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Skipping Christmas

By John Grisham

Nine

Stanley Wiley's father had founded Wiley & Beck in 1949. Beck had been dead so long

now no one knew exactly why his name was still on the door. Had a nice ring to it-Wiley

& Beck-and, too, it would be expensive to change the stationery and such. For an

accounting firm that had been around for half a century, the amazing thing was how little

it had grown. There were a dozen partners in tax, including Luther, and twenty or so in

auditing. Their clients were mid-range companies that couldn't afford the national

accounting firms.

If Stanley Wiley'd had more ambition, some thirty years earlier, the old firm might

possibly have caught the wave and become a force. But he hadn't, and it didn't, and now

it pretended to be content by calling itself a "boutique firm."

Just as Luther was planning another quick departure for another sprint to the mall,

Stanley materialized from nowhere with a long sandwich, lettuce hanging off the sides.

"Got a minute?" he said with a mouthful. He was already sitting before Luther could say

yes or no or can it be quick? He wore silly bow ties and usually had a variety of stains on

his blue button-downs-ink, mayonnaise, coffee. Stanley was a slob, his office a notorious

landfill where documents and files were lost for months. "Try Stanley's office" was the

firm's slogan for paperwork that would never be found.

"I hear you're not going to be at the Christmas dinner tomorrow night," he said, still

chewing. Stanley liked to roam the halls at lunch with a sandwich in one hand, a soda in

the other, as if he were too busy for a real lunch.

"I'm eliminating a lot of things this year, Stanley, no offense to anyone," Luther said.

"So it's true."

"It's true. We will not be there."

Stanley swallowed with a frown, then examined the sandwich in search of the next bite.

He was the managing partner, not the boss. Luther'd been a partner for six years. No one

at Wiley & Beck could force him to do anything.

"Sorry to hear that. Jayne will be disappointed."

"I'll drop her a note," Luther said. It wasn't a terrible evening-a nice dinner at an old

restaurant downtown, in a private room upstairs, good food, decent wines, a few speeches,

then a band and dancing until late. Black tie, of course, and the ladies tried hard to one-up

each other with dresses and jewelry. Jayne Wiley was a delightful woman who deserved

a lot more than she got with Stanley.

"Any particular reason?" Stanley asked, prying just a little.

"We're skipping the whole production this year, Stanley, no tree, no gifts, no hassle.

Saving the money and taking a cruise for ten days. Blair's gone, we need a break. I figure

we'll catch up rather nicely next year, or if not, the year after."

"It does come every year, doesn't it?"

"It does indeed."

"I see you're losing weight."

"Ten pounds. The beaches are waiting."

"You look great, Luther. Tanning, I hear."

"Trying a darker shade, yes. I can't let the sun get the best of me."

A huge bite of the ham-on-baguette, with strands of lettuce trailing along and hanging

between the lips. Then movement: "Not a bad idea, really." Or something like that.

Stanley's idea of a vacation was a week in his beach house, a hand-me-down in which he

had invested nothing in thirty years. Luther and Nora had spent one dreadful week there,

guests of the Wileys, who took the main bedroom and put the Kranks in the "guest suite,"

a narrow room with bunk beds and no air conditioning. Stanley'd knocked back gin and

tonics from midmorning until late afternoon and the sun never touched his skin.

He left, his cheeks full, but before Luther could escape, Yank Slader darted in. "Up to

fifty-two hundred bucks, old boy," he announced. "With no end in sight. Abigail just

spent six hundred bucks on a dress for the Christmas dinner, don't know why she couldn't

wear the one from last year or the year before, but why argue? Shoes were a buck-forty.

Purse another ninety. Closets're full of purses and shoes, but don't get me started. We'll

top seven grand at this rate. Please let me go on the cruise."

Inspired by Luther, Yank was keeping a precise tally on the Christmas damage. Twice a

week he dashed in for updates. What he would do with the results was uncertain. Most

likely nothing, and he knew it. "You're my hero," he said again, and left as quickly as

he'd arrived.

They're all envious, Luther thought to himself. At this moment, crunch time with only a

week to go, and the holiday madness growing each day, they're all jealous as heck. Some,

like Stanley, were reluctant to admit it. Others, like Yank, were downright proud of

Luther.

Too late to tan. Luther walked to his window and enjoyed the view of a cold rain falling

on the city. Gray skies, barren trees, a few leaves scattering with the wind, traffic backed

up on the streets in the distance. How lovely, he thought smugly. He patted his flat

stomach, then went downstairs and had a diet soda with Biff, the travel agent.

At the buzzer, Nora bolted from the BronzeMat and grabbed a towel. Sweating was not

something she particularly enjoyed, and she wiped herself with a vengeance.

She was wearing a very small red bikini, one that had looked great on the young slinky

model in the catalog, one she knew she'd never wear in public but Luther had insisted on

anyway. He'd gawked at the model and threatened to order the thing himself. It wasn't too

expensive, so Nora now owned it.

She glanced in the mirror and again blushed at the sight of herself in such a skimpy

garment. Sure she was losing weight. Sure she was getting a tan. But it would take five

years of starvation and hard labor in the gym to do justice to what she was wearing at that

moment.

She dressed quickly, pulling her slacks and sweater on over the bikini. Luther swore he

tanned in the nude, but she wasn't stripping for anyone.

Even dressed, she still felt like a slut. The thing was tight in all the wrong places, and

when she walked, well, it wasn't exactly comfortable. She couldn't wait to race home,

take it off, throw it away, and enjoy a long hot bath.

She'd made it safely out of Tans Forever and rounded a corner when she came face to

face with the Reverend Doug Zabriskie, their minister. He was laden with shopping bags,

while she held nothing but her overcoat. He was pale, she was red-faced and still

sweating. He was comfortable in his old tweed jacket, overcoat, collar, black shirt. Nora's

bikini was cutting off her circulation and shrinking by the moment.

They hugged politely. "Missed you last Sunday," he said, the same irritating habit he'd

picked up years ago.

"We're so busy," she said, checking her forehead for sweat.

"Are you okay, Nora?"

"Fine," she snapped.

"You look a little winded."

"A lot of walking," she said, lying to her minister. For some reason he glanced down at

her shoes. She certainly wasn't wearing sneakers.

"Could we chat for a moment?" he asked.

"Well, sure," she said. There was an empty bench near the railing of the concourse. The

Reverend lugged his bags over and piled them beside it. When Nora sat, Luther's little red

bikini shifted again and something gave way, a strap perhaps, just above her hip, and

something was sliding down there. Her slacks were loose, not tight at all, and there was

plenty of room for movement.

"I've heard lots of rumors," he began softly. He had the annoying habit of getting close to

your face when he spoke. Nora crossed and recrossed her legs, and with each maneuver

made things worse.

"What kind of rumors?" she asked stiffly.

"Well, I'll be very honest, Nora," he said, leaning even lower and closer. "I hear it from a

good source that you and Luther have decided not to observe Christmas this year."

"Sort of, yes."

"I've never heard of this," he said gravely, as if the Kranks had discovered a new variety

of sin.

She was suddenly afraid to move, and even then got the impression that she was still

falling out of her clothes. Fresh beads of sweat popped up along her forehead. "Are you

okay, Nora?" he asked.

"I'm fine and we're fine. We still believe in Christmas, in celebrating the birth of Christ,

we're just passing on all the foolishness this year. Blair's gone and we're taking a break."

He pondered this long and hard, while she shifted slightly. "It is a bit crazy, isn't it?" he

said, looking at the pile of shopping bags he had deposited nearby.

"Yes it is. Look, we're fine, Doug, I promise. We're happy and healthy and just relaxing a

bit. That's all."

"I hear you're leaving."

"Yes, for ten days on a cruise."

He stroked his beard as though he wasn't sure if he approved of this or not.

"You won't miss the midnight service, will you?" he asked with a smile.

"No promises, Doug."

He patted her knee and said good-bye. She waited until he was out of sight, and then

finally mustered the courage to get to her feet. She shuffled out of the mall, cursing

Luther and his bikini.

Vic Frohmeyer's wife's cousin's youngest daughter was active in her Catholic church,

which had a large youth choir that enjoyed caroling around the city. Couple of phone

calls, and the gig was booked. A light snow was falling when the concert began. The

choir formed a half-moon in the driveway, near the gas lamp, and on cue started bawling

"O Little Town of Bethlehem." They waved at Luther when he peeked through the blinds.

A crowd soon gathered behind the carolers, kids from the neighborhood, the Beckers

From next door, the Trogdon clan. There by virtue of an anonymous tip, a reporter for the

Gazette watched for a few minutes, then asserted himself and rang the Kranks' doorbell.

Luther yanked the door open, ready to land a punch. "What is it?" "White Christmas"

resounded in the background.

"Are you Mr. Krank?" asked the reporter.

"Yes, and who are you?"

"Brian Brown with the Gazette. Can I ask you some questions?"

"About what?"

"About this skipping Christmas business."

Luther gazed at the crowd in his driveway. One of those dark silhouettes out there had

squealed on him. One of his neighbors had called the newspaper. Either Frohmeyer or

Walt Scheel.

"I'm not talking," he said and slammed the door. Nora was in the shower, again, and

Luther went to the basement.

Ten

Luther suggested dinner at Angelo's, their favorite Italian place. It was on the ground

floor of an old building downtown, far away from the hordes at the malls and shopping

centers, five blocks from the parade route. It was a good night to be away from Hemlock.

They ordered salad with light dressing and pasta with tomato sauce, no meat, no wine, no

bread. Nora had tanned for the seventh time, Luther for the tenth, and as they sipped their

sparkling water they admired their weathered looks and chuckled at all the pale faces

around them. One of Luther's grandmothers had been half-Italian, and his Mediterranean

genes were proving quite conducive to tanning. He was several shades darker than Nora,

and his friends were noticing. He couldn't have cared less. By now, everybody knew they

were headed for the islands.

"It's starting now," Nora said, looking at her watch.

Luther looked at his. Seven P.M.

The Christmas parade was launched every year from Veteran's Park, in midtown. With

floats and fire trucks and marching bands, it never changed. Santa always brought up the

rear in a sleigh built by the Rotarians and escorted by eight fat Shriners on mini-bikes.

The parade looped through the west side and came close to Hemlock. Every year for the

past eighteen, the Kranks and their neighbors had camped along the parade route and

made an event out of it. It was a festive evening, one Luther and Nora wished to avoid

this year.

Hemlock would be wild with kids and carolers and who knew what else. Probably

bicycle gangs chanting "Free Frosty" and little terrorists planting signs on their front lawn.

"How was the firm's Christmas dinner?" Nora asked.

"Sounded like the usual. Same room, same waiters, same tenderloin, same soufflé. Slader

said Stanley got drunk as a skunk during cocktails."

"I've never seen him sober during cocktails."

"He made the same speech-great effort, billings up, we'll knock 'em dead next year,

Wiley & Beck is Family, thanks to all. That sort of stuff. I'm glad we missed it."

"Anybody else skip it?"

"Slader said Maupin from auditing was a no-show."

"I wonder what Jayne wore?"

"I'll ask Slader. I'm sure he took notes."

Their salads arrived and they gawked at the baby spinach like famine refugees. But they

slowly and properly applied the dressing, a little salt and pepper, then began eating as if

they were completely disinterested in food.

The Island Princess served nonstop food. Luther planned to eat until he popped.

At a table not far away, a pretty young lady with dark hair was eating with her date. Nora

saw her and laid down her fork.

"Do you think she's okay, Luther?" Luther glanced around the room and said, "Who?"

"Blair."

He finished chewing and pondered the question that she now asked only three times a day.

"She's fine, Nora. She's having a great time."

"Is she safe?" Another standard question, posed as if Luther should know for certain

whether their daughter was safe or not at that precise moment.

"The Peace Corps hasn't lost a volunteer in thirty years. Yes, trust me, they're very careful,

Nora. Now eat."

She pushed her greens around, took a bite, lost interest. Luther wiped his plate clean and

honed in on hers. "You gonna eat that?" he asked.

She swapped plates, and in a flash Luther had cleaned the second one. The pasta arrived

and she guarded her bowl. After a few measured bites, she stopped suddenly, her fork

halfway to her face. Then she laid it down again and said, "I forgot."

Luther was chewing with a vengeance. "What is it?" Her face was stricken with terror.

"What is it, Nora?" he repeated, swallowing hard.

"Don't those judges come around after the parade?"

Then it hit Luther too. He retired his fork for a moment, sipped water, gazed painfully at

nothing in the distance. Yes, indeed, it was true.

After the parade, a committee from Parks and Rec toured the neighborhoods on a float

pulled by a John Deere tractor and examined the level of Christmas spirit. They gave

individual awards in various categories-Original Design, Festive Lighting, etc. And they

handed out an award to the street with the best decorations. Hemlock had won the blue

ribbon twice.

The year before, Hemlock had placed second, primarily because, according to the gossip

on the street, two of the forty-two homes had not put up a Frosty. Boxwood Lane three

blocks north had come from nowhere with a dazzling row of candy canes-Candy Cane

Lane it described itself-and took away Hemlock's award. Frohmeyer circulated memos

for a month.

Dinner, now ruined, came to a standstill as they picked through their pasta and killed as

much time as possible. Two long cups of decaf. When Angelo's was empty, Luther paid

the bill and they drove home, slowly.

Sure enough, Hemlock lost again. Luther fetched the Gazette in the semidarkness, and

was horrified with the front page of Metro. The award winners were listed-Cherry

Avenue first, Boxwood Lane second, Stanton third. Trogdon across the street with more

than fourteen thousand lights finished fourth in Festive Lighting.

In the center of the page was a large color photo of the Krank home, taken at some

distance. Luther studied it intently and tried to determine the angle. The photographer had

shot down and at a wide angle, sort of an aerial view.

Next door, the Becker house positively glowed with a blinding display of lights. On the

other side, the Kerrs' house and lawn were perfectly lined with alternating reds and

greens, thousands of them by now.

The Krank home was dark.

To the east, the Frohmeyers', Nugents', and Galdys' could be seen, all glowing warmly,

all with their Frostys sitting snugly on the roofs. To the west, the Dents', Sloanes', and

Bellingtons' all radiated Christmas splendor.

The Krank home was very dark.

"Scheel," Luther grumbled to himself. The photo was taken from directly across the street.

Walt Scheel had allowed the photographer to climb onto the roof of his two-story house

and shoot down with a wide lens. Probably had the whole street egging him on.

Under the photo was a brief story. Headlined "SKIPPING CHRISTMAS, it read:

The home of Mr. and Mrs. Luther Krank is rather dark this Christmas. While the rest of

their neighbors on Hemlock Street are decorating and busily preparing for Santa, the

Kranks are skipping Christmas and preparing for a cruise, according to unnamed sources.

No tree, no lights, and no Frosty up on the roof, the only house on Hemlock to keep

Frosty hidden in the basement. (Hemlock, a frequent winner in the Gazette's street

decoration contest, finished a disappointing sixth this year.) "I hope they're satisfied

now," complained one unidentified neighbor. "A rotten display of selfishness," said

another.

If Luther'd had a machine gun, he would've bolted outside and commenced spraying

houses.

Instead he sat for a long time with a knot in his stomach and tried to convince himself

that this too would pass. Just four days until they left, and when they came back all those

damned Frostys would be stored away, the lights and trees would be gone. The bills

would start flooding in, and perhaps then all his wonderful neighbors would be more

sympathetic.

He flipped through the newspaper but his concentration was shot. Finally, Luther found

his resolve, gritted his teeth, and took the bad news to his wife.

"What a horrible way to wake up," Nora said as she tried to focus on the photo in the

newspaper. She rubbed her eyes and squinted.

"That jerk Scheel allowed the photographer to get on his roof," Luther said.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Look at the picture."

She was trying. Then she found her focus and read the story. She gasped at ". . . rotten

display of selfishness."

"Who said that?" she demanded.

"Either Scheel or Frohmeyer. Who knows. I'm in the shower."

"How dare they!" Nora said, still gawking at the photo.

Atta girl, thought Luther. Get mad. Stiffen your back. Just four days to go-we're not

collapsing now.

That night, after dinner and an effort at television, Luther decided to take a walk. He

bundled up and wrapped a wool scarf around his neck; it was below freezing outside with

a chance of snow. He and Nora had bought one of the first homes on Hemlock; damned if

he'd be forced to hide inside. This was his street, his neighborhood, his friends. One day

soon this little episode would be forgotten.

Luther ambled along, hands stuck deep in his pockets, cold air invigorating his lungs.

He made it to the far end, to the intersection of Moss Point, before Spike Frohmeyer

picked up his trail and caught him on a skateboard. "Hi, Mr. Krank," he said as he rolled

to a stop.

"Well hello, Spike."

"What brings you out?"

"Just taking a little walk."

"Enjoying the Christmas decorations?"

"Of course. What brings you out?"

"Just watching the street," Spike said, then looked around as if an invasion were

imminent.

"What's Santa gonna bring you?"

Spike smiled and pondered for a second. "Not sure, but probably a Gameboy and a

hockey stick and a set of drums."

"Quite a haul."

"Course I don't really believe anymore, you know. But Mike's just five so we still

pretend."

"Sure."

"Gotta go. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you, Spike," Luther said, uttering the forbidden greeting for what he

hoped was the first and last time of the season. Spike disappeared down Hemlock, no

doubt racing home to report to his father that Mr. Krank was out of his house and loose

on the sidewalk.

Luther stopped in front of the Trogdons' spectacle-more than fourteen thousand lights

draped over trees and shrubs and windows and porch columns. Up on the roof with

Frosty was Santa and his reindeer-Rudolph of course with a bright, flashing nose-all

perfectly outlined with white lights. The roof itself was lined with two rows of red and

green, blinking alternatively. The chimney was flashing too-hundreds of blue lights

pulsating at once and casting an eerie glow over old Frosty. Along the holly bushes next

to the house a squad of tin soldiers stood guard, each as tall as a human and wrapped with

multicolored lights. In the center of the lawn was a handsome Nativity scene, complete

with real hay bales and a goat whose tail went up and down.

Quite a show.

Luther heard something, a ladder falling in the garage next to the Trogdons'. The garage

door was up and through the shadows he saw Walt Scheel wrestling with yet another

strand of lights. He walked over and caught Walt off guard. "Evening, Walt," he said

pleasantly.

"Well, if it isn't ole Scrooge himself," Walt said with a forced smile. They shook hands

and each tried to think of something cutting and witty. Luther took a step back, looked up,

and said, "How'd that photographer get up there?"

"Which photographer?"

"The one from the Gazette."

"Oh, that one."

"Yes, that one."

"He climbed up."

"No kidding. Why'd you let him?"

"I don't know. Said he wanted to get the whole street."

Luther snorted and waved it off. "I'm a little surprised at you, Walt," he said, though he

wasn't surprised at all. For eleven years they'd been cordial an the surface, neither

wanting an outright feud. But Luther didn't like Walt for his snobbery and oneupmanship.

And Walt didn't care for Luther because he'd suspected for years that their

salaries were almost equal.

"And I'm a little surprised at you," Walt said, but neither neighbor was surprised at all.

"I think you have a light out over there," Luther said, pointing to a shrub wrapped with a

hundred lights.

"I'll get right on it."

"See you," Luther said, walking away.

"Merry Christmas," Walt called after him.

"Yeah, yeah."

Eleven

The Wiley & Beck office Christmas party would begin with a lunch catered by two

feuding Greek brothers who made the best baklava in the city. The bar opened at

precisely eleven forty-five-three bars actually-and soon thereafter things got sloppy.

Stanley Wiley would be the first to get smashed-he'd blame it on the loaded eggnog-and

he'd stand on a box at the end of the conference table and deliver the same speech he'd

given a week earlier at the black-tie Christmas dinner. Then they'd present him with a gift,

a shotgun or a new sand wedge or some other useless souvenir that he'd practically cry

over, then quietly give to a client months later. There'd be other gifts, some speeches and

gags, and a song or two as the booze flowed. Two male strippers appeared one year, and,

to the beat of a howling boom box, disrobed down to their leopard thongs while the men

ran for cover and the secretaries squealed with delight. Dox, Luther's secretary, had

squealed the loudest and still had photos of the boys. In a memo, Stanley had banned

future strippers.

By five, some of the most starched and staid accountants at Wiley & Beck would be

groping or attempting to grope some of the homeliest secretaries. Getting plastered was

accepted behavior. They'd haul Stanley to his office and fill him with coffee before he

could go home. The firm hired cars so no one would drive.

All in all, it was a mess. But the partners loved it because it was a good drunk away from

their wives, who'd been properly entertained at the firm's fancy Christmas dinner and had

never been invited to the office party. The secretaries loved it because they saw and heard

things they could tuck away and use as blackmail for the rest of the year.

Luther hated the Christmas party even in a good year. He drank little and never got drunk,

and every year he was embarrassed for his colleagues as they made fools of themselves.

So he stayed in his office with his door locked and tended to last-minute details. Then

some music started down the hall just after 11 A.M. Luther found the right moment and

disappeared. It was the twenty-third of December. He wouldn't return until the sixth of

January, and by then the office would be back to normal.

Good riddance.

He stepped into the travel agency to say good-bye to Biff, but she was already gone, off

to a fabulous new resort in Mexico that offered a holiday package. He walked briskly to

his car, quite proud that he was skipping the madness up on the sixth floor. He drove

toward the mall, for one last tanning session, one last look at the crush of idiots who'd

waited till almost the last minute to buy whatever was left in the stores. The traffic was

dense and slow, and when he finally arrived at the mall a traffic cop was blocking the

entrance. Parking lots were full. No more room. Go away.

Gladly, thought Luther.

He met Nora for lunch at a crowded bakery in the District. They'd actually made a

reservation, something unheard of for the rest of the year. He was late. She'd been crying.

"It's Bev Scheel," she said. "Went for a checkup yesterday. The cancer's back, for the

third time."

Though Luther and Walt had never been close, their wives had managed to maintain

good relations over the past couple of years. Truth was, for many years no one on

Hemlock had much to do with the Scheels. They'd worked hard to have more, and their

higher income had always been on display.

"It's spread to her lungs," Nora said, wiping her eyes. They ordered sparkling water. "And

they suspect it's in her kidneys and liver."

Luther winced as the horrific disease crept on. "That's awful," he said in a low voice.

"This could be her last Christmas."

"Did her doctor say that?" he asked, wary of amateur prognostications.

"No, I did."

They dwelt on the Scheels far too long, and when Luther'd had enough he said, "We

leave in forty-eight hours. Cheers." They touched plastic glasses and Nora managed a

smile.

Halfway through their salads, Luther asked, "Any regrets?"

She shook her head no, swallowed, and said, "Oh, I've missed the tree at times, the

decorations, the music, the memories, I guess. But not the traffic and shopping and stress.

It was a great idea, Luther."

"I'm a genius."

"Let's not get carried away. You think Blair will even think about Christmas?"

"Not if she's lucky. Doubt it," he said with a mouthful. "She's working with a bunch of

heathen savages who worship rivers and such. Why should they take a break for

Christmas?"

"That's a little harsh, Luther. Savages?"

"Just kidding, dear. I'm sure they're gentle people. Not to worry."

"She said she never looks at a calendar."

"Now that's impressive. I've got two calendars in my office and I still forget which day it

is."

Millie from the Women's Clinic barged in with a hug for Nora and a Merry Christmas for

Luther, who would've otherwise been irritated except that Millie was tall and lanky and

very cute for a woman her age. Early fifties.

"You heard about Bev Scheel," Millie whispered as if Luther had suddenly vanished.

Now he was irritated. He prayed bed never be stricken with some dreadful disease, not in

this city. The volunteer women would know about it before he did.

Give me a heart attack or a car wreck, something quick. Something that cannot be

whispered about while I linger.

Millie finally left, and they finished their salads. Luther was famished as he paid the

check, and caught himself once again dreaming of the luxurious spreads of food in the

Island Princess brochures.

Nora had errands to run. Luther did not. He drove to Hemlock, parked in his driveway, a

little relieved that there were no neighbors loitering near his house. In the daily mail there

were four more anonymous Frosty Christmas cards, these postmarked in Rochester, Fort

Worth, Green Bay, and St. Louis. Frohmeyer's bunch at the university traveled a lot, and

Luther suspected this was their little game. Frohmeyer was restless and creative enough

to mastermind such a prank. Thirty-one Frosty cards had now been received, two all the

way from Vancouver. Luther was saving them, and when he returned from the Caribbean

he planned to stuff them in a large envelope and mail them, anonymously of course, to

Vic Frohmeyer, two doors down.

"They'll arrive with all of his credit card bills," Luther said to himself as he put the Frosty

cards in a drawer with the others. He made a fire, settled under a quilt in his chair, and

fell asleep.

It was a rowdy night on Hemlock. Marauding bands of boisterous carolers took turns at

the Krank house. Often they were assisted by neighbors seized by the spirit of the

moment. At one point, a chant of "We Want Frosty!" erupted behind a choir from the

Lions Club.

Handmade signs demanding "Free Frosty" appeared, the first hammered into the ground

by none other than Spike Frohmeyer. He and his little gang were up and dawn Hemlock,

on skateboards and bikes, yelling and reveling in their pre-Christmas Eve exuberance.

An impromptu block party materialized. Trish Trogdon fixed hot cocoa for the kids while

her husband, Wes, rigged up speakers in the driveway. Soon "Frosty the Snowman" and

"Jingle Bells" were wafting through the night, interrupted only when a real choir arrived

to serenade the Kranks. Wes played a selection of favorites, but his favorite that night

was "Frosty."

The Krank home remained dark and quiet, locked and secure. Nora was in the bedroom