The Great Christmas Bowl (7 page)

“I know.” I sighed again.

“Then what is it?”

I made a face. “I think you're going to have to help me get dressed.”

He laughed and pulled me to himself. “Oh, you cute little trout, you.”

We arranged to meet at the game, where he would dress me. I felt like I had when I was pregnant, near the end, and I had to ask him to tie my shoes.

He loaded the Trout into my SUV, and I dropped him off at the EMS station. He didn't have to work today but wanted to check in. He would ride out with some of his EMS pals and meet me at the game.

Which gave me an hour to sit and ponder my life as I drove.

I'd seen Jenni Simpson in the store yesterday, the day after our meeting. She cornered me next to the lunchmeat section. She had her baby in a car seat propped on the shopping cart.

“I just don't understand why we can't have something different for our tea theme. We young moms never get a chance to get out. It's our one chance to dress up, and we have to eat Swedish meatballs?”

I reached for the sliced ham, trying to be a peacemaker. “I know, Jenni. And I appreciate your suggestions. I'll talk to Gretchen. It's just that she's put a lot of time—”

“I thought it would be different with you,” Jenni said, arms folded. “I thought you would figure out that this tea is for everybody. It's supposed to be an outreach, something everyone would enjoy going to. Not just Gretchen and her cronies.”

“Jenni—”

“Whatever.” She threw a package of hot dogs into her cart. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

Well, maybe not in those exact words. But they contained enough truth around the barbs to stick with me, make me think.

Why, exactly, did we have a Christmas Tea? Was Jenni right? Or did Gretchen and her “cronies” deserve to keep their traditions? After all, they were the backbone of the church, and most of them watched the babies in Jenni's Mother's Day Out group once a month. That seemed to merit some recognition.

As I pulled up to the stadium, I could taste the excitement. From the band unloading from the bus, to the football players chanting on the field for their warm-ups, to the smell of hot dogs grilling on hibachis, football fever ladened the air.

The Miller Creek Moose would fight the Big Lake Trouts at a mutual location—a meet-in-the-middle city stadium twice the size of ours. Thankfully, we'd drawn home-team status.

I opened the trunk and grabbed the box of my cheering paraphernalia, then trekked toward the field. I waved to one of the offensive line coaches, who opened the gate and let me through to the sidelines.

I had never been on the sidelines, not during a real game. I'd never made the cheerleading squad—not that it mattered to Mike—but I'd always longed to be one of those girls who could jump and touch her toes, climb on each other's shoulders, do a flip in midair.

I didn't even want to think about the way I'd be making my debut cheering performance. I set the box down near the fence and returned to my car.

I noticed Mike standing with the EMS crew from the local county.

He waved to me and pointed to the back of their rig.

Yeah, I remembered.

Pulling the costume out of the trunk, I draped it over my shoulders, grabbed the head, and snuck over to the ambulance.

I went in a human woman. And came out a
Salvelinus namaycush
, according to Mike, who had taken the time to look up the official name for trout in his never-ending quest to mock me. I especially loved the “saliva” part of the name.

Good thing we were married, because Mike pulled and prodded the costume onto me and then had to wrestle me to a standing position. He held the head and popped me a quick kiss before lowering it over my head. “Go get 'em, Trout Girl.”

“Rah,” I said. But I had to admit, the look of appreciation on his face made me think that perhaps this might be better than being one of those shapely cheerleaders.

No, probably not.

“Wish me luck!”

“Oh, you're the luck, babe!” He patted me on my fishy backside and I waddled my way to the field. With Mike's alterations to the costume, I could actually jog if I wanted to. I might even be able to do a little sideline jig.

A strange power began to fill me as I walked through the crowd. People parted for me. A few gave me a thumbs-up.

I raised my fin. “Go, Trouts!”

I decided to do a little pregame cheering warm-up and stopped in the parking lot, right outside the stands, holding out my fin.

Fans whacked it as they went past.

“Yeah, Trouts!”

Smiles abounded.

“Go get 'em!”

I spied Gretchen Gilstrap approaching, her five- and six-year-old grandchildren in tow. Her eldest grandson played on the team with Kevin. For a second I wasn't sure if I should run, hide, or just pretend like I didn't know her. But she stopped in front of me, a look of confusion on her face. “Marianne?”

“Hello, Gretchen!” I decided that no explanation might be the best, so instead I bent over at the waist, intent on offering her grandson a chance to fin me. “Hey there! Are you a Trout fan?”

He reminded me of Neil, with his pudgy cheeks pressed together in a hat that tied under his chin. His yellow jacket sporting a school bus. His blue eyes peering up at me. I held out my fin.

As I watched, those sweet eyes filled with a sort of horror. He looked at me, looked at my fin, then opened his mouth and screamed.

He shot away from me and behind his grandma, and I think even tried to climb her. On the other side of Gretchen, her five-year-old granddaughter, Amelia, stood paralyzed with terror, not looking at my eyes, but above me. She clutched her grandmother's hand as tears filled her eyes.

“It's okay. It's Mrs. Wallace . . . from church? Remember me? This is just a costume.” I tried to open the mouth wider so they could see my face.

Amelia turned and buried her face in Gretchen's jacket.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry,” I said, backing away.

“Shh,” Gretchen said to Amelia, shooting me a glare. “It's okay. Mrs. Wallace didn't mean to scare you.”

As she pulled the still-screaming, crying children away, I stood there, wanting to launch into my own screaming and crying.

I heard chuckling and turned to find Pastor Backlund entering the stands. “It's probably the eyes,” he said. “They looked different on Bud.”

Yeah, like farther away.

Pastor finned me as he passed. “This is certainly a different kind of ministry tool, Marianne.”

My jovial, albeit short-lived, mood sputtered and finally nose-dived into the cold dirt as even Rachel's children carved a wide arc around me.

I gave up and trudged onto the field. Above me, the stands were full of happy fans sitting on their padded seats under their stadium blankets, drinking coffee. I wondered if I could even see the game from behind the football players.

No wonder Bud needed a bench. I'd need a two-story building.

“And now, introducing the Miller Creek Moose!”

Gil's voice from the announcer's booth registered with me a second before the Moose poured onto the field. Something wasn't right. . . .

And then I remembered:
“If we can't fin him on the way to the field. . . .”

At the entrance, the Trouts were lining up. All the way across the field.

No. How could I have forgotten?

I calculated the distance and even shot a glance at the announcer. As if reading my mind, Gil caught my eye. He nodded.

I took off around the field, half jogging, half waddling, as if my life depended on it. The game certainly might. Not that I believed in superstition. . . .

Okay, maybe I bought into it a little. After all, if I didn't, I'd hardly be in a Trout suit, would I?

I could hear the stands start to laugh and finally cheer at the top of their lungs. I wasn't sure if it was for me or the team now clustered at the entrance, but I pressed on.

Coach Grant was grinning like a wolf as I stumbled up, breathing hard. “You made it.”

“Let's . . . just . . . do . . . this.” I held out my fin.

Gil announced our team, and they poured in.

“Thanks, Mrs. Wallace.”

“You're the greatest.”

“Rock on, Mrs. Wallace.”

One by one they finned me.

Kevin ran by. “Love ya, Mom!”

I somehow found my voice. “Go, Trouts!”

Coach Grant and his staff ran last onto the field. I heard Gil on the speaker as I returned to my field position. “Thanks again to Marianne Wallace for stepping in for Bud Finlaysen today.”

I looked up and saw that the crowd had taken to its feet, applauding wildly.

Oh.

Mike, who was leaning on the fence near the end zone, caught my eye. He was grinning.

We won the game by two touchdowns. I clanged my cymbals, shook my pom-poms, rang my cowbell, and even made up a fishy dance of my own design. Most of all, I lost my voice and decided that yes, this was the perfect day to be a fish.

Chapter 6

It's easy to be a celebrity in a small town.

Every week the paper prints the highlights that comprise the latest doings in our community. If there's a fire or a car wreck, of course that makes the front page. In less tragic weeks, articles covering such notable events as the Girl Scouts' holiday bazaar, the winner of the community Halloween costume contest, the annual bake-off winners, and the opening of a new dentist's office keep us Big Lakers abreast of the times.

So it wasn't with great surprise that I discovered a formerly ten-foot, now eight-foot Trout on the front page of the following Wednesday's paper. The picture actually portrayed me in a friendly light—I had cleared the ground and had my hand outstretched in a victory fin five with Coach Grant. And better yet, the angle obscured my face, so those who still wondered who had possessed the body of the Trout were no closer to their answer.

I had survived my stint as a fish.

With Thanksgiving ahead and the next game not until after the holiday, I could push it out of my mind and hope for the best. I'd caught wind of the news that Bud had returned home, and either he would emerge back onto the field fully restored, ready to resume his position as team mascot, or Coach Grant would find a new victim.

At any rate, I hung up my fins and dove into Thanksgiving preparations.

The snow still refused to peel from the sky. I couldn't help but mourn the snowy white holidays when we'd gone sledding or even snowmobiling down our little mountain. I tried to talk Mike into spraying ice on the pond to smooth it out, but he gently reminded me that the last time Brianna and Kevin had ice-skated, they'd both been about twelve. Their skates were probably rusted.

I thought it had been more recent than that.

I washed and ironed tablecloths, changed bed linens, and assembled casseroles. Kevin loved my corn pudding, and Brianna was a sweet potato girl. I baked a pumpkin pie for Kevin and an apple pie for Brianna.

And all this a week before the event.

“You're a little anxious, aren't you?” Mike asked that evening as he came in. I noticed he had about five copies of the paper under his arm.

“What are those?”

“Keepsakes. The kids need to see this new side to their mother.”

“I'm going to burn those when you're not looking.”

“Then I'll hide them.” He swept past me. “Where's Kevin?”

“Out with a couple teammates,” I said, putting the rolls in the oven. He hadn't been home much this week, practicing hard after school and running over plays with his coach at night. I had to admit, I missed the sound of his Xbox down in the basement.

“Amy called. She forgot the time difference and thought it was evening here,” I said.

Mike sat down at the table, opening the paper. “How's she doing?”

“Did you know the English have a sort of Thanksgiving Day too? Fourth Thursday in November, just like us. And here I thought America had the market on Thanksgiving.”

I pulled out an onion from the fridge and began to cut it. “She sounded so far away. She's dating someone. A Brit.” I gave a wry chuckle as my eyes began to burn. “She said it with this cute accent, like she was giving in to the language.”

Mike didn't look up from the paper as he spoke. “Remember that time we went on vacation in Tennessee? By the end of the week, you were saying ‘y'all.' You and she are like a couple of language chameleons.”

Tears fell on my cutting board. “Brett sent me an e-mail today too. Said he was going to Neil's for Thanksgiving, so at least they'll be together.”

I slid the onions into the soup pot and wiped my eyes with my sleeve.

Mike's hands on my hips made me jump. “They'll miss a wonderful dinner,” he said, kissing my neck. “Although you're going to be so busy on Thanksgiving, it's a good thing you planned ahead.”

I wiped the rest of the tears from under my eyes. “No more than usual.”

He walked away, and I heard him in the mudroom rustling around as I added the beef, carrots, and potatoes. Kevin loved my stew. I hoped he'd make it home for dinner.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something lurch into view, dark and silver with green eyes. I shrieked.

“Relax, it's me.” Mike looked through the head of the Trout, laughing. “Now you know how little Amelia Gilstrap felt.”

I put my hand over my chest. “I thought I left that in the garage.”

“I decided to work on it, make sure it fit you right.”

“Mike, I'm not going to do any more games.” I hoped. Oh, I hoped.

“No, but I got a call today.” He pulled the head off and set it on the counter. I turned away from the ugly thing, stirred the soup.

“From Teresa over at the chamber of commerce,” he added.

“Oh?” I tasted the soup. It needed salt.

“She wants you to be the Thanksgiving Day Parade marshal.”