Chapter 3 - Exactly Four O’Clock
Christmas morning began at five, with Ruth banging on my back door.
“Open up before these potatoes freeze.”
She stood on the porch wearing a red knitted hat and carrying a bag large enough to conceal a small child.
“You’re early.”
“You’re old. We need extra time.”
At the hall, Dale had already turned on the lights.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and butter. Outside, the sky hung low over the lake, promising snow.
By noon, the turkeys were resting, the gravy was underway, and Frank was arranging evergreen clippings along Marianne’s tablecloth.
He had put on a tie.
That nearly undid me.
At one fifteen, I handed Ruth my apron.
“Two hours,” she said.
“Two hours.”
“Come back hungry. I’m not saving you the ugly pieces.”
I changed at home, put on my good blue sweater, and drove to Greg’s house.
At exactly two, I rang the bell.
Amber opened the door wearing cream-colored pants and a smile that looked carefully practiced.
“Merry Christmas, Nan.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Her house was beautiful.
White candles lined the mantel. Every ornament matched. A silver tray held cookies arranged in concentric circles.
For a moment, I felt clumsy simply standing there in my winter boots.
Then Sam launched himself against my knees.
“Grandma!”
Nothing in that room matched the joy of his little face.
Ella followed more quietly, carrying a folded sheet of paper.
“I made you something.”
It was a painting of my kitchen.
She had included Leonard’s old chair.
I held it carefully.
“This is going on my refrigerator.”
Amber’s mother, Linda, greeted me from the sofa. Her father watched football with the sound turned low.
Greg hugged me too quickly.
“Glad you’re here, Mom.”
We exchanged gifts. Sam wanted to start building his birdhouse immediately. Ella opened her watercolors and smiled with her whole face.
Then Linda presented Ella with a large electronic drawing tablet.
I recognized the brand.
It cost considerably more than twenty dollars.
Amber saw me notice.
“Mom bought that months ago,” she said.
“I’m sure Ella will enjoy it.”
And I meant it.
But something in Greg’s face told me he understood that the rules hadn’t been rules for everyone.
Lunch was good. I told Amber so.
We ate roast chicken, green beans, and potatoes from a beautiful ceramic dish.
Sam asked where my rolls were.
“Your mama made plenty of lovely food,” I said.
“I wanted the squishy ones.”
“Sam,” Amber warned.
He looked down at his plate.
Afterward, we played a card game on the living room rug. Ella leaned against my shoulder. Greg laughed when Sam invented a rule that allowed him to win every round.
For a little while, I stopped watching the clock.
At three fifty-five, Amber began collecting glasses.
“Should we get Grandma’s coat?”
The room went quiet.
Greg opened his mouth.
Closed it.
I stood.
“Thank you for having me. Everything was lovely.”
In the hallway, Ella caught my hand.
“Grandma, when is the real Christmas?”
Behind her, Amber went still.
I knelt, though my knees protested.
“This is real Christmas, sweetheart.”
“But you always stay.”
“Things can change and still be good.”
“Where are you going?”
“To help serve dinner at the fire hall.”
“For firefighters?”
“Some firefighters. Some neighbors. Anybody who wants company.”
She thought about that.
“Can people come if they already had Christmas?”
“Absolutely.”
Amber reached for Ella’s shoulder.
“Grandma needs to go.”
I kissed both children, hugged Greg, and stepped onto the porch.
The cold hit my wet eyes before I realized I was crying.
I sat in the car until I could see clearly.
Then I drove north.
By five thirty, sixty-one plates had been served.
The hall was loud, crowded, and imperfect. Someone had burned the first pot of coffee. A child spilled juice across a paper snowflake. Frank was teaching a little girl how to fold napkins into shapes that looked nothing like swans.
It was wonderful.
I was stirring gravy when the side door opened.
“Grandma!”
Sam reached me first.
Greg followed, carrying Ella’s coat.
Behind them stood Amber.
She looked around the room without speaking.
Her eyes moved from the crowded tables to the serving line, then stopped on Marianne’s embroidered cloth.
I set down my spoon.
For one foolish second, I thought she might accuse me of stealing Christmas.
Instead, she said, “The furnace quit.”
Greg rubbed the back of his neck.
“The repair company can’t come until tomorrow.”
Then Amber looked at the apron hanging beside me.
“Is there something I can do?”
I took it off the hook.
“Wash your hands first.”
She gave a small, uncertain nod.
May you like
I held out the apron.
And before she could take it, every light in the hall went out.
