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Skipping Christmas

By John Grisham

Six

Nora's late-morning round-table at the shelter for battered women ended badly when

Claudia, a casual friend at best, blurted out randomly, "So, Nora, no Christmas Eve bash

this year?"

Of the eight women present, including Nora, exactly five had been invited to her

Christmas parties in the past. Three had not, and at the moment those three looked for a

hole to crawl into, as did Nora.

You crude little snot, thought Nora, but she managed to say quickly, "Afraid not. We're

taking a year off." To which she wanted to add, "And if we ever have another party,

Claudia dear, don't hold your breath waiting for an invitation."

"I heard you're taking a cruise," said Jayne, one of the three excluded, trying to reroute

the conversation.

"We are, leaving Christmas Day in fact."

"So you're just eliminating Christmas altogether?" asked Beth, another casual

acquaintance who got invited each year only because her husband's firm did business

with Wiley & Beck.

"Everything," Nora said aggressively as her stomach tightened.

"That's a good way to save money," said Lila, the biggest bad word of the bunch. Her

emphasis on the word "money" implied that perhaps things were a bit tight around the

Krank household. Nora's cheeks began to burn. Lila's husband was a pediatrician. Luther

knew for a fact that they were heavily in debt-big house, big cars, country clubs. Earned a

lot, spent even more.

Thinking of Luther, where was he in these awful moments? Why was she taking the brunt

of his harebrained scheme? Why was she on the front lines while he sat smugly in his

quiet office dealing with people who either worked for him or were afraid of him? It was

a good-old-boy club, Wiley & Beck, a bunch of stuffy tight-fisted accountants who were

probably toasting Luther for his bravery in avoiding Christmas and saving a few bucks. If

his defiance could become a trend anywhere, it was certainly in the accounting profession.

Here she was getting scorched again while Luther was safely at work, probably playing

the hero.

Women handled Christmas, not men. They shopped and decorated and cooked, planned

parties and sent cards and fretted over things the men never thought about. Why, exactly,

was Luther so keen on dodging Christmas when he put so little effort into it?

Nora fumed but held her fire. No sense starting an all-girl rumble at the center for

battered women.

Someone mentioned adjournment and Nora was the first out of the room. She fumed even

more as she drove home-unpleasant thoughts about Lila and her comment about money.

Even uglier thoughts about her husband and his selfishness. She was sorely tempted to

cave right then, go on a spree and have the house decorated by the time he got home. She

could have a tree up in two hours. It wasn't too late to plan her party. Frohmeyer would

be happy to take care of their Frosty. Cut back on the gifts and a few other things, and

they would still save enough to pay for the cruise.

She turned onto Hemlock and of course the first thing she noticed was the fact that only

one house had no snow-man on the roof. Leave it to Luther. Their pretty two-story brick

home standing alone, as if the Kranks were Hindus or Buddhists, some strain that didn't

believe in Christmas.

She stood in her living room and looked out the front window, directly through the spot

where their beautiful tree always stood, and for the first time Nora was struck with how

cold and undecorated her house was. She bit her lip and went for the phone, but Luther

had stepped out for a sandwich. In the stack of mail she'd retrieved from the box, between

two envelopes containing holiday cards, she saw something that stopped her cold.

Airmail, from Peru. Spanish words stamped on the front.

Nora sat down and tore it open. It was two pages of Blair's lovely handwriting, and the

words were precious.

She was having a great time in the wilds of Peru. Couldn't be better, living with an Indian

tribe that had been around for several thousand years. They were very poor, according to

our standards, but healthy and happy. The children were at first very distant, but they had

come around, wanting to learn. Blair rambled on a bit about the children.

She was living in a grass hut with Stacy, her new friend from Utah. Two other Peace

Corps volunteers lived nearby. The corps had started the small school four years earlier.

Anyway, she was healthy and well fed, no dreaded diseases or deadly animals had been

spotted, and the work was challenging.

The last paragraph was the jolt of fortitude that Nora so desperately needed. It read:

I know it will be difficult not having me there for Christmas, but please don't be sad. My

children know nothing of Christmas. They have so little, and want so little, it makes me

feel guilty for the mindless materialism of our culture, There are no calendars here, and

no clocks, so I doubt if I'll even know when it comes and goes.

(Besides, we can catch up next year, can't we?)

Such a smart girl. Nora read it again and was suddenly filled with pride, not only for

raising such a wise and mature daughter but also for her own decision to forgo, at least

for a year, the mindless materialism of our culture.

She called Luther again and read him the letter.

Monday night at the mall! Not Luther's favorite place, but he sensed Nora needed a night

out. They had dinner in a fake pub on one end, then fought through the masses to get to

the other, where a star-filled romantic comedy was opening at the multiplex. Eight bucks

a ticket, for what Luther knew would be another dull two hours of overpaid clowns

giggling their way through a subliterate plot. But anyway, Nora loved the movies and he

tagged along to keep peace. Despite the crowds, the cinema was deserted, and this

thrilled Luther when he realized that everybody else was out there shopping. He settled

low in his seat with his popcorn, and went to sleep.

He awoke with an elbow in his ribs.

"You're snoring," Nora hissed at him.

"Who cares? The place is empty."

"Hush up, Luther."

He watched the movie, but after five minutes had had enough, "I'll be back," he

whispered, and left. He'd rather fight through the mob and get stepped on than watch such

foolishness. He rode the escalator to the upper level, where he leaned on the rail and

watched the chaos below. A Santa was holding court on his throne and the line was

moving very slowly. Over at the ice rink the music blared from scratchy speakers while

kids in elf costumes skated around some stuffed creature that appeared to be a reindeer.

Every parent watched through the lens of a videocamera. Weary shoppers trudged along,

lugging shopping bags, bumping into others, fighting with their children.

Luther had never felt prouder.

Across the way, he saw a new sporting goods store. He strolled over, noticing through the

window that there was a crowd inside and certainly not enough cashiers. He was just

browsing, though. He found the snorkel gear in the back, a rather slim selection, but it

was December. The swimsuits were of the Speedo variety, breathtakingly narrow all the

way around and designed solely for Olympic swimmers under the age of twenty. More of

a pouch than a garment. He was afraid to touch them. He'd get himself a catalog and shop

from the safety of his home.

As he left the store an argument was raging at a checkout, something about a layaway

that got lost. What fools.

He bought himself a fat-free yogurt and killed time strolling along the upper concourse,

smiling smugly at the harried souls burning their way through their paychecks. He

stopped and gawked at a life-sized poster of a gorgeous young thing in a string bikini, her

skin perfectly tanned. She was inviting him to step inside a small salon called Tans

Forever. Luther glanced around as if it were an adult bookstore, then ducked inside where

Daisy was waiting behind a magazine. Her brown face forced a smile and seemed to

crack along the forehead and around the eyes. Her teeth had been whitened, her hair

lightened, her skin darkened, and for a second Luther wondered what she looked like

before the project.

Not surprisingly, Daisy said it was the best time of the year to purchase a package. Their

Christmas special was twelve sessions for $60. Only one session every other day, fifteen

minutes at first, but working up to a max of twenty-five. When the package was over,

Luther would be superbly tanned and certainly prepared for anything the Caribbean sun

could throw at him.

He followed her a few steps to a row of booths-flimsy little rooms with a tanning bed

each and not much else. They were now featuring state-of-the-art FX-2000 BronzeMats,

straight from Sweden, as if the Swedes knew everything about sunbathing. At first glance,

the BronzeMat horrified Luther. Daisy explained that you simply undressed, yes,

everything, she purred, slid into the unit, and pulled the top down in a manner that

reminded Luther of a waffle iron. Cook for fifteen or twenty minutes, a timer goes off,

get up, get dressed. Nothing to it.

"How much do you sweat?" Luther asked, struggling with the image of himself lying

completely exposed while eighty lamps baked all parts of his body.

She explained that things got warm. Once done, you simply wiped off your BronzeMat

with a spray and paper towels, and things were suitable for the next guy.

Skin cancer? he inquired. She offered a phony laugh. No way. Perhaps with the older

units before they perfected the technology to virtually eliminate ultraviolet rays and such.

The new BronzeMats were actually safer than the sun itself. She'd been tanning for

eleven years.

And your skin looks like burnt cowhide, Luther mused to himself.

He signed up for two packages for $120. He left the salon with the determination to get

himself tanned, however uncomfortable it would be. And he chuckled at the thought of

Nora stripping down behind paper-thin walls and inserting herself into the BronzeMat.

Seven

The officer's name was Salino, and he came around every year. He was portly, wore no

gun or vest, no Mace or nightstick, no flashlight or silver bullets, no handcuffs or radio,

none of the mandatory gadgetry that his brethren loved to affix to their belts and bodies.

Salino looked bad in his uniform, but he'd been looking bad for so long that no one cared.

He patrolled the southeast, the neighborhoods around Hemlock, the affluent suburbs

where the only crime was an occasional stolen bike or a speeding car.

Salino's partner for the evening was a beefy, lockjawed young lad with a roll of muscle

bulging from the collar of his navy shirt. Treen was his name, and Treen wore every

device and doohickey that Salino did not.

When Luther saw them through the blinds on his front door, standing there pressing his

doorbell, he instantly thought of Frohmeyer. Frohmeyer could summon the police to

Hemlock faster than the Chief himself.

He opened the door, made the obligatory hellos and good evenings, then asked them to

step inside. He didn't want them inside, but he knew they would not leave until they

completed the ritual. Treen was grasping a plain white tube that held the calendar.

Nora, who just seconds ago had been watching television with her husband, had suddenly

vanished, though Luther knew she was just beyond the French doors, hiding in the

kitchen, missing not a word.

Salino did all the talking. Luther figured this was because his hulking partner probably

possessed a limited vocabulary. The Police Benevolent Association was once again

working at full throttle to do all sorts of wonderful things for the community. Toys for

tots. Christmas baskets for the less Fortunate. Visits by Santa. Ice skating adventures.

Trips to the zoo. And they were delivering gifts to the old folks in the nursing homes and

to the veterans tucked away in wards. Salino had perfected his presentation. Luther had

heard it before.

To help defray the costs of their worthy projects this year, the Police Benevolent

Association had once again put together a handsome calendar for next year, one that

again featured some of its members in action shots as they served the people. Treen on

cue whipped out Luther's calendar, unrolled it, and flipped the rather large sheets as

Salino did the play by play. For January it was a traffic cop with a warm smile waving

little kindergartners across the street. For February, it was a cop even beefier than Treen

helping a stranded motorist change a tire. Somehow in the midst of the effort the

policeman had managed a smile. For March it was a rather tense scene at a nighttime

accident with lights flashing all around and three men in blue conferring with frowns.

Luther admired the photos and artwork without a word as the months marched along.

What about the leopard print briefs? he wanted to ask. Or the steam room? Or the

lifeguard with just a towel around his waist? Three years earlier, the PBA had succumbed

to trendier tastes and published a calendar filled with photos of its leaner and younger

members, all clad in virtually nothing, half grinning goofily at the camera, the other half

straining with the tortured I-hate-modeling veneer of contemporary fashion. Practically

R-rated, a big story about it made the front page.

Quite a brouhaha erupted overnight. The Mayor was incensed as complaints flooded city

hall. The director of the PBA got fired. The undistributed calendars were pulled and

burned while the local TV station recorded it Live!

Nora kept theirs in the basement, where she secretly enjoyed it all year.

The beefcake calendar was a financial disaster for all concerned, but it created more

interest the following Christmas. Sales almost doubled.

Luther bought one every year, but only because it was expected. Oddly, there was no

price attached to the calendars, at least not to the ones delivered personally by the likes of

Salino and Treen. Their personal touch cost something more, an additional layer of

goodwill that people like Luther were expected to fork over simply because that was the

way it was done. It was this coerced, above-the-table bribery that Luther hated. Last year

he'd written a check for a hundred bucks to the PBA, but not this year.

When the presentation was over, Luther stood tall and said, "I don't need one." Salino

cocked his head to one side as if he'd misunderstood. Treen's neck puffed out another

inch.

Salino's face turned into a smirk. You may not need one, the smirk said, but you'll buy it

anyway. "Why's that?" he said.

"I already have calendars for next year." That was news to Nora, who was biting a

fingernail and holding her breath.

"But not like this," Treen managed to grunt. Salino shot him a look that said, "Be quiet!"

"I have two calendars in my office and two on my desk," Luther said. "We have one by

the phone in the kitchen. My watch tells me precisely what day it is, as does my computer.

Haven't missed a day in years."

"We're raising money for crippled children, Mr. Krank," Salino said, his voice suddenly

soft and scratchy. Nora felt a tear coming.

"We give to crippled children, Officer," Luther shot back. "Through the United Way and

our church and our taxes we give to every needy group you can possibly name."

"You're not proud of your policemen?" Treen said roughly, no doubt repeating a line he'd

heard Salino use on others.

Luther caught himself for a second and allowed his anger to settle in. As if buying a

calendar was the only measure of his pride in the local police force. As if forking over a

bribe in the middle of his living room was proof that he, Luther Krank, stood solidly

behind the boys in blue.

"I paid thirteen hundred bucks in city taxes last year," Luther said, his eyes flashing hot

and settling on young Treen. "A portion of which went to pay your salary. Another

portion went to pay the firemen, the ambulance drivers, the schoolteachers, the sanitation

workers, the street cleaners, the Mayor and his rather comprehensive staff, the judges, the

bailiffs, the jailers, all those clerks down at city hall, all those folks down at Mercy

Hospital. They do a great job. You, sir, do a great job. I'm proud of all our city employees.

But what's a calendar got to do with anything?"

Of course Treen had never had it put to him in such a logical manner, and he had no

response. Salino either, for that matter. A tense pause followed.

Since Treen could think of no intelligent retort, he grew hot too and decided he would get

Krank's license plate number and lie in ambush somewhere, maybe catch him speeding or

sneaking through a stop sign. Pull him over, wait for a sarcastic comment, yank him out,

sprawl him across the hood while cars eased by, slap the handcuffs on him, haul him to

jail.

Such pleasant thoughts made Treen smile. Salino, however, was not smiling. He'd heard

the rumors about Luther Krank and his goofy plans for Christmas. Frohmeyer'd told him.

He'd driven by the night before and seen the handsome undecorated house with no Frosty,

just sitting alone, peacefully yet oddly so different.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Salino said, sadly. "We're just trying to raise a little extra to

help needy kids."

Nora wanted to burst through the door and say, "Here's a check! Give me the calendar!

But she didn't, because the aftermath would not be pleasant.

Luther nodded with jaws clenched, eyes unflinching, and Treen began a rather dramatic

rerolling of the calendar that would now be hawked to someone else. Under the weight of

his large paws it popped and crinkled as it became smaller and smaller. Finally, it was as

narrow as a broomstick and Treen slid it back into its tube and stuck a cap on the end.

Ceremony over, it was time for them to leave.

"Merry Christmas, Salino said.

"Do the police still sponsor that softball team for orphans?" Luther asked.

"We certainly do," Treen replied.

"Then come back in the spring and I'll give you a hundred bucks for uniforms."

This did nothing to appease the officers. They couldn't bring themselves to say, "Thanks."

Instead, they nodded and looked at each other.

Things were stiff as Luther got them out the door, nothing said, just the irritating sound of

Treen tapping the tube against his leg, like a bored cop with a nightstick looking for a

head to bash.

"It was only a hundred dollars," Nora said sharply as she reentered the room. Luther was

peeking around the curtains, making sure they were indeed leaving.

"No, dear, it was much more," he said smugly, as if the situation had been complex and

only he had the full grasp of it. "How about some yogurt?"

To the starving, the prospect of food erased all other thoughts. Each night they rewarded

themselves with a small container of bland, fat-free, imitation fruit yogurt, which they

savored like a last meal. Luther was down seven pounds and Nora six.

They were touring the neighborhood in a pickup truck, looking for targets. Ten of them

were in the back, resting on bales of hay, singing as they rolled along. Under the quilts

hands were being held and thighs groped, but harmless fun, at least for the moment. They

were, after all, from the Lutheran church. Their leader was behind the wheel, and next to

her was the minister's wife, who also played the organ on Sunday mornings.

The truck turned onto Hemlock, and the target quickly became obvious. They slowed as

they neared the unadorned home of the Kranks. Luckily, Walt Scheel was outside

wrestling with an extension cord that lacked about eight feet in connecting the electricity

from his garage to his boxwoods, around which he had carefully woven four hundred

new green lights. Since Krank wasn't decorating, he, Scheel, had decided to do so with

extra gusto.

"Are those folks home?" the driver asked Walt as the truck came to a stop. She was

nodding at the Kranks' place.

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, we're out caroling. We got a youth group here from the Lutheran church, St.

Mark's."

Walt suddenly smiled and dropped the extension cord. How lovely, he thought. Krank

just thinks he can run from Christmas.

"Are they Jewish?" she asked.

"No."

"Buddhist or anything like that?"

"No, not at all. Methodist actually. They're trying to avoid Christmas this year."

"Do what?"

"You heard me." Walt was standing next to the driver's door, all smiles. "He's kind of a

weird one. Skipping Christmas so he can save his money for a cruise."

The driver and the minister's wife looked long and hard at the Krank home across the

street. The kids in the back had stopped singing and were listening to every word. Wheels

were turning.

"I think some Christmas carolers would do them good, Scheel added helpfully. "Go on."

The truck emptied as the choir rushed onto the sidewalk. They stopped near the Kranks'

mailbox. "Closer, Scheel yelled. "They won't mind."

They lined up near the house, next to Luther's favorite flower bed. Scheel ran to his front

door and told Bev to call Frohmeyer.

Luther was scraping the sides of his yogurt container when a racket commenced very

close to him. The carolers struck quick and loud with the opening stanza of "God Rest Ye

Merry Gentlemen," and the Kranks ducked for cover. Then they darted from the kitchen,

staying low, Luther in the lead with Nora on his back, into the living room and close to

the front window, where, thankfully, the curtains were closed.

The choir waved excitedly when Luther was spotted peeking out.

"Christmas carolers," Luther hissed, taking a step back, "Right out there next to our

junipers."

"How lovely," Nora said very quietly.

"Lovely? They're trespassing on our property. It's a setup."

"They're not trespassing."

"Of course they are. They're on our property without being invited. Someone told them to

come, probably Frohmeyer or Scheel."

"Christmas carolers are not trespassers," Nora insisted, practically whispering.

"I know what I'm talking about."

"Then call your friends down at the police department."

"I might do that," Luther mused, peeking out again.

"Not too late to buy a calendar."

The entire Frohmeyer clan came running, Spike leading the pack on a skateboard, and by

the time they fell in behind the carolers the Trogdons had heard the noise and were

joining the commotion. Then the Beckers with the mother-in-law in tow and Rocky the

dropout lagging behind her.

"Jingle Bells" was next, a lively and loud rendition, no doubt inspired by the excitement

being created. The choir director motioned for the neighbors to join in, which they

happily did, and by the time they began "Silent Night" their number had ballooned to at

least thirty. The carolers hit most of their notes; the neighbors couldn't have cared less.

They sang loudly so that old Luther in there would squirm.

After twenty minutes, Nora's nerves gave way, and she went to the shower. Luther

pretended to read a magazine in his easy chair, but each carol was louder than the last. He

fumed and cursed under his breath. The last time he peeked out there were people all over

his front lawn, everyone smiling and shrieking at his house.

When they started with "Frosty the Snowman," he went to his office in the basement and

found the cognac.

Eight

Luther's morning routine hadn't changed in the eighteen years he'd lived on Hemlock. Up

at six, slippers and bathrobe, brew the coffee, out the garage door, down the driveway

where Milton the paperboy had left the Gazette an hour earlier. Luther could count the

steps from the coffeepot to the newspaper, knowing they wouldn't vary by two or three.

Back inside, a cup with just a trace of cream, the Sports section, then Metro, Business,

and always last, the national and international news. Halfway through the obituaries, he

would take a cup of coffee, the same lavender cup every day, with two sugars, to his dear

wife.

On the morning after the caroling party on his front lawn, Luther shuffled half-asleep

down his drive and was about to pick up the Gazette when he saw a bright collection of

colors out of the corner of his left eye. There was a sign in the center of his lawn. FREE

FROSTY the damned thing proclaimed, in bold black letters. It was on white poster

board, reds and greens around the borders, with a sketch of Frosty chained and shackled

somewhere in a basement, no doubt the Kranks' basement. It was either a bad design by

an adult with too much time to spare, or a rather good design by a kid with a mom

looking over his shoulder.

Luther suddenly felt eyes watching him, lots of eyes, so he casually stuck the Gazette

under his arm and strolled back into the house as if he'd seen nothing. He grumbled as he

poured his coffee, cursed mildly as he took his chair. He couldn't enjoy Sports or Metroeven

the obituaries couldn't hold his attention. Then he realized that Nora should not see

the poster. She'd worry about it much more than he did.

With each new assault on his right to do as he pleased, Luther was more determined to

ignore Christmas. He was concerned about Nora, though. He would never break, but he

feared she would. If she believed the neighborhood children were now protesting, she just

might collapse.

He struck quickly-slinking through the garage, cutting around the corner, high-stepping

across the lawn because the grass was wet and practically frozen, yanking the poster from

the ground, and tossing it into the utility room, where he'd deal with it later.

He took Nora her coffee, then settled once again at the kitchen table, where he tried in

vain to concentrate on the Gazette. He was angry, though, and his feet were frozen.

Luther drove to work.

He had once advocated closing the office from the middle of December until after

January 1. No one works anyway, he'd argued rather brilliantly at a firm meeting. The

secretaries needed to shop so they left for lunch early, returned late, then left an hour later

to run errands. Simply make everyone take their vacations in December, he had said

forcefully. Sort of a two-week layoff, with pay of course. Billings were down anyway, he

had explained with charts and graphs to back him up. Their clients certainly weren't in

their offices, so no item of business could ever be finalized until the first week of January.

Wiley & Beck could save a few bucks by avoiding the Christmas dinner and the office

party. He had even passed out an article From The Wall Street Journal about a big firm in

Seattle that had adopted such a policy, with outstanding results, or so said the Journal.

It had been a splendid presentation by Luther. The firm voted eleven to two against him,

and he'd stewed for a month. Only Yank Slader'd hung in there with him.

Luther went through the motions of another morning, his mind on last night's concert by

his junipers and the protest sign in his front yard. He enjoyed life on Hemlock, got on

well with his neighbors, even managing to be cordial to Walt Scheel, and was

uncomfortable now being the target of their displeasure.

Biff, the travel agent, changed his mood when she waltzed into his office with barely a

knock-Dox, his secretary, was lost in catalogs-and presented their flight and cruise tickets,

along with a handsome itinerary and an updated brochure on the Island Princess. She was

gone in seconds, much too brief a stay to suit Luther, who, when he admired her figure

and tan, couldn't help but dream of the countless string bikinis he would soon encounter.

He locked his door and was soon lost in the warm blue waters of the Caribbean.

For the third time that week Luther sneaked away just before lunch and raced to the mall.

He parked as far away as possible because he needed the hike, down eight pounds now

and feeling very fit, and entered through Sears with a mob of other noontime shoppers.

Except Luther was there for a nap.

Behind thick sunshades, he ducked into Tans Forever on the upper concourse. Daisy with

the copper skin had been relieved by Daniella, a pale redhead whose constant tanning had

only made her freckles expand and spread. She punched his card, assigned him to Salon 2,

and, with all the wisdom of a highly skilled dermatologist, said, "I think twenty-two

minutes should do it today, Luther." She was at least thirty years his junior, but had no

problem addressing him simply as Luther. A kid working a temporary job for minimum

wage, it never crossed her mind that perhaps she should call him Mr. Krank.

Why not twenty-one minutes? he wanted to snap. Or twenty-three?

He grumbled over his shoulder and went to Salon 2.

The FX-2000 BronzeMat was cool to the touch, a very good sign because Luther couldn't

stand the thought of crawling into the thing after someone else had just left. He quickly

sprayed it with Windex, wiped it furiously, then rechecked the locked door, undressed as

if someone might see him, and very delicately crawled into the tanning bed.

He stretched and adjusted until things were as comfortable as they would get, then pulled

the top down, hit the On switch, and began to bake. Nora'd been twice and wasn't sure

she'd tan again because halfway through her last session someone rattled the doorknob

and gave her a start. She blurted something, couldn't remember exactly what due to the

terror of the moment, and as she instinctively jerked upward she cracked her head on the

top of the BronzeMat.

Luther'd been blamed for that too. Laughing about it hadn't helped him.

Before long he was drifting away, drifting to the Island Princess with its four pools and

dark, fit bodies lounging around, drifting to the white sandy beaches of Jamaica and

Grand Cayman, drifting through the warm still waters of the Caribbean.

A buzzer startled him. His twenty-two minutes were up. Three sessions now and Luther

could finally see some improvement in the rickety mirror on the wall. Just a matter of

time before someone around the office commented on his tan. They were all so envious.

As he hurried back to work, his skin still warm, his stomach even flatter after another

skipped meal, it began to sleet.

Luther caught himself dreading the drive home. Things were fine until he turned onto

Hemlock. Next door, Becker was adding more lights to his shrubs, and, for spite, he was

emphasizing the end of his lawn next to Luther's garage. Trogdon had so many lights you

couldn't tell if he was adding more, but Luther suspected he was. Across the street, next

door to Trogdon, Walt Scheel was decorating more each day. This from a guy who'd

hardly hung the first strand a year ago.

And now, next door-on the east side of the Kranks'-Swade Kerr had suddenly been seized

with the spirit of Christmas and was wrapping his scrawny little boxwoods with brandnew

red and green blinking lights. The Kerrs homeschooled their brood of children and

generally kept them locked in the basement. They refused to vote, did yoga, ate only

vegetables, wore sandals with thick socks in the wintertime, avoided employment, and

claimed to be atheists. Very crunchy, but not bad neighbors. Swade's wife, Shirley, with a

hyphenated last name, had trust funds.

"They've got me surrounded," Luther muttered to himself as he parked in his garage, then

sprinted into the house and locked the door behind him.

"Look at these," Nora said with a frown, and after a peck on the cheek, the obligatory

"How was your day?"

Two pastel-colored envelopes, the obvious. "What is it?" he snapped. The last thing

Luther wanted to see was Christmas cards with their phony little messages. Luther

wanted food, which tonight would be baked fish with steamed veggies.

He pulled out both cards, each with a Frosty on the front. Nothing was signed. No return

address on the envelope.

Anonymous Christmas cards. "Very funny," he said, flinging them onto the table.

"I thought you'd like them. They were postmarked in the city."

"It's Frohmeyer," Luther said, yanking off his tie. "He loves a practical joke."

Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. A couple of large bites and Luther could've

cleaned his plate, but Nora was preaching the virtues of eating slowly. He was still

hungry when he got to his feet and. mumbled something about who could it be now?

The fireman's name was Kistler and the medic was Kendall, both young and lean, in great

shape from countless hours pumping iron down at the station, no doubt at taxpayer

expense, Luther thought to himself as he invited them inside, just barely through the front

door. It was another annual ritual, another perfect example of what was wrong with

Christmas.

Kistler's uniform was navy and Kendall's was olive. Neither matched the red-and-white

Santa's hats both were wearing, but then who really cared? The hats were cute and

whimsical, but Luther wasn't smiling. The medic held the paper bag down by his leg.

"Selling fruitcakes again this year, Mr. Krank, Kistler was saying. "Do it every year."

"Money goes for the toy drive, Kendall said with perfect timing.

"Our goal is nine thousand bucks."

"Last year we raised just over eight."

"Hitting it harder this year"

"Christmas Eve, we'll deliver toys to six hundred kids."

"It's an awesome project."

Back and forth, back and forth. A well-drilled tag team.

"You ought to see their faces."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, "Anyway, gotta raise the money, and fast."

"Got the old faithful, Mabel's Fruitcakes." Kendall sort of waved the bag at Luther as if

he might want to grab it and take a peek inside.

"World-famous."

"They make 'em in Hermansburg, Indiana, home of Mabel's Bakery."

"Half the town works there. Make nothing but fruitcakes."

Those poor folks, Luther thought.

"They have a secret recipe, use only the freshest ingredients."

"And make the best fruitcake in the world."

Luther hated fruitcakes. The dates, figs, prunes, nuts, little bits of dried, colored fruit.

"Been making 'em for eighty years now."

"Best-selling cake in the country. Six tons last year."

Luther was standing perfectly still, holding his ground, his eyes darting back and forth,

back and forth.

"No chemicals, no additives."

"I don't know how they keep them so fresh."

With chemicals and additives, Luther wanted to say.

A sharp bolt of hunger hit Luther hard. His knees almost buckled, his poker face almost

grimaced. For two weeks now his sense of smell had been much keener, no doubt a side

effect of a strict diet. Maybe he got a whiff of Mabel's finest, he wasn't sure, but a craving

came over him. Suddenly, he had to have something to eat. Suddenly, he wanted to

snatch the bag from Kendall, rip open a package, and start gnawing on a fruitcake.

And then it passed. With his jaws clenched, Luther hung on until it was gone, then he

relaxed. Kistler and Kendall were so busy with their routine that they hadn't noticed.

"We get only so many."

"They're so popular they have to be rationed."

"We're lucky to get nine hundred."

"Ten bucks a pop, and we're at nine thousand for the toys."

"You bought five last year, Mr. Krank."

"Can you do it again?"

Yes, I bought five last year, Luther was now remembering. Took three to the office and

secretly placed them on the desks of three colleagues. By the end of the week, they'd

been passed around so much the packages were worn. Dox tossed them in the

wastebasket when they shut down for Christmas.

Nora gave the other two to her hairdresser, a three-hundred-pound lady who collected

them by the dozen and had fruitcake until July.

"No," Luther finally said. "I'll pass this year."

The tag team went silent. Kistler looked at Kendall and Kendall looked at Kistler.

"Say what?"

"I don't want any fruitcakes this year."

"Is five too many?" Kistler asked.

"One is too many," Luther replied, then slowly folded his arms across his chest.

"None?" Kendall asked, in disbelief.

"Zero," Luther said.

They looked as pitiful as possible.

"You guys still put on that Fourth of July fishing rodeo for handicapped kids?" Luther

asked.

"Every year, " said Kistler.

"Great. Come back in the summer and I'll donate a hundred bucks for the fishing rodeo."

Kistler managed to mumble a very weak "Thanks."

It took a few awkward movements to get them out the door. Luther returned to the

kitchen table, where everything was gone-Nora, his plate with the last two bites of

steamed fish, his glass of water, his napkin. Everything. Furious, he stormed the pantry,

where he found a jar of peanut butter and some stale saltines.