The Great Christmas Bowl (8 page)

Me?
I turned. “Really? Me? I mean, I know that every year they pick the town's ‘outstanding citizen,' but I didn't think they'd—I mean what did I—”

Oh no. Mike had his hand on the Trout head, patting it. Grinning.

“No.”

“Yes. The parade committee wants you to wear the Trout.”

“Mike—”

“Listen, this is a big year for our town. When was the last time we were in the state championship?”

He knew perfectly well when that had been. I glared the answer back at him.

“This isn't about you. It's about your team. Your beloved Trouts. Think about the players, the coaches—”

“The terrified children! You saw them at the game. They ran from me as if I were the creature from the black lagoon!”

“Which is why I brought the head in. We're going to figure out how to keep this thing from shifting and throwing your eyes around.”

Ew. He didn't have to put it like that.

I stared at my husband, at the sweet, teasing smile on his face. Over the past two weeks, we'd had more conversation over this stupid sea creature than we'd had over our beloved children in three years. And I had to admit, I enjoyed his fascination with my Trout costume.

“You're getting way too much fun out of this,” I said, putting my hand over his on the Trout. “I guess . . . for the team . . .”

“Oh, great,” he said, a look of relief washing over his face. “I already told them yes.”

Of course he did. My new personal secretary.

Thanksgiving, aka Parade Day, arrived with the slow creep of the sun bleeding into the gray sky. Storm clouds hung low, and a stiff wind took the tarp off our grill.

The thermometer hovered just below freezing, but the wind chill factor off Big Lake plunged the mercury down to the zero mark.

I gave pride a shove and dug Mike's orange hunting jumpsuit out of storage. Mike wiggled the costume over my girth and then guided my feet into winter boots. My head girded with a wool hat under my baseball cap, I waited until we got to the high school before I put on the Trout head.

Once fully dressed, I lifted my hand/fin to Kevin and his team, who would march from the school to Main Street, right behind me. Our Main Street is roughly three blocks long, so the parade usually went around twice, just to make it worth the while of the folks who'd pried themselves out of their homes to see a few haphazardly decorated pickups with Santa or Frosty on the back. Our church always managed a nice showing, however—a small group of evangelists dressed as Mary and Joseph and the gang handing out candy canes and tracts to all the regulars.

Mike and Kevin had to lift me into position in the bed of Gil Anderson's black Ford F-150. He'd strapped a rope around the cab, something for me to hold on to as he drove. The wind grabbed at my head, and I held it on with one fin as we rolled out of the parking lot toward Main Street.

As we drove, my thoughts split between the turkey I'd stuffed this morning and already set in the oven and the angry cluster of storm clouds. I hoped Brianna had gotten an early start.

Cheers as we approached Main Street grabbed my attention. I had to admit to my poor attendance at the Big Lake Thanksgiving Day Parade in past years, having been much more interested in, say, Macy's. Thus, I was momentarily stymied by the crowd huddled against the wind, clapping their mittens, noses buried in their scarves. It seemed the entire town had turned out to wish our boys good luck in next week's semifinals. And I heralded the pack.

I stood up straight and waved my fin.

Not a child cried. Granted, I was far enough away with my eyes firmly affixed to the top of my head, but still, as I rolled by Amelia Gilstrap and her brother, waving, they actually lifted their hands to wave back.

Or maybe it was to grab the candy the football players threw in my wake. Still, perhaps Mike had been right—this was for my town, my team, my son. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Halfway through the second swing around the block, the sky let loose and giant fluffy snowflakes drifted down upon the town. I stuck out my tongue to catch the flakes and heard some children laugh. When I looked, they were imitating me.

A Trout of Influence.

Back at the school, Mike helped me down and I slipped, nearly landing on my tail. He wore a grim expression. “The roads south of here are pretty slick. I think I need to stay in town.”

“We won't eat until this evening, then. Be careful.”

He turned to go. I lunged for him and he gave me a look of concern.

“You have to get me out of this first.”

A grin broke through his dark expression.

True to Mike's report, the roads had turned icy, and it took me an hour to get home. I unloaded the Trout onto the lawn furniture in the garage, hoping desperately that Coach Grant would have left a message on the machine, informing me of its next owner. I was starting to get the eerie feeling that such a call wasn't imminent. Bud had returned to Big Lake, but word on the street said he was out for the season. Someone had even mentioned that he needed heart surgery.

The turkey had begun to fragrance the house. I turned on the television and watched
It's a Wonderful Life
as I took out the china, washed it, set the table.

The wind had started to blow the flakes sideways. By the time dusk descended, we had a decent covering of snow on the lawn and piled up against the sliding-glass door to the deck. When I tried calling Brianna on her cell phone, it went over to voice mail.

Outside, I heard a tree crack and looked out the window just as it fell with a rush to the left of our driveway.

Where was Kevin? He'd mentioned hitting the school gym and then hanging out to run some plays, but I expected him home by now. I stood at the window, a sweater wrapped around me. The house creaked in the wind, and I turned off the television and listened. How many times had I stood in the living room, waiting for Neil or Brett to come home? praying that Amy's date drove carefully, that Brianna didn't have to work too late?

It seemed standard operating procedure to worry.

Please,
Lord, watch over my family.

I called dispatch, and sure enough, Mike was still out helping stranded drivers and attending to a three-car pileup south of Big Lake. I left a message for him.

No one had seen Kevin.

I waged a battle between worry and anger at his insensitivity. It was a draw. I finally took the turkey out of the oven and simply stared at it.

The telephone rang; the noise made me jerk. “Hello?”

“Mom, it's me.”

Brianna. I tried to mask my relief, but it flushed out anyway. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I'm not going to be able to make it, Mom. I had to retake a test this morning, and by the time I got back to my apartment, the snow had really started to pick up. I keep waiting for it to die down, but the weatherman says we're supposed to get maybe six more inches, and I'm not sure my car will make it. . . .”

I heard more than regret in her voice. I heard fear that she'd let me down, that I wouldn't understand this unavoidable reason why she couldn't come for Thanksgiving. Had I become that needy that my children felt they had to patronize me?

“No, honey. Stay there. In fact, your dad and brother aren't here either—”

“They aren't? You're alone? On Thanksgiving?”

Okay, even as she said it, I realized that I wasn't going to die. I stared out into the darkness, at the occasional whoosh of snow. It was cold out there. I didn't want any of my brood in it, but worse, I'd hate for them to be hurt trying to make me feel better.

Besides, I had Christmas to look forward to.

“I'm fine, honey. You stay put. I'll see you in a month.”

Her voice seemed distant and less matter-of-fact than I wanted when she said, “Sure, Mom.” We talked for a moment about school and then hung up.

I stared at the turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the corn pudding, and even the pies.

Then I pulled out a knife and some tinfoil and began to carve.

The roads had iced over well since my trek home from town only six hours earlier. I had to drive at the speed of molasses, and even then, I saw two cars in the ditch, one of them facing the opposite direction. Both were abandoned. I kept looking for Kevin, but to my great relief, I never saw the red Honda.

I didn't stop at the EMS station or even the school. I had looked up the address in the community phone book and knew the area well enough to know exactly where I needed to go.

I took a right off the highway and headed north, to County Road 53. From there, I hung a left and followed it to Overlook Acres.

I'd only been to the trailer park once in my life, in high school when my mother brought dinner to an ailing member of our church who lived in a tiny mobile home somewhere in this conglomeration of single-wides. Old cars and an occasional snow-covered sofa attired some yards, while well-groomed holiday decorations festooned others. I drove slowly, reading the numbers.

I had nearly given up when I spotted a simple trailer perched back from the complex; it was white and rusty, a rickety porch leading to a door. A doghouse sat covered in snow some feet away, but nothing stirred from the dark opening. I noticed that someone had already shoveled the walk to the porch and wondered if maybe Bud really was up and about. Confirming the house number, I kept the engine running as I got out and opened the back end of the SUV. I'd packed everything in a cardboard box, so I slid it out and somehow managed to not fall and break a hip as I muscled the dinner up the walk.

I couldn't make out a doorbell in the dim light, so I knocked on the door rather awkwardly, holding the box on my hip.

A light flickered on over the porch. A frozen geranium lurched and crumpled in a green snow-filled planter on the rail. Snow drifted across brown plastic furniture.

“Hello? Who's there?”

I wasn't sure what to expect, if Bud could even get up, but I grinned in warm welcome as Marge Finlaysen wrestled with her flimsy metal door. She wore a house robe, the kind that zipped up the front, and no makeup. Her hair stuck up on one side, as if she'd been sleeping.

“Hello, Marge—it's me, Marianne Wallace.”

She scoured me with her eyes without a smile. Snow found my bare neck and ran down my spine. I shifted the box into both arms. “How are you tonight?”

She said nothing but gave my box a once-over.

I felt like an interloper on her misery and had the urge to drop the box and run. Instead, I held it out. “I brought you something.”

“What is it?” She peered over the edge to the inside.

“Thanksgiving dinner.”

Her surprise made both of us offer tentative smiles and then search for someplace else to look. What had ever possessed me to think this might be a good idea?

“For us?”

“Yes. I know you've been taking care of Bud, and I didn't know if you'd had time to get out and shop—so, well, I don't have anyone to eat this, so . . .”

Marge stepped out into the cold now, openly peering inside the box. “You Wallaces have some sort of guilt complex?”

I wasn't sure what she meant by that, but I shook my head. Well, at least none that had anything to do with her.

“Well, thanks,” she said, reaching for the box. I unloaded it into her arms. She backed toward the door, which I held open.

“How's Bud?” I asked as she got halfway inside.

“He needs a heart transplant,” she said, then looked inside and lowered her voice. “But he only works three-quarter time at the school, so he doesn't have any health insurance. And his Medicaid doesn't kick in until next year.” She lifted her shoulder in a half shrug.

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

Marge smiled now, a real smile, for the first time. “This smells real good. Thanks for thinking of us.”

She was shutting the door when an idea hit me. “Hey, Marge?”