And what was left of it? Perhaps a useful item or two, but nothing much-$6,100!
With great relish Luther tallied the damage, as if it had been inflicted by someone else. All evidence was coming neatly together and making a very strong case,
He waffled a bit at the end, where he'd saved the charity numbers. Gifts to the church, to the toy drive, to the homeless shelter and the food bank. But he raced through the benevolence and came right back to the awful conclusion: $6,100 for Christmas. -
"Nine percent of my adjusted gross," he said in disbelief. "Six thousand, one hundred. Cash. All but six hundred nondeductible."
In his distress, he did something he rarely did. Luther reached for the bottle of cognac in his desk drawer, and knocked back a few drinks.
He slept from three to six, and roared to life during his shower. Nora wanted to fret over coffee and oatmeal, but Luther would have none of it. He read the paper, laughed at the comics, assured her twice that Blair was having a ball, then kissed her and raced away to the office, a
The travel agency was in the atrium of Luther's building. He walked by it at least twice each day, seldom glancing at the window displays of beaches and mountains and sailboats and pyramids. It was there for those lucky enough to travel. Luther had never stepped inside, never thought about it actually. Their vacation was five days at the beach, in a friend's condo, and with his workload they were lucky to get that.
He stole away just after ten. He used the stairs so he wouldn't have to explain anything, and darted through the door of Regency Travel. Biff was waiting for him.
Biff had a large flower in her hair and a waxy bronze tan, and she looked as if she'd just dropped by the shop for a few hours between beaches. Her comely smile stopped Luther cold, and her first words left him flabbergasted. "You need a cruise," she said.
"How'd you know?" he managed to mumble. Her hand was out, grabbing his, shaking it, leading him to her long desk, where she placed him on one side while she perched herself on the other. Long bronze legs, Luther noted. Beach legs.
"December is the best time of year for a cruise," she began, and Luther was already sold. The brochures came in a torrent. She unfolded them across her desk, under his dreamy eyes.
"You work in the building?" she asked, easing near the issue of money.
"Wiley Beck, sixth floor," Luther said without removing his eyes from the floating palaces, the endless beaches.
"Bail bondsmen?" she said.
Luther flinched just a bit. "No. Tax accountants."
"Sorry," she said, kicking herself. The pale skin, the dark eye circles, the standard blue oxford-cloth button-down with bad imitation prep school tie. She should have known better. Oh well. She reached for even glossier brochures. "Don't believe we get too many from your firm."
"We don't do vacations very well. Lots of work. I like this one right here."
"Great choice."
They settled on the Island Princess, a spanking-new mammoth vessel with rooms for three thousand, four pools, three casinos, nonstop food, eight stops in the Caribbean, and the list went on and on. Luther left with a stack of brochures and scurried back to his office six floors up.
The ambush was carefully planned. First, he worked late, which was certainly not unusual, but at any rate helped set the stage for the evening. He got lucky with the weather because it was still dreary. Hard to get in the spirit of the season when the skies were damp and gray. And much easier to dream about ten luxurious days in the sun.
If Nora wasn't worrying about Blair, then he'd certainly get her started. He'd simply mention some dreadful piece of news about a new virus or perhaps a Colombian village massacre, and that would set her off. Keep her mind off the joys of Christmas. Won't be the same without Blair, will it?
Why don't we take a break this year? Go hide. Go escape. Indulge ourselves.
Sure enough, Nora was off in the jungle. She hugged him and smiled and tried to hide the fact that she'd been crying. Her day had gone reasonably well. She'd survived the ladies' luncheon and spent two hours at the children's clinic, part of her grinding volunteer schedule.
While she heated up the pasta, he sneaked a reggae CD into the stereo, but didn't push Play. Timing was crucial.
They chatted about Blair, and not long into the dinner Nora kicked the door open. "It'll be so different this Christmas, won't it, Luther?"
"Yes it will," he said sadly, swallowing hard. "Nothing'll be the same."
"For the first time in twenty-three years, she won't be here."
"It might even be depressing. Lots of depression at Christmas, you know." Luther quickly swallowed and his fork grew still.
"I'd love to just forget about it," she said, her words ebbing at the end.
Luther flinched and cocked his good ear in her direction.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Well!" he said dramatically, shoving his plate forward. "Now that you mention it. There's something I want to discuss with you."
"Finish your pasta."
"I'm finished," he announced, jumping to his feet. His briefcase was just a few steps away, and he attacked it.
"Luther, what are you doing?"
"Hang on."
He stood across the table from her, papers in both hands. "Here's my idea," he said proudly. "And it's brilliant."
"Why am I nervous?"
He unfolded a spreadsheet, and began pointing. "Here, my dear, is what we did last Christmas. Six thousand, one hundred dollars we spent on Christmas. Six thousand, one hundred dollars."
"I heard you the first time."
"And precious little to show for it. The vast majority of it down the drain. Wasted. And that, of course, does not include my time, your time, the traffic, stress, worry, bickering, ill-will, sleep loss-all the wonderful things that we pour into the holiday season."
"Where is this going?"
"Thanks for asking." Luther dropped the spreadsheets and, quick as a magician, presented the Island Princess to his wife. Brochures covered the table. "Where is this going, my dear? It's going to the Caribbean. Ten days of total luxury on the Island Princess, the fanciest cruise ship in the world. The Bahamas, Jamaica, Grand Cayman, oops., wait a minute, "
Luther dashed into the den, hit the Play button, waited for the first notes, adjusted the volume, then dashed back to the kitchen where Nora was inspecting a brochure.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Reggae, the stuff they listen to down there. Anyway, where was I?"
"You were island hopping."
"Right, we'll snorkel on Grand Cayman, windsurf in Jamaica, lie on the beaches. Ten days, Nora, ten fabulous days"
"I'll have to lose some weight."
"We'll both go on a diet. Whatta you say?"
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is simple. We don't do Christmas. We save the money, spend it on ourselves for once. Not a dime on food we won't eat or clothes we won't wear or gifts no one needs. Not one red cent. It's a boycott, Nora, a complete boycott of Christmas."
"Sounds awful."
"No, it's wonderful. And it's just for one year. Let's take a break. Blair's not here. She'll be back next year and we can jump back into the Christmas chaos, if that's what you want. Come on, Nora, please. We skip Christmas, save the money, and go splash in the Caribbean for ten days."
"How much will it cost?"
"Three thousand bucks."