A Piggly Wiggly Christmas (27 page)

Gaylie Girl and the other Nitwitts each embraced Wittsie in turn and said their good-byes, tearful as that turned out to be in some cases. For on Wittsie’s part, it was as if they’d all just arrived, and she was seeing them for the first time that day. More than once she was saying, “Why, I didn’t know you were here!” without the least bit of hesitation.

The orderly flashed them all an understanding smile as he finally led Wittsie away. Gaylie Girl had the disquieting notion that he was taking away part of the Christmas spirit they had all worked so hard to encounter and indulge. She was looking forward more than ever to getting home and discussing everything with her Hale.

“I have the most wonderful news!” Mr. Choppy exclaimed as Gaylie Girl entered the kitchen and tossed her car keys on the counter with a metallic, jangling noise. “It’s about my godson. They were able to take him off the ventilator several hours ago without any a’ those apnea episodes. Little Riley Jacob has been breathin’ on his own all afternoon. I just hung up with Henry after a long conversation. It’s finally lookin’ pretty good for his little family. Talk about one excited father—and godfather, for that matter!”

“That is good news,” she said, but there was a hint of caution in her voice. “Then is the baby finally out of that depressing intensive care unit? Cherish says it makes him look even more vulnerable hooked up to all those tubes.”

“Not just yet. He may be in there a while longer. But this is the first step he had to take to have a shot at a normal life.” Mr. Choppy gave her a big hug and a warm kiss and then held her at arm’s length. “And I have another little surprise for you. I’m going to make us dinner in honor of this smallest of miracles—a baby step, if you’ll pardon the pun. How do omelets and cheese grits sound to you? That was the first Southern dish I taught you to make, remember?”

“Ah, yes, the beginning of my transformation from an inveterate Yankee out of suburban Chicago into a li’l ole Southern belle, y’all.” She glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that it was early yet. “Let’s sit and have a little something to drink first. Pour us some wine. There’s something I need to tell you. It happened this afternoon at Delta Sunset Village.”

“Comin’ right up.”

She watched him open a bottle of Delta Lady dry muscadine and fill two wineglasses to the brim. Then they sat across from each other at the kitchen table and took a couple of thoughtful sips. “Your news fits perfectly with mine now that I think about it,” she began. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about the whole thing all the way back from Greenwood. Renza thought I was upset with her, I was so quiet. She’s so used to upsetting people, I think it comes with the territory for her. But I just told her I was thinking about Wittsie, and she said she understood. That was partly true, by the way. I was thinking about Wittsie—just not the way she thought I was thinking about her. Oh, that sounds like double-talk, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Choppy shot her a skeptical glance but tempered it with his best grin. “Seems like your news is a bit more complicated than mine. Either that, or you’re becomin’ more and more of a genuine Nitwitt every day. Now you know I love every one of you ladies, and I owe the club a helluva lot with all the support y’all have given me. But I’m glad I don’t go to your get-togethers like Powell sometimes does and try to follow the ebb and flow of everything y’all discuss.”

“Uh, thanks for the compliment . . . I think. But what I have to tell you definitely needs clarification of some kind. That’s where you enter the picture. I want your intuitive opinion here.”

Mr. Choppy took a big sip of his wine and braced himself. “Okay, shoot. Whatever you have to say can’t possibly be as complex as all this buildup. Let’s get to it.”

Gaylie Girl told him about Wittsie’s dream and its surreal waking aftermath, particularly the way she had kept emphasizing her fascination with the light.

“Sounds like one helluva dream,” Mr. Choppy remarked in a somewhat detached fashion. “My dreams are sometimes all over the map, too. That is, when I can recall ’em.”

“You don’t sound very interested in this.”

“No, you’re readin’ me wrong. Of course I am. So you want me to give you my interpretation of the light? Is that it?”

She shook her head and waved him off. “No, no. There’s something else I haven’t told you. That’s the part that really intrigues me. It was something Wittsie said to me a couple of times. She made a point of leaning over and saying it to me and only me. At least that was my interpretation. She said, ‘It will be restored.’ And then later she said that the light had told her that ‘it would be restored.’ When I asked her what ‘it’ was, she wouldn’t say. But I think I know what she meant.” She paused for effect, so long in fact that Mr. Choppy became slightly agitated.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you think she meant?”

“I think she meant that The Square would be restored. And she had this dream to back her up. Now, what do
you
think she meant?”

Mr. Choppy took his time, twitching his mouth and cutting his eyes from side to side. “If I were living in an ordinary town, maybe I’d say that she meant nothing. That she was sufferin’ from Alzheimer’s, which she is, and can’t think straight anymore. That’d be the conventional interpretation. But I don’t live in an ordinary town. I live in Second Creek, and I’ve seen too much happen here over the years that convinces me there’s more to life than conventional wisdom has to offer. Like those fireflies last summer. What was that all about? And Wittsie was somehow involved in that, too. Don’t know how, but my gut instincts tell me she was.” He paused for another swig of wine and to catch his breath.

“And so, what I’m gonna say to you is that your explanation probably makes as much sense as anything anybody else could come up with me—includin’ me. Not only that, but I hope your explanation is right. Because if it is, we’ll have a bigger miracle on our hands than a premature baby bein’ taken off a ventilator. If The Square is actually restored to its former glory, then we can breathe a huge sigh of relief and go on with our lives. You’ll prob’ly get that second chance at Caroling in The Square on Christmas Eve after all. And Second Creek will continue to be the tourist attraction it’s always been. Now, how’s that for an answer?”

Gaylie Girl quickly rose, moved to him, and planted a big kiss on his lips. “Spoken like a true, native-born Mayor of Second Creek. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“We seem to be gettin’ it from all sides,” Mr. Choppy reflected suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, all the faithful keep showin’ up everywhere, don’t they? I know you haven’t forgotten the taste of that cream of courage.”

“Ah! Good point.”

He put down his wineglass and caught her gaze. “So. Where do we go from here?”

Gaylie Girl’s laugh was a series of delicate, staccato tones that made her sound like she couldn’t possibly have a care in the world. “I say we settle back and wait for something miraculous to happen. Or maybe we make it happen ourselves.”

C
hristmas Eve had finally arrived. Mr. Choppy was taking only a half day at the office, and then he and Gaylie Girl were heading out to an afternoon holiday party at Evening Shadows that Myrtis seemed to have thrown together at the last minute. He was actually suspicious of the entire affair, since Gaylie Girl had disappeared the previous evening for an emergency meeting of the Nitwitts at Renza’s house.

“What are you all up to now?” he had asked her just before she left, as frisky and conspiratorial-looking as he had ever seen her as she headed for the door.

“I’m not telling. You’ll find out soon enough.”

And they had left it at that.

But now it was the next day, and Mr. Choppy was more curious than ever as the noon hour approached and his half day at the office came to an end. He summoned Gaylie Girl just before quitting time and had her take a seat on the other side of his desk.

“I know good and well that this is not one of Myrtis’s usual shindigs,” he began, bearing down upon her with his eyes. “That’s not how she works. You ladies talk about her parties for weeks leadin’ up to ’em. I know this has somethin’ to do with that last-minute Nitwitt meetin’ yesterday. Why won’t you let me in on it?”

Gaylie Girl looked supremely smug as she lifted her profile dramatically. “Now, Hale, what good is a surprise if I tell you about it in advance? And don’t ask me to tell you anyway so you can fake it. In a way, this will be my main Christmas present to you.”

Mr. Choppy was smiling in spite of himself. “It ought to be good, then. You’ve been on the phone constantly and runnin’ off to visit with practically everybody we know twenty-four hours a day lately, it seems. Out to Evening Shadows to see Petey. Over to Renza’s to see Meta. On the phone with Amanda up in Chicago. And on and on. If I ran things like Mr. Floyce did, I’d have my spies everywhere around town on the lookout and then they’d skulk up the stairs and spill the beans in some midnight rendezvous. But we all know I run a clean ship. Well, I guess I’d just better resign myself to the fact that I’m not gonna know anything until we get out to Evening Shadows.” He glanced at his watch and got up from his desk. “And now I believe you and I are officially on Christmas break. Let’s turn off the lights and head on home.”

As they headed down the corridor after locking things up, Gaylie Girl turned to him and said: “I will tell you about one piece of business we put to bed at our meeting last night. We decided to officially wind up our Vigil Auntie shifts at the hospital. As you know, the baby’s been off the ventilator for two days now. Henry says he’ll be eternally grateful for all the support—and especially the delicious food we fixed for him—but the worst seems to be over now. And he says Cherish will be home in time for Christmas, too.”

There was almost a boastful quality in Mr. Choppy’s elaborate sigh. “So it looks like my chances of becomin’ a godfather are gettin’ pretty good. I can’t wait to do all the things godfathers are supposed to do.”

“Oh, you’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

They had just reached the parking lot when Mr. Choppy took one last stab at undermining Gaylie Girl’s resolve. “You sure you won’t tell me anything more? Not even a teensyweensy hint?”

“For heaven’s sake, Hale, you’re just like a child on Christmas morning waiting to get at the presents. Anything worthwhile is worth waiting for. Let’s get on home and change. If everything is on schedule, Myrtis and the gang will be putting the finishing touches on everything right about this time.”

Mr. Choppy had not been mistaken when he had jokingly called out Gaylie Girl for being in contact over the past twenty-four hours with just about everyone they knew. With very few exceptions, they were all present on Myrtis’s glassed-in back porch overlooking her famous boxwood maze. As in years past, the elaborately trimmed puzzle was decorated with a sea of twinkling Christmas lights, and it made an enchanting backdrop for those already enjoying nibbles and cocktails while engaging in their small talk. And true to her fascination with rock-and-roll hits that her Raymond had exposed her to over the years, Myrtis had the original 1957 recording of Bobby Helms’s “Jingle Bell Rock” spinning on the turntable. She and Euterpe were even doing a silly imitation of the Twist to the music in the far corner of the room.