Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

a Santy Claus suit and got stuck in the chimney.”

“Chimney? You have a fireplace in a mobile home?”

“He was going to climb down the chimney of the barbecue grill in the backyard. He got stuck tight and fell asleep. Probably have to smash it apart to get him out.” This time she smiled broadly. “Funny what a man thinks is clever when he's drunk.”

“But the weather. It's snowing. He could freeze to death.”

She shook her head. “I throwed some blankets over top of him. He'll be warm enough till he comes to.”

The mental picture of a sleeping drunk in a Santa Claus suit stuck in a barbecue grill was funny in a grotesque sort of way, but I still was worried about his safety. What if he didn't “come to” in time? What if he was stuck there all night? The situation was potentially dangerous.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Poffenberger, but I'll have to call the police to get him out of there.”

Her face sagged. “Can you give me an hour's head start? Please, miss. You don't know what he'll do to me if he catches us.”

The abused woman and her children deserved a chance for a better life. I wanted to help, but all I could do was give them the gift of an hour's head start. I was sure Mr. Poffenberger could survive for one hour, even in the snow. “You've got it,” I said. “I hope everything works out for you.”

She shifted the baby onto her left shoulder and extended her hand. “Thanks, miss. You always done spoke nice to me. Like a schoolteacher. And you found Kevin. I couldn't go without saying good-bye.”

I took her hand, feeling extremely touched. Yes, I'd found Kevin, but my involvement with Mrs. Poffenberger had been minimal. Apparently, even that was more kindness than she'd experienced in a long time.

“Call me if you need anything,” I offered.

She nodded. Her eyes were misty, and I realized mine were, too.

“God bless you,” she said and was gone in a flurry of wind and snow.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered into the empty darkness. The only answer was an ominous creaking from the porch roof above me, and I pushed the door shut.

It was nearly time to leave for Greta's. I retrieved the pumpkin pies from the refrigerator, looked around the kitchen for something to carry them in, and spotted my bingo pie basket prize. Perfect! I could put the pies in it and give the basket to Greta as a Christmas gift.

I lifted Fred out of the basket, blew out the cat hair, and put the pies in. It was cleverly designed with a footed stand inside, so the pies could be stacked without being squished. With the addition of a red bow I took from the Christmas tree, the basket looked quite festive. I hoped Greta would like it.

Before I left, I gave the cats their early Christmas presents: two catnip mice. Fred was ecstatic. Noel pretended indifference, but after I said good-bye, I peeked through the kitchen window and saw her rolling happily on her back with her mouse clutched between two white paws.

The roads were a lot worse than “slippy,” they were downright dangerous. I passed several cars abandoned in snowdrifts, but Garnet's truck had both four-wheel drive and snow tires, and I drove safely, if slowly, to the outskirts of town where Greta's Fine Swine Farm was located.

The long driveway was already full of pickups and SUVs, so I had to park at the end near the road and hike through the ankle-deep snow. Halfway to the house, I was glad to spot a familiar car, Ginnie's Subaru. It was typical of Greta to invite someone whom she suspected would be lonely at Christmas. Greta was as genuinely concerned about people as she was about whales, dolphins, baby seals, rain forests, spotted owls, bald eagles, and brown trout.

At long last, I reached the large farmhouse. I paused for a moment in the snow to admire the Currier and Ives scene before me. The two-story farmhouse was like hundreds of others in Caven County: redbrick with tall, narrow windows trimmed with white wood, and second-floor balconies flanking the center section of the home. Each window held an electric candle topped with a small white flame, and the side-by-side front doors were decorated with large wreaths of real greens and pinecones.

When Greta and her late husband, Lucky Carbaugh, had purchased the farm from an Amish family, it hadn't even had electricity or running water. They'd spent years remodeling it into the comfortable home it was now.

I entered without knocking, as was the custom at Greta's house, and began to shed my coat and sloppy boots. The double living room was packed with people, and I didn't have the faintest idea who most of them were.

Nearly six feet tall, Greta towered over her short, stocky Gochenauer relatives. From her vantage point, she saw me and swept across the room to greet me. As she moved I heard bells, which meant she was wearing her favorite silver ankle bracelets from India. Tonight she wore a brilliant yellow caftan decorated with a blue, red, and green Indonesian batik print. Brass earrings from Pakistan dangled nearly to her shoulders. Several strands of multicolored agate beggar's beads from Taiwan hung around her neck. Her gray hair was twisted into a coil on top of her head with several lacquer chopsticks protruding from it. Good thing she's tall, I thought, or those things could put out someone's eye.

Comparing her to the rest of Garnet's solid, conservative Pennsylvania-Dutch family, I often wondered if she'd been adopted. She was probably the only person in Lickin Creek who could get away with dressing like that.

She seized me with an embrace that painfully mashed my face into her beggar's beads. “I'm so glad you're here at last,” she said, welcoming me and chastising me for being late in the same sentence. “Come on in. Everybody's dying to meet you.”

She suddenly spotted the pie basket and gasped. “For me? You are absolutely amazing, Tori. How did you know I collect Longaberger baskets?”

I smiled knowingly. Good for me-apparently I'd made the right gift choice, whatever a Longaberger basket was.

Greta propelled me through the room, introducing me right and left, and interrupting conversations that dealt with farm crops from alfalfa to zucchini. If I heard it once, I heard it a zillion times: “What do you hear from Garnet?”

Nothing, I wanted to scream. He doesn't write, he doesn't call. I have been dumped. You want to make something of it? But I smiled, murmured my nice-to-meet-yous, and somehow made it around the room without crying.

The walnut grandfather's clock in the corner chimed the hour. “May I borrow a phone?” I asked. “I have to make a call.”

Greta led me into the kitchen, where food covered every available inch of space. There was nothing like a Lickin Creek potluck supper to bring out the cooks’ best recipes. The good smells made my stomach growl as I dialed Hoop's Garage.

A breathless female voice answered, “Yeah?”

“Is this Hoop's?” I asked.

“Yeah. Look, Tori, I'm just getting ready to close down, so if you'uns need a tow, you'll have to wait.”

I silently cursed the New York accent that made my voice so instantly identifiable in Lickin Creek. “I need to talk to Luscious, please.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“Of course.”

“He's gone home. Wait a sec. I'll get his number.”

I heard her rummaging through a desk drawer. In a few moments she was back. I thanked her and dialed the number she'd given me.

Luscious's mother answered and said they were just getting ready to leave for church.

“I really have to speak to him, Mrs. Miller.”

She sighed, and soon Luscious was on the line.

I told him about Mr. Poffenberger trying to play Santa Claus in the barbecue grill.

“He's stuck… where?”

“You heard me. You'll have to get him out of there soon, Luscious, or he's liable to die from exposure.”

“Aw, Tori. My mom'll kill me if I miss church.”

I felt like a slimeball, but I said what I knew would get him moving. “Garnet would do it.”

“I'm leaving now.”

“Thanks, Luscious… and Merry Christmas.”

“You, too.”