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Skipping Christmas

By John Grisham

The gravity of their scheme hit hard the next day, just after dinner. It was entirely

possible to enjoy Christmas without cards, without parties and dinners, without needless

gifts, without a lot of things that for some reason had been piled onto the birth of Christ.

But how could anyone get through the holidays without a tree?

Skip the tree, and Luther knew they just might pull it off.

They were clearing the table, though there was precious little to clear. Baked chicken and

cottage cheese made for an easy cleanup, and Luther was still hungry when the doorbell

rang.

"I'll get it," he said. Through the front window of the living room he saw the trailer out in

the street, and he knew instantly that the next fifteen minutes would not be pleasant. He

opened the door and was met with three smiling faces-two youngsters dressed smartly in

full Boy Scout regalia, and behind them Mr. Scanlon, the neighborhood's permanent

scoutmaster. He too was in uniform.

"Good evening," Luther said to the kids.

"Hello, Mr. Krank. I'm Randy Bogan," said the taller of the two. "We're selling Christmas

trees again this year."

"Got yours out on the trailer," said the shorter one.

'You had a Canadian blue spruce last year, Mr. Scan-Ion said.

Luther glanced beyond them, to the long flatbed trailer covered with two neat rows of

trees. A small army of Scouts was busy unloading and hauling them away to Luther's

neighbors.

"How much?" Luther asked.

"Ninety dollars, answered Randy. "We had to go up a little 'cause our supplier went up

too."

Eighty last year, Luther almost said but held his tongue.

Nora materialized from nowhere and suddenly had her chin on his shoulder. "They're so

cute," she whispered.

The boys or the trees? Luther almost asked. Why couldn't she stay in the kitchen and let

him slug his way through this one?

With a big fake smile, Luther said, "Sorry, but we're not buying one this year"

Blank faces. Puzzled faces. Sad faces. A groan from just over his shoulder as the pain hit

Nora. Looking at the boys, with his wife literally breathing down his neck, Luther Krank

knew that this was the pivotal moment. Snap here, and the floodgates would open. Buy a

tree, then decorate it, then realize that no tree looks complete without a pile of presents

stuffed under it.

Hang tough, old boy, Luther urged himself, just as his wife whispered, "Oh dear."

"Hush," he hissed from the corner of his mouth.

The boys stared up at Mr. Krank, as if he'd just taken the last coins from their pockets.

"Sorry we had to go up on the price," Randy said sadly.

"We're making less per tree than last year, Mr. Scanlon added helpfully.

"It's not the price, boys," Luther said with another bogus grin. "We're not doing

Christmas this year. Gonna be out of town. No need for a tree. Thanks anyway."

The boys began looking at their feet, as wounded children will do, and Mr. Scanlon

appeared to be heartbroken. Nora offered another pitiful groan, and Luther, near panic,

had a brilliant thought. "Don't you boys go out West each year, for a big camporee of

some sort? New Mexico, in August, I seem to recall from a flyer."

They were caught off guard but all three nodded slowly.

"Good, here's the deal. I'll pass on the tree, but you guys come back in the summer and

I'll give you a hundred bucks for your trip."

Randy Bogan managed to say "Thanks, but only because he felt obligated. They suddenly

wanted to leave.

Luther slowly closed the door on them, then waited. They stood there on the front steps

for a moment or two, then retreated down the drive, glancing over their shoulders.

When they reached the truck another adult, in uniform, was told the bizarre news. Others

heard it, and before long activity around the trailer came to a halt as the

Scouts and their leaders grouped at the end of the Kranks' driveway and stared at the

Krank house as if aliens were on the roof.

Luther crouched low and peeked around the open curtains of the living room. "What are

they doing?" Nora whispered behind him, crouching too.

"Just staring, I guess."

"Maybe we should've bought one."

"No."

"Don't have to put it up, you know."

"Quiet."

"Just keep it in the backyard."

"Stop it, Nora. Why are you whispering? This is our house."

"Same reason you're hiding behind the curtains."

He stood straight and closed the curtains. The Scouts moved on, their trailer inching

down the street as the trees on Hemlock Street were delivered.

Luther built a fire and settled into his recliner for some reading, tax stuff. He was alone

because Nora was pouting, a short spell that would be over by morning.

If he'd faced down the Boy Scouts, then who should he fear? More encounters were

coming, no doubt, and that was one of the very reasons Luther disliked Christmas.

Everybody selling something, raising money, looking for a tip, a bonus, something,

something, something. He grew indignant again and felt fine.

He eased from the house an hour later. On the sidewalk that bordered Hemlock, he

shuffled along, going nowhere. The air was cool and light. After a few steps he stopped

by the Beckers' mailbox and looked into the front window of the living room, not far

away. They were decorating their tree, and he could almost hear the bickering. Ned

Becker was balancing himself on the top rung of a small ladder and stringing lights, while

Jude Becker stood back a step and carped directions. Jude's mother, an ageless wonder

even more terrifying than Jude herself, was also in on the fray. She was pointing

directions to poor Ned, and her directions were in sharp conflict to those of Jude. String

them here, string them there. That branch, no that other branch. Can't you see that gap

there? What on earth are you looking at? Meanwhile, Rocky Becker, their twenty-yearold

dropout, was sitting on the sofa with a can of something, laughing at them and

offering advice that was apparently being ignored. He was the only one laughing, though.

The scene made Luther smile. It reinforced his wisdom, made him proud of his decision

to simply avoid the whole mess.

He shuffled along, filling his haughty lungs with the cool air, happy that for the first time

in his life he was eliminating the dreaded ritual of the tree trimming. Two doors down he

stopped and watched the Frohmeyer clan assault an eight-foot spruce. Mr. Frohmeyer had

brought two kids to the marriage. Mrs. Frohmeyer had arrived with three of her own,

after which they produced another, making six, the eldest of which was no more than

twelve. The entire brood was hanging ornaments and tinsel. At some point during every

December Luther overheard one of the neighborhood women comment on just how awful

the Frohmeyer tree looked. As if he cared.

Awful or not, they were certainly having a wonderful time draping it with tacky

decorations. Frohmeyer did research at the university, $110,000 a year was the rumor, but

with six kids there wasn't much to show for it. Their tree would be the last to come down

after New Year's.

Luther turned around and headed home. At the Beckers', Ned was on the sofa with an

icepack on his shoulder, Jude hovering over him, lecturing with her finger. The ladder

was on its side, being inspected by the mother-in-law. Whatever the cause of the fall,

there was no doubt that all blame would be placed on poor Ned.

Great, thought Luther. Now I'll have to listen to details of another ailment for the next

four months. Come to think of it, Ned Becker had fallen off that ladder before, five

maybe six years earlier. Crashed into the tree and knocked the whole thing oven Broke

Jude's keepsake ornaments. She'd pouted for a year.

What madness, thought Luther.

Four

Nora and two friends had just captured a table at their favorite deli, a converted service

station that still sold gas but had also added designer sandwiches and latte at three bucks

a cup. As always, it was packed at noon, and the long lines attracted even more folks.

It was a working lunch. Candi and Merry were the other two members of a committee to

oversee an auction for the art museum. Around most of the other tables, similar fundraisers

were being plotted with great effort.

Nora's cell phone rang. She apologized because she had forgotten to turn it off, but Merry

insisted she take the call anyway. Cell phones were buzzing all over the deli.

It was Aubie again, and at first she was puzzled as to how he had obtained her number.

But then, she routinely gave it away.

"It's Aubie from The Pumpkin Seed, she explained to Candi and Merry, thereby linking

them to the conversation. They nodded with disinterest. Presumably, everybody knew

Aubie from The Pumpkin Seed. He had the highest prices in the world so if you shopped

there you could one-up anyone when it came to stationery.

"We forgot to discuss your party invitations," Aubie said, and Nora's heart Froze. She,

too, had forgotten the invitations, and she certainly didn't want to discuss them in front of

Merry and Candi.

"Oh yes," she said. Merry had struck up a conversation with a volunteer at the next table.

Candi was scanning the deli to see who wasn't there.

"We won't be needing them, either," Nora said.

"No party?" Aubie asked, his words laden with curiosity.

"Yes, no party this year."

"Well, I-"

"Thanks for calling, Aubie," she said softly and quickly and snapped the phone shut.

"Won't be needing what?" Merry asked, suddenly breaking off her other conversation and

honing in on Nora.

"No party this year?" Candi asked, her eyes locking on to Nora's like radar. "What's up?"

Grit your teeth, Nora urged herself. Think of beaches, warm salt water, ten days in

paradise. "Oh that," she said. "We're taking a cruise this year instead of doing Christmas.

Blair's gone, you know, we need a break."

The deli was suddenly quiet, or at least it seemed so to Nora. Candi and Merry frowned

as they replayed this news. Nora, with Luther's words ringing in her ears, pushed the

offensive. "Ten days on the Island Princess, a luxury liner. Bahamas, Jamaica, Grand

Cayman. I've already lost two pounds," she said with a cheerful smugness.

"You're not doing Christmas?" Merry said in disbelief.

"That's what I said," Nora responded. Merry was quick with a judgment, and years ago

Nora had learned to bite back. She stiffened, ready for a sharp word.

"How do you simply not do Christmas?" Merry asked.

"You skip it," Nora replied, as if that would explain everything.

"Sounds wonderful," Candi said.

"Then what do we do Christmas Eve?" Merry asked.

"You'll think of something," Nora replied. "There are other parties."

"But none like yours."

"You're sweet."

"When do you leave?" Candi asked, dreaming now of beaches and no in-laws piled in for

a week.

"Christmas Day. Around noon." It was an odd time to leave, she had thought after Luther

had booked the cruise. If we're not celebrating Christmas, dear, she'd said, why not leave

a few days earlier? Avoid Christmas Eve while we're at it. Eliminate the whole crazy

mess. "What if Blair calls Christmas Eve?" he'd replied. And besides, Biff got $399

knocked off the package because few people travel on the twenty-fifth. Anyway, it was

booked and paid for and nothing was going to change.

"Then why not have the party on Christmas Eve anyway?" Merry asked, getting pushy,

fearful that she might feel obligated to host a replacement.

"Because we don't want to, Merry. We're taking a break, okay. A year off. No Christmas

whatsoever. Nothing. No tree, no turkey, no gifts. We're taking the money and splurging

on a cruise. Get it?"

"I get it, Candi said. "I wish Norman would do something like that. He wouldn't dream of

it, though, afraid he'd miss twenty or so bowl games. I'm so envious, Nora."

And with that Merry took a bite of her avocado sandwich. She chewed and began

glancing around the deli. Nora knew exactly what she was thinking. Who can I tell first?

The Kranks are slapping Christmas! No party! No tree! Nothing but money in their

pockets so they can blow it on a cruise.

Nora ate too, knowing that as soon as she stepped through the door over there the gossip

would roar through the deli and before dinner everyone in her world would know the

news. So what? she told herself. It was inevitable, and why was it such a big deal? Half

would be in Candi's camp, burning with envy and dreaming along with Nora. Half would

be with Merry, seemingly appalled at the notion of simply eliminating Christmas, but

even within this group of critics Nora suspected many would secretly covet their cruise.

And in three months who'd care anyway?

After a few bites they shoved their sandwiches aside and brought out the paperwork. Not

another word was mentioned about Christmas, not in Nora's presence anyway. Driving

away, she phoned Luther with the news of their latest victory.

Luther was up and down. His secretary, a fifty-year-old triple divorcee named Dox, had

quipped that she'd have to buy her own cheap perfume, she supposed, since Santa wasn't

coining this year. He'd been called Scrooge twice, and each time the name had been

followed by a fit of laughter. How original, Luther thought.

Late in the morning, Yank Slader darted into Luther's office as if angry clients were

chasing him. Peeking out first, he closed the door, then assumed a seat. "You're a genius,

old boy," he said almost in a whisper. Yank was an amortization specialist, afraid of his

shadow, loved eighteen-hour days because his wife was a brawler.

"Of course I am," said Luther.

"Went home last night, late, got the wife to bed then did the same thing you did.

Crunched the numbers, went through the bank statements, the works, came up with

almost seven grand. What was your damage?"

"Just over six thousand."

"Unbelievable, and not a rotten thing to show for it. Makes me sick."

"Take a cruise," Luther said, knowing full well that Yank's wife would never agree to

such foolishness. For her, the holidays began in late October and steadily gathered

momentum until the big bang, a ten-hour marathon on Christmas Day with four meals

and a packed house.

"Take a cruise, Yank mumbled. "Can't think of anything worse. Socked away on a boat

with Abigail for ten days. I'd pitch her overboard."

And no one would blame you, Luther thought.

"Seven thousand bucks," Yank repeated to himself.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" Luther said, and for a moment both accountants silently lamented

the waste of hard-earned money.

"Your first cruise?" Yank asked.

"Yes."

"Never done one myself. Wonder if they have single folks on board?"

"I'm sure they do. There's no requirement you have to take a partner. Thinking of going

solo, Yank?"

"Not thinking, Luther, dreaming." He drifted off, his hollow eyes showing a hint of hope,

of fun, of something Luther had never seen "before in Yank. He left the room there for a

moment, his thoughts running wildly across the Caribbean, so wonderfully alone without

Abigail.

Luther was quiet while his colleague dreamed, but the dreams soon became slightly

embarrassing. Fortunately, the phone rang and Yank was jolted back to a harsh world of

amortization tables and a quarrelsome wife. He got to his feet and seemed to be leaving

without a word. At the door, though," he said, "You're my hero, Luther."

Vic Frohmeyer had heard the rumor from Mr. Scan-Ion, the scoutmaster, and from his

wife's niece, who roomed with a girl who worked part time for Aubie at The Pumpkin

Seed, and from a colleague at the university , whose brother got his taxes done by

someone at Wiley & Beck. Three different sources, and the rumor had to be true. Krank

could do whatever he damned well pleased, but Vic and the rest of Hemlock wouldn't

take it lying down.

Frohmeyer was the unelected ward boss of Hemlock. His cushy job at the university gave

him time to meddle, and his boundless energy kept him on the street organizing all sorts

of activities. With six kids, his house was the undisputed hangout. The doors were always

open, a game always in progress. As a result, his lawn bad a worn look to it, though he

worked hard in his flower beds.

It was Frohmeyer who brought the candidates to Hemlock for barbecues in his backyard,

and for their campaign pledges. It was Frohmeyer who circulated the petitions, knocking

door to door, gathering momentum against annexation or in favor of school bonds or

against a new four-lane miles away or in favor of a new sewer system. It was Frohmeyer

who called Sanitation when a neighbor's garbage was not picked up, and because it was

Frohmeyer the matter got quickly resolved. A stray dog, one from another street, a call

from Vic Frohmeyer, and Animal Control was on the spot. A stray kid, one with hair and

tattoos and the leery look of a delinquent, and Frohmeyer would have the police poking

him in the chest and asking questions.

A hospital stay on Hemlock, and the Frohmeyers arranged visitation and food and even

lawn care. A death on Hemlock, and they organized flowers for the funeral and visits to

the cemetery. A neighbor in need could call the Frohmeyers for anything.

The Frostys had been Vic's idea, though he'd seen it in a suburb of Evanston and thus

couldn't take full credit. The same Frosty on every Hemlock roof, an eight-foot

Frosty with a goofy smile around a corncob pipe and a black top hat and thick rolls

around the middle, all made to glow a brilliant white by a two-hundred-watt bulb screwed

into a cavity somewhere near Frosty's colon. The Hemlock Frostys had made their debut

six years earlier and were a smashing success-twenty-one houses on one side, twenty-one

on the other, the street lined with two perfect rows of Frostys, forty feet up. A color photo

with a cute story ran on the front page. Two television news crews had done Live! reports.

The next year, Stanton Street to the south and Ackerman Street to the north had jumped

in with Rudolphs and silver bells, respectively, and a committee from Parks and Rec, at

Frohmeyer's quiet urging, began giving neighborhood awards for Christmas decorations.

Two years earlier disaster struck when a windstorm sent most of the Frostys airborne into

the next precinct. Frohmeyer rallied the neighbors though, and last year a new, slightly

shorter version of Frosty decorated Hemlock. Only two houses had not participated.

Each year, Frohmeyer decided the date on which to resurrect the Frostys, and after

hearing the rumors about Krank and his cruise he decided to do it immediately. After

dinner, he typed a short memo to his neighbors, something he did at least twice a month,

ran forty-one copies, and dispatched his six children to hand-deliver them to every house

on Hemlock. It read: "Neighbor-Weather tomorrow should be clear, an excellent time to

bring Frosty back to life-Call Marty or Judd or myself if you need assistance-Vic

Frohmeyer."

Luther took the memo from a smiling kid.

"Who is it?" Nora called from the kitchen.

"Frohmeyer."

"What's it about"

"Frosty."

She walked slowly into the living room, where Luther was holding the half-sheet of paper

as if it were a summons to jury duty. They gave each other a fearful look, and very slowly

Luther began shaking his head

"You have to do it," she said.

"No, I do not," he said, very firmly, his temper rising with each word. "I certainly do not.

I will not be told by Vic Frohmeyer that I have to decorate my house for Christmas, "

"It's just Frosty."

"No, it is much more"

"What?"

"It's the principle of it, Nora. Don't you understand? We can forget about Christmas if we

damned well choose, and-"

"Don't swear, Luther."

'"And no one, not even Vic Frohmeyer, can stop us." Louder. "I will not be forced into

doing this!" He was pointing to the ceiling with one hand and waving the memo with the

other. Nora retreated to the kitchen.

Five

Hemlock Frosty came in four sections-a wide round base, a slightly smaller snowball that

wedged into the base, then a trunk, then the head with the face and hat. Each section

could be stuffed into the next larger one, so that storage for the other eleven months of

the year was not too demanding. At a cost of $82.99, plus shipping, everyone packed

away their Frostys with care.

And they unpacked them with great delight. Throughout the afternoon sections of Frostys

could be seen inside most garages along Hemlock as the snowmen were dusted off and

checked for parts. Then they were put together, built just like a real snowman, section on

top of section, until they were seven feet tall and ready for the roof. Installation was not a

simple matter. A ladder and a rope were required, along with the help of a neighbor. First,

the roof had to be scaled with a rope around the waist, then Frosty, who was made of hard

plastic and weighed about forty pounds, was hoisted up, very carefully so as not to

scratch him over the asphalt shingles. When Frosty reached the summit, he was strapped

to the chimney with a canvas band that Vic Frohmeyer had invented himself. A twohundred-

watt lamp was screwed into Frosty's innards, and an extension cord was dropped

from the backside of the roof.

Wes Trogdon was an insurance broker who'd called in sick so he could surprise his kids

by having their Frosty up first. He and his wife, Trish, washed their snowman just after

lunch, then, under her close supervision, Wes climbed and grappled and adjusted until the

task was complete. Forty feet high, with a splendid view, he looked up and down

Hemlock and was quite smug that he had got the jump on everyone, including Frohmeyer.

While Trish made hot cocoa, Wes began hauling boxes of lights up from the basement to

the driveway, where he laid them out and checked circuits. No one on Hemlock strung

more Christmas lights than the Trogdons. They lined their yard, wrapped their shrubs,

draped their trees, outlined their house, adorned their windows-fourteen thousand lights

the year before.

Frohmeyer left work early so he could supervise matters on Hemlock, and he was quite

pleased to see activity. He was momentarily jealous that Trogdon had beaten him to the

punch, but what did it really matter? Before long they joined forces in the driveway of

Mrs. Ellen Mulholland, a lovely widow who was already baking brownies. Her Frosty

was up in a flash, her brownies devoured, and they were off to render more assistance.

Kids joined them, including Spike Frohmeyer, a twelve-year-old with his father's flair for

organization and community activism, and they went door to door in the late afternoon,

hurrying before darkness slowed them.

At the Kranks', Spike rang the doorbell but got no response. Mr. Krank's Lexus was not

there, which was certainly not unusual at 5 P.M. But Mrs. Krank's Audi was in the garage,

a sure sign that she was home. The curtains and shades were pulled. No answer at the

door though, and the gang moved to the Seekers', where Ned was in the front yard

washing his Frosty with his mother-in-law barking instructions from the steps.

"They're leaving now," Nora whispered into the phone in their bedroom.

"Why are you whispering?" Luther asked with agitation.

"Because I don't want them to hear me."

"Who is it?"

"Vic Frohmeyer, Wes Trogdon, looks like that Brixley fellow from the other end of the

street, some kids."

"A regular bunch of thugs, huh?"

"More like a street gang. They're at the Beckers' now."

"God help them."

"Where's Frosty?" she asked.

"Same place he's been since January. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"This is comical, Nora. You're whispering into the phone, in a locked house, because our

neighbors are going door to door helping our other neighbors put up a ridiculous sevenfoot

plastic snowman, which, by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

Ever think about that, Nora?"

"No."

"We voted for Rudolph, remember?"

"It's comical."

"I'm not laughing."

"Frosty's taking a year off, okay? The answer is no."

Luther hung, up gently and tried to concentrate on his work. After dark, he drove home,

slowly, all the way telling himself that it was silly to be worried about such trivial matters

as putting a snowman on the roof. And all the way he kept thinking of Walt Scheel.

"Come on, Scheel," he mumbled to himself. "Don't let me down."

Walt Scheel was his rival on Hemlock, a grumpy sort who lived directly across the street.

Two kids out of college, a wife battling breast cancer, a mysterious job with a Belgian

conglom, an income that appeared to be in the upper range on Hemlock-but regardless of

what he earned Scheel and the missus expected their neighbors to think they had a lot

more. Luther bought a Lexus, Scheel had to have one. Bellington put in a pool, Scheel

suddenly needed to swim in his own backyard, doctor's orders. Sue Kropp on the west

end outfitted her kitchen with designer appliances-$8,000 was the rumor-and Bev Scheel

spent $9,000 six months later.

A hopeless cook, Bev's cuisine tasted worse after the renovation, according to witnesses.

Their haughtiness had been stopped cold, however, with the breast cancer eighteen

months earlier. The Scheels had been humbled mightily. Keeping ahead of the neighbors

didn't matter anymore. Things were useless. They had endured the disease with a quiet

dignity, and, as usual, Hemlock had supported them like family. A year after the first

chemo, the Belgian conglom had reshuffled itself. Whatever Walt's job had been, it was

now something less.

The Christmas before the Scheels had been too distracted to decorate. No Frosty for them,

not much of a tree, just a few lights strung around the front window, almost an

afterthought.

A year earlier, two houses on Hemlock had gone without Frostys-the Scheels' and one on

the west end owned by a Pakistani couple who'd lived there three months then moved

away. It had been for sale, and Frohmeyer had actually considered ordering another

Frosty and conducting a nighttime raid on the premises to erect it.

"Come on, Scheel," Luther mumbled in traffic. "Keep your Frosty in the basement."

The Frosty idea had been cute six years earlier when first hatched by Frohmeyer. Now it

was tedious. But, Luther confessed, certainly not tedious to the kids on Hemlock. He had

been secretly delighted two years before when the storm gusts cleared the roofs and sent

Frostys flying over half the city.

He turned onto Hemlock, and as far as he could see the street was lined with identical

snowmen sitting like glowing sentries above the houses. Just two gaps in their ranks-the

Scheels and the Kranks. "Thank you, Scheel," Luther whispered. Kids were riding bikes.

Neighbors were outside, stringing lights, chatting across hedgerows.

A street gang was meeting in Scheel's garage, Luther noticed as he parked and walked

hurriedly into his house. Sure enough, within minutes a ladder went up and Frohmeyer

scurried up like a veteran roofer. Luther peeked through the blinds on his front door.

There was Walt Scheel standing in the front yard with a dozen people, Bev, bundled up in

a warm coat, on the front steps. Spike Frohmeyer was wrestling with an extension cord.

There were shouts and laughter, everyone seemed to be hurling instructions to Frohmeyer

as the next to the last Frosty on Hemlock was heaved up.

Little was said over a dinner of sauceless pasta and cottage cheese. Nora was down three

pounds, Luther four. After the dishes, he went to the treadmill in the basement where he

walked for fifty minutes, burning 340 calories, more than he had just consumed. He took

a shower and tried to read.

When the street was clear, he went for a walk. He would not be a prisoner in his home.

He would not hide from his neighbors. He had nothing, to fear from these people.

There was a twinge of guilt as he admired the two neat lines of snowmen guarding their

quiet street. The Trogdons were piling more ornaments on their tree, and it brought back

a few distant memories of Blair's childhood and those faraway times. He was not the

nostalgic type. You live life today, not tomorrow, certainly not yesterday, he always said.

The warm memories were quickly erased with thoughts of shopping and traffic and

burning money. Luther was quite proud of his decision to take a year off.

His belt was a bit looser. The beaches were waiting.

A bike rushed in from nowhere and slid to a stop. "Hi, Mr. Krank."

It was Spike Frohmeyer, no doubt heading home after some clandestine juvenile meeting.

The kid slept less than his father, and the neighborhood was full of stories about Spike's

nocturnal ramblings. He was a nice boy, but usually unmedicated.

"Hello, Spike," Luther said, catching his breath. "What brings you out?"

"Just checking on things," he said, as if he were the official night watchman.

"What kind of things, Spike?"

"My dad sent me over to Stanton Street to see how many Rudolphs are up."

"How many?" Luther asked, playing along.

"None. We smoked 'em again."

What a victorious night the Frohmeyers would have, Luther thought. Silly.

"You putting yours up, Mr. Krank?"

"No, I'm not, Spike. We're leaving town this year, no Christmas for us."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"This is a free country, Spike, you can do almost anything you want."

"You're not leaving till Christmas Day," Spike said.

"What?"

"Noon's what I heard. You got plenty of time to get Frosty up. That way we can win the

award again."

Luther paused for a second and once more marveled at the speed with which one person's

private business could be so thoroughly kicked around the neighborhood.

"Winning is overrated, Spike," he said wisely. "Let another street have the award this

year."

"I guess so."

"Now run along."

He rolled away and said, "See you later," over his shoulder.

The kid's father was lying in ambush when Luther came strolling by, "Evening, Luther,"

Vic said, as if the encounter was purely by chance. He leaned on his mailbox at the end of

his drive.

"Evening, Vic," Luther said, almost stopping. But at the last second he decided to keep

walking. He stepped around Frohmeyer, who tagged along.

"How's Blair?"

"Fine, Vic, thanks. How are your kids?"

"In great spirits. It's the best time of the year, Luther. Don't you think so?" Frohmeyer had

picked up the pace and the two were now side by side.

"Absolutely. I couldn't be happier. Do miss Blair, though. It won't be the same without

her."

"Of course not."

They stopped in front of the Beckers', next door to Luther's, and watched as poor Ned

teetered on the top step of the ladder in a vain effort to mount an oversized star on the

highest branch of the tree. His wife stood behind him, helping mightily with her

instructions but not once holding the ladder, and his mother-in-law was a few steps back

for the wide view. A fistfight seemed imminent.

"Some things about Christmas I'm not going to miss," Luther said.

"So you're really skipping out?"

"You got it, Vic. I'd appreciate your cooperation."

"Just doesn't seem right for some reason."

"That's not for you to decide, is it?"

"No, it's not."

"Good night, Vic." Luther left him there, amused by the Beckers.