A Redbird Christmas (2 page)

As he approached his bus stop he put the booklet back in his pocket and wondered who in the hell would
want
to stand under a rosebush with thirty other people, comfortably or not?

When he reached the De Soto Apartment Hotel for Men, where he had lived for the past eight years, a few of the guys were down in the lobby looking at the TV. They waved at him. “How did it go?”

“Terrible,” he said, blowing his nose. “I may be dead before Christmas.”

They all laughed, thinking he was joking, and went back to watching the news.

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “The doctor said I’m in terrible shape.”

He stood there waiting for some reaction, but they weren’t paying any attention and he was too tired to argue the point. He went upstairs to his room, took a bath, put on his pajamas, and sat down in his chair. He lit a cigarette and looked out at the blue neon Pabst Blue Ribbon beer sign in the window of his favorite neighborhood bar across the street. Damn, he thought. At a time like this, a man ought to be able to have a drink. But a year ago another doctor had informed him that his liver was shot and if he took one more drink it would kill him. But so what? Now that he was going to die anyway, drinking himself to death might not be such a bad idea after all. It would be fast anyway, and at least he could have a few laughs before he checked out.

He toyed with the idea of getting dressed and heading across the street, but he didn’t. He had promised his ex-wife, Helen, he’d stay sober and he would hate to disappoint her again, so he just sat there and tried his best to feel sorry for himself. He had had bad luck from the get-go. He had contracted his first bout of tuberculosis when he was eight, along with 75 percent of the other boys at St. Joseph’s Home for Boys, and had been in and out of hospitals fighting chronic bronchitis and pneumonia all his life. Being an orphan, he had never known who he was or where he had come from. Whoever left him on the church steps that night left no clues, nothing except the basket he came in and a can of Campbell’s soup. He had no idea what his real name was. Oswald was the next name on St. Joseph’s first-name list and, because of the soup, they gave him Campbell as a last name and the initial T. for Tomato, the kind he was found with. Nor did he know his nationality. But one day, when he was about twelve, a priest took a good look at his rather large nose, red hair, and small squinty blue eyes and remarked, “Campbell, if that’s not an Irish mug, I’ll eat my hat.” So Oswald guessed he was Irish. Just another piece of bad luck as far as having a problem with booze was concerned.

But it had not been just the drinking. Nothing had come easy to him. School, sports, or girls. He had never been able to keep a job for long, and even the army had released him early with a medical discharge. It seemed to Oswald that everyone else had come into this world with a set of instructions but him. From the beginning he had always felt like a pair of white socks and brown shoes in a roomful of tuxedos. He had never really gotten a break in life, and now it was all over.

After about an hour of trying to work up as much sympathy for himself as he possibly could, he suddenly realized that despite all of his efforts, he wasn’t all that upset! At least not as upset as a man
should
be who had just been handed his walking papers. The real truth was, the only two things he would really miss when he checked out were the Cub games and Helen, unfortunately in that order, one of the reasons for their divorce in the first place.

In all honesty, Helen was probably the only one who would really miss him. Although she was remarried with two kids, she was still the person closest to him. He used to go over to her house for dinner quite a bit, but not so much anymore. The new husband was somewhat of a jerk and her two kids had grown from obnoxious young boys into whiny and obnoxious teenagers, who did nothing but give her grief. He couldn’t go there anymore without wanting to strangle one or both, so he just didn’t go. You can’t tell other people how to raise their kids, especially since the other reason for the divorce was because she wanted kids and he didn’t. Having spent the first seventeen years of his life in a room with five hundred other screaming and yelling kids, he had had enough of children to last him a lifetime. Still, despite the apparent apathy he felt about his own imminent demise and not knowing the correct protocol for this sort of thing, he supposed he should tell
someone
about his prognosis. He guessed he should tell Helen at least. But after thinking about it a little longer, he wondered why tell her? Given the kind of woman she was, an ex-nurse and a nice person, if she knew how sick he was she would probably insist on his coming to live with them so she could take care of him. Why put her through that? Why worry her? She didn’t deserve it. He had caused her enough trouble already. She had enough problems of her own, and besides there
were
those teenagers.

No, he concluded, the best thing he could do for her was just go away and let her get on with her life. Then if he
wanted
to take a drink nobody would be the wiser or care. He just had to find a place he could afford on his small $600-a-month government pension.

He went over and sat down, took the Woodbound Hotel brochure out of his coat pocket, and turned to the next page, where Horace P. Dunlap asked the reader:

WHY GO TO FLORIDA?

Why go to Florida with its low lands and deficiency of good water? Why go to New Mexico and be exposed to alkali dust? Why go to California, with its cold uncomfortable houses two to three thousand miles away, when Baldwin County can be reached from Chicago in twenty-six hours? On both sides of the river you will find a magnificent growth of fine timber. Among the many varieties are the magnolia, sweet bay, sweet gum, Cuban pine, ash, maple, evergreen, and white cedar, with a great variety of shrubs and Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks. Satsuma trees, pecan, kumquat, pear, fig, and apple are plentiful. The winters here are like the northern spring or early autumn. In fact, you can enjoy nature walks in comfort nearly every day of the year. . . . Along the river, ducks, geese, wild turkey, dove, quail, raccoon, and squirrel abound. Here is an abundance of sparkling-clear springs, and good water is found at 20 to 30 feet. All the various fruits and vegetables by reason of the mild climate are about two weeks in advance of other sections of the country. What does this mean for the health seeker? It means relief and cure to those who suffer from bronchitis, catarrh, and rheumatism and absolute safety from pneumonia; it means an easy recovery for those few who get grippe in this county. It means a carefree romping out-of-doors for the pale or delicate boy or girl, the joy of picking beautiful flowers at Christmastime.

RENT A LOVELY ROOM OR A DANDY
LITTLE BUNGALOW!

We extend a hearty welcome for you to visit our fair county. We are just as large as Chicago, only we haven’t quite so many houses. Don’t say we are giving you only exaggerations. Come visit and see for yourself the sunshine, flowers, and orange blossoms in December.

On the back page was a song complete with words and music.

“Dreamy Alabama”
Words and music by Horace P. Dunlap

Evening shadows falling
where the southland lies,
whip-poor-will is calling
’neath the starlit skies I love

Dreamy Alabama where sweet folks are waiting,
there my heart is ever turning, all day long.
Dreamy Alabama, where songbirds are singing,
waiting to greet me with their song.

Winding river flowing
through the whispering pines
like a stream of silver
when the moonlight shines above.

Oswald put the brochure down. This had to be one of the dullest places in America, but he had to hand it to Horace P. Dunlap. He sure as hell was trying hard to get your business. He had thrown in everything but the kitchen sink. Tomorrow he would give old Horace a call and see how much it would cost to rent a lovely room or a dandy little bungalow, and find out where the nearest bar was.

Hello, Operator

T
HE NEXT MORNING
after his usual thirty to forty-five minutes of coughing, Oswald lit his first cigarette, picked up the phone, and called the number on the brochure.

“I’m sorry, sir, but that number is invalid. Are you sure you have the right number?”

“I know it’s the right number. I’m looking at it right now.”

“What area code are you trying to call?”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s the Woodbound Hotel in Lost River in Baldwin County, Alabama.”

“Let me connect you with information for that area.” In a moment another operator answered. “May I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m trying to reach the Woodbound Hotel.”

“Just a moment, sir, I’ll check that for you right away.” This operator had such a thick southern accent he thought she must be joking with him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have a listing for a Woodbound Hotel anywhere in Baldwin County.”

“Oh. Well, where are you?”

“I’m in Mobile.”

“Is that in Alabama?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever heard of a place called Lost River?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Is there a listing for
anything
down there?”

“Just a moment. Let me check that for you. . . . Sir, I have a listing for the Lost River community hall and one for the post office. Would you like me to connect you to either one of those numbers?”

“Yes, let me try the first one. They might be able to help me.”

Not five minutes earlier, Mrs. Frances Cleverdon, an attractive, slightly plump woman with white hair as soft as spun cotton candy, and her younger sister, Mildred, had just entered the back of the community hall through the kitchen. It was 72 degrees outside and the hall was hot and stuffy, so they opened all the windows and turned on the overhead fans. It was the first Saturday of the month. Tonight was the monthly meeting and potluck dinner of the Lost River Community Association. They were there early to deliver what they had made for the potluck dinner and to get the place ready for the evening. Frances had brought two covered dishes, one a green-bean casserole, the other a macaroni and cheese, and several desserts.

Mildred, who had prepared fried chicken and a pork roast, heard the phone ringing first but ignored it. When Frances came back in from the car, Mildred said, “Don’t answer that. It’s probably Miss Alma, and we’ll never get her off the phone.”

After another trip to the car for two cakes and three pecan pies, the phone was still ringing.

Frances said, “You know she’s not going to give up,” and picked up the receiver one second before Oswald was going to hang up.

“Hello?”

“Hello!” he said.

“Hello?” she said again.

“Who is this?”

“This is Frances. Who’s this?” she asked, in the same southern accent as the operator.

“This is Oswald Campbell, and I’m trying to find the phone number for a hotel.”

“Well, Mr. Campbell, this is the community hall you’ve reached.”

“I know. The operator gave me this number.”

“The operator? Where are you calling from?”

“Chicago.”

“Oh, my!”

“Do you happen to have the number of the Woodbound Hotel? It’s a health resort that supposed to be down there.”

“The Woodbound Hotel?”

“Have you ever heard of it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it . . . but it’s not here anymore.”

“Did it close?”

“Well, no. It burned down.”

“When?”

“Just a minute, let me see if my sister knows.” Frances called out, “Mildred, when did the old hotel burn down?”

Mildred looked at her funny. “About 1911, why?”

“Mr. Campbell, it was in 1911.”

“In 1911? You’re kidding!”

“No, they say it burned right to the ground in less than an hour.”

“Oh . . . well . . . could you give me the name of another hotel I could call?”

“Down here?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t any.”

“Oh.”

“There used to be a few, but not anymore. If you don’t mind me asking, how on earth did you hear about the old Woodbound all the way up there in Chicago?”

“My doctor gave me a brochure, but obviously it was a little out-of-date. Thanks anyway.”

“Hold on a second, Mr. Campbell,” she said, and called out, “Mildred, close that screen door, you’re letting the flies in. I’m sorry, Mr. Campbell. What kind of place were you looking for?”

“Just somewhere to spend a couple of months this winter, get out of the cold weather for a while. I have a little lung problem.”

“Oh, dear. That’s not good.”

“No. My doctor said I needed to get out of Chicago as soon as possible.”

“I can understand that. I’ll bet it’s cold up there.”

“Yes,” he said, trying not to be rude but also wanting to hang up. This call was probably expensive. But Mrs. Cleverdon continued talking. “Well, it’s hot down here. We just had to open the windows and turn all the fans on. Oh. Hold on. Mr. Campbell, I’ve got to go close that door. . . .”

While he was waiting, he could actually hear the sounds of birds chirping in the background over long distance. It must be some of those damn whip-poor-wills, he thought, and they were costing him money.

Frances picked up the phone again. “Here I am, Mr. Campbell. Now, would this be a place for you and your wife or just you?”

“Just me.”

“Have you tried anywhere else?”

“No. I wanted to try there first, it sounded like a nice place. Oh well, thanks anyway.”

“Mr. Campbell. Wait a minute. Give me your number. Let me see if I can come up with something for you.”

He gave her his number just to get her to hang up. What a crazy place. Evidently they would just talk the head off of any stranger that happened to call.

Mildred came back in the kitchen after putting flowers on the two long tables in the other room. “Who were you on the phone with so long?”

“Some poor man from Chicago with bad lungs who needs a place for the winter. His doctor had given him a brochure for that old hotel, and he thought he might want to come here.” She walked over and pulled out the huge coffeepot. “Why
did
it burn down, I wonder?”

“They say it was rats and matches.”

“Oh, lord,” said Frances, opening a large dark-brown can of A&P Eight O’Clock coffee. “They’ll just chew on anything, won’t they?”

Around three o’clock the next afternoon, Oswald was about to pick up the phone and make another call to Florida when it rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Campbell, this is Frances Cleverdon, the lady you spoke to in Alabama yesterday. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Listen, have you found a place yet?”

“No, not yet, not one I can afford, anyway.”

“Yes. Well, if you still have a mind to come down here, I think I found a place for you. We have a very nice lady next door to me, and she said she would be happy to rent you a room for however long you want it.”

“Huh,” said Oswald. “How much do you think she would charge?”

“She told me that fifty dollars a week would suit her just fine, if that was all right with you. Of course, that would include all your meals. Is that too much?”

Oswald added up his $600-a-month pension, plus the small military medical-discharge check from the government, and figured he could handle it. The places in Florida he called had been double and triple that amount.

“No, that rate sounds fine to me. When would it be available?”

“Betty said for you to just come on anytime, the sooner the better; the river is so pretty this time of year. But now, Mr. Campbell, before you decide on anything, I need to warn you. We are just a small place down here, all we have is one grocery store and a post office, but if it’s warm weather and peace and quiet you want, I can guarantee you’ll get plenty of that.”

“Sounds good to me,” he lied. He couldn’t think of anything worse, but the price was right. He figured he should probably grab it before they changed their minds.

“Well, all right then,” she said. “Just call me back and let me know when you’re coming, and we’ll have somebody pick you up.”

“OK.”

“But one more thing, Mr. Campbell, just so you know. We are very friendly and sociable down here and good neighbors when you need us, but nobody is going to bother you unless you want them to. By and large we mind our own business.”

What Frances had told Mr. Campbell was true. The people in Lost River did mind their own business. However, after having said that, Frances, a romantic at heart, could not help being a little optimistic. With four widows and three single women living in the community, having a new man around would certainly be interesting. One of the three single women was her sister Mildred. Frances was one of the widows, but she did not put herself in the running. She had been very happily married for twenty-seven years and was perfectly content to live on memories, but as for the rest of the ladies she was willing to let fate take a hand. After all, she was a Presbyterian and believed strongly in predestination. Besides, the day Mr. Campbell called happened to be the first Saturday of the month, usually the only day someone was at the hall, and that could not have been just a coincidence. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he turned out to be someone’s knight in shining armor? The only other eligible man in Lost River was Roy Grimmitt, who ran the grocery store. But he was only thirty-eight, too young for most of the women. Besides, after what had happened to him, it looked as if Roy was a confirmed bachelor for life. Too bad, she thought, because he was a handsome man and a nice one, but she more than the others understood it. Once you’ve experienced true love, you don’t want anybody else.