The Great Christmas Bowl (13 page)

“Hey, good idea about the soup kitchen, by the way,” he said. “I've always thought that would be a great thing to do during the holidays, and with the economy, some people are in dire straits.”

Soup kitchen?
I frowned at him. He met it with one of his own. “The paper mentioned that you were having a soup kitchen at your church next weekend. Even has an address for people to donate to the cause.”

It did?
I stared at him in horror. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He slid his desk chair back and pulled out his garbage can, riffling around until he pulled out a copy of the newspaper. He opened it to section A, reading a headline on the inside page, next to the religious ads. “‘Soup Kitchen at Big Lake Community Church.'” He handed it to me for confirmation.

Sure enough, there it was, not a hint of what I'd told Robyn when I placed the ad, and every bit a fabrication and potential atomic bomb. “I didn't put out this ad. I mentioned the Christmas Tea, yes, but not a soup kitchen.”

Coach shrugged. “I heard a couple people say they were coming.”

I looked over the top of the paper. “How many?”

“Ten, maybe?”

Ten? Multiply that by, well, whoever else had read the paper, and . . . I folded it up, stuck it under my arm. “Can I keep this?”

“Have at it, Marianne. Merry Christmas.”

I trudged out to my car. Sure, the town's economy had taken a nosedive with the current recession, and more than a couple businesses had closed their doors. Our unemployment rate soared to an all-time high. I agreed with Coach. A soup kitchen could be a great idea.

But it wouldn't stand in the place of the Christmas Tea.

I got into my car and turned on my cell phone. Seven messages bleeped on my screen. Perfect
.
I dialed Mike, barely keeping my voice pitched at reasonably calm. “Did you read the paper?”

“The rundown of the game? Kevin had three quotes.”

“No—the article in the religion section. Apparently our church is hosting a soup kitchen in place of our Christmas Tea! How could this have happened?”

“Well, don't ask me. I'm not the hospitality chairman.”

If I could have, I would have reached through the phone and strangled him. “But you were the one who signed me up.”

Silence. Then, “I'll see you at home.”

“Don't expect supper. I'll be making
soup
!” I pressed End, wishing I could slam the phone down on something. Add a little resonance to my fury.

How in the world . . . ? And then I remembered my stupid moment of fame. The reporter had asked where the event would be held after I'd opened my big, fat fishy mouth and announced to channel six that we were having soup for our Christmas Tea.

I was an idiot. I wondered if I still had time to book a trip to Cancún. With half my family defecting, it would sure be cheaper. Kevin at least had loved it.

I scrolled through the list of missed calls before listening to my voice mails: Gretchen. Gretchen. Gretchen. Pastor Backlund (or maybe Rachel). Jenni. Gretchen. Gretchen.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

I retrieved the first message and had to appreciate Gretchen's calm tone as she politely asked if perhaps there'd been a misprint in the paper. The calls deteriorated from there. Pastor Backlund mentioned that the church wasn't zoned for commercial use. Jenni wondered how she was supposed to tell her friends that they needed to serve instead of be served when they were already stressed out enough, concluding that she'd probably just skip this year but she'd send her list of potential babysitters to me by e-mail.

Gretchen's final message indicated that by no means was her grandmother's china going to be used to serve a “bunch of riffraff off the street,” and if we wanted to do that, then we'd have to add paper products to the budget, which had already been sucked dry by my imported seafood.

Yeah, imported all the way from the canned goods aisle at the grocery store.

By the time I returned home, I just wanted to drink a nice glass of eggnog and listen to Bing Crosby sing “Silver Bells.”

The answering machine had come alive with angry red blinking I leaned on the counter, my finger hovering above the Play button. Really, how important was the tea, anyway? Couldn't we save the money and use it for, say, Bibles? maybe supporting a missionary in China? What about buying boots for the needy in Siberia?

I closed my eyes and pushed the button. Gretchen. I deleted it. Backlund, Rachel, who told me that perhaps we needed to rethink the tea. You think? Muriel, who had dialed the wrong number and was looking for Gretchen. Gretchen again.

The last message, however, caught my attention. I listened to it twice before I slumped into a kitchen chair, put my head in my hands, and let fatigue wash over me.

“Mom, it's me, Amy. Oh, I hope you're not asleep and running to get the phone right now. I just can't figure out this time change thing. Hello? Okay, I guess I'll just leave a message. I miscalculated my schedule, and it looks like I might have classes until the twenty-fourth, which means I won't get out until the twenty-fifth and not there until the twenty-sixth, and it's such a long trip home, I'm thinking that maybe I should just stay here. I know we talked about it, and you gave me that extra money to come home, but still—what? . . . Yes, I'll tell her—and Marcus wants me to visit his family, too, so . . . okay, maybe I'll just e-mail you. Love you! Ta-ta, as the Brits say!”

Ta-ta, indeed.

Mike arrived home with flowers. A rare and momentous occasion that only slightly soothed my ragged spirit. I had pieced together a tuna casserole for supper. Kevin, Mike, and I ate it in quiet, me unable to find words for how my life had gone from victory to vanquished in one short day. Mike also stayed silent, afraid of what I might say should he open his big mouth and offer condolences about an event
he
had gotten me into.

Kevin twirled his fork through the noodles, consumed with some dark thought. “I'm worried about Mr. Finlaysen,” he finally said. “Me and some of the guys went up there after school, and he couldn't even get out of bed. He looks bad.”

I thought of his bad grammar and then of Marge, alone in her old trailer. I didn't know what kind of relationship she and Bud had, but no one should lose her husband over the Christmas holidays. I glanced at Mike as he scooped up the paltry tuna casserole I'd made as if it were a steak dinner. He had become so much a part of my life, my thoughts didn't include one without Mike in it. Long ago I'd dreamed of the day when, with our children out of the house, we'd get to travel or sleep in or just snuggle together on the sofa with full possession of the remote control.

Now it seemed those days were nearly upon us, and the thought of losing him at our prime made the tuna stick in my throat. I gulped it down with some milk.

“Me and some of the guys thought that maybe we'd head up there on Christmas Eve, maybe sing some carols or something.”

“Some of the guys and . . . oh, forget it.” I knew I was deflecting the issue.

“And then Coach Grant invited us over for Christmas dinner. You know, just us seniors for a little postgame celebration.”

I was going to have to kill that man next time I saw him.

I nodded, forcing a smile. “That sounds fun.” I breathed a long breath. “I was thinking that I would just call off the tea—or rather the soup kitchen.”

Mike looked at me, a worried frown on his face.

Kevin seemed bewildered. “Why?”

“Well, Gretchen Gilstrap and the Knitters are furious that we're going to desecrate their china, and Jenni thinks I've sold her and the other young mothers into slavery. Pastor Backlund is worried about a city fine, and Rachel just wants everyone to get along and live happily ever after.” I put down my fork, wiped my mouth. “The thing is, regardless of what we serve, we're supposed to be doing it with a loving attitude. Do you see love anywhere on that list?”

“Rachel wants you to be happy.”

“Rachel wants us to live in Gumdrop Land. The fact is, sometimes a little suffering is part of love. According to the Bible, love is sacrifice and serving. And the Christmas Tea—” I added finger quotes to my words—“should be, more than any other event, about exactly that.” I tossed my napkin on my plate, then picked it all up to bring to the counter. “I clearly wasn't the one to do this.” I meant that as a zinger to Mike, but he was dishing himself another scoop of casserole.

Kevin, however, stared at me, a strange look on his face. “You're going to cancel the Christmas Tea?”

You'd think I'd just suggested selling everything we had to go live in an igloo in Alaska.

“Yes. Life will go on. Did you know that the real meaning of
hospitality
is ‘giving comfort to strangers'?” I knew my voice had reached a shrill. “It shouldn't even matter what Gretchen or Jenni wants but what ministers to our community. If we want to have a party for ourselves, then let's just call it that. Not try to make ourselves feel better by saying it's outreach.”

Mike had stopped eating, his fork halfway to his mouth.

Kevin put his down. Took a breath. “It'll work out, Mom.”

This time, it wasn't a question.

I stared at my son, who had somehow grown up right under my nose. Then I turned away and ran water to send my dinner down the drain.

By Sunday I knew I was in trouble. The tea was set for the next Wednesday night, four days before Christmas, and as I walked into church, I felt like the Grinch. No “Merry Christmas” greetings for my ears, no warm hugs. Gretchen shook her head in dismay as I passed by her and slouched down in our family pew, staring at the bulletin.

I signaled to Pastor Backlund as he made his preworship service rounds. I could barely speak above my shame. “There's no tea this year,” I said.

“What?” He looked at me with concern on his face. I realized, after a moment, that it wasn't a cry of horror, but truly, he couldn't hear me.

“There's no Christmas Tea this year,” I said louder.

Of course, that's when the organist chose to end her prelude, leaving my voice to rise into the silence, resound along the rafters, and settle like an executioner's verdict among the congregation.

It spread like wildfire.
“No Christmas Tea?”

Pastor's hand landed on my shoulder for a moment and squeezed; then he continued on his way to the pulpit. Mike slipped his arm around my shoulders.

I forced myself to stay in the pew and sing Christmas carols. The moment the sermon ended and the benediction was pronounced, I got up. I nearly knocked the pastor off his gait as I ran out of the sanctuary, grabbed my coat, and hightailed it to the car.

Mike joined me moments later. “I think this is some kind of record.”

“Just drive.”

We were halfway home when Mike leaned over and took my hand. “I feel really awful to have to tell you this, but . . .” He sighed, and something in his tone ESP-ed the message to me.

“Brett's not coming home for Christmas,” I guessed.

Mike withdrew his hand. “I'm so glad he talked to you. He called me at work yesterday and told me that his car was in the shop, and he didn't have the money to take a flight and rent a car.”

“I'd go get him. . . .” But as I turned and looked out the window, at the now-glassy lake, the snow-topped trees, I realized that I needed to surrender.

No more perfect Christmases. It was over, the season when my children would join me to chop down our tree, decorate it with oohs and aahs. The precious Christmas Eve dinners by candlelight, when we told each other the gifts we'd give to the Baby Jesus. The magic when they'd arise from their beds, surprise in their eyes as they opened their stockings.

Over. I'd had my mom season.

And now, it was just me and my fake tree and a really big turkey.

Chapter 11

I wasn't sure what to do with my thirty pounds of potatoes, two pounds of onions, four bags of celery, eight half-gallons of half-and-half, twenty cans of clams, and four pounds of smoked bacon. Budgeting my pennies, I'd decided to order it all from a local restaurant that offered me a deal, right before the championship game. Perfect timing as usual.

I asked Kevin if he knew of any needy families. I still hadn't gotten reimbursed from the church for the cost, so I figured I'd donate it to charity.

Kevin carted it all away without comment.

I kept the smallest amount for our family . . . well, apparently just for me. Even without my family around to celebrate, I just couldn't bear the idea of going soupless on Christmas Eve.

I had started to wonder if perhaps my traditions were more for my sake than anyone else's.

I planned on spending Wednesday—the former day of the Christmas Tea—hiding in my home. Kevin had started Christmas break that day but left early anyway, and Mike received a call on his pager about a snowmobile accident in the woods. The house creaked in the wind, silence filling the rooms with memories as I got up and padded downstairs.