped across the pavement. A beer bottle rolled down an incline in the parking lot, creating a racket as it and headed toward the sporting goods store.
The couple in line ahead of Betty and Bill wore matching down parkas. They had their hoods pulled tight around their faces. Only someone naïve enough to pay full retail would come out for Bonus Bucks Day without the proper outerwear. The automated sign on the bank across the street said it was 5:20 and 22 degrees.
A maintenance man wearing tan pants and a dark blue jacket with Bloomberg’s written on the back in large white cursive letters appeared with a broom and a dustpan on the end of a long metal pole. He stabbed at a white foam cup when someone shouted, “Why don’t you open up the doors and let us wait in the entryway?”
“Yeah! We’re freezing out here!” someone else chimed in.
The maintenance man looked up and down the line, shook his head and jabbed a paper bag from a taco joint.
“You’re the one who chose to wait in the cold for an hour-and-a-half.”
“Whaddya mean hour-and-a-half?” bristled a woman in a bushy faux fur coat.
“Doors open at seven.” He grunted as he bent down to dislodge a pop can wedged beneath a planter.
“Seven?” alarmed voices chorused.
“The ad said six!” growled a woman.
“That ad said six on Friday, seven on Saturday,” answered the maintenance worker.
“I want to speak to the manager,” snapped the woman shaped like a box. “You go get the manager right now. She just let herself in the door five minutes ago.”
Bill peered out from his bill cap pulled low and his plaid scarf pulled high. “Betty, do the doors open at six or seven?” His warm breath made little puffy clouds in the frigid air.
“I sure thought it was six, but I could be wrong. This is crazy,” Betty said, stomping her left foot, which had now lost all feeling. Bill drew a deep breath and miniature icicles formed instantly on his nose hairs.
The murmuring gained momentum. Grumbling spread through the line like a wide run in a pair of extra small pantyhose on a plus-size woman.
The store manager appeared inside the store. Her name was Christine Willow. A large color picture of Christine hung in a display box in the breezeway. In the picture, Christine had chestnut brown hair with golden highlights, pretty brown eyes, an ivory complexion, and was wearing a tailored red suit with a snazzy black and white scarf. This morning Christine had her brown hair pulled back in a small knot. Her nose was red, her eyes were watery, her skin was blotchy, and she was sneezing into a wet tissue. Beneath the much more flattering picture of her in the breezeway it said: “Christine Willow, Manager of Bloomberg’s, Where Customer Satisfaction is Always Guaranteed.”
Christine was saying something to the maintenance man and nodding toward the doors. He sauntered toward the door, took a key fob from his back pocket, and unlocked a door that led directly into the store. He let himself into the entryway, and proceeded to unlock two of the eight doors that opened to the outside.
“Manager says you can wait inside the breezeway,” he bellowed.
Bonus Bucks shoppers scrambled in, thrilled at the blast of warm air. Sixty-five shoppers crowded into the entryway. Christine walked past the interior set of doors with keys dangling from a pink plastic coil wrapped around her wrist. Christmas trees wrapped in purple and gold brocade ribbons and frosted fruit loomed behind her. A woman in a royal blue coat pounded on the door. Christine walked over and cracked the door. “The paper said the store opens at six! What’s that crazy maintenance guy with the spear talkin’ about?”
“The store doesn’t open until seven today,” Christine said, dabbing at her nose. “I’m sorry. We did pass out Bonus Bucks cards at six yesterday, but we don’t open until seven today. If you read the small print-”
“Humbug!” someone shouted.
“Scrooge!” yelled a blue stocking cap from the back of the breezeway, putting heavy emphasis on the “scroo-“
The crowd picked up the chant, “Scroo-ooge, scroo-ooge, scroo-ooge!”
Betty and Bill looked at one another. They were law-abiding citizens. They paid their taxes on time, always disposed of batteries at the toxic waste drop-off, and only once in their lives bounced a check. They had never been part of a public disturbance, let alone a riot.
“What else do we have to do?” Betty asked. “We’re here. We might as well wait it out.”
“Sure,” said Bill. “It’s free entertainment, and today could be the first day we take a ride in a paddy wagon.”
“I bet Slade Thurston at Channel 5 would like to know about the real Bloomberg’s!” yelled a navy pea coat near the front. Slade Thurston was a television reporter with great hair and chiseled cheekbones who followed up on all sorts of viewer complaints.
“Yeah, I bet Slade would like to know about the fine print,” yelled another voice. The scrooge chants were now accompanied by stomping on the downbeat.
“Scroo-ooge, scroo-ooge, scroo-ooge!”
Christine locked the door and disappeared on the up escalator to the second floor. Bill surmised she had gone for rubber bullets and a flack jacket. But a few minutes later she returned with a clerk beside her. Their arms were loaded with boxes – gourmet popcorn, two enormous boxes of Godiva chocolates and Svensen’s gourmet pretzels. “I thought these might help pass the time,” Christine said graciously, smiling and sniffing. “Help yourselves.” Achoo!
Christine knew she had to do something to calm the crowd. Negative publicity at Christmas would be a disaster. As a small child, Christine had learned that the birth of Christ was the real meaning of Christmas. As an MBA, Christine had learned that a good retailer partnering with a strong marketing team could piggy back on that little Jewish baby’s birth and turn a fine fourth-quarter profit. This was no time to skimp. Christmas was one big plum pudding and Christine wanted a hefty slice for her Bloomberg’s division.
When Bloomberg’s doors finally opened at seven a.m., clerks stood four abreast, distributing Bonus Bucks cards. The once unruly crowd formed surprisingly orderly lines. Christine helped pass out the gift cards, warmly welcoming shoppers, despite bloodshot eyes that looked like she’d been on a three-day binge. Her smile was as authentic as the ghastly dark circles beneath her eyes. A Bonus Bucks disaster had been averted. Hallelujah and hark the gilded cash registers ring.
After Betty and Bill got their first round of cards for twenty dollars, they circled back and joined the end of the line. After tucking their second set of gift cards into Betty’s billfold, they cut through women’s wear, petites, lingerie, and headed out the east door. They jogged to the end of that line and netted a grand total of six Bonus Bucks cards. Grand total, $120. Smiles of satisfaction radiated from their frosted faces as they rode the escalator to children’s wear.
Walter, who was now showered and shaved, sank into a worn chair in his study for a few cherished minutes of solitude. He flipped open a book of daily meditations. A car drove down the street, the sweep of its headlights reminding him of Bill and Betty. They must be frozen, Walter thought. If the tables were turned, they’d run over to the mall with some hot chocolate and a couple of lawn chairs. When Betty saw the trash men making rounds last year, the week before Christmas, she darted outside with a box of goodies. She chased the truck for a good half a block to catch the guys, give them their cookies and wish them Merry Christmas.
Actually, Walter was glad the Schumachers were at Bloomberg’s, where the shoppers were courteous and refined. Last week, a shopper had a leg broken and another was trampled at a big box store that had slashed prices on big-screen television sets. It was good to know Betty and Bill weren’t in a rowdy environment like that. In his more critical moments, Walter wondered if Betty and Bill’s activity, particularly the shopping, wasn’t some kind of compensation for an inner void. Walter knew “faith without works is dead,” but all that giving and doing just didn’t stop. Walter believed that the shopping and buying simply fed the materialism so rampant in the name of Christmas. Hadn’t C.S. Lewis written a letter saying Christmas was a horrid commercial racket? Yes, Lewis had said he would send no cards and give no presents, except to children. You can’t beat the likes of Lewis. Walter was confident he was on solid ground. In good company. All this giving and giving was getting out of control.
He returned to the day’s reading: “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us . . . “
CHAPTER
3
Ludwig
Claire
was wearing a burgundy sweater over a white shirt with jeans and
boots. Her hair had been pulled back in a sleek pony tail. A pony
tail meant business. Whenever Claire was about to roll up her sleeves
and tackle work she’d been putting off, the first thing she did was
pull her hair into a pony tail.
“What’s on tap?” Walter asked.
“You said you’d be gone this morning, so I thought I’d catch up on some errands. Limited time, limited money and fifteen stops to make by one. Go ahead, call me Wonder Woman.” She swept placemats into a kitchen drawer, dropped two coffee mugs into the dishwasher, and closed it with a kick. Scooping Griffin and Quinn’s jackets off the back of the sofa, she called, “Boys! Now!”
“You’re taking them with you on an errand blitz? That is Wonder Woman.”
“Even super powers have their limits,” she said. “I’m dropping them off at Alyssa’s. She’s home for Christmas break and invited the boys over to make gingerbread men this morning, which gives me four – count ‘em – four free hours. Woo-hoo!”
“Alyssa didn’t get enough of the boys over the summer?”
“Said she misses them. She called them adorable and said they’re better mannered than some of the college guys she’s met.”
“Our boys?”
“Yep. One and the same.”
A series of rapid thuds echoed on the stairs. There was a momentary pause, then a clunk as the boys jumped the final three steps and landed on the hardwood floor. “Shotgun! I called it first!” Quinn yelled, making a mad dash toward the garage.
“I called it before you even thought of it!” Griffin yelled, hot on his heels.
Claire intercepted Quinn and stuffed him in his jacket. “Griffin, get back here and show me that you have two gloves in your pockets. Quinn can have the front seat on the way to Alyssa’s. Griffin, you can have it on the way home.”
“Who gets to pick CDs?” Griffin asked, looking at Claire with pleading eyes.
“I do,” Claire said, making a second run at Quinn’s stubborn jacket zipper. “And we’re not listening to “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” or the “Chipmunk Christmas” one more time.”
“Mom?” Griffin said. “If we can’t listen to the chipmunks, can we please listen to that “White Christmas guy? Maybe if we play the Bill Cosby song, it will make it snow!”
Claire laughed and gave his cheeks a squeeze. “Doll face, it’s Bing Crosby, not Bill Cosby, and yes, we can listen to the White Christmas CD.”
“Good! Maybe it will snow!”
The boys scrambled out of the family room, darted through the kitchen, and shot out the garage door. One of them was now in possession of the door opener, as the garage door could be heard rumbling up and down, up and down.
“I’ll see you later,” Claire said, giving Walter a quick kiss. “Hope your appointment goes well.”
“Me, too. Drive safe and tell Alyssa hello – and thanks!”
Walter leaned out the door into the garage and gave the boys a Three Stooges salute, waving his hand and wiggling his fingers from beneath his chin. He watched as they backed away, then shut the door and stepped inside. He quickly surveyed the kitchen and family room. A chickadee was picking at sunflower seeds in the birdfeeder. The contents of a blue backpack were strewn across two kitchen chairs and Quinn’s most recent artwork hung at a tilt on the refrigerator door. A cereal bowl and a spoon sat on the countertop and a Pop-Tart wrapper lay crumpled beside the toaster. Two pillows had been knocked off the sofa and now sat on top of the coffee table. A computer game, partially hidden by a pair of Spiderman pajama pants, beeped from the middle of the family room floor. Some offices had casual Friday; the Hawkins had casual Saturday. Seeing the many reminders of family that surrounded him, he prayed.
Thank you, Lord, for your many blessings. You are the giver of good gifts and you have blessed us with abundance. Help us to keep you as the focus this Advent season, to honor you, and truly celebrate you.
In the sudden silence, Walter felt a distinct chill.
They must have listened to Bing in the minivan, because a short while later the sun ducked behind a blanket of clouds and snow began falling at a slant. Sideways snow often meant a weather front blowing in off the Great Lakes. The streets and sidewalks were lightly covered as Walter pulled his scarf higher around his neck and walked to the car.
As Walter made his way to the boulevard for his meeting with Ludwig, he noticed more and more inflatable holiday decorations popping up in front yards. He counted two Homer Simpsons with Santa hats, one Winnie the Pooh and a Mickey and Minnie Mouse. What Disney had to do with Christmas was beyond Walter. Maybe the talking mice had been at the stable in Bethlehem. A marketing wing of Disney was probably working on the angle now. There was no accounting for taste. He shook his head and tooled toward Jackson Street.
L&L Architectural Salvage sat in an area of large, older homes that had fallen into the grips of disrepair and drug dealers in the late ‘70s. But now the houses were being snagged by young couples interested in renovating and revitalizing. Walter had never been inside L&L before, but had driven by many times.
L&L was a towering two-and-a-half story Queen Anne with a stately wrap-around porch, a complicated roofline, and a sweeping bay window.
Its grandeur was slightly out of sync with the chain link fence with razor wire that enclosed the side and back yards. Bird baths, gnomes, angels, and assorted miniature Dutch people cast into concrete populated the front yard. Terra cotta planters boasting pink flamingos lined the steps leading to the front door. An assortment of old-fashioned Christmas figurines were crowded onto the side porch. Next to several Marys wearing blue robes – why does Mary always wear blue? Walter wondered – were a couple of kneeling Josephs, three babes in the manger, some choristers and four large candles with giant yellow flames and red bases. The plastic figurines were dimpled and their paint peeling away. Nonetheless, they had a certain humble quality lacking in those oversized inflatable Grinches and Homer Simpsons.
The front door was framed by a barber’s pole on one side and an old wrought iron garden gate on the other. “Good morning,” Walter said to a lanky young man standing behind a glass case with wood trim.
“Morning,” the young man mumbled. A decrepit adding machine sat on the counter next to an iPod. A sleeping parrot was perched on a swing in a fancy wicker birdcage behind the young man.
“Is Ludwig around?” Walter inquired.
The parrot squawked. The young man blinked and picked something from the corner of his eye. He mumbled again and disappeared.
Despite the large windows, the light was dim. The window facing the street had not felt the refreshment of Windex in ages. The air was cold and dank. Walter took a step back, knocking into a wire cage containing two overfed guinea pigs, a bowl of water and a smattering of shredded lettuce.