A Cherry Cola Christmas (13 page)

In fact, Maura Beth and Jeremy had discussed the problem of Cudd'n M'Dear before leaving the house earlier and had agreed that the way to handle it would be to make sure that the family loose cannon from New Orleans went on last. That way, Maura Beth could interrupt politely if things started getting out of hand and declare that they had unfortunately run out of time and the meeting was over. It was strange but true—Cudd'n M'Dear always required significant advance planning, or anything under the sun might happen.

“You have to trust me. I have a game plan that I'm positive will work,” Maura Beth explained, checking the clock at the front desk. It was nearly time for the story hour to begin.

Yet it was more than troubling that despite his promise earlier in the day, Councilman Sparks had not made an appearance. Perhaps her bold suggestion that he make up the budget shortfall out of his own deep pockets this year to avoid those layoffs had been too much for him to stomach. She and Nora Duddney had already forced him to part company with some of the fortune his father had embezzled from library funds when the twentieth century was still young. Perhaps he just didn't have it in him to shell out even more. Still, it was disappointing to accept; she had imagined that Councilman Sparks would deliver his generous decision in his customary grandiose fashion in front of the group to their vigorous applause and then take a bow. She could just envision all the excitement that would create.

Now what could be more inspirational than that?

13

Charles Durden Sparks—Step One

A
s story hour was beginning at the library, Councilman Sparks was sitting at his dining room table in his gracious Perry Street home. He was in the process of defusing Evie's concern over the way he had pushed his food around his plate over her delicious dinner of pot roast with new potatoes and carrots. Perhaps he should have forced himself to eat something more than he had, but he didn't think he could keep it down. Not at a time like this.

“I had a big late lunch today at The Twinkle,” he told her without batting an eyelash, but also avoiding eye contact. “Even had a piece of one of Mr. Place's pies. I should've known better, but my appetite hasn't recovered yet.”

“Then I'll put it all up for you in case you get hungry later. No need to let this much food go to waste,” she replied as she cleared the table, fretting just a tad bit. “You aren't coming down with something, I hope.”

“No, no. I'm just fine, sweetie. Go right ahead and put up a plate for me. That'd be just great. For now, I think I'm going to work on a few municipal budget items in the den,” he continued. “I'm way behind in ironing out a few things, so I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Well, I'm glad you didn't drag us to that lovefest over at the library tonight. There are just so many people in that club I simply don't care for—from Maura Beth on down,” she added. “Plus, you said that awful woman from New Orleans that played with your face at Maura Beth's wedding is going to be there. I might just haul off and slap her upside the head if she tried anything like that again. The very idea!”

He couldn't hold back his laughter. “Now that would be worth the price of admission. Almost.”

“Yeah, almost is right.”

And that was the end of the exchange.

True to his word, he promptly went into the den and sat down at the handsome plantation desk Evie had bought for him on their tenth anniversary. That was the year he had told her he thought she should cut her hair short, and she had worn it that way ever since. But he must stop letting his mind wander.

He had begun Step One: Go to the den. Lock the door. Write the note. The blank piece of paper was staring him in the face, daring him to find the words. It was unseemly at such a time, but he almost laughed out loud at his predicament.

Momentarily, Evie knocked at the door somewhat insistently, interrupting whatever weak train of thought he had going. “Sorry to bother you, but I'm taking Bonjour Cheri for her poopsies, sweetheart. Be back soon.”

“Take your time!” he called out.

“Oh, we always do. My little darling sniffs at everything under the sun before she finally goes.”

Inappropriately, he chuckled at the image, and said under his breath, “What will dogs think of next?”

He returned to the paper and the pen in his hand. Not a syllable was forthcoming. He hadn't thought it would be this hard. Everything in his charmed life had always come so easy for him. But this? He leaned back in his comfortable armchair and took a deep breath. He thought again of Evie and her poodle, padding along the sidewalk without a care in the world. How wondrous to live the life of a pampered pet—and that applied to both his wife and her dog!

Finally, he was able to eke out the first sentence:
Evie, I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me for what I've done.

He picked up the paper and read it over before crumpling it up and throwing it in the wicker trash can under the desk. No, it was too trite, too predictable. Well, there was no need to rush. Evie was out on her walk, and she already had orders not to disturb him when she returned. So it was back to the drawing board to strike just the right tone, find those perfect words that kept eluding him.

Then he would proceed methodically to Step Two.

14

Frank Gibbons

M
r. Parker Place had just finished reading his mother's eulogy that he had written and then first spoken at the Cherico African Methodist Episcopal Church not all that long ago. It was the first presentation in the library's story hour and was well-received by the gathering. There were even a few eyes welling up with tears at the end as he stepped away from the podium and returned to his seat next to Periwinkle.

“Thank you for sharing that with us, Parker. Some of you did not get to hear his tribute to his mother at the funeral,” Maura Beth said as she took his place in front of the crowd. “But I can assure you, it was even more moving for those of us who attended the service.”

“And I just wanted to say again how much it meant to me to see so many of you who are here tonight at the church that day,” Mr. Place added. “It has definitely helped me heal.”

Then, even before she could be introduced, Miss Voncille rose from her seat and approached the podium. “Closure in life is so important to everyone,” she said along the way.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maura Beth added, gesturing graciously. “A lady who needs no introduction, Voncille Nettles Linwood.”

Miss Voncille waited for the light applause to die down before she pointed to the letter in her hands and began. “Thank you for that. I'm not sure I would ever have shared this with anyone—not even my dear husband, Locke—were it not for Maura Beth and The Cherry Cola Book Club. I like to say that it opened me up for good after I shut down many decades ago when I received the news that my Frank Gibbons was officially MIA in Vietnam. As most of you know by now, Frank and I were engaged to be married before he was deployed around January of 1968. The Tet Offensive. It's part of history now. But then, it was just wartime jargon to me. A term I'd never heard of that was repeated over and over by Walter Cronkite and Huntley and Brinkley on the evening news at dinnertime. I kept hoping and praying it wouldn't affect me since it was so far away, but I knew better. Frank was in the middle of it, so how could it not affect me? I was certainly in denial. What I'm going to read to you tonight will show you what a fool I was to try and wish it away. Now, if you don't mind, I'll skip a few very personal parts in the beginning that would only mean something to me. So, bear with me, please, while I catch my breath.”

Miss Voncille was as good as her word and then began.

Miss Voncille broke off, and for a moment it was difficult to tell if she had finished or if she couldn't continue because of the emotional toll the words were taking on her. Then she said, “I think that's all I'll read of this tonight. But what I'm always left with is that Frank had come away with the idea that there were no easy answers to anything. In some of his other letters, he expressed the notion that it was more spiritual to stop insisting on certainty and to question things instead. Were answers in life possible—especially when things were so difficult and traumatic? I believe he still thought so—but only after people were sorely tested and then not found wanting. That was his notion of something greater than himself, and I have to tell you, it's mine, too. Thank you for listening to me.”

The gathering applauded politely as Miss Voncille returned to her seat and took Locke's hand. He leaned over, taking the time to rub her arm gently several times, and appeared to be whispering something soothing to her.

“And we thank you for sharing that with us,” Maura Beth said. “I almost felt like I was there with your Frank.”

For the first time, however, she understood clearly why Miss Voncille had fallen in love so deeply with Frank Gibbons. And why it had been so difficult to forget him and go on with her life. But go on, she had, teaching history to decades of Cherico's schoolchildren and making a name for herself doing so; and Frank's letters had obviously encouraged her not to give up and shown her how to endure the years of loneliness to come.

15

Charles Durden Sparks—Step Two

C
utty Sark had always been a friend to Councilman Sparks. He didn't particularly like the taste, which had driven him to dilute it with soda. The hangovers the stuff had caused him over the years were off-the-charts nasty and head throbbing. But scotch and soda was such a glamorous drink. It was in lots of Hollywood scripts, A-list, B-list, and particularly the film noir genre, and he enjoyed the fantasy that he was one of those razor-sharp detectives or playboys who were always guzzling it while eyeing the sexy, buxom girls. It never failed to deliver the buzz he needed to feel he was on top of the world even when he wasn't.

Tonight, he wasn't. Having finished his note to Evie, he felt like he was staring up at the sky from the bottom of a deep well. How had he fallen so far in his own mind? Well, no matter. Three, maybe even four scotch and sodas would take him where he needed to go. So he went over to the wet bar and retrieved the bottle of Cutty he had been working on for a month or so. Only tonight he intended to finish it off.

“Do your thing,” he muttered to the bottle as he poured the first drink into one of the crystal tumblers Evie had bought for him. It was no accident that he chose not to include the soda. It would be scotch on the rocks this time.

He returned to his favorite armchair and took a big swig. “Just . . . do your thing,” he mumbled again.

Of course the liquor did not answer him as he swallowed more of it, making a lot of noise rattling the ice cubes. When he had drained the first drink, he poured another one and then started in on it. This time, he chugged. That buzz could not overtake him fast enough, but his nearly empty stomach would serve him well here.

“That's . . . better,” he said out loud, hoisting the tumbler as if someone else were in the room with him making a toast.

But he was still not satisfied. He got up again, a little less steady than before, and poured out a good, stiff third round. He had to do Step Two up right. There must be no mistakes. He wanted no messes.

By the time the third one had begun circulating throughout his veins, he was nearly where he wanted to be. He was in control by losing control. He even laughed at the irony of it.

“I call the shots,” he said to the empty room where he always liked to retreat to brainstorm his political moves. “I . . . always have to call the shots.”

He was manifestly drunk. He knew it. He felt it. It had come faster because he wanted it. Once again, he liked where his beloved Cutty Sark had taken him. But he had one more step before he arrived at his destination. Step Three was in the pocket of his shirt. He reached up with the fingers of his free hand and palpated them through the fabric. They were still there, waiting for him. Waiting to do their mischief.

Just a few minutes longer to enjoy the buzz from the alcohol. Just a few blissful moments. Then he would proceed.