“No.”
“We voted for Rudolph, remember?”
“No.”
“It’s comical.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Frosty’s taking a year off, okay? The answer is no.”
Luther hung up gently and tried to concentrate on his work. After dark, he drove home, slowly, all the way telling himself that it was silly to be worried about such trivial matters as putting a snowman on the roof. And all the way he kept thinking of Walt Scheel.
“Come on, Scheel,” he mumbled to himself. “Don’t let me down.”
Walt Scheel was his rival on Hemlock, a grumpy sort who lived directly across the street. Two kids out of college, a wife battling breast cancer, a mysterious job with a Belgian conglom, an income that appeared to be in the upper range on Hemlock—but regardless of what he earned Scheel and the missus expected their neighbors to think they had a lot more. Luther bought a Lexus, Scheel had to have one. Bellington put in
a pool, Scheel suddenly needed to swim in his own backyard, doctor’s orders. Sue Kropp on the west end outfitted her kitchen with designer appliances—$8,000 was the rumor—and Bev Scheel spent $9,000 six months later.
A hopeless cook, Bev’s cuisine tasted worse after the renovation, according to witnesses.
Their haughtiness had been stopped cold, however, with the breast cancer eighteen months earlier. The Scheels had been humbled mightily. Keeping ahead of the neighbors didn’t matter anymore. Things were useless. They had endured the disease with a quiet dignity, and, as usual, Hemlock had supported them like family. A year after the first chemo, the Belgian conglom had reshuffled itself. Whatever Walt’s job had been, it was now something less.
The Christmas before the Scheels had been too distracted to decorate. No Frosty for them, not much of a tree, just a few lights strung around the front window, almost an afterthought.
A year earlier, two houses on Hemlock had gone without Frostys—the Scheels’ and one on the west end owned by a Pakistani couple who’d lived there three months then moved away. It had
been for sale, and Frohmeyer had actually considered ordering another Frosty and conducting a nighttime raid on the premises to erect it.
“Come on, Scheel,” Luther mumbled in traffic. “Keep your Frosty in the basement.”
The Frosty idea had been cute six years earlier when first hatched by Frohmeyer. Now it was tedious. But, Luther confessed, certainly not tedious to the kids on Hemlock. He had been secretly delighted two years before when the storm gusts cleared the roofs and sent Frostys flying over half the city.
He turned onto Hemlock, and as far as he could see the street was lined with identical snowmen sitting like glowing sentries above the houses. Just two gaps in their ranks—the Scheels and the Kranks. “Thank you, Scheel,” Luther whispered. Kids were riding bikes. Neighbors were outside, stringing lights, chatting across hedgerows.
A street gang was meeting in Scheel’s garage, Luther noticed as he parked and walked hurriedly into his house. Sure enough, within minutes a ladder went up and Frohmeyer scurried up like a veteran roofer. Luther peeked through the blinds on his front door. There was Walt Scheel
standing in the front yard with a dozen people, Bev, bundled up in a warm coat, on the front steps. Spike Frohmeyer was wrestling with an extension cord. There were shouts and laughter, everyone seemed to be hurling instructions to Frohmeyer as the next to the last Frosty on Hemlock was heaved up.
Little was said over a dinner of sauceless pasta and cottage cheese. Nora was down three pounds, Luther four. After the dishes, he went to the treadmill in the basement where he walked for fifty minutes, burning 340 calories, more than he had just consumed. He took a shower and tried to read.
When the street was clear, he went for a walk. He would not be a prisoner in his home. He would not hide from his neighbors. He had nothing to fear from these people.
There was a twinge of guilt as he admired the two neat lines of snowmen guarding their quiet street. The Trogdons were piling more ornaments on their tree, and it brought back a few distant memories of Blair’s childhood and those faraway times. He was not the nostalgic type. You live life today, not tomorrow, certainly not yesterday, he always said. The warm memories were quickly
erased with thoughts of shopping and traffic and burning money. Luther was quite proud of his decision to take a year off.
His belt was a bit looser. The beaches were waiting.
A bike rushed in from nowhere and slid to a stop. “Hi, Mr. Krank.”
It was Spike Frohmeyer, no doubt heading home after some clandestine juvenile meeting. The kid slept less than his father, and the neighborhood was full of stories about Spike’s nocturnal ramblings. He was a nice boy, but usually unmedicated.
“Hello, Spike,” Luther said, catching his breath. “What brings you out?”
“Just checking on things,” he said, as if he were the official night watchman.
“What kind of things, Spike?”
“My dad sent me over to Stanton Street to see how many Rudolphs are up.”
“How many?” Luther asked, playing along.
“None. We smoked ’em again.”
What a victorious night the Frohmeyers would have, Luther thought. Silly.
“You putting yours up, Mr. Krank?”
“No, I’m not, Spike. We’re leaving town this year, no Christmas for us.”
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“This is a free country, Spike, you can do almost anything you want.”
“You’re not leaving till Christmas Day,” Spike said.
“What?”
“Noon’s what I heard. You got plenty of time to get Frosty up. That way we can win the award again.”
Luther paused for a second and once more marveled at the speed with which one person’s private business could be so thoroughly kicked around the neighborhood.
“Winning is overrated, Spike,” he said wisely. “Let another street have the award this year.”
“I guess so.”
“Now run along.”
He rolled away and said, “See you later,” over his shoulder.
The kid’s father was lying in ambush when Luther came strolling by. “Evening, Luther,” Vic said, as if the encounter was purely by chance. He leaned on his mailbox at the end of his drive.
“Evening, Vic,” Luther said, almost stopping.
But at the last second he decided to keep walking. He stepped around Frohmeyer, who tagged along.
“How’s Blair?”
“Fine, Vic, thanks. How are your kids?”
“In great spirits. It’s the best time of the year, Luther. Don’t you think so?” Frohmeyer had picked up the pace and the two were now side by side.
“Absolutely. I couldn’t be happier. Do miss Blair, though. It won’t be the same without her.”
“Of course not.”
They stopped in front of the Beckers’, next door to Luther’s, and watched as poor Ned teetered on the top step of the ladder in a vain effort to mount an oversized star on the highest branch of the tree. His wife stood behind him, helping mightily with her instructions but not once holding the ladder, and his mother-in-law was a few steps back for the wide view. A fistfight seemed imminent.
“Some things about Christmas I’m not going to miss,” Luther said.
“So you’re really skipping out?”
“You got it, Vic. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Just doesn’t seem right for some reason.”
“That’s not for you to decide, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Good night, Vic.” Luther left him there, amused by the Beckers.
Six
Nora’s late-morning roundtable at the shelter for battered women ended badly when Claudia, a casual friend at best, blurted out randomly, “So, Nora, no Christmas Eve bash this year?”
Of the eight women present, including Nora, exactly five had been invited to her Christmas parties in the past. Three had not, and at the moment those three looked for a hole to crawl into, as did Nora.
You crude little snot, thought Nora, but she managed to say quickly, “Afraid not. We’re taking
a year off.” To which she wanted to add, “And if we ever have another party, Claudia dear, don’t hold your breath waiting for an invitation.”
“I heard you’re taking a cruise,” said Jayne, one of the three excluded, trying to reroute the conversation.
“We are, leaving Christmas Day in fact.”
“So you’re just eliminating Christmas altogether?” asked Beth, another casual acquaintance who got invited each year only because her husband’s firm did business with Wiley & Beck.
“Everything,” Nora said aggressively as her stomach tightened.
“That’s a good way to save money,” said Lila, the biggest bitch of the bunch. Her emphasis on the word “money” implied that perhaps things were a bit tight around the Krank household. Nora’s cheeks began to burn. Lila’s husband was a pediatrician. Luther knew for a fact that they were heavily in debt—big house, big cars, country clubs. Earned a lot, spent even more.
Thinking of Luther, where was he in these awful moments? Why was she taking the brunt of his harebrained scheme? Why was she on the front lines while he sat smugly in his quiet office dealing with people who either worked for him
or were afraid of him? It was a good-old-boy club, Wiley & Beck, a bunch of stuffy tightfisted accountants who were probably toasting Luther for his bravery in avoiding Christmas and saving a few bucks. If his defiance could become a trend anywhere, it was certainly in the accounting profession.
Here she was getting scorched again while Luther was safely at work, probably playing the hero.
Women handled Christmas, not men. They shopped and decorated and cooked, planned parties and sent cards and fretted over things the men never thought about. Why, exactly, was Luther so keen on dodging Christmas when he put so little effort into it?
Nora fumed but held her fire. No sense starting an all-girl rumble at the center for battered women.
Someone mentioned adjournment and Nora was the first out of the room. She fumed even more as she drove home—unpleasant thoughts about Lila and her comment about money. Even uglier thoughts about her husband and his selfishness. She was sorely tempted to cave right then, go on a spree and have the house decorated by the time he got home. She could have a tree
up in two hours. It wasn’t too late to plan her party. Frohmeyer would be happy to take care of their Frosty. Cut back on the gifts and a few other things, and they would still save enough to pay for the cruise.
She turned onto Hemlock and of course the first thing she noticed was the fact that only one house had no snowman on the roof. Leave it to Luther. Their pretty two-story brick home standing alone, as if the Kranks were Hindus or Buddhists, some strain that didn’t believe in Christmas.
She stood in her living room and looked out the front window, directly through the spot where their beautiful tree always stood, and for the first time Nora was struck with how cold and undecorated her house was. She bit her lip and went for the phone, but Luther had stepped out for a sandwich. In the stack of mail she’d retrieved from the box, between two envelopes containing holiday cards, she saw something that stopped her cold. Airmail, from Peru. Spanish words stamped on the front.
Nora sat down and tore it open. It was two pages of Blair’s lovely handwriting, and the words were precious.
She was having a great time in the wilds of Peru. Couldn’t be better, living with an Indian tribe that had been around for several thousand years. They were very poor, according to our standards, but healthy and happy. The children were at first very distant, but they had come around, wanting to learn. Blair rambled on a bit about the children.
She was living in a grass hut with Stacy, her new friend from Utah. Two other Peace Corps volunteers lived nearby. The corps had started the small school four years earlier. Anyway, she was healthy and well fed, no dreaded diseases or deadly animals had been spotted, and the work was challenging.
The last paragraph was the jolt of fortitude that Nora so desperately needed. It read:
I know it will be difficult not having me there for Christmas, but please don’t be sad. My children know nothing of Christmas. They have so little, and want so little, it makes me feel guilty for the mindless materialism of our culture. There are no calendars here, and no clocks, so I doubt if I’ll even know when it comes and goes.
(Besides, we can catch up next year, can’t we?)
Such a smart girl. Nora read it again and was suddenly filled with pride, not only for raising such a wise and mature daughter but also for her own decision to forgo, at least for a year, the mindless materialism of our culture.
She called Luther again and read him the letter.
Monday night at the mall! Not Luther’s favorite place, but he sensed Nora needed a night out. They had dinner in a fake pub on one end, then fought through the masses to get to the other, where a star-filled romantic comedy was opening at the multiplex. Eight bucks a ticket, for what Luther knew would be another dull two hours of overpaid clowns giggling their way through a subliterate plot. But anyway, Nora loved the movies and he tagged along to keep peace. Despite the crowds, the cinema was deserted, and this thrilled Luther when he realized that everybody else was out there shopping. He settled low in his seat with his popcorn, and went to sleep.
He awoke with an elbow in his ribs. “You’re snoring,” Nora hissed at him.
“Who cares? The place is empty.”
“Hush up, Luther.”
He watched the movie, but after five minutes had had enough. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, and left. He’d rather fight through the mob and get stepped on than watch such foolishness. He rode the escalator to the upper level, where he leaned on the rail and watched the chaos below. A Santa was holding court on his throne and the line was moving very slowly. Over at the ice rink the music blared from scratchy speakers while kids in elf costumes skated around some stuffed creature that appeared to be a reindeer. Every parent watched through the lens of a video camera. Weary shoppers trudged along, lugging shopping bags, bumping into others, fighting with their children.
Luther had never felt prouder.