Santa Clawed Read online

  Harry and Susan served on the vestry board of St. Luke’s. Racquel Deeds headed the refreshments committee, and Jean Keelo acted as her second banana. It had been that way since they met at Miami University. When Racquel became president of the sorority in her senior year, Jean, naturally, served as vice president.

  Harry parked her truck behind Susan’s Audi station wagon and Racquel’s sparkling new Range Rover. She hastened to the front door, picked up the pineapple brass door knocker, and gave two sharp raps.

  Jean opened the door. “Harry, come on in. Cold, isn’t it?”

  “Does bring a tingle to the toes,” Harry agreed as she shed her coat, which Racquel hung in the small cloakroom.

  Harry then handed her hostess a small, nicely wrapped Christmas present.

  “Harry, you shouldn’t have.”

  “It’s a small thing, but you’ll use it.” Harry had found some Crane paper with a gold pineapple on it.

  Jean loved pineapples as the symbol of hospitality, plus she liked eating them.

  Harry had also found some special stationery for Racquel, from the firm Dempsey & Carroll. Whereas Jean’s paper was cream, Racquel’s was stark white with a green grasshopper at the top. Racquel liked drinking grasshoppers. Of late, Racquel liked drinking.

  Harry would give Susan her gift on Christmas Eve.

  Ushered into the dining room, which was Williamsburg in inspiration, Harry hugged and kissed everyone. Women have to make a fuss or everyone assumes something is wrong. She handed Racquel her gift as she sat down. Her place was marked by a card executed with perfect penmanship and held up by a tiny brass pineapple.

  “Jean, thanks for doing this, and at Christmas no less. Your tree is gorgeous.”

  Harry noticed that Jean had put her own card next to Harry’s. As they were four and on good terms, no need for Jean to head the table. She was quite sensitive and proper about these things.

  “I’ll admit this to you. I hate stringing lights on a tree, and Bill makes such a fuss…well”—she didn’t need to mention how this could sour a holiday—“this year I hired two women to purchase a tree to my specifications and to decorate it. Victorian.”

  “It’s stunning.” Susan sipped her white wine. “Given that I have slave labor”—she meant her children, who were adults now—“I put them to work. What a mean mother I am.”

  They laughed because Susan, a devoted mother, had proved smart enough to know when to cut the apron strings.

  Lunch started with a salad. Harry loved the tiny mandarin oranges. Next came a hot potato soup in homage to the season, and that, too, was delicious. Then Jean served the main dish, which was sliced capon with a light currant sauce, wild rice, and snow peas.

  The four ate with enthusiasm. Harry, although not a gourmand—a hamburger girl, really—did appreciate that such a meal took time and thought, plus it tasted wonderful.

  By the time dessert came, called “the Bomb” by Racquel, life was good. The Bomb proved to be a round ball of chocolate chip ice cream on a thin brownie with raspberry sauce drizzled over it.

  “Do you call it the Bomb because it looks like a cannonball?” Susan inquired.

  Racquel, on her second glass of crisp white wine, laughed. “No. The calories. It will just bomb your diet to bits.”

  “Honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Susan complimented Racquel, who was five foot eight and rigorous about her appearance.

  “You’re too kind. Middle age…” She paused. “Let’s just say when your metabolism changes you have to be vigilant.”

  “Oh, Racquel, you’ve been dieting since college,” Jean, who was five foot two and tiny-boned, teased her. “Then when you had Tom and Sean you were sure you’d turn to fat. And look at you.”

  Racquel soaked up the praise but pretended she didn’t deserve it, which she did. “We all aspire to keep trim like Harry.”

  “Easiest diet in the world: work on a farm,” Harry said.

  “How’s the vineyard doing?” Jean politely asked.

  “Well, you can’t harvest the first year, but I had a bumper crop. Of course, without Patricia Kluge’s guidance, I think I would be sending out engraved invitations to my first nervous breakdown,” Harry said.

  Susan added, “When Mother Nature is your partner, who knows?”

  “Bryson and I visited Patricia’s vineyards at harvest time. I can’t believe how much she and Bill have done.” Racquel mentioned Bill Moses, Patricia’s husband.

  “He always says he’s the only Jewish acolyte in Virginia.” Harry laughed.

  Patricia worshipped at a small Catholic church built on the estate. Bill always attended with her. Like many people not born to the Church of Rome, he found some solace in the ritual while sidestepping the dogma.

  “This entire state is in Felicia Rogan’s debt.” Racquel lifted her glass to the woman who, as imposing as Juno herself, had revived the wine industry in Virginia, an occupation begun by Dr. Thomas Walker before the Revolution.

  The Revolution, the War of 1812, and finally the War between the States, sixty percent of which was fought on Virginia soil, destroyed whatever progress had been made by vintners. One remarkable woman named Felicia Rogan changed all that in the 1970s, with vision, drive, and tenacity.

  “I dream about a tiny vineyard but, you know, we can never leave town. Bryson needs to be close to the hospital,” Racquel lamented.

  “Do you ever miss it?” Susan asked.

  “The hospital? Being a nurse?” Racquel’s large domed gold ring caught the light.

  “Yes,” Susan affirmed.

  “Funny you ask that. In some ways, I do. I like the operating room. The adrenaline, the tension. It sounds crazy, but that appealed to me. You can’t think of anything but what needs to be done. When you’re finished, you’re exhausted, but you feel you’ve made a small difference in the world.”

  Finally, they couldn’t stand it anymore.

  Racquel said, “Isn’t it odd that we spoke of Christopher Hewitt when we made the wreaths and then…well, you know. What could we have done?”

  Susan immediately said, “He cost some people millions with the fiasco in Phoenix.”

  “We may never know. Best to let the sheriff do his job,” Jean replied thoughtfully.

  “I suppose.” Racquel hooted. “But, you know, what has occurred to me is that families are so vulnerable when one of their own is dying. Yes, the order does provide care and comfort. Bryson tells me about it. There may be Christian love involved but I think that order is becoming rich. I thought they took vows of poverty.”

  “Never thought of that.” Harry hadn’t, either.

  “Like pocketing some donations?” Susan couldn’t think of anything else.

  “What an awful thought.” Jean’s hand flew to her heart.

  “Cure the disease and there go the profits.” Racquel’s eyes narrowed. “If a disease is manageable, then profits soar.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Harry was aghast.

  “I do. Susan, you asked if I miss nursing? What I didn’t say is I don’t miss the utter corruption of medicine by pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies. And let’s not forget our precious government, which believes it, too, can dictate to medicine. Bryson can hardly practice anymore. It’s utterly insane and so corrupt it turns my stomach. And, trust me, the vested interests protect themselves just like the oil companies. There isn’t one scrap of concern for the public welfare. It’s all profit-driven.” She paused, somewhat surprised at her own vehemence. “When Tom was born I could retire, so to speak. If I’d stayed in medicine, I think one day I would have shot off my mouth and hurt my husband’s career.”

  “That’s dispiriting.” Harry half-smiled.

  Jean quietly surprised them all. “What I find dispiriting is that this entire society is sexualized. Sex is used to sell everything. We’re bombarded with images, suggestions, outright taunting. Add to that the fact that we meet so many more people than our parents did or tho
se who came before. Amidst all those people, some are bound to be, uh, delicious.”

  “There is that.” Racquel sighed. “Which somehow makes monks strange. Then again, the Catholic Church covered up all those pedophile priests. That’s as shameful as the Inquisition. Lying bastards.”

  “It’s difficult to be compassionate when the molested were children,” Harry concurred. “Sex is irrational. The impulse in one’s self is irrational; the response to other people’s behavior can be irrational.”

  “That’s part of what makes monks strange,” Jean said. “I grasp the significance of sacrificing your sexuality for the community. It’s your gift, and if you aren’t in a family then you can more easily serve others. The truth is, each of us puts our families first, and we must.”

  “True.” Susan found herself intrigued by this discussion.

  “We have thousands of years of evidence from every civilization this world has produced that no form of restraint, no punishment, can really alter the fact that people are going to have sex, whether with a socially approved partner or not.” Harry believed this.

  “Bryson’s fooling around again,” said Racquel. “I think it’s time for me to have a retaliatory affair to make up for the past.”

  “Racquel, what does that solve?” Jean had heard this before.

  “Makes me feel better. I’ve been married to the man for eighteen years, and, you know, it’s really true that you don’t know someone until you live with them. I remember on our honeymoon: we didn’t exactly escalate this into an argument, but it was a pointed discussion. We stayed on the island of St. John’s in the Caribbean, a wonderful place to have a honeymoon. The bathroom needed a new roll of toilet paper. Why call the maid? Especially on our honeymoon and when there were extra rolls in the bathroom. So I put the roll of paper on the holder, with the paper drawing down from the back.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He comes in, I leave. He emerges and says, ‘Toilet paper should always have the paper pull from the front.’ I said, ‘What’s the difference?’ It’s needless to add further detail. It went on. That’s when I fully realized I had married a control freak.”

  “Bill suffers a touch of that, too,” Jean observed wryly.

  “Bill’s a piker compared to Bryson. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I really could kill him. And what’s with Bill’s homophobia? I swear he’s getting worse. Even Bryson noticed.”

  Jean shrugged. “Middle age. He’s getting cranky. Everything sets him off.”

  On the way home, Harry thought about the tempestuous emotions that a spouse’s affair releases. She hadn’t wanted to kill Fair, she just never wanted to see him again. He had a lot to learn, but so did she. Some men are players. Many aren’t but succumb due to stress, a sagging sex life, or any number of reasons, all of them understandable, not that understanding means consent.

  Then she thought about the toilet-paper discussion. If Fair had pulled something like that on their first honeymoon, she would have gotten up in the middle of the night and toilet-papered his car. Their honeymoon was spent in Crozet, since neither of them had money at the time.

  A honeymoon is a honeymoon, and theirs, given the rupture and subsequent healing, was continuing on.

  On the eve of the winter solstice, sun sparkling on the snow kept humans and animals happy. Since light was in short supply, the wildlife that hunted in the day hurried to find food before sunset. The birds wanted food to ward off the cold, too. For the humans, some were so out of touch with nature that they failed to realize how the shortening of the days affected them. Some were depressed. Others felt sleepy the minute the sun set. Many ate more, not realizing the cold spurred their appetites. However, the humans all knew there were four more shopping days left until Christmas.

  As it was Saturday, December 20, Harry congratulated herself on getting her shopping done early. Wrapped presents, with cards attached, would be given to her friends after the St. Luke’s party. Since everyone would be there—well, most everyone—she’d save gas money on deliveries. Saving money was more important to Harry than to Fair. He figured you can’t take it with you, but he wasn’t a spend-thrift.

  “What’s she doing now?” Pewter rested on the windowsill of the kitchen window over the sink.

  “Reading a recipe. Christmas demands special dishes. You know that,” Mrs. Murphy, also on the windowsill, replied.

  “Well, I wish she’d start cooking so we could get tidbits.”

  “Stuffed goose,” Tucker dreamily said from her sheepskin bed.

  “Oyster stuffing.” Pewter purred.

  “I don’t think she uses oyster stuffing for goose.” Mrs. Murphy tried to remember past Christmas meals. “Of course, she could roast a goose and a capon. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “More for us.” Pewter raised her voice.

  Harry looked up from the notebook, her mother’s fine handwriting still dark blue on the lined pages. “Getting pretty chatty around here.”

  Tucker shot out of her bed and raced to the kitchen door. “Intruder!”

  The cats sat up to look out the window just in time to see Simon, the barn possum, scurry back through the animal hatch in the left barn door.

  One minute later, Brother Sheldon, with Brother Ed in the passenger seat, rolled up in a one-ton truck.

  Harry rose, saw the two monks, put on her jacket, and hurried outside. “Brother Sheldon, Brother Ed, what a welcome surprise. Please come in and have some coffee, tea, or maybe something stronger.”

  Brother Sheldon smiled. “Thank you, but we’re here to drop off your tree. Brother Morris has us on many a mission.”

  The two men climbed into the back of the truck and maneuvered the symmetrical Scotch pine. Once at the edge of the tailgate, they hopped off, hoisted it, then walked it inside. Harry preceded them to open the doors. The tree was placed in a corner of the living room.

  “You wrapped the bucket in red foil.” Harry beamed.

  “That’s beautiful.” The two started to leave. “Let me pay you for the tree. I never did pay.”

  Now in the kitchen, Brother Ed said, “No. It’s the brotherhood’s gift to you.”

  Harry reached into her pocket, pulled out bills, and pressed ten dollars into each man’s hand. “Please take this.”

  “We don’t want anything,” Brother Sheldon protested.

  “I know you don’t, but it’s cold, you’ve made a special trip, and, really, you’ve made my day.” She walked over to the liquor cabinet, which was an old pie safe, and retrieved a brand-new bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. She handed it to them. “Wards off the chill.”

  “Yes, it does.” Brother Ed liked a nip now and then.

  As Harry opened the kitchen door for them to leave, she noted, “You sure have a truck full of trees. You will be making the rounds all day.”

  “Maybe even the night, with the traffic.” Brother Sheldon frowned. “Too much buying useless stuff.” He threw up his hands. “The bills aren’t paid off until April and half the stuff that people received is in the trash. We need to go back to the real Christmas.”

  “I agree with you there. A present or two might be nice, but these days it’s a glut. Even people without much money way overspend.”

  Brother Ed, who had a trimmed Vandyke, pulled out his gloves and said, “The American way. That’s one reason I joined the brotherhood. Kind of like stop the ‘ merry-go-wrong’ I want to get off.”

  “I understand,” replied Harry, who did.

  No sooner did the laden truck leave than Cooper pulled up. The tracks were already glossing with ice.

  Tucker barked again, and Harry, seeing Cooper’s well-worn Accord, put up the coffee. Harry didn’t drink coffee but enjoyed making it for others.

  Cooper knocked, then came in. She took off her coat, stamping the snow off her boots. “We’re making up for the last few years of little snow.”

  “Coffee will be ready in, umm, two minutes.”

  “Good.” Cooper carried two medium-size presen
ts with big shiny bows. “Don’t open until Christmas.”

  “Promise. Hold on a minute.” Harry walked back to the bedroom and came out with a long, oddly shaped wrapped present. “Same applies, although once you pick it up you may know what it is.” She leaned it against the wall by the kitchen door. It was a power washer, a useful present for a country person.

  “Hey, a tree!”

  “Brothers Sheldon and Ed just dropped it off.”

  Cooper put presents under the tree, which caused Pewter to investigate.

  “No catnip?” The gray cat was disappointed.

  “Will she tear open the wrapping?” Cooper cast a stern eye toward the living room. Pewter pointedly ignored her.

  “You never know about that one.” Harry poured the coffee and also put out a dish of sliced cheese and apples.

  “Thank God, no cookies.”

  “It’s a wonder all of Virginia doesn’t go into sugar shock over the holidays.”

  They caught up. Cooper, glowing, gave an account of Lorenzo. Harry hoped this was “the one” for Cooper. They talked about Big Mim, Little Mim, the fact that Fair truly needed a partner in business. They went on to political events—always dispiriting—and finally to Brother Christopher.

  “It’s not a break, but it’s more information.” Cooper informed Harry that Christopher had received letters from an investor who felt Christopher should go back to work and pay off those who lost money.

  “Contact the letter writer?”

  Cooper half-smiled. “He was pissed that Christopher was dead. I suppose…well, I don’t know. The point is, the money is lost.”

  “Somehow I think time lost is worse than money lost,” Harry thought out loud.

  “Could be.” She put a piece of cheese on an apple slice, biting into it. “Any thoughts?”

  “Ha. I can’t believe you’re asking me.”

  “You can get in the middle of things and you’re often right, but, Harry”—Cooper shook her head—“you take some dumb chances.”