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Skipping Christmas

By John Grisham

Luther sat low in the back, thinking of suicide for the first time in his life. The two cops

in the front seat were chatting on the radio, something about finding the owner of the

stolen property. Their lights were still swirling, and Luther wanted to say so much. Let

me go! I'll sue! Turn off the damned lights! Next year I'll buy ten calendars! Just go

ahead and shoot me!

If Nora came home now, she'd file for divorce.

The Kirby twins were eight-year-old delinquents from the far end of Hemlock, and for

some reason they happened by. They walked close to the car, close to the rear window,

and made direct eye contact with Luther, who squirmed even lower. Then the Bellington

brat joined them and all three peered in at Luther as if he'd killed their mothers.

Spike came running, followed by Vic Frohmeyer. The officers got out and had a word

with him, then Treen shooed the kids away and released Luther from the backseat.

"He's got keys," Vic was saying, and Luther then remembered that he did indeed have the

keys to Trogdon's. What a moron!

"I know both these men," Frohmeyer continued. "This is no burglary."

The cops whispered for a moment as Luther tried to ignore the stares from Vic and Spike.

He glanced around, half-expecting to see Nora wheel into the drive and have a stroke.

"What about the tree?" Salino asked Vic.

"If he says Trogdon loaned it to him, then that's the truth."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay, okay, Salino said, still sneering at Luther as if he'd never seen a guiltier criminal.

They slowly got in the car and drove away.

"Thanks," Luther said.

"What're you doing, Luther?" Vic asked.

"I'm borrowing their tree. Spike's helping me move it. Let's go, Spike."

Without further interruption, Luther and Spike rolled the tree up the driveway, into the

garage, and grappled with it until it was sitting rather nicely in the front window. Along

the way they left a trail of dead needles, red and green icicles, and some popcorn. "I'll

vacuum later," Luther said. "Let's check the lights."

The phone rang. It was Nora, more panicked than before. "I can't find a thing, Luther. No

turkey, no ham, no chocolates, nothing. And I can't find a nice gift either."

"Gifts? Why are you shopping for gifts?"

"It's Christmas, Luther. Have you called the Yarbers and Friskis?"

"Yes," he lied. "Their lines were busy."

"Keep calling, Luther, because no one is coming. I've tried the McTeers, Morrises, and

Warners, they're all busy. How's the tree?"

"Coming along."

"I'll call later."

Spike plugged in the lights and the tree came to life. They attacked the nine boxes of

decorations without a care as to what went where.

Across the street, Walt Scheel watched them through binoculars.

Fifteen

Spike was on the ladder, leaning precariously into the tree with a crystal angel in one

hand and a fuzzy reindeer in the other, when Luther heard a car in the drive. He glanced

out the window and saw Nora's Audi sliding into the garage. "It's Nora," he said. Quick

thinking led him to believe that Spike's complicity in the tree should be kept a secret.

"Spike, you need to leave, and now," he said.

"Why?"

"Job's over, son, here's the other twenty. Thanks a million." He helped the kid down from

the ladder, handed over the cash, and led him to the front door. When Nora stepped into

the kitchen, Spike eased onto the front steps and disappeared.

"Unload the car," she commanded. Her nerves were shot and she was ready to snap.

"What's the matter?" he asked, and immediately wished he'd said nothing. It was quite

obvious what was the matter.

She rolled her eyes and started to snap, then gritted her teeth and repeated, "Unload the

car."

Luther high-stepped toward the door and was almost outside when he heard, "What an

ugly tree!"

He spun, ready for war, and said, "Take it or leave it."

"Red lights?" she said, her voice incredulous. Trogdon had used a strand of red lights,

one solitary string of them, and had wrapped them tightly around the trunk of the tree.

Luther had toyed with the idea of pulling them off, but it would've taken an hour. Instead,

he and Spike had tried to hide them with ornaments. Nora, of course, had spotted them

from the kitchen.

Now she had her nose in the tree. "Red lights? We've never used red lights."

"They were in the box," Luther lied. He did not enjoy lying, but he knew it would be

standard behavior for the next day or so.

"Which box?"

"What do you mean, 'Which box?' I've been throwing stuff on the tree as fast as I can

open boxes, Nora. Now's not the time to get touchy about the tree.

"Green icicles?" she said, picking one off the tree. "Where'd you find this tree?"

"I bought the last one from the Boy Scouts." A sidestep, not a direct lie.

She looked around the room, at the strewn and empty boxes, and decided there were

more important things to worry about.

"Besides," Luther said, unwisely, "at the rate we're going, who's gonna see it?"

"Shut up and unload the car." There were four bags of food from a store Luther'd never

heard of, three shopping bags with handles from a clothing store in the mail, a case of

soft drinks, a case of bottled water, and a bouquet of dreadful flowers from a florist

known for his outrageous prices. Luther's accountant's brain wanted to tally up the

damage, but he thought better of it.

How would he explain this around the office? All the money he'd saved now up in smoke.

Plus, the cruise he didn't take getting wasted because he'd declined to purchase travel

insurance. Luther was in the middle of a financial disaster and couldn't do a thing to stop

the bleeding.

"Did you get the Yarbers and the Friskis?" Nora asked at the phone, the receiver stuck to

her head.

"Yes, they can't come."

"Unpack those grocery bags," she demanded, then said into the phone, "Sue, it's Nora.

Merry Christmas. Look, we've just had a big surprise over here. Blair's coming home

with her fiancé, be here tonight, and we're running around like crazy trying to put

together a last-minute party." Pause. "Peru, thought we wouldn't see her till next

Christmas." Pause. "Yes, quite a surprise." Pause. "Yes, fiancé." Pause. "He's a doctor."

Pause. "He's from down there somewhere, Peru I think, she just met him a few weeks ago

and now they're getting married, so needless to say we're in shock. So tonight." Pause.

Luther removed eight pounds of smoked Oregon trout, all packed in airtight thick

cellophane wrappers, the type that gave the impression the fish had been caught years ago.

"Sounds like a nice party," Nora was saying. "Sorry you can't make it. Yes, I'll give a hug

to Blair. Merry Christmas, Sue." She hung up and took a deep breath. With the worst

possible timing Luther said, "Smoked trout?"

"Either that or frozen pizza," she fired back with glowing eyes and clenched fists.

"There's not a turkey or a ham left in the stores, and, even if I found one, there's not

enough time to cook it. So, yes, Luther, Mr. Beach Bum, we're having smoked trout for

Christmas."

The phone rang and Nora snatched it.

"Hello, yes, Emily, how are you? Thanks for returning my call."

Luther couldn't think of a single person named Emily. He pulled out a three-pound block

of Cheddar cheese, a large wedge of Swiss, boxes of crackers, clam dip, and three twoday-

old chocolate pies from a bakery Nora had always avoided. She was rattling on about

their last-minute party, when suddenly she said, "You can come! That's wonderful.

Around sevenish, casual, sort of a come-and-go." Pause. "Your parents? Sure they can

come, the more the merrier. Great, Emily. See you in a bit." She hung up without a smile.

"Emily who?"

"Emily Underwood."

Luther dropped a box of crackers. "No," he said.

She was suddenly interested in unpacking the last bag of groceries.

"You didn't, Nora," he said. "Tell me you didn't invite Mitch Underwood. Not here, not to

our house. You didn't, Nora, please say you didn't."

"We're desperate."

"Not that desperate."

"I like Emily."

"She's a witch and you know it. You like her? When's the last time you had lunch with

her, or breakfast or coffee or anything?"

"We need bodies, Luther."

"Mitch the Mouth is not a body, he's a windbag. A thundering load of hot air. People hide

from the Underwoods, Nora. Why?"

"They're coming. Be thankful."

"They're coming because nobody in their right mind would invite them to a social

occasion. They're always free."

"Hand me that cheese."

"This is a joke, right?"

"He'll be good with Enrique."

"Enrique'll never again set foot in the United States after Underwood gets through with

him. He hates everything-the city, the state, Democrats, Republicans, Independents, clean

air, you name it. He's the biggest bore in the world. He'll get half-drunk and you can hear

him two blocks over."

"Settle down, Luther. It's done. Speaking of drinking, I didn't have time to get the wine.

You'll have to go."

"I'm not leaving the safety of my home."

"Yes, you are. I didn't see Frosty."

"I'm not doing Frosty. I've made up my mind."

"Yes, you are."

The phone rang again, and Nora grabbed it. "Who could this be?" Luther muttered to

himself. "Can't get any worse."

"Blair," Nora said. "Hello, dear."

"Gimme the phone," Luther kept muttering. "I'll send 'em back to Peru."

"You're in Atlanta-great," Nora said. Pause, "We're just cooking away, dear, getting ready

for the party." Pause. "We're excited too, dear, can't wait." Pause. "Of course I'm making

a caramel cream pie, your favorite." She shot Luther a look of horror. "Yes, honey, we'll

be at the airport at six. Love you."

Luther glanced at his watch. Three o'clock. She hung up and said, "I need two pounds of

caramel and a jar of marshmallow cream."

"I'll finish the tree-it still needs more ornaments," Luther said, "I'm not fighting the

mobs."

Nora chewed a fingernail for a second and assessed things. This meant a plan was coming,

probably one with a lot of detail.

"Let's do this," she began. "Let's finish decorating by four. How long will Frosty take?"

"Three days."

"At four, I'll make the final run to town, and you get Frosty up on the roof. Meanwhile,

we'll go through the phone book and call everybody we've ever met."

"Don't tell anyone Underwood's coming."

"Hush, Luther!"

"Smoked trout with Mitch Underwood. That'll be the hottest ticket in town."

Nora put on a Sinatra Christmas CD, and for twenty minutes Luther flung more

ornaments on Trogdon's tree while Nora set out candles and ceramic Santas and

decorated the fireplace mantel with plastic holly and mistletoe. They said nothing to each

other for a long time, then Nora broke the ice with more instructions. "These boxes can

go back to the attic."

Of all the things Luther hated about Christmas, perhaps the most dreaded chore was

hauling boxes up and down the retractable stairs of the attic. Up the staircase to the

second floor, then wedge into the narrow hallway between two bedrooms, then readjust

positions so that the box, which was inevitably too big, could be shoved up the flimsy

ladder through the opening to the attic. Coming down or going up, it didn't matter. It was

a miracle he'd avoided serious injury over the years.

"And after that, start bringing Frosty up," she barked like an admiral.

She leaned hard on Reverend Zabriskie, and he finally said he could stop by for half an

hour. Luther, at gunpoint, called his secretary, Dox, and twisted her arm until she agreed

to stop by for a few minutes. Dox had been married three times, was currently unmarried

but always had a boyfriend of some variety. The two of them, plus Reverend and Mrs.

Zabriskie, plus the Underwood group, totaled an optimistic eight, if they all converged at

the same time. Twelve altogether with the Kranks and Blair and Enrique.

Twelve almost made Nora cry again. Twelve would seem like three in their living room

on Christmas Eve.

She called her two favorite wine stores. One was closed, the other would be open for a

half hour. At four, Nora left in a flurry of instructions for Luther, who, by then, was

thinking of hitting the cognac hidden in the basement.

Sixteen

Just minutes after Nora left, the phone rang, Luther grabbed it. Maybe it was Blair again.

He'd tell her the truth. He'd give her a piece of his mind about how thoughtless this lastminute

surprise was, how selfish. She'd get her feelings hurt, but she'd get over it. With a

wedding on the way, she'd need them more than ever.

"Hello," he snapped.

"Luther, it's Mitch Underwood," came a booming voice, the sound of which made Luther

want to stick his head in the oven.

"Hi, Mitch."

"Merry Christmas to you. Hey, look, thanks for the invite and all, but we just can't

squeeze you guys in. Lots of invitations, you know."

Oh yes, the Underwoods were on everyone's A list. Folks clamored for Mitch's

insufferable tirades on property taxes and city zoning. "Gee, I'm real sorry, Mitch,"

Luther said. "Maybe next year."

"Sure, give us a call."

"Merry Christmas, Mitch."

The gathering of twelve was now down to eight, with more defections on the way. Before

Luther could take a step, the phone was ringing again. "Mr. Krank, it's me, Dox," came a

struggling voice.

"Hello, Dox."

"Sorry about your cruise and all."

"You've already said that."

"Yes, look, something's come up. This guy I'm seeing was gonna surprise me with dinner

at Tanner Hall. Champagne, caviar, the works. He made a reservation a month ago. I

really can't say no to him."

"Of course you can't, Dox."

"He's hiring a limo, everything. He's a real sweetheart."

"Sure he is, Dox."

"We just can't make it to your place, but I'd love to see Blair."

Blair'd been gone a month. Dox hadn't seen her in two years. "I'll tell her."

"Sorry, Mr. Krank."

"No problem."

Down to six. Three Kranks plus Enrique, and the Reverend and Mrs. Zabriskie. He

almost called Nora to break the bad news, but why bother? Poor thing was out there

beating her brains out. Why make her cry? Why give her another reason to bark at him

for his grand idea gone bad?

Luther was closer to the cognac than he wanted to admit.

Spike Frohmeyer reported all he'd seen and heard. With forty bucks in his pocket and a

fading vow of silence floating around out there, he was at first hesitant to talk. But then

no one kept quiet on Hemlock. After a couple of prodding volleys from his father, Vic, he

unloaded everything.

He reported how he'd been paid to help take the tree from the Trogdons'; how he'd helped

Mr. Krank set it up in his living room, then practically thrown on ornaments and lights;

how Mr. Krank had kept sneaking to the telephone and calling people; how he'd heard

just enough to know that the Kranks were planning a last-minute party for Christmas Eve,

but nobody wanted to come. He couldn't determine the reason for the party, or why it was

being put together so hastily, primarily because Mr. Krank used the phone in the kitchen

and kept his voice low. Mrs. Krank was running errands and calling every ten minutes.

Things were very tense down at the Kranks, according to Spike.

Vic called Ned Becker, who'd been alerted by Walt Scheel, and soon the three of them

were on a conference call, with Walt and Ned maintaining visual contact with the Krank

home.

"She just left again, in a hurry," reported Walt. "I've never seen Nora speed away so fast."

"Where's Luther?" asked Frohmeyer.

"Still inside," answered Walt. "Looks like they've finished with the tree. Gotta say, I liked

it better at the Trogdons'."

"Something's going on," said Ned Becker.

Nora had a case of wine in her shopping cart, six bottles of red and six bottles of white,

though she wasn't sure why she was buying so much. Who, exactly, was going to drink it

all? Perhaps she would. She'd picked out the expensive stuff too. She wanted Luther to

burn when he got the bill. All this money they were going to save at Christmas, and look

at the mess they were in.

A clerk in the front of the wine shop was pulling, the blinds and locking the door. The

lone cashier was hustling the last customers through the line. Three people were ahead of

Nora, one behind. Her cell phone rang in her coat pocket. "Hello," she half-whispered.

"Nora, Doug Zabriskie."

"Hello, Father," she said, and began to go limp. His voice betrayed him.

"We're having a bit of a problem over here," he began sadly. "Typical Christmas Eve

chaos, you know, everybody running in different directions. And Beth's aunt from Toledo

just dropped in, quite unexpected, and made things worse. I'm afraid it will be impossible

to stop by and see Blair tonight."

He sounded as if he hadn't seen Blair in years.

"That's too bad," Nora managed to say with just a trace of compassion. She wanted to

curse and cry at the same time. "We'll do it another time."

"No problem, then?"

"Not at all, Father."

They signed off with Merry Christmases and such, and Nora bit her quivering lip. She

paid for the wine, then hauled it half a mile to her car, grumbling about her husband

every heavy step of the way. She hiked to a Kroger, fought her way through a mob in the

entrance, and trudged down the aisles in search of caramels.

She called Luther, and no one answered. He'd better be up on the roof.

They met in front of the peanut butter, both seeing each other at the same time. She

recognized the shock of red hair, the orange-and-gray beard, and the little, black, round

eyeglasses, but she couldn't think of his name. He, however, said, "Merry Christmas,

Nora," immediately.

"And Merry Christmas to you," she said with a quick, warm smile. Something bad had

happened to his wife, either she'd died from some disease or taken off with a younger

man. They'd met a few years earlier at a ball, black tie, she thought. Later, she'd heard

about his wife. What was his name? Maybe he worked at the university. He was well

dressed, in a cardigan under a handsome trench coat.

"Why are you out running around?" he asked. He was carrying a basket with nothing in it.

"Oh, last-minute stuff, you know. And you?" She got the impression he was doing

nothing at all, that he was out with the hordes just for the sake of being there, that he was

probably lonely.

What in the world happened to his wife?

No wedding band visible.

"Picking up a few things. Big meal tomorrow, huh?" he asked, glancing at the peanut

butter.

"Tonight, actually. Our daughter's coming in from South America, and we're putting

together a quick little party."

"Blair?"

"Yes."

He knew Blair!

Jumping off a cliff, Nora instinctively said, "Why don't you stop by?"

"You mean that?"

"Oh sure, it's a come-and-go. Lots of folks, lots of good food." She thought of the smoked

trout and wanted to gag. Surely his name would come back in flash.

"What time?" he asked, visibly delighted.

"Earlier the better, say about seven."

He glanced at his watch. "Just about two hours."

Two hours! Nora had a watch, but from someone else the time sounded so awful. Two

hours! "Oh well, gotta run," she said.

"You're on Hemlock," he said.

"Yes. Fourteen seventy-eight." Who was this man?

She scampered away, practically praying that his name would come roaring back from

somewhere. She found the caramels, the marshmallow cream, and the pie shells.

The express lane-ten items or less-had a line that stretched down to frozen foods. Nora

fell in with the rest, barely able to see the cashier, unwilling to glance at her watch,

teetering on the edge of a complete and total surrender.

Seventeen

He waited as long as he could, though he had not a second to spare. Darkness would hit

fast at five-thirty, and in the frenzy of the moment Luther had tucked away somewhere

the crazy notion of hanging ole Frosty under the cover of darkness. It wouldn't work, and

he knew it, but rational thought was hard to grasp and hold.

He spent a few moments planning the project. An attack from the rear of the house was

mandatory-no way would he allow Walt Scheel or Vic Frohmeyer or anybody else to see

him in action.

Luther wrestled Frosty out of the basement without injuring either one of them, but he

was cursing vigorously by the time they made it to the patio. He hauled the ladder from

the storage shed in the backyard. So far he had not been seen, or at least he didn't think so.

The roof was slightly wet with a patch of ice or two. And it was much colder up there.

With a quarter-inch nylon rope tied around his waist, Luther crawled upward, catlike and

terrified, over the asphalt shingles until he reached the summit. He peeked over the crown

of the roof and peered below-the Scheels were directly in front of him, way down there.

He looped the rope around the chimney, then inched back down, backward, until he hit a

patch of ice and slid for two feet. Catching himself, he paused and allowed his heart to

start working again. He looked down in terror. If by some tragedy he fell, he'd free-fall

for a very brief flight, then land among the metal patio furniture sitting on hard brick.

Death would not be instant, no sir. He'd suffer, and if he didn't die he'd have a broken

neck or maybe brain damage.

How utterly ridiculous. A Fifty-four-year-old man playing games like this.

The most horrifying trick of all was to remount the ladder from above, which he managed

to do by digging his fingernails into the shingles while dangling one foot at a time over

the gutter. Back on the ground, he took a deep breath and congratulated himself for

surviving the first trip to the top and back.

There were four parts to Frosty-a wide, round base, then a snowball, then the trunk with

one arm waving and one hand on hip, then the head with his smiling face, corncob pipe,

and black top hat. Luther grumbled as he put the damned thing together, snapping one

plastic section into another. He screwed the lightbulb into the midsection, plugged in the

eighty-foot extension cord, hooked the nylon rope around Frosty's waist, and maneuvered

him into position for the ride up.

It was a quarter to five. His daughter and her brand-new fiancé would land in an hour and

fifteen minutes. The drive to the airport took twenty minutes, plus more for parking,

shuttling, walking, pushing, shoving.

Luther wanted to give up and start drinking.

But he pulled the rope tight around the chimney, and Frosty started up. Luther climbed

with him, up the ladder, worked him over the gutter and onto the shingles. Luther would

pull, Frosty would move a little. He was no more than forty pounds of hard plastic but

soon felt much heavier. Slowly, they made their way up, side by side, Luther on all fours,

Frosty inching along on his back.

Just a hint of darkness, but no real relief from the skies. Once the little team reached the

crown, Luther would be exposed. He'd be forced to stand while he grappled with his

snowman and attached him to the front of the chimney, and once in place, illuminated

with the two-hundred-watt, old Frosty would join his forty-one companions and all of

Hemlock would know that Luther had caved. So he paused for a moment, just below the

summit, and tried to tell himself that he didn't care what his neighbors thought or said. He

clutched the rope that held Frosty, rested on his back and looked at the clouds above him,

and realized he was sweating and freezing. They would laugh, and snicker, and tell

Luther's skipping Christmas story for years to come, and he'd be the butt of the jokes, but

what did it really matter?

Blair would be happy. Enrique would see a real American Christmas. Nora would

hopefully be placated.

Then he thought of the Island Princess casting off tomorrow from Miami, minus two

passengers, headed for the beaches and the islands Luther had been lusting for.

He felt like throwing up.

Walt Scheel had been in the kitchen, where Bev was finishing a pie, and, out of habit now,

he walked to his front window to observe the Krank house. Nothing, at first, then he froze.

Peeking over the roof, next to the chimney, was Luther, then slowly Walt saw Frosty's

black hat, then his face. "Bev!" he yelled.

Luther dragged himself up, looked around quickly as if he were a burglar, braced himself

on the chimney, then began tugging on Frosty.

"You must be kidding," Bev said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Walt was laughing

too hard to say anything. He grabbed the phone to call Frohmeyer and Becker.

When Frosty was in full view, Luther carefully swung him around to the front of the

chimney, to the spot where he wanted him to stand. His plan was to somehow hold him

there for a second, while he wrapped a two-inch-wide canvas band around his rather large

midsection and secured it firmly around the chimney. Just like last year. It had worked

fine then.

Vic Frohmeyer ran to his basement, where his children were watching a Christmas movie.

"Mr. Krank's putting up his Frosty. You guys go watch, but stay on the sidewalk." The

basement emptied.

There was a patch of ice on the front side of the roof, just inches from the chimney and

virtually invisible to Luther. With Frosty in place but not attached, and while Luther was

struggling to remove the nylon rope and pull tight the electrical cord and secure the

canvas band around the chimney, and just as he was to make perhaps the most dangerous

move of the entire operation, he heard voices below. And when he turned to see who was

watching he inadvertently stepped on the patch of ice just below the crown, and

everything fell at once.

Frosty tipped over and was gone, careening dawn the front of the roof with nothing to

hold him back-no ropes, cords, bands, nothing. Luther was right behind him, but,

fortunately, Luther had managed to entangle himself with everything. Sliding headfirst

down the steep roof, and yelling loud enough for Walt and Bev to hear indoors, Luther

sped like an avalanche toward certain death.

Later, he would recall, to himself of course, that he clearly remembered the fall.

Evidently, there was more ice on the front of the roof than on the rear, and once he found

it he felt like a hockey puck. He well remembered flying off the roof, headfirst, with the

concrete driveway awaiting him. And he remembered hearing but not seeing Frosty crash

somewhere nearby. Then the sharp pain as his fall was stopped-pain around the ankles as

the rope and extension cord abruptly ran out of slack, jerking poor Luther like a bullwhip,

but no doubt saving his life.

Watching Luther shoot down the roof on his stomach, seemingly in pursuit of his

bouncing Frosty, was more than Walt Scheel could stand. He ached with laughter until he

bent at the waist. Bev watched in horror.

"Shut up, Walt!" she yelled, then, "Do something!" as Luther was hanging and spinning

well above the concrete, his feet not far from the gutter.

Luther swung and spun helplessly above his driveway. After a few turns the cord and

rope were tightly braided together, and the spinning stopped. He felt sick and closed his

eyes for a second. How do you vomit when you're upside down?

Wall punched 911. He reported that a man had been injured and might even be dying on

Hemlock, so send the rescue people immediately. Then he ran out of his house and across

the street where the Frohmeyer children were gathering under Luther. Vic Frohmeyer

was running from two houses down, and the entire Becker clan from next door was

spilling out of their house.

"Poor Frosty," Luther heard one of the children say. Poor Frosty, my butt, he wanted say.

The nylon rope was cutting into the flesh around his ankles. He was afraid to move

because the rope seemed to give just a little. He was still eight feet above the ground, and

a fall would be disastrous. Inverted, Luther tried to breathe and collect his wits. He heard

Frohmeyer's big mouth. Would somebody please shoot me?

"Luther, you okay?" asked Frohmeyer.

"Swell, Vic, thanks, and you?" Luther began rotating again, slightly, turning very slowly

in the wind. Soon, he pivoted back toward the street, and came face to face with his

neighbors, the last people he wanted to see.

"Get a ladder," someone said.

"Is that an electrical cord around his feet?" asked someone else.

"Where is the rope attached?" asked another. All the voices were familiar, but Luther

couldn't distinguish them.

"I called nine-one-one," he heard Walt Scheel say.

"Thanks, Walt," Luther said loudly, in the direction of the crowd. But he was revolving

back toward the house.

"I think Frosty's dead," one teenager mumbled to another.

Hanging there, waiting for death, waiting for the rope to slip then give completely and

send him crashing down, Luther hated Christmas with a renewed passion. Look what

Christmas was doing to him.

All because of Christmas.

And he hated his neighbors too, all of them, young and old. They were gathering in his

driveway by the dozens now, he could hear them coming, and as he rotated slowly he

could glimpse them running down the street to see this sight.

The cord and the rope popped somewhere above him, then gave, and Luther fell another

six inches before he was jerked to another stop. The crowd gasped; no doubt, some of

them wanted to cheer.

Frohmeyer was barking orders as if he handled these situations every day. Two ladders

arrived and one was placed on each side of Lather. Ned Becker yelled from the back

patio that he'd found what was holding the electrical cord and the nylon rope, and, in his

very experienced opinion, it wouldn't hold much longer.

"Did you plug in the extension cord?" Frohmeyer asked.

"No," answered Luther.

"We're gonna get you down, okay?"

"Yes, please."

Frohmeyer was climbing one ladder, Ned Becker the other. Luther was aware that Swade

Kerr was down there, as were Ralph Brixley and John Galdy, and some of the older boys

on the street.

My life is in their hands, Luther said to himself, and closed his eyes. He weighed one

seventy-four, down eleven for the cruise, and he was quite concerned with how, exactly,

they planned to untangle him, then lower him to the ground. His rescuers were middleaged

men who, if they broke a sweat, did so on the golf course. Certainly not power

lifting. Swade Kerr was a frail vegetarian who could barely pick up his newspaper, and

right then he was under Luther hoping to help lower him to the ground.

"What's the plan here, Vic?" Luther asked. It was difficult to talk with his feet straight

above him. Gravity was pulling all the blood to his head, and it was pounding.

Vic hesitated. They really didn't have a plan.

What Luther couldn't see was that a group of men was standing directly under him, to

break any fall.

What Luther could hear, though, were two things. First, someone said, "There's Nora!"

Then he heard sirens.