Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (14 page)

“You don't miss much, do you, Sister?” I squirmed in embarrassment.

“’twouldn't be the first time someone slipped out during one of my reports. I can just about keep from nodding off myself,” she chuckled. “So if music is the chink in your armor, I'm not above taking advantage of it. You get yourself over to the Cathedral late tomorrow afternoon for the choir rehearsal. We're locking up here at three o'clock, and you can skedaddle right on over.”
“Won't anyone mind my just strolling in?” Even to my agnostic sensibilities, it seemed blasphemous to intrude on such an occasion.

“Bless you, child, no one will even notice you among all the singers and musicians.”

“Musicians? That magnificent organ isn't enough?”

“Not on Christmas, no, indeed. There's a string quartet and a small brass ensemble, as well. You know what they say. We Catholics know how to put on a good show, isn't that right, Aloysius?” Her full-throated laugh rang out, and the old poodle's tail thumped merrily in agreement. “As I started to say, besides all of the performers, the rehearsal is open to the public. Lots of folks, especially the old ones who don't like to venture out after dark, will be there. You'll simply be one of the crowd,” she assured me. “So go find yourself some Christmas.”

I remembered her words as I crept from traffic light to traffic light along Asylum Avenue. Here I was, surrounded by some of the most venerable churches in Hartford. Each and every one of them was in an ecstasy of preparation for the anniversary of Christ's birth, the real Christmas. Yet even in the midst of such joy, miles from the frenzied commercialism which so depressed me, I still could not get into the spirit of the season. Armando was so far away. My daughter was ensnared in a one-sided love affair that was certain to turn out badly. Every second person I talked to had at least one family member down with the flu. The Wadsworth gala had turned into an unspeakable tragedy. Even my old cat was inconsolable.

In the face of all that, I doubted that a few carols, however expertly performed, would turn the season around for me. Still, I looked forward to the rehearsal as a bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.

I worked steadily through the correspondence, grant applications and questionnaires from funding agencies that had accumulated since the previous day. Once again, I marveled at the amount of paperwork that was involved in the charity business. Identifying appropriate funders and preparing grant applications was just the tip of the iceberg. Any contract that was awarded came with a multitude of requirements, each of which necessitated reams of documentation for compliance purposes. I had thought that the law firm for which Margo, Strutter and I had all worked a few years back took top honors for paper consumption, but the UCC left it in the dust.

True to her word, Sister Marguerite shooed the staff on our way at three o'clock. We wished each other a pleasant holiday with as much manufactured cheer as we could muster, unplugged the Christmas tree in the conference room, set the security alarm, and filed out into the darkening afternoon.

The snow which had been threatening all day had begun to fall in fat, wet flakes that quickly coated the cars in the parking lot. Everyone else scurried for home and the million and one details still requiring their attention, but I headed for the back entrance of the Cathedral on the other side of the parking lot.
Just one hour,
I promised myself,
and then I'll go home and face the preparations for my Christmas Eve ordeal.

As usual, the sheer presence of the Cathedral inspired my admiration, but it was the music that raised goose bumps on my arms as soon as the door shut behind me. I climbed the stairs quietly to the main level, pulled upward by the tones emanating from the majestic Austin organ. This time, it accompanied the Cathedral choir, which was practicing the Christmas section of Handel's
Messiah
. I hoped I had not missed a run-through of the “Hallelujah Chorus” from that stirring work.

Although not full, by any means, many of the pews were occupied. I slipped into a seat on the right, near the confessionals that lined the wall. Looking around as the music director instructed the choir on a tricky passage, I was surprised to see a light on above one of the curtained booths. I presumed that meant it was in use. Apparently, the work of saving souls must continue, Christmas or not. I had no knowledge of what transpired between priest and confessor, but if the movies were to be trusted, eventually the curtain would open, and the penitent would find his or her way to an open pew. There, he or she would utter prayers of atonement.
How wonderful it must be to be so easily freed of guilt for one's unworthy thoughts and deeds,
I mused.
We nonbelievers must just muddle on, doing the best we can from day to day and hoping we get it right occasionally.

A brisk countdown from the director, accompanied by a signal for the choir to stand, recaptured my wandering attention, and I sat forward as the organ boomed out the introduction to the hoped-for chorus. As always, the jubilant harmonies elated me, as they had everyone who heard them in the two hundred plus years since Handel had composed them. I thought about the thousands, if not millions, of singers throughout the world who would thrill to the masterpiece over the next few days.
What a gift,
I thought yet again,
to be able to create a work of such splendor to uplift the spirits of those who came after you in perpetuity.

“Divine inspiration, you might say,” Sister Marguerite inserted herself into my thoughts, and I smiled in spite of myself. I would leave that door open to appease her.

As the piece reached its final crescendo, the curtain on the confessional flicked open. Its occupant emerged, a middle-aged man wearing a rather dirty raincoat, his head bowed. The appreciative listeners around me burst into spontaneous applause as the confessor dragged himself down the outer aisle instead of seating himself in a pew, as I had expected. He appeared oblivious to the applause. Keeping his head low, he pulled up the collar of the shabby raincoat and headed for the door through which I had entered.

He probably prefers to do his praying in private,
I thought absently, clapping enthusiastically with the others as the director made a sweeping bow.
Who can blame him? Anyone who has sins grievous enough to drive him into the confessional in the midst of all this festivity must have a heavy burden to lay down.
The man's face, what little I could see of it above the raincoat collar, was pale and drawn, his whole demeanor inexpressibly weary. He reminded me a little of someone, but I couldn't think who.

As the tumultuous applause died down, a young priest stepped from the confessional into the aisle and stood looking after the retreating figure. His face registered conflicting emotions, none of them good. Then I knew who the man in the raincoat reminded me of.

C
hristmas
Eve morning, and my nose was in Strutter's cookbook once again. This time, I was seeking roasting instructions for the turkey sitting in my sink. I had already dealt with the, eww, giblets, rinsed the thing, and patted it dry. The cavity had been salted, peppered, and stuffed with pieces of carrot, onion and celery. Now I was instructed to “place the bird on a roasting rack in a shallow pan, and roast at a temperature of three hundred twenty-five degrees for twenty minutes per pound or until the juices run clear when a knife is inserted between the leg and the body.”

Besides being totally grossed out by all this talk of cavities and juices and bodies, I had no idea in the world what a roasting rack might be. Any chicken that had ever had occasion to find its way into my oven had been plopped straight into a roasting pan, thanks very much. As for poundage, all I knew was that I had asked for a turkey weighing between twelve and fifteen pounds, which Strutter had told me was the smallest I could expect to find. That was just before she hung up on me the previous evening.

“Charlie and Olivia came down with the flu,” she had moaned, “and I don't feel so good myself, to tell you the truth. Sorry, but you're on your own. Good luck.” And she was gone.

On her advice, I had abandoned the goose idea as being too tricky for a beginner to manage. With apologies to the wild birds who even now bobbed in a cautious parade across my lawn, I had driven straight to the Bliss Market first thing this morning and stood in line at the butcher counter for the better part of an hour. I was convinced that every matron in Wethersfield had pre-ordered the meat for her Christmas dinner here, and today was pick-up day. It was enough to make a vegetarian out of anyone.

“Believe me, Miss, this is the last fresh turkey available in Connecticut,” the harassed butcher informed me when at last it was my turn. “I can only let you have it because the customer who ordered it is down with …”

“ … the flu,” I finished for him. “Yes, there's a lot of that going around.”

“It's a little bigger than you want.” He held it up for inspection. Its naked wings flapped obscenely.

“Wrap it up,” I said, more to get it out of my sight than anything else. Now here it was, taking up most of my sink. The question was, how many pounds constituted “a little bigger” than I had asked for?

After staring bleakly at the thing for several minutes, I called Margo. As usual, she had the answer.

“Weigh yourself on the bathroom scale while carryin’ it, Sugar. Then subtract your weight, and bingo. You doin’ okay with all of this?”

“I'll manage,” I assured her. “If Strutter can deal with a sick son and baby, I can roast a damned turkey. Thanks for the tip.”

Grimly, I wrapped the carcass in a kitchen towel and traipsed into the bathroom, where I stepped onto the scale. My heart almost stopped at the figure on the display. Either I had gained several pounds since Armando's departure, or this was one major turkey. I put the bird on the vanity and stepped back on the scale. The good news was, I hadn't put on any weight. The bad news was, the turkey weighed eighteen pounds. At twenty minutes a pound, that was six hours of roasting. I hoped I could afford to pay my utility bill at the end of the month.

While attempting to execute the approved wing tuck maneuver, whereby the skinny ends of the wings were bent unnaturally behind the body of the bird, I distinctly heard a bone snap. I knew it was the turkey's, not mine, but it was still enough to make my stomach lurch. I scrabbled through the lower cupboards in search of something that might serve as a roasting rack and came up with the one on which I had cooled cakes and cookies twenty years ago when I still made such things for the kids. Reasoning that a rack was a rack, I fitted it into the bottom of the roasting pan and dropped the turkey on top of it. By the time I had wrestled the whole thing into the oven, I was ready for a glass of wine and a nap. Since it was only nine-thirty in the morning. I settled for a cup of coffee and dialed Emma's number. I was going through this torture for her. Why should she be allowed to sleep in?

“He's on his way!” she greeted me cheerfully.

“Santa and his sleigh? I thought that only happened after the kiddies are all asleep,” I countered with forced silliness. “Oh, you mean Jared, don't you?”

“You know perfectly well I do. According to his text message last night, he'll be on the highway by noon. The drive is four to five hours, depending on the traffic, so he should be here by five o'clock at the latest.”

“He sent you a text message? You mean, you haven't talked to him? What happened to actual conversations, or am I just hopelessly behind the times?”

“He just didn't have enough time to call. All the kids were being picked up by the parents yesterday, and there was a farewell thing in the afternoon. It was just one thing after another, you know,” Emma dismissed my questions a shade too brightly for my liking.
One thing after another, or one girl after another?
I wondered uncharitably.
I mean, there's a whole evening unaccounted for here.
Somehow, I held my tongue.

“Have you talked to Joey today? I don't even know when he and Justine are getting here.”

“Umm, yeah, we talked.” Now she was really hedging. “I don't know about their plans, though. He said Justine wasn't feeling very well.”

I groaned. “If I hear about one more case of the flu, I think I'm going to scream, but I'll give them a call to see what's going on,” I promised. “Somebody had better show up to eat this great hulking turkey.”

“Turkey? I thought we were having roast goose?” Emma had the nerve to sound dismayed. “Turkey isn't as traditional as roast goose, is it?”

My temper rose dangerously close to the red zone. “What with one thing or another, Em, the goose thing didn't work out, so Jared will just have to make do,” I managed after mentally counting to ten. “So who's bringing the chestnuts to roast on the fire?”

She forced a laugh. “I guess that's another thing we'll have to do without. Sorry, Momma. I know I'm being a pain about this, and you're a saint to put up with me. It's just that it's so important for everything to be perfect.”

I knew it would be wiser not to pursue this unlikely line of reasoning from my usually level-headed daughter but found I could not resist. “I don't understand why it's so important, Emma. Why does everything have to be perfect for this guy? You've never given a fig about this sort of thing before. You've always been a take-me-as-I-am kind of person, and there have been plenty of fellows willing to do just that. Frankly, I find this whole thing a little alarming.” I struggled to soften my tone. “You're just not acting like yourself, Sweetie.”