A Piggly Wiggly Christmas (2 page)

Among the Nitwitts gathered at Gaylie Girl’s freshly renovated Victorian fixer-upper on North Bayou Avenue for a light luncheon shortly after her return, current president Renza Belford was perhaps the most persistent of the lot. “You’ve told us oodles and oodles about the buildings you all toured. I can’t believe the honeymoon was mainly about architecture. I mean, I’ve never heard so much carrying-on about doorways in my life. I’m more interested in what went on behind them, dear.”

Novie Mims, still the group’s world traveler and purveyor of impossibly dull slide shows, momentarily delayed the inevitable. “Oh, but a doorway in Santa Fe is not your average entrance. I was absolutely enchanted on my visit out there. Such attention to detail—the vigas and canales and all the flat roofs. Just mesmerizing—almost otherworldly.”

Myrtis Troy, the fashionable owner of the town’s most elegant bed-and-breakfast, Evening Shadows, quickly added her testimony. “Everyone should tour Santa Fe once in their lives. It’s cultured and laid-back at the same time.”

Despite the interruptions, Gaylie Girl surveyed the expectant faces of her friends and saw that they were all still pretty much on Renza’s side. “Well,” she began, after taking a sip of the sweet tea she had served to the group, “I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that Hale is no slouch in the affection department. But I have to say that the Santa Fe mountain air had a very salubrious effect on his ardor. We carried on the way we did in that Romeo and Juliet suite at the Peabody Hotel when we were courting on the sly up in Memphis last year. It was, shall we say, a classic honeymoon with all the delicious trimmings.”

Renza toyed with her tomato aspic for a few seconds. Then she emphatically set her fork down on the edge of her plate and sighed dramatically. “I’m not quite sure I know what
salubrious
means, Gaylie Girl, but I’m envious anyway.”

“Same here,” Denver Lee McQueen chimed in. “I do miss romance with my dear departed Eustice. It’s prob’ly the main reason I’ve had so much trouble with my weight and developed this infernal diabetes. I read magazine articles all the time about food bein’ a substitute for a good session of you-know-what.”

Laurie Hampton, who enjoyed president emeritus status among the group and always took the high road in any conversation, put in her two cents’ worth. “I’m thrilled it all went so well for you, Gaylie Girl. And I’m eager to hear all about your new civic project idea.”

Gaylie Girl had to restrain herself from jumping up and going over to give Laurie a heartfelt hug. Leave it to the inveterate diplomat of the group to give her a much-needed opening. And she lost no time in explaining her concept of Christmas Caroling in The Square.

The newest Nitwitt member, Euterpe Simon, piano teacher extraordinaire to each of the others, waxed eloquent at once. “I think it’s an inspiring idea, Gaylie Girl. And I have a suggestion for you. So many of the buildings around The Square have those charming lacework balconies. Why not have the choir members stationed on the balconies while the citizens mill about below? It will create a delightful seasonal effect. You know—angels we have heard on high—and also looking down upon the flock for good measure.”

“Oh, I think that’s an absolutely marvelous addition to my concept,” Gaylie Girl replied, winking smartly at Euterpe. “You’ve fine-tuned it beautifully. What do the rest of you girls think?”

There were many affirmative murmurs as well as a general nodding of heads around the table, and Gaylie Girl knew that the next official Nitwitt project was well on its way to fruition. After they had finished their lunch of aspic and chicken gumbo, they would take a vote and divvy up the duties, and that would be that.

It was, in fact, after the official unanimous vote had been taken, and tasks assigned and then recorded by secretary Novie, that the subject of their ailing member and founder, Wittsie Chadwick, emerged. Now safely ensconced in a memory care unit at Delta Sunset Village in nearby Greenwood for her rapidly progressing Alzheimer’s, Wittsie was never very far from the minds of her good friends. They all still continued to visit her throughout the week, each one dutifully showing up for lunch on a different day to keep the connections alive as best they could in the face of her irreversibly declining faculties.

“Is there a way we could get her over here to see this when the time comes?” Gaylie Girl posed. But she did not wait for a response. “I know that Dr. Milburne wouldn’t let her come to my wedding week before last. Said it would be too disorienting for her, as I recall, and I’m sure we can all understand that.”

The group went silent, looking stumped at first, but then Laurie, always the successful schemer among them, straightened up in her chair. “Let’s talk to the doctor and see if he’ll agree to an excursion this one time. I think his concern about your wedding was the sheer number of people she would have to contend with, not to mention the noise and confusion of the reception afterward. But listening to choir music is in a different category altogether. Maybe he’d agree to allow us to shepherd her about, considering the spirit of the season.”

“Heavens, Laurie!” Renza interjected. “I’ve said it a thousand times, but it’s still worth repeating. You always find just the right words for every occasion. I just wish I had your gift.”

Gaylie Girl nodded with relish. “Yes. I think that’s our next move.” Then, sensing that Renza might be getting a tad bit restless having control momentarily wrested from her, Gaylie Girl wisely deferred. “But what does our president think—officially, I mean?”

Renza’s face was a mixture of surprise and delight as she adjusted the fox furs that always adorned her shoulders. “Oh . . . well, yes, I see no harm in approaching the doctor about this. As I said, Laurie’s suggestion is spot-on. We do want to do everything we can for our dear Wittsie. By the way, girls, my visit with her yesterday was less than satisfactory, to say the least. She was having one of her blanker days. She just sat there and squinted at the food for the longest time as if it were an eye chart instead of something to eat. I was very distressed by it all.”

“Well, of course, she’s not going to get any better,” Denver Lee added. “Not that I should talk with the way I’m managing my diabetes. What I really need is one of those round-the-clock sitters to slap my hand when I sneak things out of the fridge. Or someone to go with me to the grocery store and wag a finger at me when I grab something off the shelf that I shouldn’t have in the first place. But, yes, I’m afraid we’re all in for some sad times with our dear Wittsie.”

Gaylie Girl surveyed all the long faces around the table and decided to lighten the mood. “Let’s get started next week on our visits to the churches, shall we? Novie, read back all our assignments again, if you will.”

Novie zeroed in on her scrawl and said: “I’ve written down here that Denver Lee, Renza, and Myrtis will be in charge of publicity—contacting
The Citizen
and radio stations and out-of-town churches and such. And I have a circled sentence here that says we shouldn’t hesitate to call on Powell Hampton to help us with any copy for the ads just the way he did with all those radio spots—”

“Don’t hesitate to do that,” Laurie interrupted. “You all know the crackerjack job my Powell will do for us. He guided us through Mr. Choppy’s election campaign beautifully.”

Novie resumed after an enthusiastic nod. “And then it says here that Euterpe will work with the choir directors on their schedules and selections. And finally, myself, Laurie, and Gaylie Girl are to keep the actual appointments with all the local ministers, rectors, priests, and pastors. My, we have everything here in Second Creek but rabbis, don’t we? But I know we have several Jewish families. Just not enough for a synagogue. I think the Adlers and the Beekmans go up to Memphis for temple every Friday—”

Laurie interrupted her with a pleasant smile. “Novie, you’re wandering in the desert, dear.”

“Oh, sorry. Let’s see now—we’ve agreed to call on the Catholics, Episcopalians, Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists, and, oh, yes, the Church of Christ.” She paused and let out a little giggle. “I wonder what you call people who go to the Church of Christ? Are they Church of Christians?”

Renza quickly interrupted the polite titters that ensued. “Now, a while back you mentioned including a couple of black churches. Were you serious about that, Gaylie Girl?”

“Oh, I think we must invite the black churches,” Gaylie Girl explained. “I see our event as not only ecumenical but also in the spirit of racial harmony. ’Tis the season, after all.”

Renza’s cantankerous nature began bubbling up as usual. “I suppose you realize that these black choirs don’t sing the same way the white choirs do. It’s a completely different sound, and they always carry on so.”

Gaylie Girl was about to offer a soothing and tactful retort when Myrtis took the floor forcefully. “Oh, for God’s sake, Renza, they aren’t going to be out there doing rock and roll and R & B numbers. This will be a respectful program of Christmas music. And so what if they add their unique flavor to it? My Raymond exposed me to all sorts of popular tunes over the years with his record shop, and I have to say, I enjoyed all the different sounds and am certainly the better for it.”

“Yes, we know all about you sitting out on your back porch spinning creaky Frankie Valli and Motown forty-fives,” Renza replied. “You have to be the world’s oldest bobby-soxer in panty hose.”

Gaylie Girl cleared her throat and plastered a generous smile across her face. “Be that as it may, we need to get started on this pretty soon. Coordinating all those choirs will take some doing. We need to exert every bit of our charm as Nitwitts in getting everybody aboard.”

“I know we all voted for this without blinking an eye, but do you think we’ll actually be able to pull this off?” Renza posed. “People can be so touchy when it comes to religious matters. You’d be surprised what they think should be off-limits.”

Gaylie Girl gave her a thoughtful stare and continued smiling. “Look at it this way. The Nitwitts took a stab at backing a political candidate and helped elect my Hale to the Mayor’s office with those wonderful radio spots. It seems to me that rounding up a few choirs to do some Christmas caroling should be something we can handle as well.”

There were a few raised eyebrows among the group, but Gaylie Girl dismissed the gestures as nothing more than cautionary and certainly not an indication of anything unconquerable.

Mr. Choppy came home late from the Mayor’s office that evening. After washing up, he plopped himself down at the beautifully set dining-room table and eyed his supper of pork tenderloin, cheese grits, and biscuits that Gaylie Girl had lovingly prepared. The crash course Mr. Choppy had given her over the past few months in whipping up his favorite Southern cuisine had paid off handsomely. He had even made her a gift of his mother’s weighty bound volume of family recipes to study in her spare time.
Gladys Dunbar’s Goodies
, it had been titled long ago. It was way past time to dust it off and put it to good use again. Nonetheless, he pushed his plate away ever so slightly and exhaled forcefully.

“Not hungry tonight?” Gaylie Girl said, the worry clearly creeping into her face. “Or did something happen at work?”

He seemed reluctant to answer at first, twitching his lip from side to side, but finally relented. “It’s just that it looks like you’re gonna have to take over as my secretary a little sooner than we thought, and I didn’t know how you would react. The last thing I’d want would be for you to be overwhelmed.”

Gaylie Girl quickly reviewed the status of her husband’s ever cheerful but pregnant young secretary, Cherish Hempstead. Having suffered a couple miscarriages earlier in her marriage, she had been advised by her obstetrician to take maternity leave sooner rather than later, and the informal agreement was that Gaylie Girl would fill in until her return. The most recent understanding was that Cherish would withdraw from her duties around Thanksgiving.

“How soon is sooner?” Gaylie Girl asked, not particularly disturbed by the news.

He answered in a hushed, awkward tone. “End of the month, she says. Doctor’s orders. She says certain things aren’t going as well as expected with the pregnancy, although it’s really nothin’ serious. Just the mornin’ sickness goin’ on a tad bit longer and stronger than usual. They don’t want to take any chances, and I can’t say I blame ’em. I have noticed that Cherish has been excusin’ herself to go to the ladies’ room a lot lately.”

Gaylie Girl’s maternal instincts rose to the forefront, her memories of the trouble she had had carrying her own Petey and Amanda crowding in. The doctors had eventually resorted to C-sections both times because of her prolonged labor all those long decades ago. “I’m completely sympathetic. No reason for Cherish to take risks. Besides, I can multitask as well as the next person. I know I can handle the caroling project and all those secretarial duties at the same time.”