“Merry Christmas!” I take her coat and escort her over to the tree to speak to Sarah who hasn’t mentioned Amy’s name once since she’s been home. She had wanted to miss this visit, but I have insisted that she stick around for a while before she goes off this afternoon to visit her friends.
Dressed comfortably in pleated jeans and a bulky white sweater, Amy has a large package for me and an envelope for Sarah who looks at me as if to say, what is this? She’s hardly met me. I watch my daughter’s face as she rips open the paper to find a subscription to Ms. magazine. She scans the enclosed brochure and smiles.
“You shouldn’t have gotten me anything,” she says, but I can tell by her expression she is pleased. The way to her heart these days is to take her as seriously as a brain tumor.
“I don’t read every article, but it helps me keep up,” Amy says, as I hand my present to her. It is in a small box that I had gift-wrapped at Dillard’s. She winks at Sarah and says, “My adoption papers at last!”
Totally disarmed by Amy’s outrageousness, Sarah laughs and says candidly, “I was afraid it was a ring.”
“No, no,” Amy says, tearing open the paper.
“He’s too cheap for that. If I wanted a ring, I’d have to go get one myself.”
Sarah grins, but looks at me to see how I am taking it. I laugh gamely. Presents, in my opinion, are a waste of money.
“If I could find one that would go through your nose …” I say to Amy, not bothering to finish.
“They’re sweet!” Amy says holding up a pair of silver earrings. She stands on her toes and kisses me on the cheek.
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” I say, giving her a hug. I already gave her my real present two nights ago, a red teddy I got for her at Victoria’s Secret. She modeled it for me fifteen minutes later in her bedroom. It wasn’t the kind of gift that I felt comfortable presenting in front of Sarah.
“Dad’s so original,” Sarah says, pointing to her own ears. The earrings I got for her are turquoise.
“Well, they were having this two-for-one sale at Ster ling’s,” I say, winking.
Amy rolls her eyes.
“I thought these looked familiar.”
It is my turn to open Amy’s present. I can tell by the box it must be clothes, but I have no idea what. Amy has been ridiculously secretive, not even giving me a hint. I open the box and find a dark blue pinstriped suit in a box from Bachrach’s, a men’s clothing store in the mall. I’ve been by it a dozen times, but the clothes always cost an arm and a leg.
“Good Lord, Amy, this is expensive!”
“It’s for his trial,” Amy says to Sarah.
“I’m tired of him looking so tacky. He’s been wearing the same suits since law school.” To me, she says, “Don’t worry I waited until it got marked down twice.”
I try on the coat and find it is my size, a 40 regular. She must have looked through my closet.
“You still spent too much,” I chide her gently.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You’ve got time to get the pants altered,” she says, getting in a slight dig at my waistline.
I hug her anyway.
“Thanks a lot,” I say. Damn, I feel cheap. Sarah has given me a new briefcase, which probably cost twice as much as her earrings. Her mother al ways went overboard on presents, too. As I go back into the kitchen to pour me and Amy a cup of coffee, I promise myself I won’t be so tight if this case works out and I get Dade signed to a pro contract. I have already called this morning to wish him and his family a Merry Christmas. But even with the commotion and excitement of four other children opening presents, Lucy sounded depressed. She knows that this time next year she may be loading up the car to go visit their oldest child at the state prison in Grady. Though I tried to minimize it in my call the day after I returned, she could tell I was shaken by the reaction of Blanche Perry to my suggestion that the case be dropped. I’ve had a fantasy that this case wouldn’t go to trial. As January 7 approaches, it is fading fast.
Sarah serves the coffee cake we made earlier today.
Amy, who isn’t much of a cook herself, pronounces it excellent, prompting Sarah to tell her about the time we went through three boxes of Jiffy cake mix before we gave up and went out for doughnuts.
“First we undercooked it; then we burned it; then the last time it looked like we had made a pan of corn bread
Amy has a way of drawing my daughter out and gets Sarah to talk about WAR. I learn that WAR is planning to hold demonstrations outside the courthouse during Dade’s trial. The difficulty is that students won’t be back on campus until the next week.
“It sounds like the judge outsmarted you,” Amy says to Sarah, her voice sympathetic.
I swallow a mouthful of cake and shake my head.
“The trial was set long before WAR was even more than a gleam in Paula Crawford’s eye. The trial date comes, not so coincidentally, after all the bowl games are played.”
“But Dade was suspended from playing,” Amy says, missing the point.
“The judge didn’t know the university would take any action. At the time he was just doing what he could to cooperate.”
“So he’s biased!” Sarah exclaims. She is seated on the couch beside Amy. As usual, I am being ganged up against by the women in my life.
“Not at all,” I explain.
“He’s just a true Hog fan. He probably assumed that the university wouldn’t do anything to Dade during the season. That’s usually what happens.
This was a bigger victory for WAR than you realized.”
My daughter puts down her fork, protesting, “That’s so cynical! They just would have used Dade and then put him on trial.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I concede. Another way is that Dade would be using the university to show how good he was.
We are interrupted by a knock at the front door, and I open it, realizing that Woogie has not returned. I should have taken him out and walked him.
“Your dog just ate one of our newborn kittens,” Fred Mosely, who lives across the street and four doors down toward the school tells me, “and if I find him, I’m going to kill him.”
Shocked into silence by this totally bizarre allegation, I try to look around Fred, who easily weighs three hundred pounds, to see if Woogie is hiding somewhere across the street. Fred, one of the few remaining whites on the street, is not the most stable guy in the neighborhood.
Chronically out of work, alcoholic, and abusive toward his wife, he is more than capable of doing what he says.
Still, this is so ridiculous I’m tempted to make a joke out of it and tell Fred that after twelve years of dog food, Woogie probably thought it was time for a little variety in his diet, but Fred doesn’t seem in the mood.
“Are you sure?” I say weakly.
“Maybe the mother ate it.”
“You’re damn right I’m sure!” Fred thunders.
“My wife saw him do it! You get rid of that dog, or I’ll do it for you!”
Candice, Fred’s wife, isn’t nearly as loony as her husband, but still I can’t believe it. Woogie has his faults, but eating kittens has never been one of them. I catch a strong whiff of Christmas cheer on Fred’s breath and decide that he might not appreciate any crossexamination right now. What does he want me to say that I’ll have a talk with Woogie? I can hear that conversation. Woogie, I know cats are a dime a dozen, but you’ve got to quit eating them. Sarah comes up behind me and asks, “What’s wrong. Dad?”
I say hastily to Fred, “I’ll do what’s necessary. Thanks for letting me know.” I shut the door before Sarah can find out what is going on. She would want to argue Woogie’s case to the Supreme Court, but this isn’t the time to doit.
I tell her and Amy that Woogie may be lost, and we need to go search for him. Before we can get our coats on, however, there is a familiar scratching at the door, and Sarah lets him in. The little murderer prances in as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As we watch Woogie lap water at his bowl in the kitchen, I tell Sarah and Amy about my conversation with Fred.