Miracle (28 page)

“You see?” Mom said to me. “People
like
getting newsletters at Christmas.”

“I don’t have anything against Christmas newsletters,” I said. “I just don’t think they should be deadly dull. Mary had a root canal, Bootsy seems to be getting over her ringworm, we got new gutters on the house. Why doesn’t anyone ever write about anything
interesting
in their newsletters?”

“Like what?” Sueann said.

“I don’t know. An alligator biting their arm off. A meteor falling on their house. A murder. Something interesting to read.”

“Probably because they didn’t happen,” Sueann said.

“Then they should make something up,” I said, “so we don’t have to hear about their trip to Nebraska and their gallbladder operation.”

“You’d do that?” Allison said, appalled. “You’d make something up?”

“People make things up in their newsletters all the time, and you know it,” I said. “Look at the way Aunt Laura and Uncle Phil brag about their vacations and their stock options and their cars. If you’re going to lie, they might as well be lies that are interesting for other people to read.”

“You have plenty of things to tell without making up lies, Nan,” Mom said reprovingly. “Maybe you should do something like your cousin Celia. She writes her newsletter all year long, day by day,” she explained to David. “Nan, you might have more news than you think if you kept track of it day by day like Celia. She always has a lot to tell.”

Yes, indeed. Her newsletters were nearly as long as Aunt Lydia’s. They read like a diary, except she wasn’t in junior high, where at least there were pop quizzes and zits and your locker combination to give it a little zing. Celia’s newsletters had no zing whatsoever:

“Wed. Jan. 1. Froze to death going out to get the paper. Snow got in the plastic bag thing the paper comes in. Editorial section all wet. Had to dry it out on the radiator. Bran flakes for breakfast. Watched
Good Morning America.

“Thurs. Jan. 2. Cleaned closets. Cold and cloudy.”

“If you’d write a little every day,” Mom said, “you’d be surprised at how much you’d have to tell by Christmas.”

Sure. With my life, I wouldn’t even have to write it every day. I could do Monday’s right now. “Mon. Nov. 28. Froze to death on the way to work. Bob Hunziger not in yet. Penny putting up Christmas decorations. Solveig told me she’s sure the baby is going to be a boy. Asked me which name I liked, Albuquerque or Dallas. Said hi to Gary, but he was too depressed to talk to me. Thanksgiving reminds him of ex-wife’s giblets. Cold and cloudy.”

I was wrong. It was snowing, and Solveig’s ultrasound had showed the baby was a girl. “What do you think of Trinidad as a name?” she asked me. Penny wasn’t putting up Christmas decorations either. She was passing out slips of paper with our Secret Santas’ names on them. “The decorations aren’t here yet,” she said excitedly. “I’m getting something special from a farmer upstate.”

“Does it involve feathers?” I asked her. Last year the decorations had been angels with thousands of chicken feathers glued onto cardboard for their wings. We were still picking them out of our computers.

“No,” she said happily. “It’s a surprise. I love Christmas, don’t you?”

“Is Hunziger in?” I asked her, brushing snow out of my hair. Hats always mash my hair down, so I hadn’t worn one.

“Are you kidding?” she said. She handed me a Secret Santa
slip. “It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving. He probably won’t be in till sometime Wednesday.”

Gary came in, his ears bright red from the cold and a harried expression on his face. His ex-wife must not have wanted a reconciliation.

“Hi, Gary,” I said, and turned to hang up my coat without waiting for him to answer.

And he didn’t, but when I turned back around, he was still standing there, staring at me. I put a hand up to my hair, wishing I’d worn a hat.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” he said, looking anxiously at Penny.

“Sure,” I said, trying not to get my hopes up. He probably wanted to ask me something about the Secret Santas.

He leaned farther over my desk. “Did anything unusual happen to you over Thanksgiving?”

“My sister didn’t bring home a biker to Thanksgiving dinner,” I said.

He waved that away dismissively. “No, I mean anything odd, peculiar, out of the ordinary.”

“That
is
out of the ordinary.”

He leaned even closer. “I flew out to my parents’ for Thanksgiving, and on the flight home—you know how people always carry on luggage that won’t fit in the overhead compartments and then try to cram it in?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of a bridesmaid’s bouquet I had made the mistake of putting in the overhead compartment one time.

“Well, nobody did that on my flight. They didn’t carry on hanging bags or enormous shopping bags full of Christmas presents. Some people didn’t even have a carry-on. And that isn’t all. Our flight was half an hour late, and the flight attendant said, ‘Those of you who do not have connecting flights, please remain seated until those with connections have deplaned.’ And they did.” He looked at me expectantly.

“Maybe everybody was just in the Christmas spirit.”

He shook his head. “All four babies on the flight slept the whole way, and the toddler behind me didn’t kick the seat.”

That
was
unusual.

“Not only that, the guy next to me was reading
The Way of All Flesh
by Samuel Butler. When’s the last time you saw anybody on an airplane reading anything but John Grisham or Danielle Steele? I tell you, there’s something funny going on.”

“What?” I asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re sure you haven’t noticed anything?”

“Nothing except for my sister. She always dates these losers, but the guy she brought to Thanksgiving was really nice. He even helped with the dishes.”

“You didn’t notice anything else?”

“No,” I said, wishing I had. This was the longest he’d ever talked to me about anything besides his ex-wife. “Maybe it’s something in the air at DIA. I have to take my sister-in-law and her little girls to the airport Wednesday. I’ll keep an eye out.”

He nodded. “Don’t say anything about this, okay?” he said, and hurried off to Accounting.

“What was that all about?” Penny asked, coming over.

“His ex-wife,” I said. “When do we have to exchange Secret Santa gifts?”

“Every Friday, and Christmas Eve.”

I opened up my slip. Good, I’d gotten Hunziger. With luck I wouldn’t have to buy any Secret Santa gifts at all.

Tuesday I got Aunt Laura and Uncle Phil’s Christmas newsletter. It was in gold ink on cream-colored paper, with large gold bells in the corners. “Joyeux Noël,” it began. “That’s French for Merry Christmas. We’re sending our newsletter out early this year because we’re spending Christmas in Cannes to celebrate Phil’s promotion to assistant CEO and my wonderful new career! Yes, I’m starting my own business—Laura’s Floral Creations—and orders are pouring in! It’s already been written up in
House Beautiful
, and you will
never
guess who called last week—Martha Stewart!” Et cetera.

I didn’t see Gary. Or anything unusual, although the waiter
who took my lunch order actually got it right for a change. But he got Tonya’s (who works up on third) wrong.

“I
told
him tomato and lettuce only,” she said, picking pickles off her sandwich. “I heard Gary talked to you yesterday. Did he ask you out?”

“What’s that?” I said, pointing to the folder Tonya’d brought with her to change the subject. “The Harbrace file?”

“No,” she said. “Do you want my pickles? It’s our Christmas schedule.
Never
marry anybody who has kids from a previous marriage. Especially when
you
have kids from a previous marriage. Tom’s ex-wife, Janine, my ex-husband, John, and four sets of grandparents all want the kids, and they all want them on Christmas morning. It’s like trying to schedule the D-Day invasion.”

“At least your husband isn’t still hung up on his ex-wife,” I said glumly.

“So Gary didn’t ask you out, huh?” She bit into her sandwich, frowned, and extracted another pickle. “I’m sure he will. Okay, if we take the kids to Tom’s parents at four on Christmas Eve, Janine could pick them up at eight…. No, that won’t work.” She switched her sandwich to her other hand and began erasing. “Janine’s not speaking to Tom’s parents.”

She sighed. “At least John’s being reasonable. He called yesterday and said he’d be willing to wait till New Year’s to have the kids. I don’t know what got into him.”

When I got back to work, there was a folded copy of the morning newspaper on my desk.

I opened it up. The headline read “City Hall Christmas Display to Be Turned On,” which wasn’t unusual. And neither was tomorrow’s headline, which would be “City Hall Christmas Display Protested.”

Either the Freedom Against Faith people protest the Nativity scene or the fundamentalists protest the elves or the environmental people protest cutting down Christmas trees or all of them protest the whole thing. It happens every year.

I turned to the inside pages. Several articles were circled
in red, and there was a note next to them which read “See what I mean? Gary.”

I looked at the circled articles. “Christmas Shoplifting Down,” the first one read. “Mall stores report incidences of shoplifting are down for the first week of the Christmas season. Usually prevalent this time of—”

“What are you doing?” Penny said, looking over my shoulder.

I shut the paper with a rustle. “Nothing,” I said. I folded it back up and stuck it into a drawer. “Did you need something?”

“Here,” she said, handing me a slip of paper.

“I already got my Secret Santa name,” I said.

“This is for Holiday Goodies,” she said. “Everybody takes turns bringing in coffee cake or tarts or cake.”

I opened up my slip. It read “Friday Dec. 20. Four dozen cookies.”

“I saw you and Gary talking yesterday,” Penny said. “What about?”

“His ex-wife,” I said. “What kind of cookies do you want me to bring?”

“Chocolate chip,” she said. “Everybody loves chocolate.”

As soon as she was gone, I got the newspaper out again and took it into Hunziger’s office to read. “Legislature Passes Balanced Budget,” the other articles read. “Escaped Convict Turns Self In,” “Christmas Food Bank Donations Up.”

I read through them and then threw the paper into the wastebasket. Halfway out the door I thought better of it and took it out, folded it up, and took it back to my desk with me.

While I was putting it into my purse, Hunziger wandered in. “If anybody asks where I am, tell them I’m in the men’s room,” he said, and wandered out again.

Wednesday afternoon I took the girls and Allison to the airport. She was still fretting over her newsletter.

“Do you think a greeting is absolutely necessary?” she said in the baggage check-in line. “You know, like ‘Dear Friends and Family’?”

“Probably not,” I said absently. I was watching the people in line ahead of us, trying to spot this unusual behavior Gary had talked about, but so far I hadn’t seen any. People were looking at their watches and complaining about the length of the line, the ticket agents were calling, “Next. Next!” to the person at the head of the line, who, after having stood impatiently in line for forty-five minutes waiting for this moment, was now staring blankly into space, and an unattended toddler was methodically pulling the elastic strings off a stack of luggage tags.

“They’ll still know it’s a Christmas newsletter, won’t they?” Allison said. “Even without a greeting at the beginning of it?”

With a border of angels holding bunches of mistletoe, what else could it be? I thought.

“Next!”
the ticket agent shouted.

The man in front of us had forgotten his photo ID, the girl in front of us in line for the security check was wearing heavy metal, and on the train out to the concourse a woman stepped on my foot and then glared at me as if it were my fault. Apparently all the nice people had traveled the day Gary came home.

And that was probably what it was—some kind of statistical clump where all the considerate, intelligent people had ended up on the same flight.

I knew they existed. My sister Sueann had had an insurance actuary for a boyfriend once (he was also an embezzler, which is why Sueann was dating him) and he had said events weren’t evenly distributed, that there were peaks and valleys. Gary must just have hit a peak.

Which was too bad, I thought, lugging Cheyenne, who had demanded to be carried the minute we got off the train, down the concourse. Because the only reason he had approached me was because he thought there was something strange going on.

“Here’s Gate 55,” Allison said, setting Dakota down and getting out French-language tapes for the girls. “If I left off the ‘Dear Friends and Family,’ I’d have room to include Dakota’s violin recital. She played ‘The Gypsy Dance.’”

She settled the girls in adjoining chairs and put on their headphones. “But Mitch says it’s a letter, so it has to have a greeting.”

“What if you used something short?” I said. “Like ‘Greetings’ or something. Then you’d have room to start the letter on the same line.”

“Not ‘Greetings.’” She made a face. “Uncle Frank started his letter that way last year, and it scared me half to death. I thought Mitch had been
drafted.”

I had been alarmed when I’d gotten mine, too, but at least it had given me a temporary rush of adrenaline, which was more than Uncle Frank’s letters usually did, concerned as they were with prostate problems and disputes over property taxes.

“I suppose I could use ‘Holiday Greetings,’” Allison said. “Or ‘Christmas Greetings,’ but that’s almost as long as ‘Dear Friends and Family.’ If only there were something shorter.”

“How about ‘hi’?”

“That might work.” She got out paper and a pen and started writing. “How do you spell ‘outstanding’?”

“O-u-t-s-t-a-n-d-i-n-g,” I said absently. I was watching the moving sidewalks in the middle of the concourse. People were standing on the right, like they were supposed to, and walking on the left. No people were standing four abreast or blocking the entire sidewalk with their luggage. No kids were running in the opposite direction of the sidewalk’s movement, screaming and running their hands along the rubber railing.