In a Dark Season (13 page)

Chapter 15

Light in a Dark Season

Sunday, December 17

E
lizabeth watched as Ben and Phillip coaxed the monster tree through the cramped angles of the mudroom into the living room. The giant fir brought with it a whiff of cold, a spicy fragrance, and an ineffable feeling of the wild out-of-doors that completely vanquished the cozy after-breakfast aromas of coffee and sausage. The two men maneuvered the freshly sawn butt of the tree into a washtub in the corner of the room and wrapped a length of strong black rope once around the trunk halfway up, securing the ends to small hooks in nearby window and door frames.

When the washtub was filled with water, Elizabeth fixed a critical eye on the tree. “I’m not crazy about the way that rope looks but ever since the dogs knocked the tree over one year, I play it safe. And the branches mostly hide the rope, and once all the ornaments are on—”

“It’ll be fine, Aunt E, just like it always is.” Ben looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve gotta get down and do the watering. Phillip, I guess you’re elected to help get the lights up. There’s a ladder out back and—Aunt E, what time are the girls getting here?”

“Around three—Rosemary stopped and spent the night in Asheville with Laurel. She said they had some last-minute shopping to do, then they’re coming out together. You and Amanda come on over around three and we’ll get started on the dreaded cranberry-popcorn chain.”

By two-thirty the multiple strands of tiny white lights were in place—on the tree, around the dining room windows, across the mantelpiece, and winding up the steep stairway to the loft guest room. Five fat evergreen sheaves—mixtures of yew, juniper, fir, and holly cut that morning—hung at intervals from the stair’s banister rail, each adorned with a red satin bow. More branches had been laid on the mantelpiece, and an assortment of old brass candlesticks with red candles nestled among the fragrant greenery.

“I pop the corn a little ahead of time. If it sits a while and cools off, it doesn’t shatter so easily when you try to run a needle through it.” Elizabeth set down a huge stainless steel bowl, brimming with fluffy white popcorn, between two bowls of fresh cranberries that were in readiness on the chest in front of the sofa. Nearby was a spool of heavy-duty thread, several pairs of scissors, and a piece of paper pierced by an assortment of long, stout needles.

Phillip was studying the contents of the bowl with an apprehensive eye.

“What’s the deal here? I’ve never done this kind of thing. Sandy always decorated the tree herself—it was a different
motif,
as she called it, every year. But I don’t remember anything like this.”

“The
motif
here is of the traditional persuasion, I guess—old-timey, country, whatever. We use the cranberry-popcorn chain, red satin bows, candy canes, and all the ornaments that have accumulated over the years, from ones I made when Sam and I were first married to the ones the kids made at school and even ones I inherited from Gramma—the girls would have a fit if they didn’t see their old favorites.”

She moved to the old trunk at the end of the love seat, gathered up the books that rested on its wood-slatted top, and opened the trunk lid. “The decorations are all in here but the chain has to get done and on the tree before we hang the rest.”

Elizabeth watched as Phillip picked up the paper of needles and pulled one free, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and looking at it as if it were some curious new invention.

“Well, okay, give me some string and I’ll get started. It’s gonna take hours to use up all this popcorn.” His face was a study in determination and she felt a surge of tenderness at his willingness to join in this admittedly tedious tradition.

“Not yet, not till the kids get here.” Gently, she took the darning needle from him and returned it to the paper. “You’ll see, with six of us working, it’ll go really fast. Let’s take a little walk while we wait for them.”

The snow from the previous day was dry and squeaked beneath their boots as they followed the path at the top of the pasture. Delirious with the pleasure of human company, the three dogs romped like puppies, snapping at the fresh snow and making wild forays up the slope in order to hurtle down at one another.

A perfect winter day—bright sun, blue sky, clean snow. And ahead, the dark loom of the woods and the shadowy path lined with elegantly drooping hemlocks, the new snowfall a delicate lacy frosting on the graceful branches.

Elizabeth leaned down to brush the snow from the rustic bench at the edge of the woods. “We can sit here and keep an eye out for Laurel and Rosemary. It’s too cold to stay out long but think how good the fire’ll feel when we get back.”

They sat in silence for a time, watching Molly and Ursa disappear deeper into the woods. James, whose stubby short legs meant that his undercarriage and tender bits were in almost constant contact with the snow, began to shiver and to eye Elizabeth meaningfully.

“Okay, poor James, come here.” Leaning down, she scooped up the little dog, unzipped her jacket, and tucked him inside. “He’s just not built for snow; when it’s really deep, I have a hard time getting him to leave the porch at all. I thought a sweater might be just the thing and got him one—but when I put it on him, he just fell on his side and refused to get up.”

Phillip’s perfunctory smile told her that his mind was elsewhere, and she leaned into him. “What’s the matter? Do you want to go back?”

“No, this is great…beautiful.” He hesitated, then enveloped her gloved hand in his. “It’s just…I was wondering about all the stuff you do for Christmas. I mean, I know Sam’s accident was right around this time—I guess I was wondering how…” He shook his head as if unable to find the words he wanted.

Elizabeth looked back at her house. Even from this distance she could see the greenery with its red bow hanging from the brass knocker on the blue front door.
The same as every year. And the tree will be the same and the cranberry-popcorn chain the same and the Christmas Eve dinner the same. And the ritual of opening presents, that will be the same too. A yearly renewal.

But Phillip was waiting, his question hanging unfinished in the frosty air.

“Christmas was always a big deal for us. Not in the amount of money spent—we usually made most of our gifts—but big in the time we took to get ready and in how much we all enjoyed the various traditions we’d developed. And while Sam’s accident would have been terrible whenever it happened, having it right before Christmas was devastating.”

Phillip started to speak but she plowed ahead. “The decorations were up, everything was as it had always been, and in an instant it was like a particularly obscene joke. Suddenly, I hated Christmas—I would have made a bonfire out of the tree and every single one of the decorations if I’d had the energy.”

She closed her eyes, remembering the black bitterness that had assailed her, the crippling anger and inexpressible sorrow. And the hurt in the faces of Rosemary and Laurel and the Christmas Day spent in mute grief while the tree was dimmed and dropping its dry needles on the brightly wrapped, unopened packages beneath.

“It was the girls who insisted that we mustn’t lose the joy we’d always felt in the holiday season, the girls who wouldn’t let me quit putting up a big tree, putting out the same decorations. And they were right. Eventually I was glad that Christmas hadn’t been taken from us along with Sam.”

“But it’s not a religious thing for you…not a Christian thing.”

Elizabeth pointed up the slope behind them. “See where the sun is now? It’s so far south that it’s barely clearing this ridge behind us. And in another hour, it’ll be behind the mountain. For us, Christmas is a light in a dark season—the time when the days finally begin to get longer again. And a time to be together and celebrate the past and maybe brace ourselves for the future.”

Her face crinkled as she said, “I don’t mean to sound all New Age—pagan or Wiccan or whatever—but people have been celebrating the solstice and the return of the sun—that’s s
-u-
n—for a lot longer than two thousand years. It was the Christians who grabbed the holiday—according to what I’ve read, Bible scholars are pretty sure that the historical Jesus was born in the spring. But celebrating the birth of a child is a good symbol too.”

Inside her jacket, James was squirming restlessly. “Okay, James says enough lecturing.” She unzipped the jacket and the little dog wriggled free, slipped to the ground, and began to bark ecstatically.

On the road below, the familiar farm pickup was crawling up the hill. Laurel was at the wheel, her sister Rosemary beside her. In the back were odd pieces of luggage and several large garbage bags filled with shapes that suggested an assortment of boxes.

Elizabeth grinned and stood. “Let the revels begin!”

As they crunched through the snow on their way back to the house, Elizabeth peered at Phillip. “What about you—what about
your
family traditions? You told me your kids always had Christmas dinner with their mom and her husband; are you ever included? I know lots of divorced couples still celebrate the big holidays together because of the kids…”

He made no reply and Elizabeth groaned inwardly.
Uhoh, be careful here. You may have overstepped a boundary.
To her dismay, she found that she was prattling on. “I mean…I guess I’ve always assumed your divorce was pretty amicable…”

Phillip walked on in silence for another few beats. And then, as if commenting on some rather uninteresting fact, he spoke. “Sandy does invite me every year to come to Christmas dinner, but considering that I first met old Don, my soon-to-be replacement, when I came home unexpected one day, walked into our bedroom, and saw his hairy ass going up and down on top of
my
bed, on top of
my
wife—well, it’s hard to keep that picture out of my mind. I believe it’d ruin my appetite for Christmas turkey, which Sandy always overcooked anyway. So, no, we haven’t had any of those ‘Kumbaya’ extended family gatherings.”

This is nice.
Phillip looked around the crowded table. To his left sat Rosemary, dark-haired, dark-eyed, usually the quiet one but tonight deep in conversation with Amanda on the dehumanizing aspects of a fashion model’s career. Laurel, whose mop of red curls vibrated with energy as she spoke, was giving an account of her latest artistic endeavor to Ben across the table from her. Ben appeared to be listening intently but his eyes kept wandering to the beautiful blonde on his left.
All of them together and the girls chattering like monkeys. Amanda fits right in with this family—she’s usually so quiet, but tonight she’s outtalking Laurel.

Opposite him at the other end of the table, Elizabeth seemed to radiate contentment as she listened to the cheerful banter of the young people
—like a mother hen with all her chicks accounted for,
he thought, raising his glass of merlot to her when their eyes happened to meet.

Yards and yards of cranberry-and-popcorn chain
—one cranberry, three popcorn, one cranberry, three popcorn—
had been accomplished and hung in graceful scallops around the tree, a lavish red satin bow carefully tied at the upper point of each swag. The myriad eclectic ornaments had been unpacked, admired, explained,
that’s one I made in second grade…I remember how I glued a bunch of sequins in my hair accidentally on purpose,
and dispersed among the tree’s branches. Six dozen scarlet-and-white-striped candy canes had been hooked in place.
They have to all face the same way, Ben!
Rosemary had cautioned.

Ethereal music from Elizabeth’s much-loved Windham Hill recording,
A Winter’s Solstice,
played in the background as they devoured beef burgundy made the day before. There were boiled new potatoes, flecked with parsley, French bread for sopping up the rich gravy, and Laurel’s special Painter’s Salad: glass plates with a bed of baby lettuce topped by an artful abstract arrangement of orange slices, purple onion slivers, red bell pepper circles, blue cheese, and toasted almonds.

When at last even Ben declared that he could eat no more, he and Amanda began to clear the plates.

“Stay put, Aunt E. We’ll make the coffee.”

Phillip leaned back in his chair and sipped at his wine.
Nice kids, all of them. And they treat me like a person too—not some ancient geezer. I like that.

Laurel turned her deep blue eyes on him.
Lizabeth’s eyes.
“I’ll bet
you
know what’s going on down at the river. You’re still big buddies with Sheriff Blaine, right? When Rosie and I passed by there this afternoon, there was yellow tape and official-looking vehicles everywhere. I thought maybe someone had drowned, but then we realized that something was going on around that old silo.”

“As a matter of fact, I was there yesterday.” Everyone looked at him, eager to be told more.
What the hell, it’s not like it’s some big secret. Might as well give them the straight skinny.
“They’ve found human remains at the bottom of the silo. They’re excavating deeper to see if there might be more.”

He had to admit it was kind of satisfying to have all of them paying close attention to his every word.
Who says an old guy can’t get any respect!
He described for them the arrival of the SBI team and Dr. Alvarez, the blonde young woman who had turned out to be a well-respected forensics specialist.

Laurel was avid for details. “What could she tell from the remains—was it just bones or was there—”

“Yech, Laur, I’m still digesting my dinner! Could we skip all the disgusting parts?”

Ben was setting cream and sugar and an assortment of mugs on the table. Behind him, Amanda carried a cobalt-blue plate arranged with concentric circles of dried apricots, half-dipped in dark chocolate. Her face had gone pale and Phillip suspected that Ben’s objection to gruesome forensic details was on her behalf. Rosemary too seemed less than eager to pursue the story; she excused herself quietly to let the dogs out. Elizabeth followed her daughter and the dogs out to the porch, saying she’d be right back.