The Christmas Women Read online

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Mrs. Childs.”

  “Remember Jon Ketch?”

  “Of course. Who could forget Jon?”

  “He was wild about you. So were Cole Blackwell and any number of other boys. I think you scared most of them away because they just couldn’t figure you out. Actually, truth be told, you were too smart and mature for them.”

  “Mrs. Childs, this is not the conversation I imagined we’d have.”

  Julie entered, carrying a silver tray with a teapot, cups, a pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl.

  “Is mother badgering you, Trudie?” she asked, as she eased the tray down on a TV tray table.

  “We’re just getting caught up,” Myrna said. “Oh, isn’t this nice! Tea. Thank you, Julie. I would love some tea. Earl Grey?”

  “Of course, Mother.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Julie poured tea and milk for Mrs. Childs and Trudie, and then helped her mother sit up, adjusting the pillows behind her back. She served herself some tea and lingered for a few moments while they all discussed the weather and the up-coming holidays. When the telephone rang, she withdrew to the living room. “I’ll be back with the flowers,” she said.

  Myrna shut her eyes again.

  “Are you tired? Should I go, Mrs. Childs?”

  Myrna drew a breath and opened her eyes. “No, Trudie. Please stay awhile longer. I just have to take these little interludes now and then.” Mrs. Childs adjusted herself and looked pointedly at Trudie, her eyes shining and alert.

  “I can see all of their faces, Trudie. Can you believe that? That’s what I’ve been doing these last few weeks. Closing my eyes and remembering all my students’ faces, just as if I were turning the pages of a photo album. I see them so clearly. I remember them. I see them more clearly now with my eyes shut than if I were actually looking at them standing in front of me. I can see them and feel them. Isn’t that strange? Well, maybe it’s all this lousy medication they’re injecting me with. But I see those faces and I remember, and it just makes me feel good. It makes me feel better. Most were such good kids. Some were a pain in the neck, you know, but most were good and fun. Can you imagine me getting sentimental? A woman who doesn’t have a sentimental bone in her body?”

  “I’d say you have one or two sentimental bones,” Trudie said.

  Myrna made a little dismissive gesture with her hand. “Are you still working as a dental hygienist?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s not for everybody, but I like it.”

  “And what do you hear from Kristen and Mary Ann?”

  “We haven’t stayed in touch all that much.”

  The words hung in the air, waiting.

  “Well now, that’s a shame,” Mrs. Childs said, with some sadness. “You three were so close. That surprises me.”

  “They moved away, got married and had families. Life happens.”

  Myrna turned reflective. “Kristen was so driven, so hell-bent on proving herself all the time. She was a terrible actress, but she sure could get things done, even if she did piss people off now and then. I always thought she and I had a lot in common. Maybe that’s why we fought so much. And then there was Mary Ann. I thought of her as Merry Ann. M E R R Y Ann. She was always so up, and smiling, dreamy, and creative.”

  “She was a good actress,” Trudie said.

  “Only in certain roles. She lacked fire in the dramatic parts. She always had that far-away look in her eyes, like she was looking for Never Never Land. Well, I hope she found it.”

  “Was I a good actress?” Trudie asked, instantly wishing she hadn’t asked.

  “In The Glass Menagerie, with Jon Ketch, you were quite good. He brought out things inside you I never knew were there. But then Jon was nuts and would try all kinds of things. But you were wonderful as Laura. Yes. I was greatly impressed by your performance, Trudie.”

  “Jon scared me,” Trudie said. “He was always so unpredictable and wonderful at the same time.”

  Myrna laughed. “I saw him in a movie just the other day, on DVD. I don’t remember what the title was. It was one of his first movie roles and he had a small character part. It was a Tom Hanks’ movie, I think. Anyway, Jon stole the scene. He makes the craziest choices, kind of like Brando did. You just never knew what he was going to do next.”

  Trudie drank the last of her tea. “He was fun though. You couldn’t help but like him.”

  Myrna handed Trudie her cup. “But you three girls made a terrific team. You were the organizer, Kristen the thrust and drive, and Mary Ann the imagination. There was no stopping you three. You should have found some successful business and run it together. You would have been hugely successful.”

  “Have you been back to the high school recently?” Trudie asked.

  “No, not in years. They don’t even have a drama department or a music department anymore. They don’t have the money. It’s just a crying shame.”

  Trudie placed Myrna’s cup on the saucer. “We were so lucky to have you as our teacher, Mrs. Childs.”

  Myrna smiled her gratitude. “Well, thank you for that, but I was the lucky one. I was truly blessed to have had the students I had.”

  Mrs. Childs suddenly felt groggy, as if she was walking under water. She closed her eyes again.

  Trudie stood. “I’m going to leave now and let you rest.”

  Myrna’s eyes fluttered open again and she smiled weakly. “How delightful to see you again, Trudie. So nice. I’m sorry to be so tired. This has been so much fun.”

  “You sleep, Mrs. Childs. You sleep and get stronger and better.”

  Myrna nodded. “As Shakespeare said in the Tempest, ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”

  Trudie leaned over and kissed her old teacher on her warm cheek. “I’ll see you again, Mrs. Childs.”

  “Call the other Christmas Girls and tell them I said hello. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes, I will, Mrs. Childs. I will call them.”

  At the front door, as Julie handed Trudie her coat, neither spoke for a time. While Trudie zipped up, she noticed Julie’s sad, worried face.

  “Your mother was always a very strong and determined woman, Julie.”

  Julie didn’t meet Trudie’s eyes. “I know, and I have to believe she’ll survive this. But she’s just not herself. Anyway, thanks for coming. You really cheered her up. She’s always so much better when she sees her old students.”

  Trudie drove slowly back to Deer Lake, lost in thought. She switched on the radio to a country music station, and willed herself out of a dark mood. The visit with her former teacher had been enjoyable, but it left her feeling isolated and sad. For long stretches on the highway, Trudie reran old memories and conversations. By the time she reached Deer Lake, she’d decided not to call Kristen and Mary Ann right away. She needed time to think and decompress after her meeting with Mrs. Childs.

  Trudie stopped for a hamburger and salad at Rusty’s Cafe, hoping that being at the local bar would cheer her up. She entered, waved to some of her dental patients who were sitting in a booth, then chose a red swivel stool at the gray Formica counter. She extracted her tablet and stared into it, distracting herself with emails and world news.

  She was only vaguely aware of a man who sat one stool over from her. She heard him order the fried chicken dinner and a beer. When his food arrived, he asked her if she’d pass the ketchup bottle. She did so, getting her first real glimpse of him. He was lean, fit and quite good looking—handsome enough that Trudie felt an unexpected rush of heat in her chest. He was about her age, with black hair, short on the sides, long on the top, combed straight back from his broad forehead. He wore an olive green dress shirt that set off his light, grayish-green eyes. A dark tie hung loosely about his collar. Trudie liked his clean jaw line and open, friendly expression.

  He smiled at her as he took the ketchup. “Thank you. I don’t lik
e ketchup on fries, but I love it on chicken.”

  Trudie nodded, and then watched him shake the bottle and smother the chicken.

  “I just got my flu shot. Did you get yours?” he asked.

  Trudie was still eyeing the chicken drowning in ketchup, with amazement. “Ah... yes, I did. Back in September.”

  “I got the nasal spray. I don’t like needles.”

  He cut the chicken with his knife and fork and began to eat. She turned back to her tablet, her index finger surfing the pages.

  “Did you work late?” he asked.

  Trudie liked his voice. It was rich and deep. She looked up. “No, I was visiting a friend.”

  She watched him take another bite of chicken, torn between her desire to be alone and her interest in this stranger. After a moment’s hesitation, she allowed herself to be engaged. “So, did you work late?” she finally asked.

  He reached for his glass of beer. “Yes, we’re trying to finish a contract and, as usual, we’re running behind.”

  He turned toward her and extended his hand. “By the way, my name is Don Rawlings.”

  Shyly, Trudie took his broad, strong hand. She was surprised by a ripple of excitement when they shook hands. “I’m Trudie Parks.”

  “Glad to meet you.” Don glanced down at his dinner, so Trudie started to turn away. But only for a moment.

  “Do you live in Deer Park, Trudie?”

  She faced him again. “Yes. You?”

  “I do now. I moved here about a month ago. Haven’t seen much of it, so far. I’ve just been working.”

  Trudie was about to ask what he did when his cell phone rang. He snatched it up and was soon engrossed in conversation. Trudie waited for a time, then packed up, paid the check and left, without giving him a passing glance. I could have waited, she thought. She could have waved goodbye when she left. But she didn’t. Is that what Mrs. Childs meant when she said Trudie was guarded and remote?

  As Trudie was about to climb into her car, she noticed Don standing at the front window watching her. He was still talking on his phone. He waved to her and smiled, a beautiful smile that warmed her. Surprised, she waved back and, suddenly, she felt intensely alive; she felt attractive and desirable. For a moment, she had the impulse to go back inside. She sat behind the steering wheel conflicted. Finally, she started the engine and drove away.

  FOUR

  At the El Conquistador Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, all the tennis courts were occupied. It was Saturday morning, and the humid air was alive with the hollow pop of tennis balls, the sweet scent of exotic flowers and the salty smell from the shining sea. Women dressed in white pleated tennis skirts, white sleeveless blouses, and white headbands swatted at tennis balls, grunting out effort. Men raced and darted in their white shorts and polo shirts.

  In the immediate court, a tennis battle was going on between Kristen Anderson Lloyd, 38 years old, and 27 year-old Sean Quinn, the resident tennis teacher.

  Sean was wiry, loose-limbed and lithe. His long, curly, reddish blond locks were tied by a red bandana. He was dressed in white shorts and a sky blue polo shirt that carried the hotel’s insignia.

  Kristen was thin, quick and noticeably attractive. Her smooth muscular legs had good spring. She wore a light blue pleated skirt with a matching sleeveless blouse and a white headband to keep her thick, black hair in place.

  Sean had a graceful economy of motion. Kristen had good moves and elastic feet that shifted, bounced and danced. After each assured stroke she found her balance, anchoring, swaying, alert, ready for the next shot.

  Sean was a scrambler, filling every empty space of the court, smashing the ball back to Kristen with force. She sprang for it, whipped it back to him with a perfect backhand, and it sailed, skimming the top of the net. Then dropped.

  Sean charged it, scooping, lobbing it over her head. She whirled, ran, caught it, pivoted and whacked it back to Sean, a line drive shot.

  He lunged, crouched and met the ball, heaving out a “Ha!” as he crushed it with a sharp forward shot. Kristen was there to meet it, her eyes hard with determination. With both hands gripping the handle of the racket, she shot it back to Sean. He calculated distance and position.

  Kristen broke for the net as he lobed the ball over and behind her. She spun, looked up and, as if possessed, pivoted and raced for it. Just before it bounced twice, she swung the racket in a beautiful arching motion, caught the ball dead center and fired it back to Sean like a bullet.

  Then they fell into a cross-court volley, whipping the ball back and forth across the net in a ferocious battle that drew the eyes of captivated onlookers. Sean charged the net. Kristen’s eyes narrowed in sudden alarm and calculation. The ball was like a rope coming at her. She swung and hit it, hoping to make a passing shot and send it right, out of Sean’s reach. He lurched, stretched and nicked the ball just enough to set it down far to her left. Kristen broke for the ball, left arm extended, reaching in strained effort and desperation. But it was too late. The ball seemed to float away in slow motion. She missed and it bounced, striking the fence.

  Kristen arched back, facing the sky in defeated agony. She cursed, and then slapped the top of the net hard with her racket. “Dammit!” she yelled.

  Sean straightened, laughing. Then he bent over, grabbing his knees, gasping for breath. “Goodness gracious, Mrs. Lloyd,” he said, with an Irish brogue, “You almost took me out that time. You’ll be givin’ me a heart attack, you will. It’s time you found another teacher, my darlin’, before you kill me and send me home to Mrs. Quinn in a pine box.”

  Back in her room, Kristen showered, belted on a robe and stepped out on her balcony that overlooked the sparkling sea. The hot shimmering air and humidity relaxed her. San Juan was all movement and color. Sexy women dazzled in flashy dresses, tight bright pants and sassy hips. The girl-talk was fast and clipped, and their gestures humming-bird-quick. Flowers shimmered with vibrating reds, yellows and endless gradations of white.

  Kristen was fascinated by the azure rolling sea, with its glittering silver and flashing gold, stabbing her eyes with startling sunlight. Seagulls wheeled and lazy clouds seemed packed with cotton. She stared in wonder at the creamy line of the surf and the endless miles of wide beach and quiet palms.

  Whenever she strolled the beach, the sun was big and hot and seemed to weigh her down with its heavy force. At night the sprinting brassy music seemed restless and wild, the singers’ voices high and pinched with racy delight. Kristen loved this town. This was her fourth visit and she loved it more each time.

  Unfortunately, she was there to work, to take the deposition of a doctor who was too ill to travel to New York. His testimony would be key to the medical malpractice case she was working on.

  But at least it was a chance to get away from Alan, her husband. They had fallen into their familiar pattern of arguing over the silliest of things. Where to eat dinner. What movie to see. Even what brand of toilet paper to buy. Which friends were in and which were out. Whenever the arguing sent them both into fuming silence, it always helped to put some space between them. If absence didn’t always make the heart grow fonder, then it at least helped to cool the agitation of the relationship.

  They hadn’t always fought and threatened each other with divorce. It began after Kristen’s secret affair with a judge, an older man in his early 50’s, who’d been known as a ladies’ man. Alan hadn’t known about the affair, of course, and after a few months, Kristen broke it off because guilt stabbed at her like a knife.

  Then she turned into the worst bitch she’d never wanted to be. She felt dirty and low, and she despised herself. She lashed out at Alan for the stupidest things and blamed him for silly things. When he asked her what was wrong, she’d say she wasn’t feeling well and go off to bed or retreat into her work.

  Did he suspect the affair afterwards? Probably. She felt it, and saw it in his eyes in private moments. A hurt and wounded look, masked by a thin, resigned smile. But he’d never called her o
n it. That made it even worse. Either he didn’t care or he’d forgiven her, and either way, that made it nearly unbearable. She didn’t want to be forgiven. It had happened over a year ago, and their relationship had never been the same.

  Kristen stared out into the sea, and her eyes filled with tears. They had been so in love in the beginning, and so in love after their son, Alexander, was born.

  She recalled their magical honeymoon in St. Eustatius. They hired a private plane and soared over the Caribbean, under creamy clouds, stunned by the lucid mystic watercolors of yellows, blues and green. She looked down to see ribbons of turquoise and lime, sliding into shimmering waves of electric blue. There was a harbor, dotted with yachts and a dock. There were palm trees and people lounging out on the broad white beach, with cottages nearby. Pure joy pumped through her veins as she took Alan’s arm and told him how much she loved him. And she did love him. Truth be told, she still loved him.

  Their private two bedroom beach house was white, green and blue, with plenty of windows, which gave them magnificent views of sea and sky.

  They found The Captain’s Beach Bar and climbed the steps to the veranda, her wearing a skimpy white bikini, a long, peach, diaphanous beach gown, and white broad-rimmed hat. She was sexy and he was handsome. Inside it was cool and shaded, and heads turned and watched them drift to the bar. There were comfortable booths against the walls, and ceiling fans revolved lazily. There was a long mahogany bar with high-backed stools and bottles on glass shelves.

  The bartender was Olderson Blake, a tall, thin, black man, about 55, with short white hair and a broad friendly face. He said he came from Barbados.

  He looked at the newly married couple as they sat down, and then he narrowed his dark eyes on them and said, “You look like happy people. Happy is good. But in dis life, you must like dee good life and you must like dee bad life, because deh are connected. Yes, my friends.”

  Kristen smiled at the thought. She and Alan had had the good life, and now they were having the bad life, thanks to her. Despite Olderson’s philosophy, she didn’t like the bad life. How could she mend the guilt and the hurt she felt? Therapy hadn’t helped. Booze hadn’t helped. Prayer hadn’t helped. How could she stop the self-loathing she felt for betraying Alan and their son?