Tim Dorsey: When elves attack

“I have a strong feeling they’re with me on this one. Everyone loves Christmas displays.”

“So you’re going to keep asking him questions like that until he agrees?”

Serge shook his head. “I’m not really interested in anything he has to say. Certain personality types tend to pull you into negativity. It’s best not to dwell on them… Especially when we’re out here to enjoy a special holiday moment.”

“Rock on, dude!”

“The key is to twist the dials simultaneously, so the lights are in sync with the audio. I’ll start with an easy one. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.”

Dials twisted four times.

“Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!.. Ahhhhhhhh!”

“Sounds just like it,” said Coleman.

And so Serge ran through a full program of songs.

“What was that last one?” asked Coleman.

“ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ ” Serge pulled the control box close. “And now the grand finale. I’m just going to use the left dial, ever so slowly increasing the current to the lights. And because those lights aren’t designed to stand the kind of power for an oven, they’ll begin to explode individually, like popcorn in a microwave. The bulbs’ filaments will burn out pretty quick, but also pretty hot.”

“Will it electrocute him?”

“No, but he won’t like it.”

The dial began turning.

At first a few isolated pops spaced out seconds apart. Then, in rapid succession: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop…

It continued in a sadistic drumroll until the last light finally exploded.

From the roof: “Okay, okay, you win! I’ll never go near Nicole or her family again!”

Neighbors on porches up and down Triggerfish Lane uniformly broke into applause.

Serge glanced at Coleman. “Like I said, total respect.”

An older-style Cadillac sat at the end of the Davenports’ driveway.

Serge stared through binoculars.

“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.

“Jim’s mother is visiting for Christmas dinner.”

“But it’s not Christmas yet.”

“I think there’s some static between her and Martha.” Serge watched her set the table with the best china. “Jim told me Martha goes off the stress meter whenever her mother-in-law visits.”

“They fight?”

“Worse, this silent constant looming tension, Martha on the verge of a complete psychotic meltdown the whole time… So Jim told me they have his mom over just before Christmas, and then her parents just after. They reserve Christmas Day itself for immediate family when their older children drive in from out of town.”

Across the street, Rita Davenport entered the dining room to help Martha set the table.

“Mom, I really got this. Go talk with Jim and enjoy yourself.”

“Don’t be silly. I can’t just stand around while you’re doing all the work.” Rita picked up a napkin, wiping down a fork Martha had already set beside a plate.

Martha’s jaw clenched, blood pressure ticking upward. She faked a smile. “Excuse me a minute.”

“Take your time.” Rita wiped a spoon. “I’ve been doing this my whole life.”

Martha marched into the kitchen. “Jim! She’s wiping off the utensils I’ve already set.”

Jim briefly covered his eyes with his hands. “Okay, I’ll go talk to her.”

“What are you going to say?”

“Just try to relax.” Jim went into the dining room. “Mom, you don’t need to do that.”

“What? I’m not allowed to help?”

“I’ve got some new family photos I’d like to show you.”

“Photos? Why didn’t you say so? I must see.” She followed Jim past the kitchen doorway and into the den, where framed photos stood atop an antique bureau.

Martha tiptoed down the hall to eavesdrop.

“Oh, Jim, these pictures are absolutely beautiful. The children have really grown.”

“Yes they have, Mom.”

“And I love how they’re displayed on the bureau… Do you have a dust cloth and some Pledge?”

Martha’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists…

Back across the street, Serge lowered the binoculars. “I feel so bad Martha and I have gotten off on about ten bad feet, because I really like Jim, and she’s so terrific for him. But of course the reality of the situation is obvious: The absolute best thing I can do for both of them is never to go near their house for the rest of my life.”

Coleman swayed with a bottle of rum and grabbed a chair for balance. “Huh?”

Serge stared at Coleman a moment. “I think you’ve got something.” He began nodding. “There are no absolutes. I’ve locked myself into a defeatist mentality. Of course I can make it up to Martha! And because this is one of her most stressful days of the year with her mother-in-law, it’s the perfect opportunity to help her out.”

“But, Serge-”

He held up a hand. “Not now. When I was spying on them with the binoculars, they were just about to sit down to dinner, so I’ll need to hurry.” He headed toward the refrigerator. “I hear you’re supposed to bring something…”

Back across the street, Jim carried the turkey into the dining room and set it on the table.

“Everything looks so delicious,” said Rita.

They pulled out chairs and began sitting.

Ding-dong.

“Who can that be?”

Jim stood back up. “You two go ahead and sit. I’ll answer it.” He walked around the corner and opened the door.

“Jim!”

A gasp.

“I knew you’d look surprised. I’ve come to join you for dinner. I know it’s last minute and all, but I hear it’s okay if you bring something.” Serge grinned and held up a crumpled brown paper bag. “I’m going to make it up to Martha, and then you’ll be so proud of me. I’m going to be just like you someday!”

“Jim, who’s at the door?” called Martha.

Serge slapped Jim on the shoulder-“Just leave everything to me”-and walked past him into the dining room.

“Surprise!”

Martha gasped.

“Who is this man?” asked Rita.

“I’m Serge Storms, super-close friend of Jim. And you must be his mom, who I’ve been hearing so much about.” He walked up with an effervescent smile and kissed her hand. “You’re even more radiant than I could have imagined.”

“Serge,” said Jim. “I don’t think this is a good-”

Serge looked at the table. “I see I’m just in time.”

“You’re having dinner with us?” asked Rita.

Serge nodded and held up the crumpled bag. “I brought sides.” He set the bag on the table and rummaged. “These are only a few days old-five tops.” He began pulling out Kentucky Fried Chicken containers. “Here’s coleslaw to die for, and the mac and cheese that Coleman barely touched, and a few biscuits. Heads-up, they’re a little hard…”

Nicole covered her mouth and giggled.

Martha shot Jim a tense glance.

“Serge,” said Jim. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. This is my mother’s special day with us. It’s always just family.”

“Nonsense,” said Rita. “He’s a good friend of yours, and I must say very well mannered.”

“But, Mom,” said Martha.

“We’ve got more than enough food,” said Rita. Then turning to Serge: “Why don’t you pull up a chair and have a seat by me?”

Martha’s temples throbbed.

Rita folded her hands on the table. “Jim, why don’t you say the grace?”

“Mom, you know I’d really rather not-”

Serge’s hand shot up in the air. “Oooo! Me! Me! Me! I’ll say grace!”

Jim’s and Martha’s eyes bugged out.

“Why, Serge,” said Rita. “That’s extremely gracious of you. I’d love to hear you say grace.”