Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (42 page)

P
eople were watching the chair.

They were watching the manger.

They were watching the upstairs window for the appearance of ‘the bookstore tree.’

And he, converted to the rigors of retail, was watching Hope’s bottom line. According to Marcie, annual sales were ‘up a little.’ In these last ticking hours of the year, he was going for ‘up a lot.’

He dug out the tree stand and several boxes of ornaments from under the stairs. Sammy and Harley were off to a tree farm to cut the finest specimen of Norway spruce they could find. ‘Ten feet!’ he said.

Marcie and Hélène would drop by after closing time to start the bedecking. Shirlene asked if she could pitch in.

He called home. ‘Why don’t you come up and join us? Sammy and Harley, Marcie, Hélène, Coot, Shirlene . . .’

‘Shirlene!’ said his wife. ‘Why don’t you invite Omer?’

‘Should I?’

‘Tell him there’ll be food. Bachelors like that. I just made pimiento cheese for lunches at Irene’s, but I’ll do sandwiches for the
tree-trimming instead. And I’ll take a tray of lemon squares out of the freezer.’

‘Bring a yogurt,’ he said. ‘Banana.’

‘What time?’

‘Anytime.’

•   •   •

T
HE
N
ATIVITY
WINDOW
WAS
PLEASING
, but it lacked something.

Something tall.

Ha! He muscled the rubber plant to the window and positioned it left-rear of the camel coming from afar.

The painted pot just happened to be sympatico with the red in a saddle blanket.

Nice.

•   •   •

S
AMMY
AND
H
ARLEY
WERE
WRANGLING
the tree up the stairs with the help of Coot and Scott. Marcie was out buying drinks and chips; Hélène was on her way.

As he and Cynthia shelved new books close by, Shirlene and Omer tried out the chairs so long secluded in the Poetry section.

‘How’s Miss Patsy?’ Shirlene asked Omer.

‘She’d like to be here, but I didn’t want her gettin’ tangled up in th’ tree lights.’

‘She is adorable, you are both totally lucky. I would love to find a little dog just like her.’

‘She’s one of a kind, for sure. Don’t know about findin’ another one.’

‘Th’ breed books are so confusin’, plus a lot of those breeds are a house payment.’ Shirlene sighed. ‘I guess I don’t know how to find a dog.’

‘SPCA,’ said Omer. ‘Somethin’ for everyone.’

‘But people say when you go over there, they’re all barkin’ at one time and they all want to go home with you. That is really sad, plus how do you know which one?’

‘You just have to follow your heart. I hear you play Scrabble.’

‘Scrabble is practically my life.’

‘I pulled a bingo last night. My online partner played th’ word SQUARE; I hooked on to her word with a
D
, used all seven tiles.’

A gasp from Shirlene; a jangle of bracelets.

‘Got a triple word score both ways,’ said Omer. ‘Nailed a hundred and sixty points.’

‘What . . . was your word?’

Omer looked ten feet tall, sitting down. ‘J-A-P-Y-G-I-D.’

‘Oh, my gosh.’ Shirlene put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, my gosh.’

‘What?’ said Omer. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Are you . . . could you possibly be . . . WingDipper?’

‘Whoa. Are you . . . ?’

‘BocaGirl! Yes! You’re th’ one who killed me with that crazy word I never heard of in my entire life! I cannot believe this . . .’

‘Japygid!’ said Omer. ‘Any eyeless, wingless, primitive insect havin’ a pair of pincers at the rear of its abdomen.’

There went the toothsome grin. It was Scott Joplin’s ‘Maple Leaf Rag,’ it was Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2, Opus 31.

‘You’re a great Scrabble player,’ said Omer.

‘Oh!’ said Shirlene, fanning herself with a section of the
Times
.

‘Around town, I’m Flyboy, down th’ mountain, they call me Ragwing, but online, I’m WingDipper.’

‘So many aliases,’ she said, a mite breathless.

He and Cynthia stared at each other.

‘Truth,’ said his astonished wife, ‘is very
much
stranger than fiction.’

•   •   •

‘I
HAVE
A
GREAT
IDEA
,’ he announced to all who were decorating the tree.

‘It’s about time,’ said Marcie. ‘Ha, ha, just kidding.’

‘Let’s stay open Friday and Saturday nights until Christmas.’

You could hear a spruce needle drop. Hardly anyone in Mitford stayed open at night, except for the Feel Good. Shop-Mitford-during-the-day-and-stay-home-at-night-where-you-belong-or-be-a-traitor-and-unload-your-money-on-the-college-liberals-in-Wesley was thought to be the unspoken philosophy.

‘I cannot work at night,’ said Marcie. ‘No way. I have a family last time I checked.’

‘Oh,
vraiment
! At night?’

‘I would help,’ said Shirlene, ‘but Fancy would kill me.’

‘I can do it,’ said Coot, who gave them all a rousing display of his dental condition.

His wife raised her hand. ‘Only for you.’

‘I’ll d-do it,’ said Sammy.

‘Done, then.’

A shock wave. How little it took in a small town. This was revolutionary.

And then, another revolution. After all the work on the tree, they decided not to plug in the lights until Saturday at dusk. All but one of them would stand across the street at the PO and watch as it lit the dark window.

In a culture of instant gratification, it felt good to wait.

•   •   •

T
HE
CROWD
ON
F
RIDAY
NIGHT
was ‘amazing’ and ‘huge,’ not to mention ‘unprecedented,’ according to customer reviews.

Even with the tree window still dark, people were driving by,
parking, coming in, nosing around in the display windows, delivering the occasional gift for Children’s Hospital, asking about the empty chair, wondering about the baby Jesus—and actually buying books. At one point, the crèche included three small children on hands and knees, petting the sheep.

They had forgotten cookies—not a good thing. He sent Sammy to buy up ‘the day’s regrets,’ as Winnie called them, for fifty percent off.

Free gift-wrapping was a hit; it kept Coot and Cynthia busy. He wished for the old-fashioned cash register that rang the sales, it would have made a cheering sound. Instead, they had Bach’s Advent Cantatas going, a couple of which inclined toward the dark side and gave him new respect for the more upbeat ‘Twelve Days of Christmas.’

The toilet was a big draw—big enough to require a plumber the next morning—but alas alack, such was doing business with the public.

•   •   •

O
N
S
ATURDAY
MORNING
, the coffee was ready at a quarter ’til ten. Abe said he could smell it through the wall and came over for a quick pour.

‘You’re spoiling it for the natives, Father. Open at night? When does a man get his deserved rest?’

‘Abe, Abe, you’re talking like a gentile.’

‘True.’ Abe took a sip of coffee. ‘When is Saint Nick dropping in?’

‘Around noon, according to the sign on the door.’

‘So, okay, I’ll stay open tonight and next Saturday. But if you’re drumming up any such plans for Easter, I pass.’

•   •   •

‘A
T
FIVE
-
THIRTY
SHARP
,’ he announced, ‘we’re all going across to the post office and see the tree-lighting, and, of course, Saint Nicholas waving, and our wonderful Nativity scene.’

‘The whole megillah,’ said Abe.

Hélène raised her hand. ‘Who will light the tree?’

‘Somebody’s got to light th’ tree,’ said Sammy. ‘I’ll d-do it.’

Coot raised his hand. ‘I can do it!’

‘Nope. Change of plan. We’re all going across to the post office. The tree will be taken care of.’

‘It’s gon’ plug itself in!’ said Coot.

•   •   •

S
COTT
CALLED
TO
SAY
that he and Hope and Louise were planning a drive-by at six. Esther Cunningham called to announce a drive-by at seven, right after her meds.

‘Tell your grans to turn out a little before five-thirty to get a good spot on the sidewalk,’ he said. ‘Cookies after.’

‘What kind?’

‘Chocolate chip.’ He needed the word to get around.

Hélène arrived with the costume before noon. Flushed, rattling French like a house afire.

‘Who’s b-bein’ Saint Nick?’ said Sammy.

‘Father Tim, of course!’ said Hélène. ‘He
is
Saint Nick!’

Hélène took the costume from the box, shook out the alb, the cassock, the stole, the cord, even a mitre concocted of an unknown material . . . Any bishop of any century would be dazzled.

‘It’s gorgeous!’ said his wife. ‘Every piece. Look at this! Real fur! Amazing! And these are scraps?’

‘
Oui!
Forty years of sewing for the public!’

‘Okay, got to get moving,’ he said. ‘Where are the beards?’

‘The beards!’ said Hélène. ‘Oh,
non
!’

‘And the sack, we must have the sack.’

‘With all the excitement . . .
je suis désolée
! It is all on my kitchen table!’

‘Is Harley home?’

‘
Oui
, he is fixing the front burner on my stove!’

‘Tell him to get everything to us right away, please. Could you bring it all up?’ he asked his wife.

‘Consider it done, honey.’

Honey. In front of everybody! He could scarcely bear so much excitement.

He hefted the costume box. ‘A little privacy, please,’ he said, proceeding up the stairs.

‘There!’ Hélène exclaimed to all present. ‘I knew he would do it, I just knew it!’

•   •   •

M
ORE
THAN
A
FEW
CUSTOMERS
dropped in before noon, one with a carry-out lunch from the Feel Good, which she ate sitting at the coffee station.

‘I didn’t know you had a café,’ said a student from Wesley.

‘We don’t. Just c-coffee. Free.’

‘Great. Cream and sugar, please.’

‘It’s s-self-help,’ said Sammy.

And there went the bell jangling, and in came Miss Mooney’s tribe with more than a few shouts and murmurs, not to mention gifts for Children’s Hospital.

‘Is Saint Nick on time?’ said Miss Mooney. ‘They’ve just had donut holes at Sweet Stuff and are absolutely wild; I can hold them down only so long.’

‘He’ll be here any minute,’ said Hélène, thrilled to be instrumental in such splendid commotion.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ Vanita told Hélène. ‘I won’t get close to anybody, I don’t know what it is. Maybe an allergy!’ Vanita aimed her point-and-shoot at the door. ‘I’m about to bust to see Saint Nick, I’ll shoot ’im comin’ in.’

‘No, no,’ said Hélène, ‘he will be coming down from above.’

And down he came.

Every head turning. The intake of breath. Those sitting, stood. All cheered and applauded. Miss Mooney was agape, her tribe astonished. Hélène felt faint. ‘Yay-y-y-y!’ said Vanita.

The velvet robe, the fur trim, the solemn procession down the creaking stairs; the crozier, the mitre, the bulging sack, and behind the beard and frosty eyebrows, the twinkling eyes so often ascribed to yet another bearer of gifts . . .

•   •   •

‘T
HAT
AIN
’
T
S
ANTY
C
LAUS
,’ said a disappointed five-year-old.

Hastings McCurdy put in his two cents’ worth. ‘Saint Nicholas fasted on Wednesdays and Fridays and gave all his money to the poor.’

‘Bless you,’ Saint Nicholas said to Hastings McCurdy, and gave him a sweet.

‘Bless you,’ Saint Nicholas said to Sissy and Sassy and Timmy and Tommy and Jessie and Pooh, and all the tribe of Miss Mooney.

‘Do you live at th’ North Pole?’

‘Do you know Santy Claus? Why couldn’t he come?’

‘Do you go down chimneys?’

‘Are they any reindeers on this roof?’

Saint Nicholas was silent before these and other bewildered inquiries, saying only, ‘Bless you,’ to one and all, and giving each a wrapped sweet from his sack. Then, trailed by fourteen third-graders, he stepped into the window and began his next command: waving to all who passed.

‘That Santy,’ a boy told his mother, ‘ain’t got no teeth.’

‘It’s all the Christmas candy,’ she said.

In the ensuing hubbub, he and Cynthia slipped downstairs, where he was spied helping a customer.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Hélène cried, as if seeing a ghost. ‘It’s you!’

Doing his best to keep up, he was praising the merits of biography,
the raw vigor of Knut Hamsun, the earnest authenticity of the nearly forgotten Conrad Richter, the persistent charms of Mary Oliver and John O’Donahue, and the generous grace of Seamus Heaney . . .

Which fiction bestseller could he recommend? Did he have anything by Cynthia Rylant? How about John Grisham’s latest, or James Patterson before he went co-op, or the book that came out ages ago about Julia Child that really wasn’t Julia but someone who cooked in a tiny kitchen in New York City?

He was in over his head. Way in.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he confessed to an English prof from Wesley.

‘Join the club,’ she said.

When he was priesting, people sat quietly, organized by rows, and listened—or pretended to. Now they scattered throughout the room like untended sheep, and when they had a question, as they often did, they rushed at him from every side. And of course there was no greeting them in an orderly fashion as they left the sanctuary of books. No, they simply went out into the world, packages under arm, and disappeared. Hardly any time to say, Have you read George Herbert or Patrick Kavanagh, and, Will I ever see you again, much less, Enjoy your book and peace be with you. They were customers, after all, not parishioners. Didn’t he know that?

‘How’s it going?’ he asked his wife.

‘Holy smoke,’ she said.