Рита Браун - Santa Clawed

Jean rolled her eyes. “He’s gotten worse. He’s not as bad about two women as two men, but he’s really become a bigot. The other thing that sets him off is illegal immigration.” She looked around at the others. “The man I married was purposeful but fun. I don’t know—he entered his forties and now he’s such a crab. I hasten to add that he’s good to me. But he really loathes anything and everything about gay men. I just don’t know what to do about it, because there are gay men in our social groups. He avoids them.”

“Not a thing you can do.” Racquel shrugged, then tossed a rosebud at Harry. “The leopard and his spots. I worry about Bryson. He says he’s changed, but I don’t know. These last few months I kind of get the feeling he’s slipping back. I’ve checked the new nurses. None is his type.”

“Racquel, there hasn’t been a whiff of gossip, and you know that the hospital is a hotbed of it. If he were sleeping with a nurse, we’d know.” Jean wanted Racquel to be happy.

“I’d have heard.” Susan did hear a lot, plus her husband—a lawyer—served as a representative in the Virginia legislature and was on the hospital board.

“I don’t know.” Racquel appeared glum for a minute. “I swear to you, if he is fooling around and I catch him, that is one man who will be singing soprano in the choir.”

All the women laughed at this, each knowing, however fleetingly, that thought of revenge. Pewter and the others had been listening. “I’m not changing

my spots.” “You don’t have any spots.” Tucker laughed at her. “You know what I mean.” Pewter stared crossly at the dog. “That you think you’re perfect,” Tucker said. “I’m glad you recognize that.” Pewter beamed as the other cats laughed.

2

A string of red and green lightbulbs, supported by four poles, formed a square shining down on rows of freshly cut Christmas trees. The Brothers of Love kept a tight grasp on the wallet. No need to squander funds on fancy lights or even a crèche. The Christmas tree farm provided the brothers with half their annual income.

The square rows of Scotch pines undulated, roots balled and in large pots. Other trees, still planted, would be dug up after the shopper selected one. A forklift put the pots of freshly dug trees into truck beds. Sliding a potted tree into a station wagon proved more difficult, since the root balls were quite heavy, but after ten years the brothers had it down to a science.

People flocked to the tree farm because the trees were symmetrical and the prices fair. One also left the farm feeling smugly virtuous, since the money did fund their hospice. Back in the early 1980s, when even some medical personnel wouldn’t touch AIDS patients because the transmission of the disease was not fully understood, the brothers formed to nurse the sick and comfort the dying. Their commitment to all patients regardless of disease won them respect and support. The order wore monks’ habits, a black rope tying them tight around the middle. This outward display of their vows, in these secular times, pushed some people away from them. Others rushed toward them, eager to bare sins. By starting the hospice, perhaps the brothers wished to spare themselves such repetitive boredom. What each brother learned over time was that there are no original sins.

Harry Haristeen walked through the trees outside the square. Sticking close to her were Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both nimbly stepping over garlands and wreaths that had been laid to the side, SOLD tags attached to them.

Popping out from an aisle of trees off the small main square was Alex Corbett, head of Corbett Realty.

“Harry, find a tree?”

“Not yet. You?”

“A big one. Need an impressive specimen for the annual company party.”

“Same night as St. Luke’s. Bad timing.” She smiled.

“Oh, Harry, people party all day and night. Half of the St. Luke’s people will come over to Keswick Club. I’m counting on you and Fair to add to the celebration.”

“Alex, we’d love to, but I’ve got to help clean up.”

His sandy mustache twitched upward. “Well, I’ll see you at Spring Fling, then.” He waved good-bye as he walked to his new Range Rover and drove off.

She said to her animals, “Real estate has been tanking for two years and yet that man rolls in the dough. Wish I had his brains for money.”

“You have a good brain,” Tucker complimented her.

As it was two in the afternoon on December 15, she had the farm all to herself once Alex left. The high volume of shoppers would fill the place after work. The other women at the work party had their trees up already, but Harry, like her mother, waited until ten days before Christmas.

Tucker patiently examined each tree. Had to smell right.

“Pine” —Pewter sniffed— “all smells the same.”

“Does not,” the sturdy dog replied.

“I don’t want to hear about your superior nose. My nose is every bit as good as yours.”

Although Tucker knew she was being goaded, an activity at which Pewter excelled, she couldn’t help herself. She rose to the bait. “My nose is superior. Why, I can track a cow on a three- day- old line.”

“Ooh la.” Pewter tossed back her head. “Even a bloodhound can’t do that. Furthermore, what do you want with a stinky cow? The cud breath could gag a maggot.”

The fur on the back of her neck fluffed up as Tucker responded, “You don’t know anything about canine noses.”

“Well, I know all I need to know about canine butts, you tailless wonder.” Pewter giggled.

Tucker whirled around, ready for a fight. The dog had endured five lunatic cats at St. Luke’s. Her feline fun meter was pegged.

Mrs. Murphy stopped to face them as Harry walked on, and said with an authoritative voice, “Can it.”

Rarely did Tucker oppose the tiger cat. They were good friends. Besides, Murphy could unleash those claws and tear her up.

Pewter, while not wishing to tangle with the tiger, didn’t want to look as though she’d backed down. “Who died and made you God?”

Upset at her phrase, Tucker said, “You shouldn’t talk like that. We just came from St. Luke’s. Besides, there are brothers around.”

Mrs. Murphy couldn’t help but laugh at Tucker’s seriousness. “Since when do humans understand our language? Even our own human doesn’t get it.”

“Right.” Pewter seized on what she took to be a tiny bit of support from Mrs. Murphy. “Furthermore, most of the brothers are mental. They’re making up for something. You know, atoning for sins. Why would anyone want to sit with the dying? It’s not normal.”

“Pewter, you’re hateful.” Mrs. Murphy turned to follow Harry, who was attractive even in a dirty, smeared Carhartt work jacket.

“I tell the truth. Why is that being hateful?” Pewter yelled to the two animals leaving her. “They’re a bunch of whack jobs.”