Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

Maggie, as usual, knew the answer. “Moved to a little town in Texas. A few months later, Lem shot his wife and himself. Friends down there said they never recovered from losing Eddie.”

My eyes brimmed with tears, and to hide my emotion I returned to reading the program. “Here's a surprise: ‘Trinity Evangelical Church is grateful to Dr. Matavious Clopper for his generous sponsorship of this memorial service.’ My goodness, how thoughtful of him to do this-especially with the tragedy he's just suffered.”

Maggie, sitting on my other side, between Praxythea and me, uttered a derisive “Humph.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“He didn't do anything. Oretta set all this up the day she died. Matavious couldn't exactly stop it. Not without looking like a real Scrooge.”

Ginnie leaned across me to ask, “Do you know why she did it?”

Something I recalled made me answer. “Right after Eddie's body was found, Oretta said to me that ‘Lickin Creek takes care of its own.’ This must have been her way of showing how much she cared.” Weezie Clopper had told me she believed Oretta liked animals better than people. This proved she was very wrong about the woman. The flowers alone had to have cost a fortune.

Reverend Flack entered the sanctuary from a side door, took a position behind the teddy-bear-covered altar, and held up his arms. His robe was splendid, a far cry from what I would have expected a Lickin Creek minister to wear.

The congregation hushed, and then, from the back of the church came the sound of bagpipes. I turned to Maggie with a questioning look.

“Reverend Flack's cousin,” she whispered. “Lots of Scotch-Irish here. Plays at most of their funerals.”

All heads turned as the piper, in formal Scottish garb, slowly walked down the aisle playing “Skye Boat Song.” Behind him came pallbearers, carrying a tiny white coffin containing Eddie Douglas's remains. I had to press that special spot on my upper lip to keep tears from flowing.

“Carry the lad that's born to be king, over the sea to Skye.” The music ended, and the piper stepped to one side of the altar and stood at attention as the coffin was placed on a stand before it.

The service was touching, even though no one there seemed to have actually known the child. One after another, members of the church came to the front to read prayers, and several added their personal thoughts about childhood in general.

As it went on, I thought about the world as it had been when Eddie died. The sixties: the Age of Aquarius and Vietnam, turmoil and violence on college campuses, flower power and drugs, Dylan and Baez, psychedelic clothing and love beads, children who “left their hearts in San Francisco” and, in many cases, their minds. It really had been the age of innocence, when young people still believed they could make a difference. Another time, another world.

Eddie would have been too young to participate in any of that, of course. A child's view of the sixties would be pretty much that of any child at any time. If he'd lived, Eddie would be in his forties now, I realized. Perhaps balding, a little overweight, in need of reading glasses, maybe even a grandfather. But Eddie had missed all the joys and sorrows that life could bring and would be forever five years old. My nose tingled, and I had to pinch my upper lip again.

Maggie nudged me, bringing me back to the present. “Wake up,” she whispered.

“I'm not sleeping, just thinking.”

The Reverend Flack gave the signal for us to stand, and the piper stepped forward. I was sure of what was coming next and rooted fruitlessly in my bag for a Kleenex. Maggie handed me one of hers. I was right-as the pallbearers carried the coffin out, “Amazing Grace” filled the church. Nothing in the world could keep me from crying when I hear that beautiful hymn played on the bagpipes.

In the foyer, everybody was sniffing and blowing noses. A red-eyed Primrose Flack came over to get a tissue from Maggie, who seemed to have an endless supply.

“How I wish someone from his family could have been here to know he's finally been found,” Primrose said.

“I'm sure they're watching from heaven,” Ginnie said.

This was so unlike her usual sarcastic remarks that I looked at her to see if she was kidding. She appeared to be serious.

“How awful to think of him lying there all those years in that cold, dark water.” Maggie had a catch in her voice.

“But at least he was at peace,” Ginnie pointed out.

“Is he going to be buried here?” I asked.

Primrose shook her head. “My husband found out his parents are buried in Jasper, Texas. The body's being shipped there tomorrow.”

“It's nice they're going to be reunited, even if they are all dead,” Ginnie said.

“This is getting too gloomy,” Praxythea said. “I have an idea. We all need to be cheered up. Let's go back to Tori's house and trim her tree. We can make it a sort of old-fashioned all-girl party, late-night snacks and all. It will be fun.”

“Praxythea,” I whispered. “There's nothing in the house to feed them.”

“Don't worry about it. I baked cookies all day, and I bought gallons of eggnog. We're all set.”

So Praxythea's party invitation was not quite as extemporaneous as she expected us to believe. I didn't have any Christmas ornaments, either, but I was sure Praxythea had already taken care of that little matter.

Because it was late and everybody was so downhearted, I was surprised when Maggie and Ginnie immediately agreed to come over. Even Primrose accepted, saying she'd be along as soon as she could tell her husband where she was going. However, since the reverend was very busy shaking hands and hugging babies, that might be a while.

Driving Garnet's truck, with Praxythea practically glowing in the dark beside me, I drove home to Moon Lake with Maggie and Ginnie following close behind in their cars.

Praxythea shed her white fur coat, covered her white satin gown with her organdy apron, piled little moon-shaped cookies on Wedgwood plates, and poured chips into ceramic bowls. While I petted Noel, who was obviously depressed at being separated from Fred, Ginnie poured eggnog and a bottle of brandy into the Waterford punch bowl, and Maggie, following orders from Praxythea, searched for linen napkins in a drawer in the pantry.

We carried everything into the front parlor, where the giant Christmas tree stood. Oohs from Ginnie and aahs from Maggie pleased Praxythea, who recounted the story about bringing it from Lancaster strapped to the roof of a stretch limo.

“Here we go,” Praxythea said. “I made popcorn this afternoon-for stringing. There's red construction paper and paste for making garlands. Does everybody remember how from kindergarten? And,” she said, pointing to three enormous cardboard boxes, “I bought a few little ornaments to fill in the gaps. Lights go on first, I think. My household staff usually takes care of that part.”

“Me, too,” Maggie giggled. “My butler does it all.”

We wound the strings around the tree and plugged them in. After a few bulb replacements, the tree sparkled with hundreds of tiny white lights.

Ginnie ladled eggnog into four crystal mugs, then settled down on a sofa with a bag of popcorn, a needle, and a spool of plastic thread, while Maggie gravitated toward the construction paper. “Just like the children's room at the library,” she said.

Praxythea handed me a bowl of cranberries. “Why don't you string these?” she suggested before leaving the room.

It was an impossible task. The little red balls were as hard as rocks. I stabbed myself with the needle half a dozen times and only succeeded in staining my fingertips red.

“I give up,” I announced. “Hand me a bag of popcorn, please.”