Nutty As a Fruitcake Page 4

  “That’s quite a rig you’ve got there,” he said, taking off his sweat-stained baseball cap. “It looks like everybody’s decorating around here this Christmas.”

  Judith’s gaze took in the entire cul-de-sac: The Steins had already put up their blue-and-white lights; they had also volunteered to purchase Mrs. Swanson’s tiny golden fairy bulbs. Gabe Porter had rescued the Santa set from the garage and cleaned off the grime. The figures reposed in the Porter driveway, awaiting a few touch-ups. According to Jeanne Ericson, she would pick up their carolers after work in the next couple of days. Meanwhile, Ted had commissioned the sign that would stand in the Goodriches’ yard. The only hitch was that Joe hadn’t yet talked to George and Enid. Maybe, Judith thought, she should broach the subject with their son.

  “Say, Art,” Judith said, watching Renie haul one of the village houses onto the grass while Gertrude clumped along behind her niece, “we don’t want your folks to feel left out. I mean, we asked them to come to our neighborhood meeting Sunday night, but your mom wasn’t feeling well. You don’t think they’d mind if we put a little sign in their yard, do you?”

  Art, who always looked a bit careworn, grew wary. “Well…I don’t know. What kind of sign?”

  “A ‘For Sale’ sign,” yelled Gertrude. “Isn’t it about time you put those two old farts out to pasture, Arthur? That’s what my daughter here did with me.”

  Judith spun around to face Gertrude. “Mother, you’re supposed to be deaf. How did you hear that?”

  But Gertrude had turned her back on Judith. She pretended she hadn’t heard the question. Judith noticed that her mother’s shoulders were shaking with mirth under the plaid lumber jacket she’d inherited from Uncle Cliff.

  Once again, Judith looked at Art. “Mother thinks she’s funny. Sometimes she is. Sometimes.” Judith gave Art an apologetic smile. “Actually, I haven’t seen the sign. Ted Ericson is having it made. Since he’s an architect, it’ll be professional. We just want to let passers-by know this is kind of a holiday showplace. Neighborhood pride and all that.” Judith smiled again.

  “Have you asked Mama?” Art’s pudgy face exhibited concern. Instead of a chunky, graying middle-aged man, Judith suddenly glimpsed the timid, awkward boy who was always reluctant to join in the other children’s more boisterous games.

  “Not about the sign,” Judith answered, trying to keep as close to the truth as possible. “I gathered she didn’t want to put up lights or figures or that sort of thing. But she didn’t say no to a sign.” Inwardly, Judith winced at the small fib. “My husband plans to talk to your parents tonight, but I thought if you said something first…” She let the words trail away. It wouldn’t do to mention Enid’s predictable, arbitrary resistance.

  Glancing every which way, as if he expected his mother to pop out of the shrubbery, Art fingered his stubby chin. “Well…gee, I don’t know…I hate to bother her when she isn’t feeling good…And I’ve had so much on my mind, what with losing my job and all, especially just before Christmas…”

  Judith took pity on Art. She had forgotten that he’d been laid off by the Boring Company. “I understand. How’s it going? Is JoAnne still working as a checker at Falstaff’s Market? I haven’t seen her lately.”

  “She’s on the night shift,” Art replied, relief showing in his hazel eyes. “It pays better. Look, I’ve got to get going. I told Mama I’d come by at three to wrap the pipes for winter. It’s two minutes to the hour. I don’t want to keep Mama waiting. See you, Judith.” Art Goodrich hurried down the cul-de-sac in his faintly bowlegged manner.

  Shaking her head, Judith started hoisting the rest of the village pieces out of the truck. Renie was arranging them under the maple tree between the driveway and the front walk.

  “Most of the town should be grouped to the left,” Renie said, wearing what Judith called her cousin’s boardroom face. “Even with the hedge dividing your property from the Rankers’, you don’t want too overwhelm the visitor’s eye. Your two houses are at the end of the cul-de-sac, and therefore, they form a visual anchor.”

  Deferring to Renie’s artistic talent, Judith nodded. At that moment, shouts erupted on the other side of the hedge.

  “You put that Virgin Mary down or I’ll brain you with this sheep,” Arlene commanded in an angry voice.

  “I don’t know why we bought a jackass,” Carl yelled back. “I could have stuck you out here until New Year’s!”

  “That does it!” his wife screamed. “You’ve chipped Caspar’s crown! Now he looks like he was in a barroom brawl with Melchior and Balthazar!”

  “Maybe they were,” Carl snapped. “They traveled from afar.”

  “Afar, not a bar!” But Arlene had lowered her voice. So had Carl. Judith turned her attention back to the New England village.

  “I should have gotten some fake snow,” she said, not entirely satisfied with the natural grass background. “Or a white papier-mâché base. Which would be cheaper?”

  “God’s cheaper,” Gertrude asserted as Sweetums wandered through the village, sniffing and poking his head inside the doors. “It’s going to rain; then it’ll clear off and get colder. And before Christmas—bingo! We’ll have snow.”

  Judith and Renie regarded Gertrude with skepticism. “We haven’t had much snow the last few years,” Judith pointed out. “In fact, this fall we’ve had only a couple of hard frosts so far. It’s over fifty degrees this afternoon.”

  But Gertrude stuck by her guns. “There’s snow coming. I can feel it in these old bones. Wait and see—two days before it hits, I’ll be able to smell it.”

  Judith started to smile, but saw that her mother was serious. Shrugging, she looked up at the gray clouds. Like many native Pacific Northwesters, she, too, could sense snow, but only a day or two before the first flakes fell. Judith wondered if her mother’s advanced age had brought her closer to nature. A drop of rain struck Judith’s cheek. “You’re right about one thing—it’s going to rain. Come on, coz,” she said to Renie. “Let’s hustle.”

  For a few moments, Gertrude leaned on her walker, watching the other two women work. An occasional raised voice filtered through the hedge. Apparently, Carl had dropped the cow; Arlene demanded to know why she’d found a pack of her husband’s cigarettes stuck to one of the shepherds. Sweetums sat down in front of the New England parson, as if listening to a sermon. Gertrude uttered a sigh, shivered inside the lumber jacket, and began to clump off down the driveway.

  “Are you cold, Mother?” Judith called as she lifted the last pieces of fencing from the truck.

  Gertrude turned to look over her shoulder. “Of course I’m cold, you nitwit. It’s almost December.” She hesitated, leaning heavily on the walker. “But that’s not it. I feel queerlike.”

  Hastily, Judith set the fencing on the ground, then raced to Gertrude’s side. “It’s delayed shock, from me backing into you. Oh, dear heaven, I feel terrible! Let’s take you to the emergency room!”

  Gertrude, however, brushed off her daughter’s solicitous hands. “Stick it, noodlehead. I don’t mean I’m sick or sore. I mean…” Gertrude sucked in her breath. “I don’t know what I mean. It’s like somebody walked over my grave. Except I’m not in it.” Confusion was written all over the small wrinkled face that was raised to Judith. “Somebody else is buried there. Who is it?”

  THREE

  JOE ARRIVED HOME just as Renie was about to leave. He pulled his aged red MG into the garage, then came back down the drive to admire the cousins’ handiwork.

  “Cute,” Joe declared, taking in the artful arrangement of villagers and their surroundings. “More than cute. Are the lights hooked up?”

  “We left that for you,” Judith said, offering Joe a welcoming kiss. “It’s getting dark. Do you want to have a drink first?”

  Giving Renie a friendly hug, Joe shook his head. “I’ll get at it as soon as I change. I can use what little light is…”

  Another crash resounded from the other side of the hedge. By refl
ex, Joe went for his gun, then froze. The color in his slightly florid face deepened.

  “Damn,” he laughed. “I thought it was a shot.”

  A face appeared among the hedge’s glossy laurel leaves. “Yoo-hoo,” Arlene called. “There’s no room at the inn. The roof just fell down. On Carl.”

  Judith gave her neighbor a half smile. “Tell them to call Hillside Manor. I may have an opening for the twenty-fourth.”

  Arlene disappeared again. Renie gave herself a good shake. “I don’t think I could get used to living next door to the Rankers,” she said. “As for that other couple, I never could figure out why they didn’t call ahead for reservations.”

  “What other couple?” Judith asked as Renie started towards her big blue Chevrolet.

  “The ones who got stuck with the cowshed,” Renie replied, still walking. “Mary and Joseph. Bye.”

  “It could have been worse,” Joe said, squeezing Judith’s shoulders. Noting his wife’s puzzled look, he grinned and the gold flecks danced in his green eyes. “It could have been a toolshed. I don’t think even the Holy Family could have put up with your mother.”

  “So isn’t that kind of weird?” Judith asked as she finished arranging crackers, cheese, and crab dip on a tray for her guests’ hors d’oeuvres. “Mother isn’t usually fanciful.”

  Joe yawned, took a sip of scotch, and put the evening paper aside. “Fanciful, no. But let’s face it, Jude-girl—your mother’s pretty old and it’s Christmastime. People get strange during the holidays. They look to Christmas in the same way they did as children—it’ll bring happiness, solve all their problems. But it doesn’t, so they get depressed. Suicide, homicide—every imaginable disaster. For a lot of people, the holiday season is the ugliest time of year. Too many expectations, too much disappointment when they aren’t met.” Joe shook his head sadly, then took another pull on his drink.

  “I know that,” Judith said, vaguely disturbed by the thought that Joe might be talking about himself. “I’ve heard Bill Jones say the same thing for years. But that’s not Mother. She’s a realist. And for all her faults, she’s got her spiritual side. This afternoon was different—as if she’d had a premonition. Mother was all shivery and squirmy. She even tried to forecast the weather.”

  “Great,” Joe sighed. “The Lizard of Oz. Just what I need in a mother-in-law. Did one of your guests swipe the sports page?”

  Since Joe obviously wasn’t going to take Gertrude’s omens seriously, Judith dropped the subject. Carrying the appetizer tray into the living room, she set it on the gateleg table. All of her preregistered guests had checked in for the night, but none had shown up yet for the hors d’oeuvres hour. It wasn’t quite six o’clock, and Judith hadn’t ladled out the punch. She was headed back to the kitchen when the front doorbell chimed. Since guests had their own keys, and family and friends usually came round to the back, Judith was faintly puzzled.

  Glenda Goodrich stood on the front porch, looking harassed. Judith tried to remember Glenda’s married name, recalled that she’d been divorced for several years, and simply greeted her guest with a friendly smile.

  “Judith,” Glenda said, nervously pushing damp tendrils of auburn hair off her high forehead, “I’m upset.” Not waiting to be asked, Glenda scurried into the entry hall.

  “What’s wrong?” Judith inquired.

  “It’s Mama,” Glenda replied, her wide, pale face looking pinched. “Art came by earlier and said you planned to put up a billboard in Mama’s front yard. Naturally, she’s frantic. Has this something to do with your hotel advertising?”

  For reasons that eluded Judith, there were some people who didn’t understand the concept of a bed-and-breakfast establishment. Glenda Goodrich was one of them. Judith’s smile grew thin.

  “No,” she answered, almost truthfully. “It’s not a billboard. It’s a joint project with the other neighbors. Everybody thought it was a wonderful idea—except your mother.” Judith’s smile disappeared completely.

  Remorse now mingled with the distress on Glenda’s face. She had never been pretty, Judith recalled, but in her younger years, Glenda had possessed a vivaciousness that had been very attractive. Middle age had done many things to Judith’s onetime playmate, adding extra pounds, etching deep lines, and, most of all, lending Glenda Goodrich a patina of despair.

  “Please, Judith,” Glenda said in a tired voice, “I realize Mama can be stubborn. But isn’t this kind of sneaky? It seems to me that everybody in the cul-de-sac is going behind her back, forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to do. That isn’t fair to gang up on her when she’s old and ill.”

  “Look,” Judith said, trying to be patient, “my husband plans on coming over tonight to talk to your folks. He would have done that sooner, but he was working late Monday. This evening, he had to wire our New England village as soon as he got home from headquarters. The minute he has a chance Joe will explain everything to your mother and father.”

  The lines in Glenda’s forehead deepened. “Mama’s not going to like it. I wish you people wouldn’t ask special favors of her. It only upsets Mama, and then she…” On the verge of tears, Glenda chewed her lower lip.

  Judith could guess what Glenda was going to say. “She takes it out on everybody else, right? Especially you and Art.”

  Glenda’s pained expression contained a hint of gratitude for Judith’s insight. “It’s not only my brother and me,” she said in a rush. “Mama picks at everybody in the family—Art’s wife, JoAnne, and their boys, Greg and Dave. Usually, she spares my daughter. But last night Mama and Leigh had a big row. I don’t know what it was all about, but the fact that she got mad at Leigh shows how sick Mama really is.”

  As far as Judith was concerned, the incident showed that Mrs. Goodrich was making up for lost time. Indeed, Judith marveled that Enid had ever treated any of her kinfolk kindly. As for Leigh, Judith vaguely recalled Glenda’s daughter as a sulky, overweight teenager.

  “Adolescence is hard,” Judith said in a voice distracted by the sound of footsteps overhead. “Along with everything else, kids at that age lose all respect for their elders.”

  Glenda frowned at Judith. “Leigh’s twenty-two. She’s a model. Didn’t you see her last month on the cover of Vogue?”

  Judith hadn’t. Or if she had, she certainly hadn’t recognized the superpuss staring out at her from the checkout stand at Falstaff’s Market.

  “That’s wonderful,” Judith gulped. “Does she live in New York?”

  “Part of the time,” Glenda replied, her pinched features relaxing slightly as the conversation switched to a more pleasant topic. “But she came home for Thanksgiving and plans to stay until after New Year’s. Leigh has a lull in her schedule, and she doesn’t really like New York or Paris or Milan that much.”

  Clearly, Leigh had changed quite a bit since Judith had last seen her. She would have inquired further into the young woman’s career, but the first of her guests were descending the stairs.

  “I’m sorry,” Judith apologized. “I must get the punch ready.” Noting Glenda’s abrupt return into gloom, Judith hastily invited her to stay for a drink.

  “I can’t,” Glenda said with a faint nod at Judith’s guests. “Mama will wonder where I am. I promised to give her a massage. Please don’t pester her anymore. It’s so hard on…everybody.” With slumped shoulders, Glenda departed.

  To Judith’s relief, Joe had filled the punch bowl. She whisked it off to the living room, chatted briefly with the retired couple from Idaho, greeted the German professors from Bonn, and scooted back into the kitchen before the young lovers from Redding arrived.

  “Maybe we should shelve the plan to coerce the Goodriches into putting up that sign,” Judith said as Joe poured them each a scotch. She explained about the visit from Glenda. “Enid refuses to cooperate. Why borrow trouble?”

  Joe opened the oven to check the steaks under the broiler. “It’s not healthy to let people always get their own way.”

  Se
tting her drink on the counter, Judith got out the table settings, including one for Gertrude. “You’re right, Joe. But Enid’s too old to change. She’s got George and her kids and the grandchildren under her thumb.”

  “Not us.” Joe tested the potatoes that were boiling on top of the stove. “Hey, Jude-girl—you know me. I can’t let people get away with stuff. It’s my job, remember?”

  Observing the sudden steeliness in her husband’s eyes, Judith realized she was up against a war of wills: Joe versus Enid. The phone rang before Judith could say anything.

  It was Ted Ericson, who announced that he had brought home the sign for the Goodriches’ yard. Judith groaned inwardly. “We still haven’t cleared it with Mrs. Goodrich,” she said into the phone. “I guess Joe’s going over there after dinner.” A glance at her husband caught him nodding his head. “We’ll get back to you. Thanks, Ted.”

  “You see?” said Joe, draining the cauliflower. “Ted’s done his bit. It probably cost his firm a few bucks, too. We can’t back down just because some cranky old bitch hates Christmas. She probably hates herself, too.” Abruptly, Joe set the colander in the sink and stared out the kitchen window. “It’s still raining,” he remarked in an oddly detached voice.

  Sweetums, who had been taking a nap under the kitchen table, ambled over to the stove. He sniffed, presumably at the meat. Joe gave the cat a nudge with his foot. Sweetums let out a low growl, then wandered away.

  “I’ll take him over to Mother’s when I bring her dinner,” Judith said, trying to forget the Goodrich dilemma for the time being. “She can feed him.”

  “Our steaks are ready,” Joe said, “but your mother’s isn’t done to her usual bootlike standard. She’s probably out in the toolshed cussing her head off because it’s after six.”

  Judith found a steak knife for her mother’s use; given Gertrude’s penchant for overcooked food, a saw would have been appropriate. “I wanted to show Mother the village with the lights on, but it’s too wet. Did you flip the switch?”