Saying Grace (24 page)

Georgia was still pink with excitement when she slipped into the pew beside her parents at five minutes before eleven. Rue had a basket of gift-wrapped presents at her feet, and to her surprise and pleasure, she saw that Georgia had brought four presents with her too, wrapped in Rue’s most expensive paper. “You remembered!”

she whispered to Georgia.

“Of course. I brought them all this def stuff from New York.” Rue suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears, to think of Georgia, nineteen, on her own in that terrifying city, with an allowance that barely covered what she needed for subway tokens, shopping for Christmas presents for homeless children on the coast of California.

The doors at the back of the church opened, and the organ began

“O Little Town of Bethlehem.” The choir came down the aisle singing and carrying candles, and behind them, a twelve-year-old Joseph with a burnt-cork beard carried a staff and led a Shetland pony, on which was seated the blue-robed figure of Nicolette Wren. She was sitting sideways, bareback, and was clutching the pony’s mane with both hands, leaving the Baby Jesus she was supposed to be cradling dangling from her bosom with no visible means of support. Apparently, he was strapped to her body under her robes in some sort of infant carrier. Rue was pleased to note that Joseph was African American, feeling that this gave good representation to those who thought of Our Lord as the Lion of Judah, and Ethiopian. She wondered why in the world poor Nicolette had been cast as Mary, however, since she was clearly terrified of the pony. Then Rue remembered that Buster Wren was on the vestry.

Following Joseph and Mary came two sheep who kept trying to escape into the pews. These were being admirably managed by an efficient border collie whose master, dressed as a Magus, was about twice as tall and three times as old as the rest of the cast. Then came two smaller Magi carrying ornate boxes. One was Asian, and one Saying Grace / 173

was a girl. Far overhead, in the vaulted arches of the sanctuary, there was a large glittering star with a tail like a comet’s, being drawn along a wire by some form of pulley. The two little Magi kept their eyes piously fixed on the star, while the tall one kept his eyes fixed on his sheep.

As it happened most years, some sort of miracle occurred once the members of the tableau reached the manger scene. Mary was helped from her ass by Joseph and she neither fell nor dropped the baby. The infant Jesus was (with some effort) disentangled from his mother’s bosom and laid in the manger, where he seemed to disappear in a cloud of straw. The pony then stood quietly, and the sheep lay down and went to sleep. The congregation listened, once again to the familiar verses from Luke, and they sang all the favorite Christmas carols. Rue found herself in tears over and over again to have Henry on one side and Georgia on the other, with Georgia sight-reading the alto and Henry singing the bass.

Standing between her husband and her daughter, surrounded by people she knew and did not know, all of whom share a membership in this community, whose many bodies made one body and whose many voices sang one song, she wondered if she could find the words to explain to Mrs. Kip how she felt elated and transformed by belonging here. Inspired in the literal sense, she felt that as they sang they breathed in air that belonged to one spirit. She wished for a chance to say to her, “You thought I spoke lightly because I don’t believe, but that’s not it. I speak lightly because it doesn’t matter which parts of a narrative I believe or don’t believe. What matters is that I belong to a community that believes in a pattern life. I believe in the
experience
of belonging to this community. I can feel what it does in my life, it’s not a mystery or a matter of doctrine, it’s as ex-periential as eating dinner.”

She thought of it again as she was falling asleep, with her arms around Henry and her cheek against the back of his shoulder. Of course, saying things like that to people whose beliefs were otherwise made no sense. No matter what she said, neither Chandler nor his mother was going to get the point of her. Never mind. Her job was to do what you have to do and let the storm blow until it blew over.

They were entitled to hate her if they wanted to.

C
hristmas morning, Rue was down early. She had to get the goose ready, put all the leaves in the table, and get out the tablecloth and napkins and start ironing the creases that always settled in, since she didn’t have a linen press or a drawer long enough to store the tablecloth rolled. She called her parents in Florida where they had somewhat unwillingly gone to visit her mother’s brother.

Her father said the trip had been fine and it was raining. Her mother seemed almost entirely recovered, he reported, and they were on their way out to eat something called fried conch for lunch. Fish for Christmas. Rue said, “You should see what
we’re
having.”

Rue found that her stocking and Henry’s were half-stuffed with presents from Georgia, and that hers and Georgia’s had presents in them from Henry. That fox—when had he done that? He must have gotten up in the middle of the night. She brought out the bag of stocking presents she had been collecting and wrapping since summer and added them to Georgia’s and Henry’s stockings.

At nine she made a breakfast tray with fresh orange juice and hot tea and the rest of the muffins from last night, and carried it up to Henry. She got back into bed with him.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she said, kissing his shoulder. He pulled himself awake and sat up. He stared at the tray for a minute or two, and then said, “Oh, bliss,” and retrieved the extra pillows from his side of the bed that he always threw on the floor. He propped them behind his back so he could sit up straight. She transferred the tray to his knees, and made him take his vitamin pill, and while he ate, they talked about Georgia and Jonah, and about Christmases in Maine when Georgia was a baby, and Christmases after they moved out here, and Christmases when they themselves were children. When he’d eaten everything on the tray, she kissed him and took it back downstairs, and he got up to take a shower. In her room, Georgia was up and dressing. Rue was surprised she wasn’t

Saying Grace / 175

going to sleep until noon, and she hurried to make coffee for her.

Nothing went quite as planned for the rest of the day. Somehow they blew a major fuse when Georgia put a bagel in the toaster and a cup of coffee in the microwave at the same time as the dishwasher was running. Then Rue discovered that the chestnuts she needed to stuff the goose were gone; Henry had given them away a week ago to a young lady who was going house to house gathering food for the needy.

“You gave them my chestnuts? What do you think they’ll do with them?”

“What are
you
going to do with them?”

“I told you, stuff the goose!”

“Well, I didn’t know that. We never had goose before. What if I don’t like it?”

“You’ll like it. Will you see if Tagliarini’s is still open, and if it is, go buy me three cans of chestnuts?”

Henry trudged off.

They were still opening their stockings when Emily and Malone and David arrived with an armful of flowers. Soon after that Charla Percy and her husband arrived, then Catherine Trainer, and Consuelo Cole, the new Spanish teacher, and Dr. Coburn and his wife, Dr.

Klein, and their three hulking teenagers. In the middle of this the phone rang and Georgia disappeared into the closet for half an hour.

When she emerged, she was so excited that Rue looked at her and thought to herself, My God, he’s asked her to marry him.

She only hoped Henry hadn’t noticed. Henry was serving sherry and Bloody Marys by now. Georgia, keeping her own counsel, became a whirlwind in the kitchen since her tempura was not yet cooked, and she still had to make the condiments for the curries.

Rue was in and out of the kitchen, passing crudités, refilling the platter with hot cheese puffs, refilling the ice bucket. Each time she came in, she studied her daughter, who was flying with inspired efficiency from saute pan to mixing bowl, chopping board to oven.

Georgia was brimming with excitement and happiness, and she didn’t want to talk to her mother.

Well. She’ll choose her time, thought Rue. I’ll have to wait.

At last Charles and Craig MacEwan arrived from church. Rue met them at the door. “Are you full of Christmas spirit?” she asked. Craig was the parish administrator, and it was his job to distribute 176 / Beth Gutcheon

the turkeys and presents that had been collected for needy families.

“Half full,” said Charles.

“Half empty,” said Craig.

“Did you have enough presents?” Rue asked.

“We have a hundred left. We’ll save them for next year.” They were shaking off their wet raincoats and stuffing scarves into their sleeves and wiping their feet. Henry appeared as if by magic with a tray with two drinks.

“The one with the celery is the Bloody Mary,” he said. Craig took it and said, “Bless you, my child.”

Charles took the Bloody Shame. Craig said, “There was a woman who came in and said, ‘Do you have my stuff?’ We said what’s your name and she showed us a welfare card. We said no, so she showed us another, and another. She had five welfare cards. She was listed as having twelve children when she has two. There were eighteen boxes of presents there for her.”

Craig had finished his drink. “It took her so long to assemble it all that by the time she was ready, her car had been towed.”

Rue laughed, appalled.

“Guess what kind of car. A ’91 Jaguar convertible.”

“Have another drink,” said Rue to Craig.

“Thank you, I intend to.”

“Will the cook say grace?” said Henry.

They all stood around the table, which was covered with hot dishes, while the sideboard was lined with salads and relishes brought by the guests.

“Which cook?” said Rue.

“The one who cooks meat,” said Henry.

They bowed their heads. “We thank you,” said Rue, “for all your goodness to us. We thank you for our health, for our friendships, for your love and for each other’s. We think today of all those who have less than we do, and we thank you for perhaps the greatest blessing of all, the gift of being able to give. For these and all thy many gifts, Lord, make us truly thankful. Amen.”

“Amen,” chorused the table, the chairs scraped back, and everyone sat except for Henry, who was carving. There were many thoughts around the table as people digested the grace and prepared Saying Grace / 177

to digest the food. The three hulking teenagers were wondering what all that vegetable-looking stuff was at Georgia’s end of the table and hoping the goose would go around. Malone Dahl was thinking that one of the hulking teenagers was quite cute. David Dahl was hoping his mother wouldn’t make him eat any raw tomato.

Catherine Trainer was thinking it was indeed blessed to be able to give, and she hoped her nephews in New York City would like the bird house she had sent them. Dr. Coburn was thinking how much he liked Brussels sprouts, and Dr. Klein was thinking how much she liked latkes and wishing there would be some. She hadn’t done much about Hanukkah this year, and she wished she had a wife who could cook.

Henry said, “Georgia, what would you have said if we let you say grace?”

“Well, of course, I would have asked that all the wicked people at the table wearing leather and eating animals would learn to stop it, and…”

“Thank you, that’s what I thought. We’ll give you another chance next year.”

“Would you like some eggplant curry?” Georgia said to the youngest hulk, who was nearest her. It shook its head briefly no.

“Eggplant makes him throw up,” offered its brother.

The oldest hulk, which had a tattoo on its wrist, said “What is grace for?”

Its father looked shocked.

“You know what grace is for…we say grace at Thanksgiving and Christmas….”

“I know we do it, but I don’t know what it’s for. If its important, why do we only do it then? If it isn’t, why do we do it at all?”

“I think that’s a good question,” said Henry. “Is this thing all dark meat, dear?”

“Yes, Henry.”

The hulk with the tattoo said, “I’m not like, being rude. I want to know. Is it an incantation? Like, magic? How is it supposed to work?”

“What’s your tattoo for?” asked his father crossly.

“Decoration,” said the hulk, as if he had now heard a truly stupid question.

“Grace is not decoration,” said Rue. “But I don’t know if it’s 178 / Beth Gutcheon

magic. Although I’m all for magic where I find it.”

“Perhaps,” said Charla, “we can arrive at a definition by elimina-tion.”

Atta girl, thought Rue. That’s a teacher.

“I don’t think it’s incantation,” said Georgia, “but it’s ritual. The question is ritual what?”

Dishes were passing hand to hand now. Those who wanted wicked goose flesh were passing their plates to Henry. Charla and Georgia were hoping to have the tempura all to themselves.

“What does ritual mean?” Malone asked. She had decided that the hulk with the tattoo was the cutest, really.

“Should we get a dictionary?” said Dr. Coburn.

“Oh, heavens no, that would spoil the fun,” said Henry.

“Ritual is something that is repeated in particular ways at particular times.”

“That’s all? Just things you repeat?”

“Like ‘Who stole the cookie from the cook—ie jar?’”

“No, not like that,” said Georgia. “It’s something that symbolizes a meaning.”

“Spiritual or ceremonial,” said Dr. Coburn, feeling with relief that they were getting somewhere.

“But if you have no idea what the meaning is, then the ritual won’t work.”

“Now wait, that’s arguable,” said Henry. “When me and my friends go out in the woods and beat on drums and talk about what shits our fathers were…”

“My friends and I, Daddy.”

“Oh, you go in for drumming too?”

“This conversation is deteriorating,” said Rue.

“Speaking of drumming,” said Georgia, “I thought our grace today was full of meaning.”

All eyes turned toward her. This sounded as if it was going to be interesting. Uh-oh, thought Rue, here it comes.