“Really?”
“Yeah, I think if you’re a young woman and you want to rise in the world, go to work in a politician or lobbyist’s office. You’ll sleep your way to the top faster than in Hollywood.”
“How stupid was I to go to work at the post office when I graduated from Smith?” Harry smacked her open hand on her forehead.
“Well, Sugar, there’s still time.”
Off and running, they blabbed about infidelity, Internet porn, non-porn people posting pictures of their genitals on same.
“You know, that’s not a good idea.” Harry wiped tears from her eyes, as she was laughing so hard. So much had gone wrong just lately, the laughter lifted their spirits.
“Last stop?” Harry turned around to double-check the back of the plush wagon.
“It is.”
The young couple, trimming a tree they had cut themselves, welcomed the two inside. Harry picked up a baby crawling on the floor. While the two may not have had much in life, they were happy with each other, happy with the baby.
When leaving, Susan and Harry kissed the baby and hugged the parents.
Back in the wagon, Susan sighed. “I loved it when the kids were little.”
“Babies are usually ugly—I mean, they are, but your two weren’t.”
“All babies are beautiful.” Susan slowed as they were descending an old tertiary road.
“Hey, you aren’t on the campaign trail with Ned,” Harry teased her.
A pause, then Susan admitted, “Have you ever noticed that some babies look like old men or old women? You won’t know what they will look like at fourteen, but you have a good guess at what they will look like at seventy, unless they’ve had plastic surgery.”
“Same with foals. There’s a brief period of time when you know what they’ll look like in their prime. Then it disappears. Horses go through the same awkward phases humans do. Look how their backs sway when they get really old.”
“Right. Hey, we’re above St. Cyril’s. Let me stop by for a moment. Here.” She handed Harry her cellphone. “See if I have messages?”
“Wouldn’t it make that noise? The message beep?”
“Yeah, but these last few days the phone hasn’t been right. I keep losing power, then charge it up in the car.”
“Couldn’t call Coop last night on the cell. Most times they work, except for the hollows. Mountains are gorgeous, but they are the devil with electronic stuff.”
Susan drove onto the plowed St. Cyril’s lot, with cars parked and a few coming in and out. The sun had set.
The two women walked into the church.
Charlene Vavilov, her sons, and their teammates from football and baseball carried out the last of the boxes.
Susan called out, “Need a hand?”
Charlene fought to close the door as a gust hit it. “This is it.”
“We’re finished, too,” said Susan. “I’ll call everyone once I get back to St. Luke’s to see how it’s going, but I don’t have any messages on the phone, so it must be okay. By the way, thank you for helping, given all that’s happened lately.”
“Arden was undone.”
“Poor thing.” Susan uttered the southern formula, but she did mean it.
“Susan, you did a great job with this Christmas drive, and I must say, the sheriff’s department has been terrific,” Charlene said, sounding tired.
“They have. Every year this grows.”
“That’s both a good sign and a bad sign,” Charlene noted.
A loud voice was heard down the hall, coming closer. Harry and Susan looked at each other and then at Charlene.
Ahead of Esther, Flo Rice blasted into the room. Esther followed, out of breath.
“Where are the fingers?” squawked Flo. “I want to see the fingers. Were they bones, or did they have flesh on them?”
“Flo, that’s enough.” Esther, fit to be tied, came alongside her sister. “The fingers are gone.”
“You lie! There are two fingers here. The paper said so.” Flo’s lower lip jutted out in defiance.
In a soothing voice, Charlene said, “Flo, you’re right. There were fingers here, but the sheriff took them away.”
Flo thought this over, since she was more inclined to believe Charlene.
Esther handed Charlene an envelope. In a low voice, she said, “It’s a small contribution. I’m sorry we couldn’t help with deliveries.”
Coats off, sleeves pushed up, Harry and Susan were ready to clean up and then go do the same at St. Luke’s.
Charlene noticed. “Girls, don’t bother. The boys will be back and, trust me, they can work harder and faster than we can.”
This made everyone smile except Flo, who appeared fixated on Harry. “Where’d you get that?” She grabbed Harry’s wrist, upon which was her found bracelet.
“Uh.” Harry tried to gently remove Flo’s hand, to no avail.
“Give it to me!”
“Flo, what’s the matter with you? You can’t take someone’s jewelry.” Esther pried her sister’s hand from Harry’s arm. “That’s an old piece. Lovely.”
“I want it. It belongs to me!” Flo screeched.
“Flo, you never had a bracelet like that.” Esther was firm. “Now stop this this instant.”
Esther forcibly propelled Flo from the room as the three women looked on.
“Give it to me! Give it to me!” Flo bellowed.
Even though the door had closed behind them, they could hear her as Esther shoved her down the hall. The three remained silent, then Charlene said, “What a pity. What a great pity!”
Marked for thousands of years by festivals, the longest night of the year retains its primitive power. All animals see the dying of the light, but only the human animal creates festivals of light to fight it off.
Wrapping gifts, Harry and Fair sat at the wiped-off kitchen table among wrapping paper, ribbons, and two pairs of scissors.
The horses were cared for. Everyone was in for the night, with fresh water, even treats put up in the loft for Simon, and Harry and Fair could concentrate on Christmas duties. They started snipping paper, curling ribbon, hand-making big bows.
“Your mother was good at this.” Fair studied an antique level. He thought Blair, a young friend, would like the tool.
Married to Little Mim, Blair had become a new father, and everyone swamped them with baby gifts. Fair figured he’d find something just for Blair.
“Honey, the edges of that level are a little sharp. You need a heavier paper.”
“Oh.” Fair pointed to a thick paper dyed red. “That.”
Harry picked it up. “Yeah, just be careful at the corners.”
“Isn’t this women’s work?” he teased.
“Not this woman’s.” She took one arm of a scissors, ran it along ribbon off the big roll.
The gray cat ran with it, unspooling the ribbon.
“Hey! Hey!” Harry ran after the cat, who, naturally, dropped the ribbon and kept running.
“She’s mental.” Tucker believed this and pronounced judgment far too often.
“I remember Harry once saying that the mentally ill get worse at Christmas. More people get depressed. Lots of stress. More drinking.” Mrs. Murphy, tempted by the ribbons and papers, resisted for now.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a holiday,” said Tucker. The sweet-natured dog gnawed on her play bone.
“Saturday. Remember when we lived for Saturdays?” Harry stood up to get a better angle on tying a ribbon.
“Usually I was recovering from getting knocked around on the football field.”
“You did okay.” She handed him green ribbon. “Goes better with that paper.”
“Oh.” He took the ribbon, changed the subject. “Sometimes I think about the days being named for the gods, mostly Norse gods. Of course, Saturday is named for Saturn, and he’s an odd fellow, whether he’s Saturn or uses the Greek name, Chronos. I wonder why he was honored and not, say, Poseidon or Neptune? Then I think about Jupiter or Zeus. It gets a little confusing.”