Рита Браун: Santa Clawed

As Tucker padded along next to Mrs. Murphy, she said, “Her nose gets out of joint because she doesn’t like the cold. Does she stay in the truck? No. She lives in fear that she’ll miss something and then all she does is bitch and moan.”

A gray cannonball shot past them. Pewter turned to face them after skidding to a stop, sending pine needles flying. “You’re talking about me!”

“Egotist,” Tucker fired back.

“As it happens, we were. We were discussing how you hate the cold but you won’t stay in the truck,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“Ha. You were saying ugly things about me. Un- Christian things.”

“Pewter.” Both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker said the same thing at the same time while laughing at the cross kitty.

Harry, hearing the chatter, called to her friends, “Come on, you all, keep up.”

“It’s her fault.” Tucker petulantly pointed the paw, so to speak, at Pewter.

Pewter hopped sideways, stiff-legged, toward the dog.

Then she swatted the corgi.

“That’s enough,” Harry commented. “Look at this one.”

“Very nice.” Tucker admired the twelve- foot tree, which would look good in the old farmhouse with its high ceilings.

“Can’t wait to climb it,” Pewter said.

“Have to wait until it’s decorated. Maximum damage,” Mrs. Murphy gleefully ordered.

“Where is everybody?” Harry wondered out loud.

“Ought to be a brother around here somewhere.”

“Probably in prayer and penance.” Pewter sarcastically giggled.

Harry misinterpreted Pewter’s remarks, thinking the cat wanted to be picked up. She bent over, hoisting the large cat. Given that a free ride beat walking, Pewter didn’t fuss. Tucker raced down the row of trees, reached the end, and raced back in another tree lane. She continued running up and back while the others returned to the square.

Just as Harry and the cats reached the lighted open square, she noticed an SUV pulling away. She walked to the small trailer and knocked on the door.

“Just a minute,” a male voice called from inside.

The flimsy door opened. Out stepped a man in his late thirties, wearing the winter habit, a heavy brown wool robe. His red beard and mustache were offset by bright blue eyes.

Harry paused, finally recognized who it was behind the beard, then said, “Christopher Hewitt, we were just talking about you.”

He smiled. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you, Harry. And who’s ‘we’?” She hugged him, then let go. “The decorating committee at St. Luke’s. You remember Susan Tucker and BoomBoom Craycroft. They were there. I don’t think you know the other ladies.”

“You know what Mae West said? The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. So what did they say?”

“That you’d joined the brotherhood after being in the slammer.”

“Heard I made the papers back home.” He ruefully smiled. “Took my vows a year ago plus a few days. I needed to completely change my life. I’d made a terrible mistake. Anyway, I give myself to service. Perhaps, in time, the good I do will outweigh the bad.”

“It will.” She reassured him.

“We all make mistakes.”

“Mine cost other people millions.”

“Yes, well”—she laughed—“that is a major mistake.”

“I don’t do things halfway.” He pulled his hands back into the heavy sleeve. “Would you like to come into the trailer? Warm.”

“Thanks. I want to buy a tree. Can you tag it for me?”

“Sure.”

They walked to the perfectly shaped tree that Harry had marked. Chris pulled a red cardboard tag from a pocket in his robe. “There you go.”

“Aren’t your hands cold?”

“Yes. I try to keep to the tradition—no gloves, no shoes—but I surely wear gloves and shoes when it’s cold.”

“No shoes?”

“Sandals. We can wear sandals, but I cheat and wear Thinsulate-lined boots when it’s this cold. Really is cold, too. I think we’ll have a white Christmas.”

He stepped back to admire the tree. “Remember old Mr. Truslow, who used to show White Christmas every year in assembly? I thought it was the most boring movie I’d ever seen, but at least we were out of the classroom.”

“Really? I liked it.” She paused. “I think he showed it to us because he was in the war. The idea of a reunion and all that.”

“Maybe. Want me to put the tree in your truck?”

“No, thanks, because Fair can’t get here until about nine. I want to make sure he likes the tree. Half of making a marriage work is letting your spouse in on every decision.”

“Another mistake I made. My wife bailed when the scandal broke about insider trading. I wished she’d loved me enough to stick it out, but I can’t say that I blame her.” He sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. I was a fool. How much is enough? Made millions, Harry, millions, and I wanted more. I was a fool. Like I said, I hope the good I do now will make up for what I did then.”

“Will.” She walked back to her old truck.

“These old Fords go and go. When did you get it?” He walked around it, noticing the good condition of the F-series truck.

“When I graduated from Smith, in 1990.”

His gaze ran over the ’78 Ford again. “I miss my Porsche.” He shrugged. “Funny how you can love an inanimate object.”

“Makes sense to me.” She opened the truck door.

The cats hopped in, but she had to pick up Tucker.

“Good to see you, Harry. I’ll be here until ten. If you and Fair run late, call.” He waved as she drove off.

Heading toward the farm, she thought that the leopard could change his spots if he truly was motivated.

At least that’s what she figured.

“Where are we going?” Pewter wanted a nap.

“We’re here,” Mrs. Murphy said as Harry drove down the alleyway behind the old post office, where she used to work.

Once parked in Miranda Hogendobber’s driveway off the alleyway, she paused to notice that even in the snow, Miranda’s gardens, symmetrically laid out, still pleased the eye.

“Knock knock.” She opened the back door.

“Come on in. I’m in the living room,” Miranda, Harry’s surrogate mother and former workmate at the post office, called out.

The animals dashed in to be rapturously greeted, followed by Harry, who received a big hug and kiss.

“Wow.” Harry admired Miranda’s tree.

“Thought I’d do something different this year.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

A Douglas fir, reaching the ceiling, bore evidence of Miranda’s highly developed aesthetic sensibility. Plaid bows, shot through with some gold thread, were tied in place of balls. A lush gold garland wrapped around the tree. On the top, a single thin gold star finished the picture.