Chapter 2: A Christmas With Two Clocks
By Wednesday morning, the fire hall had become the busiest place in my life.
I had not expected that.
I thought I would make a few calls, cook a reasonable amount of food, and perhaps feed twenty or thirty people. Maybe a few widowers from church. A couple of hospital workers coming off their shifts. Anyone who had nowhere else to be.
I learned quickly that a small town could keep its troubles quiet, but it could not hide them from a woman who asked direct questions.
Mr. Kowalski had lost his wife in April.
A young family's furnace had broken two days before Christmas. The father was working temporary shifts and trying to save enough money to replace it.
Three night nurses at the hospital would be working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Another had two children but no family nearby to help.
Chief Dale knew a retired couple who had moved into town that fall. Their daughter had died, and traveling to see their grandchildren was no longer possible.
“Put them down,” I told him.
Dale's pen stopped.
“That's already fourteen people.””
“Then we'd better find fourteen chairs.””
He smiled.
“Leonard would be proud of you.””
I pretended to be busy examining the list.
“He'd be proud of anybody who didn't burn the gravy.””
That made Dale laugh hard enough to spill his coffee.
By Thursday, the volunteer fire auxiliary ladies had heard what we were planning. By Friday, they had offered roasting pans, tablecloths, serving spoons, and enough dessert recipes to supply a county fair.
Marlene Peterson arrived with a notebook and a look that meant she had already taken charge.
“You cannot cook for sixty people alone,” she announced.
“I wasn't planning to.””
“Good. Because I'm bringing two pans of potatoes, and June is doing the pies. Rita says she'll handle coffee.””
“I thought we were planning for thirty.””
Marlene stared at me.
“Nan, you never planned for thirty people in your life.””
She was right, unfortunately.
By Saturday afternoon, the hall's whiteboard was covered in names, food assignments, and reminders. I drove to the grocery store twice. I borrowed extra crockpots from the church. I found myself calculating turkey portions while standing in the shower.
It was the best kind of busy.
The work gave my hands something to do, and every time I saw Leonard's name on the brass plaque, I felt as though I were keeping a small part of him alive.
Still, on Sunday evening, I found myself looking at the calendar on the kitchen wall.
Christmas was six days away.
At two o'clock, I would be at Greg's house.
At four, I would leave.
And whatever happened between those two hours would have to be enough.
I told myself that was fair.
The promise I had made to my son mattered. So did his marriage. Amber had a right to host Christmas in her own home, and I had no intention of turning a family gathering into a contest over whose traditions mattered more.
But as I prepared the dough for the last batch of lefse, I found myself remembering a conversation from the previous spring.
Greg had brought Ella and Sam over for lunch. Ella was nine then, all elbows and curious questions, with a habit of tucking her hair behind her ears when she was thinking. Sam was six, energetic enough to make a simple visit resemble a sporting event.
After lunch, they had helped me decorate sugar cookies.
Ella had been very serious about the frosting.
“Grandma, can I put red on this one?””
“It's your cookie, sweetheart.””
“What about green?””
“That's also your cookie.””
“And sprinkles?””
I had slid the entire jar across the table.
“Don't tell your mother.””
Ella had giggled so hard that Sam dropped a cookie on the floor.
Later, while they played in the living room, Greg helped me carry dishes to the kitchen.
“Amber thinks we should simplify the holidays,” he said.
I rinsed a plate.
“What does that mean?””
“Not doing so much. Not making the kids feel like every holiday has to be huge.””
“That sounds reasonable.””
“Yeah.”” He stacked the dishes.
“She says sometimes all the traditions become expectations.””
I had turned off the faucet and looked at him.
“Traditions are supposed to make people feel welcome, Greg. They're not supposed to make anybody feel trapped.””
“I know, Mom.””
He had kissed my cheek and gone outside to start the car.
At the time, I thought we understood one another.
Now I wondered whether he had been trying to tell me something.
On Christmas Eve, the wind came off the lake hard enough to rattle my storm windows.
I was at the church, hanging my coat in the crowded coatroom after the evening service, when Mr. Kowalski approached me.
He was a small man, neatly dressed, with white hair and hands that trembled whenever he tried to fasten his buttons. His wife, Helen, had been dead for eight months. He still spoke about her in the present tense when he was distracted.
“Nan,” he said, holding out a folded piece of fabric.
I looked down.
It was a Christmas tablecloth, ivory-colored, with red stitching around the edges.
“Ironed it myself,” he said.
“Took me three tries. Helen used to do it before Christmas every year.””
He pressed the cloth into my hands.
“I can't leave it in the drawer.””
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“It's beautiful, Walter.””
“Would you put it on a table tomorrow? Any table. Doesn't matter which.””
I ran my fingers over the stitching.
“I'll put it on the head table.””
He nodded once.
“Good. She liked being where she could see everybody.””
Then he looked toward the church doors, where families were gathering their children and pulling on their winter coats.
“I haven't decided what time I'll come tomorrow.””
“You come whenever you're ready.””
He lowered his eyes.
“I don't want to ruin anybody else's Christmas.””
I took his hand.
“Walter, you couldn't ruin Christmas if you tried.””
He gave me a faint smile, but the sadness remained.
That night, I placed Helen's tablecloth on the dining room table, just to see how it would look. The red stitching glowed beneath the kitchen lights.
I pictured the head table at the fire hall.
Leonard would have sat at one end, making sure everybody had enough gravy. Walter would have sat near him. Marlene would have complained that neither man was helping with the dishes.
For a moment, the kitchen felt full again.
Then I folded the cloth carefully and put it in a clean bag.
Christmas morning began at five.
I was already at the hall before dawn, tying on an apron while the auxiliary ladies arranged pans along the counters. The air smelled of coffee, roasting turkey, and fresh rolls. Outside, headlights swept across the windows as volunteers arrived carrying food.
At ten, Dale stopped by with extra folding chairs.
At eleven, Marlene discovered that we had more pies than plates.
At noon, I stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking at a dozen people moving around me with the comfortable purpose of a crew that knew exactly what needed doing.
For the first time that week, I was not thinking about Amber's list.
Then my phone rang.
Greg.
I wiped my hands and answered.
“Morning, honey.””
“Hey, Mom. Everything still good for two?””
“Of course.””
“Okay. Amber's a little stressed. She's been cooking since early this morning, and the kids are excited. Just, you know, don't bring anything.””
“I won't.””
“And don't stay late. We have plans for the evening.””
“I understand, Greg.””
He was quiet.
“Thanks, Mom.””
Before he hung up, I heard Amber's voice in the background.
“Did you make sure she understood the gift rule?””
Greg covered the phone poorly.
“Yeah, I told her.””
Then Amber said something I couldn't quite hear.
His voice returned, lower now.
“See you at two.””
After the call, I put the phone away.
Marlene was beside me, arranging rolls in a basket.
“Everything all right?””
“Yes.””
She gave me a long look.
“You don't have to say yes just because somebody asks you a question.””
I reached for the serving spoon.
“Sometimes it's easier.””
“Sometimes,” she replied.
“But easier isn't always kinder.””
I wanted to answer her, but there was no time.
The turkey needed carving. The gravy was thickening. A volunteer had arrived with a box of donated canned goods, and the first of the hospital nurses had called to say she would stop in before her shift.
I folded Walter's tablecloth over my arm.
“Come on,” I said.
“Let's get this on the head table.””
Marlene helped me spread it across the longest table in the hall. We smoothed the corners and arranged a small vase of evergreen branches in the center.
Then we stepped back.
It looked like something you would find in a family home.
Which was exactly what I wanted.
At one forty-five, I washed my hands, changed into a clean sweater, and hung up the apron.
“I'll be back before five,” I told Marlene.
She glanced at the clock.
“Don't rush.””
“I have a schedule.””
She knew better than to comment.
I drove south through the snow to Greg's house, carrying nothing but my purse and the small gifts I had chosen carefully.
Each package had cost less than twenty dollars.
Ella's was a craft kit with colored thread and little wooden beads. Sam's was a set of magnetic building pieces he could use to make bridges and towers. For Greg and Amber, I had brought nothing at all, exactly as instructed.
At two o'clock, I rang the bell.
Amber opened the door.
She wore a cream-colored sweater and a perfectly arranged smile.
“Nan. You're right on time.””
“Wouldn't dream of being late.””
She stepped aside.
The house was warm, and the living room smelled of cinnamon candles. A large Christmas tree stood in the corner with matching ornaments arranged in careful spirals. Beneath it sat a neat row of wrapped presents.
Greg came from the kitchen.
“Mom.””
He hugged me, but his eyes darted toward Amber before he let go.
Ella appeared behind him.
“Grandma!””
She ran into my arms.
I hugged her tightly, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the faint sweetness of the peppermint candy she had been eating.
“There's my girl.””
Sam raced in next, carrying a toy truck.
“Grandma, look what I got!””
“That's a fine truck.””
“It's not a truck. It's a snowplow.””
I examined it seriously.
“Well, then, that's a fine snowplow.””
He laughed, and for a little while, everything felt almost normal.
We sat at the dining table, where Amber had arranged the meal in matching dishes. She had done a beautiful job. There was turkey, potatoes, green beans, and a cranberry salad decorated with orange slices.
“Everything looks wonderful,” I told her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I wanted to make it feel special without going overboard.””
Greg passed me the potatoes.
“Mom's Christmas dinners were always huge,” he told Amber.
Amber's smile tightened.
“Yes. That's what I'm trying to avoid.””
The room went still for half a second.
Then Sam asked for more gravy, and the moment passed.
We ate. The children told me about school. Greg described a project at work. Amber talked about the neighborhood decorations and a winter concert Ella would attend the following week.
I made an effort to ask questions and listen.
I did not mention that I had cooked Christmas dinner for more than sixty people that morning.
I did not mention Helen's tablecloth.
I did not mention the gifts I had left under my own tree for the children, because I had been afraid they might not be allowed to take them home.
At three, we opened presents.
Ella loved her craft kit. Sam immediately began building a tower with his magnetic pieces.
“Grandma, look!”” he shouted.
“It's taller than me!””
“Almost,” I said.
“It'll be taller next year.””
“I expect you'll need a bigger table next year, then.””
Amber watched from the couch.
“Those were thoughtful gifts,” she said.
“And right around the budget.””
I smiled.
“I thought the children would enjoy them.””
By three-thirty, Ella had abandoned her craft kit and climbed into the chair beside me. She leaned against my arm while Sam rolled his snowplow across the rug.
“Grandma?””
“Yes, sweetheart?””
“Why do you have to go at four?””
Across the room, Greg stopped arranging a stack of gift bags.
Amber looked up from her phone.
I turned toward Ella.
“Your mama has things planned for later.””
“But it's Christmas.””
I smoothed a loose strand of hair away from her face.
“Yes, it is.””
“Grandma, when is the real Christmas?””
The question was quiet.
Not a complaint. Not an accusation.
Just a nine-year-old trying to understand why the holiday felt as if somebody had set a timer on it.
I looked at the little clock on the mantel.
Three forty-two.
Amber was standing just behind Ella.
I smiled at my granddaughter and squeezed her hand.
“This one was real, sweetheart.””
Ella frowned slightly.
“But why can't you stay for dinner?””
“Because your mama made plans, and we need to respect those plans.””
“Did we do something wrong?””
“No, honey. Not one thing.””
She studied my face as though she suspected there was something I wasn't telling her.
Then she reached for my hand and held it between both of hers.
I looked at Amber over the top of her head.
Amber smiled.
It was the kind of smile adults used when a conversation was going exactly as they expected.
And for one brief moment, I wondered whether she understood what she'd done.
At three fifty-eight, I stood and put on my coat.
Greg followed me to the door.
“Thanks for coming, Mom.””
“Thank you for having me.””
He lowered his voice.
“I hope you know this isn't personal.””
I pulled my scarf into place.
“Of course, honey.””
He looked relieved again.
I wanted to tell him that something could hurt without being personal. That a person could follow every rule and still come away feeling as though she had been carefully removed from a life she helped build.
Instead, I hugged him.
“Have a peaceful Christmas, Greg.””
“You too, Mom.””
Behind him, Ella appeared at the doorway.
“Grandma?””
I turned.
“Don't forget about us.””
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I crouched and kissed her forehead.
“I couldn't forget you if I tried.””
I walked to my car without looking back.
At four o'clock, I left my son's house.
May you like
At four-oh-seven, I turned north toward the lake.
And at six, when the first sixty-one plates had been served at the fire hall, I finally began to understand that the Christmas I had been asked to leave might not be the one that mattered most.
