Boomtown (14 page)

As I turned to the sports section to read about the Slugs' latest drubbing, a small announcement caught my eye. It listed the date of Boomtown's upcoming Living Nativity and the names of the ministers who were hosting. My name was listed in the ad.

As usual, I was the last to know. I'd been thinking about a lovely candlelight service, the choir singing, and a simple sermon about the true meaning of Christmas, that sort of thing. Now, apparently, I was expected to participate in a Nativity pageant, involving lots and lots of fireworks, no doubt. Not something I'd signed up for.

I got dressed, grabbed my Bible, picked up an umbrella, went to put on my coat—and found it missing. It was always hanging on the hall tree by the front door—it was there just yesterday—but now it was
gone.

What was going on around here? First my lawn mower. Now my coat? Then I noticed something else—what was that? Leading from the back door, through the kitchen and up the stairs—muddy footprints. I followed them into Jonny's room and found a pile of filthy, muddy clothes thrown in the corner along with a pair of muddy boots. I'd have to talk to that boy when he got home.

I was in too much of a hurry to hunt for my coat. I pulled on a thick sweater, hunched outside into the misty drizzle, and walked as fast as I could down to the church. As I came up the sidewalk, I saw two men talking to Ingrid at the main door.

“Reverend Button!” she said, waving to me. “You're just in time!”

“Here he is now,” she said to the men. Then to me she said, “Let me introduce you to Reverend Platz from St. Bernard's and Reverend Tinker from First Presbyterian.”

I regarded the two gentlemen for a moment, one dressed all in black and the other dressed all in gray, as different from one another as wet is from dry. Reverend Platz was as wide as he was tall, round and red like a ripe tomato, with a circle of white hair crowning his head. He reminded me of Santa Claus, with his red nose, jolly laugh, and firm, happy handshake. His companion, the Reverend Tinker, was the polar opposite: seven feet tall and thin as a beanpole. He had a thin face, gray eyes, black hair, and long bony fingers and arms. He was as white as a snowman and about as talkative. He shivered in the cold and managed a quiet hello before Reverend Platz took charge.

“Hello! We finally meet at last, Reverend Button. We should have come by the minute you arrived, but we like to see if the new minister at Boomtown Church lasts a month or two before we make our acquaintance.” He chuckled. “Nothing personal, you understand, but Reverend Tinker has buried so many of your pastors over the years it's almost a full-time sideline, isn't that right, Terrence?” He giggled and elbowed Reverend Tinker good-naturedly, but his stoic companion pulled his overcoat tighter and didn't crack a smile.

“Not that we're expecting anything like that from you at all,” the jolly Reverend Platz continued, “since you seem so virile and healthy and certainly forewarned, I should say. Keep your eyes open and your head down, that's good advice! I'm sure you'll be just fine.”

“Yes, thank you . . . I think.”

“Of course, of course. We're all friends here. All together in the Lord's work. All playing for the same team. Time to put our heads together and get this Living Nativity off the ground.”

“Yes, the Living Nativity,” I said. “I came down here as fast as I could when I saw the notice in the paper. I was going to ask Ingrid about it and then contact you.”

“Wonderful! We're all on the same track. Running the same race. Reading from the same script! Couldn't be better. That's why we're here. Come along, come along.”

Before I could say another word, Reverend Platz had me by the arm and was dragging me back down the sidewalk. “Let's head on down to Mabel's Diner where we can make our plans. Worst coffee you ever tasted, terrible service, but it's close by. Hop to it, Terrence! Follow along and keep up. No dawdling. We'll talk on the way. Get to know one another. Get the lay of the land, so to speak.”

And speak he did, incessantly, nonstop, as he chugged down the street, right on Bang, left on Cave In, right on Nitro, acting as tour guide as we rushed along with the Reverend Tinker bringing up the rear.

“My compatriot here has been with First Presbyterian for more than forty years now. They say he came with the building. Been marrying and burying folks as long as anyone can remember. And myself, I started at St. Bernard's nine years ago. Attended all the funerals of your predecessors since I've been here, and I've been part of the Living Nativity every year. It's a town favorite, that's the truth; I wouldn't miss it.”

He paused every now and then to point out the holiday decorations that hung from every light post, fence, window, and tree. “The Christmas chickens look especially festive this year. Red and green bows, very nice. Which reminds me, will you be helping with the Hen Grenade and Hotcake Breakfast this year? December 22 at St. Bernard's. Annual tradition. We can count on you? Wonderful. Oh, my, look at the beautiful frozen cow. Old Boyd has outdone himself this year!”

There it was. Staring at us over a fence, its sad eyes gazing through a solid block of ice, six feet high, four feet thick—a frozen cow.

I couldn't believe my eyes. “It's a frozen cow!”

“Well, yes, it most certainly is. Another one of those fantastic Boomtown holiday traditions! Old Boyd's been doing it ever since the winter of '39. You remember that, don't you, Terrence? You were here then, of course.”

Reverend Tinker had caught up to us by then and opened his mouth to answer, but Reverend Platz cut him off. “Worst winter on record. Started to rain on a Tuesday. Didn't stop until Thursday; it was Christmas morning, I think. Three days of sleet and freezing temperatures and blizzard winds. Terrible. Just terrible! People trapped inside their homes. Doors frozen shut. Snow piled high as your head. Ice every-where. Old Boyd, there, got his entire herd caught out in the storm; it was too late to bring 'em in from the fields. They froze solid like cow popsicles without the stick. Stayed that way for a month. Then, we had a warm spell in January like you've never seen. Those cows thawed out quick as you please. Every last cow survived. To celebrate, Boyd invited everyone over for the biggest barbecue the town has ever seen.

“He's been doing it every year since as a way of commemorating the event. He makes a great homemade barbecue sauce, baked potatoes, cole slaw, the works. You'll love it. Lots of fun. Late January. Sunday afternoon. Bring the whole church.”

We kept walking and soon reached Mabel's Diner, pushed open the door, and found a booth by the window. Mabel swooped in from out of nowhere, poured a coffee-like sub-stance into our mugs, and disappeared. Reverend Platz was right. It was the worst coffee I'd ever smelled or tasted. It was blackish, burnt goo. I watched Reverend Tinker, moving as slow as a glacier, carefully pour ten teaspoons of sugar and two packs of creamer into his cup and stir, stir, stir.

He looked across the table and pushed the cream and sugar at me. I decided to drink water instead.

Reverend Platz gulped his coffee straight, too busy talking to notice. “So, let's discuss the Living Nativity. Twenty-seven years and counting. Wonderful tradition. Lovely. Moving. Half the town gathers at Town Square carrying kerosene lamps and candles. We all sing Christmas carols as we march through the snow-covered streets, following Joseph and Mary as they make their way through town. Tebs Olsen and Gerty Capshaw did it last year, and maybe they'll do it again. The Bouchard brothers—Louis, Maurice, and Jean-Claude—will be the three wise men. Busy Gunderson has promised to be the shepherd. He can get a couple of sheep from Lazy's farm. Sam Sloan will provide the horse. We'll fix up a hump and make a camel out of him. Then, of course, the children from all our churches will dress up like angels and sing around the manger. And we'll finish the festivities with the Lighting of the Santas. It will be fabulous, as always.”

I interrupted. “Right. I read that in the newspaper. It mentioned the ‘Lighting of the Santas.' What's that?”

“The Lighting of the Santas? The best part! The high­light! The crescendo! People wait all year for the big moment. You'll see! It's spectacular! Marvelous! Explosive! Jim Dougherty's boy, Rocky, took the big prize last time. One hundred and seventy-five feet, who'd have believed it?

He's looking good again this year. My money's on him. Or maybe Guenther's boy—he came in a close second. Too top heavy, I think.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Santa Shooters, old boy! Reindeer Rockets. Exploding Elves. We're talking fireworks, son. Fireworks!”

“Fireworks on
Christmas
?”

“Of course, of course! Got to have fireworks. This whole town was built around fireworks and gunpowder. That's how it got its name. Every holiday. Christmas, New Year's, Groundhog Day, St. Patrick's, Easter, May Day, the Fourth of July. The bigger, the better.”

“But Reindeer Rockets? And Santa Shooters?”

“And don't forget the Exploding Elves. Those are some of my favorites.”

I looked at Reverend Tinker. He just shrugged.

“Right now, as we speak, the older school kids are working on their end-of-the-year project. You've got a son at the Boomtown School, don't you? Hasn't he mentioned it? He better get busy if he wants a chance at the prize.”

“What prize?”

“The team that wins first place gets to ride in the lead float in the Fourth of July parade. Then they get to light off the first rocket, the one that sets off all the others during the big fireworks extravaganza in the park. Big fun. A great honor.”

“You mean to tell me that right now, my son is building a
rocket
? In class, during school time?”

“Oh, most certainly. Absolutely. It's a big part of their science grade. Don't worry, it's all perfectly safe and supervised. No problem. There is the occasional mishap, of course, but nothing serious. No deaths. Some damage. The reports are exaggerated, I'm sure.”