The Social Climber of Davenport Heights (13 page)

“I did all the cutting myself,” Jarone, a chubby-cheeked, little black boy told me.

The mothers were just as proud as the children.

“I think the decorations are cute as can be,” the oldest woman in the group assured those younger. “It’s every bit new and won’t remind the kids of any Christmases before.”

Her words hinted at ominous memories I didn’t even want to think about.

“We talked about pooling our money to buy ornaments,” one heavyset brunette, with a baby in her arms, explained quietly to me. “But we wanted to use that cash to buy something from Santa.” The last was added in a surreptitious whisper.

“I understood that gifts were going to be provided,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she replied.

Beside her someone else spoke up. “The agency sees that they all get something nice,” she said. “But it wouldn’t be like Christmas if we didn’t get something for our kids ourselves.”

The woman’s hair was a bright red color, unavailable in nature, and she was as toothless as her freckle-faced daughter, but she spoke with a quiet dignity that belied her appearance.

The kids were having some problems with the tremendous lengths of popcorn they’d strung. The older preteens tried, without much success, to get some of it wrapped around the higher limbs of the tree. Eventually Loretta stepped in with a bit of authority and a stepladder to help get the decoration distributed evenly all the way to the top.

The popcorn looked surprisingly good. It stood out in a way that shiny, synthetic tinsel never could.

Shanekwa, the mother of the chubby-faced black boy, came in from the dining room carrying the premier production of the kids’ Christmas crafts. Oohs and aahs emanated from every direction at the sight of an angel made of paper plates.

One plate, folded, created a flowing robe. Another was cut in two, with half utilized for silver, glitter-covered wings. The other half was bent forward like arms and stapled together with a miniature matchbook hymnal. Gold glitter adorned the pasteboard halo that fit snugly upon a plastic-spoon head festooned
with long tresses of curled yellow ribbon. The taped-on face of the angel was less than serene, having been drawn with Crayola by someone from the Happy Face school of artistic portraiture. However, my opinion was not one that counted.

“She’s beautiful,” a little voice whispered, near awestruck.

“She goes at the very top of the tree,” Shanekwa announced, handing the treasure up to Loretta, who was still on the stepladder. “She’ll watch over our Christmas like the real angels watch over us always.”

With the help of some trash-bag twist ties, Loretta managed to get the angel firmly fastened to the top of the tree.

She came down from the ladder and stepped back. We all took the opportunity to survey the decorations thoroughly.

“Didn’t you say you had a surprise?” Loretta asked.

I was momentarily speechless. Not quite knowing what to say.

“Ah…yeah, yeah,” I said finally. “It’s just outside.”

I gave one more long look at the tree before walking outside to the Z3, still not sure what to do. I fished my keys out of my jacket pocket, opened the trunk and stared inside. The beautiful pink strands of beads, the yards of fancy tinsel, the expensive themed ornaments and the incomparable handblown glass star stared back at me.

It would have made such a beautiful Christmas tree—in a layout for a decorating magazine.

In the corner of the trunk, almost forgotten, was the little last-minute purchase. I grabbed up the bag and hurried back inside.

“What’s a Christmas tree,” I announced to the eagerly waiting group, “without candy canes?”

There was a whoop of excitement from the children as I opened my offering and gave it to them.

“There is enough for everybody,” I assured the small eager hands that reached out to me.

“They’ll look so pretty on the tree,” the mother with the red hair assured everyone.

“And they’ll taste good, too,” her little freckle-faced daughter piped in.

“So what did you do with your fancy pink Christmas frills?” Chester asked me when I relayed the story to him later that same week.

“I drove straight down to Toys for the Greedy and dropped them off,” I told him. “I’m sure they will be exactly the wrong color for some unfortunate family.”

He laughed.

“That’s one of the things I like about you, Jane Lofton,” he said. “You never let sentiment overcome cynicism.”

“A lot of people wouldn’t consider that a virtue,” I pointed out.

He shrugged. “I think as long as you don’t lose sight of sentiment completely, you’ll be all right,” he said.

I was seated in his chair that had been pulled over to the side of his bed. He was, by his own admission, just getting over a bout of flu. Though he wasn’t coughing or sneezing or queasy, what I tend to think of as typical flu symptoms, he did look pale, and said he didn’t feel like getting up.

He’d called me on the phone to warn me away with contagion, but I’d shown up anyway, unwilling to miss the opportunity to give him his Christmas present.

I’d made it myself, utilizing at least some of what I’d learned at the safe house. It was an eighteen-inch-high artificial tree with tiny lights. In lieu of fancy ornaments, I had decorated it with the recipient’s gift of choice. I’d bought a sack of red-and green-wrapped Snickers Miniatures and punched a hole in the edge of each wrapper, tying them to the tree with ribbons.

Chester was delighted when he saw the tree. I set it up on the table next to his bed and plugged it in. He laughed, as pleased as any kid with his own special gift.

“I wanted to get you something you really wanted,” I told him. “And this is the only thing that you’ve ever indicated wanting.”

He reached out and patted my hand.

“You’re good to me, Jane Lofton,” he said. “And I think you’re good for me, as well.”

It was a wonderful compliment. And I accepted it with all the grace I could muster.

“It cuts both ways, Chester,” I said. “I’m not such a kind person that I would keep visiting if I didn’t enjoy it.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “From what I hear, you’re becoming a regular do-gooder.”

We both laughed at that.

His smile faded a moment later when the nurse dropped by.

“Just need to make a quick prick,” she said by way of explanation.

She picked up Chester’s hand, and without even a word of warning, stabbed him in the finger with a little needle.

He didn’t make a face or say a word. The nurse pinched his finger until a bead of blood formed, then blotted it upon a small plastic slide.

“That’s it,” she said, as if poking people was a routine venture and she was in a hurry.

“Well, look at this,” she said, hesitating as she noticed the little tree. She glanced in my direction. “What a cute idea!”

“Thank you,” I said.

Chester seemed strangely nervous, almost guilty, not making eye contact with me or the nurse.

“It’s just a little something that I put together to brighten up Chester’s room,” I said.

“And it does that,” she said. “Though, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to have it right here next to his bed.”

I was surprised at her words, then surmised that there must be some kind of safety regulation against having holiday decorations in the room. Before I had a chance to ask, Chester spoke up.

“Why don’t you take it out into the TV room,” he suggested to the nurse. “That way, everyone can share it.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, and immediately leaned down to unplug it. “You two have a nice visit. And Merry Christmas.”

This last was directed at me, but I wasn’t feeling very merry at all as she carried the gift I’d brought for Chester out of his room.

“What’s this ‘everybody can share it’ stuff?” I asked him. “You’re stuck in this bed and won’t get to get your share.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll wheel me out to the TV room for Christmas,” he told me.

“It’s not a fire hazard,” I assured him. “Even if there were a short in the lights, the material the tree is made from is nonflammable.”

Chester looked at me strangely and then nodded, but he still seemed a bit guarded. He put up a good front, laughing in a way that didn’t seem wholly genuine.

“The nurse is probably right,” he said. “I shouldn’t hog all the sweets. I’m sure some of the people here don’t get anything.”

The answer didn’t really satisfy me, but I let it go. Only because Chester clearly wanted me to.

“So tell me about your holiday plans,” he said.

“Brynn is coming home, after all,” I told him. “David and I are both so excited. She’s been telling me for months that she wasn’t going to come. But somehow David talked her into it.”

“That’s wonderful,” he said. “When does she arrive?”

“Tomorrow,” I told him. “We’re supposed to go to the
Christmas party at the club, but I talked with David and we’re staying home for Brynn’s first night.”

He nodded. “You did tell me she doesn’t enjoy the club very much.”

“Not at all,” I reiterated. “She despises it and complains about every moment she’s forced to spend there.”

“Then staying home is probably the best idea,” he said.

“Oh, I know it is, though the party is the biggest event of the year. All our friends will be wondering where we are.”

“Real friends will always understand that you want to be with your daughter,” he said.

“Yes, I guess so,” I said. “Brynn’s only going to be home for four days.”

“That’s all the vacation she gets?”

“Oh no, the school is out for a month, but she went into Manhattan for a week to do some shopping. After Christmas she wants to go skiing in Colorado with her friends. Then they are all flying down to Belize for a big New Year’s Eve party. She’ll spend a few days and leave from there to go back to school.”

“She sounds busy,” Chester said. “And with lots of friends.”

“I guess that’s true,” I admitted. “I’m just glad for the opportunity to really give my daughter a wonderful Christmas experience. I want it to be the best holiday she’s ever had.”

Chester raised his eyebrows at that, but didn’t comment.

“What kind of plans do you have?” he asked.

“Well,” I began, “it seems like traditional is best. The tree will have all the decorations she remembers. I’m going to have a holly and mistletoe, and hang stockings from the chimney mantel. Of course, we’ll have a big Christmas feast with all her favorites. And we’ll mellow out the day with carols playing on the stereo.”

“Oh, that sounds very nice,” Chester told me with great sincerity.

“I hope she’ll like it,” I said. “She loves puzzles, so I bought this marvelous, three-dimensional one of Notre Dame Cathedral. I’m going to set it up in the family room where we can all work on it. I want to totally devote myself to being with her and doing the things she likes to do.”

“You know, of course, that she loves you,” he said.

I liked the sound of it, but I wasn’t sure that it was true. I shrugged.

“I hate that you’re not feeling well enough to come to our house for Christmas,” I told him. “I was really looking forward to getting you out of here. And I wish Brynn could meet you.”

“I’d like to meet her, too.”

“Next year, you have to come,” I said.

Chester didn’t answer, he just smiled.

“I don’t like the idea of you spending the holiday alone.”

“I’m never all that alone,” he answered, and then pointed to a shelf behind me. “Get those down for me, Jane,” he said.

I walked over to where he indicated. Two Christmas cards were propped up like trophies, hard-won and infinitely precious. One was glossy bright red with an embossed green Christmas tree being decorated by little birds. The other was a solemn and stylized manger scene all in white, except for the star in the sky and the halo around the baby’s head.

I carried the cards to the bed, but when I held them out to Chester, he shook his head.

“Read them to me,” he directed.

“All right,” I answered as I seated myself in the chair once more.

I opened the white one first. The printing was as elegant and expensive as the outside suggested.

I read aloud, “‘And his name shall be called Wonderful,
Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.’” Beneath that in larger bold print I read, “‘The Statens’.”

“That’s my nephew, Ches Staten,” Chester said.

“He was named for you,” I said.

Chester nodded. “Yes, his father and I were real close. I keep trying to remember the names.”

“The names?”

“He’s got two sons and I can’t for the life of me remember what either of them is called,” Chester said with a sigh. “And his wife, she’s either Eva or Ida or Ada, something like that.” He shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about it all week and I just can’t come up with the names. It’s one of the things I hate about getting old.”

I glanced down at the card. There was no hint of what the first names might be.

“Read the other one,” he said.

I opened the red one.

Above the printed verse was a salutation in blue ink. “‘For Uncle Chester,’” I read aloud, feeling better about this one already. “‘Birds are singing, bells are ringing, songs are here of Christmas cheer.’”

Beneath it the greeter had written, “‘Much love and Merry Christmas!’” Then in four different hands it was signed, “Molly, Mike, Megan and Maddy.”

“Molly is Vera’s niece,” Chester told me. “She lives up in New Jersey, married a guy named Michael McGarrity.”

“They seem very nice,” I said, looking down at the card in my hands.

“I’m sure they are,” Chester agreed. “I’ve never met her husband, of course, nor those girls. In fact, I haven’t seen Molly since she was a teenager. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, I suppose, but real pretty, like you.”

I accepted the compliment with a smile.

“Now, Ches, I saw him just two years ago,” he said. “When I got sick, there wasn’t anyone else to call.”

“So he came down,” I said.

Chester nodded. “He took care of it all in less than a week,” he said. “While I was in the hospital he sold my house and got me this room here, had my things moved in.”