Grisham, John - Skipping Christmas

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John Grisham: Skipping Christmas
One
The gate was packed with weary travelers, most of them standing
and huddled along the walls because the meager allotment of
plastic chairs had long since been taken. Every plane that came
and went held at least eighty passengers, yet the gate had seats
for only a few dozen.
There seemed to be a thousand waiting for the 7 P.M. flight to
Miami. They were bundled up and heavily laden, and after fighting
the traffic and the check-in and the mobs along the concourse
they were subdued, as a whole. It was the Sunday after
Thanksgiving, one of the busiest days of the year for air travel,
and as they jostled and got pushed farther into the gate many
asked themselves, not for the first time, why, exactly, they had
chosen this day to fly.
The reasons were varied and irrelevant at the moment. Some tried
to smile. Some tried to read, but the crush and the noise made it
difficult. Others just stared at the floor and waited. Nearby a
skinny black Santa Claus clanged an irksome bell and droned out
holiday greetings.
A small family approached, and when they saw the gate number and
the mob they stopped along the edge of the concourse and began
their wait. The daughter was young and pretty. Her name was
Blair, and she was obviously leaving. Her parents were not. The
three gazed at the crowd, and they, too, at that moment, silently
asked themselves why they had picked this day to travel.
The tears were over, at least most of them. Blair was twenty-
three, fresh from graduate school with a handsome resume but not
ready for a career. A friend from college was in Africa with the
Peace Corps, and this had inspired Blair to dedicate the next two
years to helping others. Her assignment was eastern Peru, where
she would teach primitive little children how to read. She would
live in a lean-to with no plumbing, no electricity, no phone, and
she was anxious to begin her journey.
The flight would take her to Miami, then to Lima, then by bus for
three days into the mountains, into another century. For the
first time in her young and sheltered life, Blair would spend
Christmas away from home. Her mother clutched her hand and tried
to be strong.
The good-byes had all been said. "Are you sure this is what you
want?" had been asked for the hundredth time.
Luther, her father, studied the mob with a scowl on his face.
What madness," he said to himself. He had dropped them at the
curb, then driven miles to park in a satellite lot. A packed
shuttle bus had delivered him back to Departures, and from there
he had elbowed his way with his wife and daughter down to this
gate. He was sad that Blair was leaving, and he detested the
swarming horde of people. He was in a foul mood. Things would get
worse for Luther.
The harried gate agents came to life and the passengers inched
forward. The first announcement was made, the one asking those
who needed extra time and those in first class to come forward.
The pushing and shoving rose to the next level.
"I guess we'd better go," Luther said to his daughter, his only
child.
They hugged again and fought back the tears. Blair smiled and
said, "The year will fly by. I'll be home next Christmas."
Nora, her mother, bit her lip and nodded and kissed her once
more. "Please be careful," she said because she couldn't stop
saying it.
"I'll be fine."
They released her and watched helplessly as she joined a long
line and inched away, away from them, away from home and security
and everything she'd ever known. As she handed over her boarding
pass, Blair turned and smiled at them one last time.
"Oh well," Luther said. "Enough of this. She's going to be fine."
Nora could think of nothing to say as she watched her daughter
disappear. They turned and fell in with the foot traffic, one
long crowded march down the concourse, past the Santa Claus with
the irksome bell, past the tiny shops packed with people.
It was raining when they left the terminal and found the line for
the shuttle back to the satellite, and it was pouring when the
shuttle sloshed its way through the lot and dropped them off, two
hundred yards from their car. It cost Luther $7.00 to free
himself and his car from the greed of the airport authority.
When they were moving toward the city, Nora finally spoke. "Will
she be okay?" she asked. He had heard that question so often that
his response was an automatic grunt.
"Sure."
"Do you really think so?"
"Sure." Whether he did or he didn't, what did it matter at this
point? She was gone; they couldn't stop her.
He gripped the wheel with both hands and silently cursed the
traffic slowing in front of him. He couldn't tell if his wife was
crying or not. Luther wanted only to get home and dry off, sit by
the fire, and read a magazine.
He was within two miles of home when she announced, "I need a few
things from the grocery."
"It's raining," he said.
"I still need them."
"Can't it wait?"
"You can stay in the car. Just take a minute. Go to Chip's. It's
open today."
So he headed for Chip's, a place he despised not only for its
outrageous prices and snooty staff but also for its impossible
location. It was still raining of course she couldn't pick a
Kroger where you could park and make a dash. No, she wanted
Chip's, where you parked and hiked.
Only sometimes you couldn't park at all. The lot was full. The
fire lanes were packed. He searched in vain for ten minutes
before Nora said, "Just drop me at the curb." She was frustrated
at his inability to find a suitable spot.
He wheeled into a space near a burger joint and demanded, "Give
me a list."
"I'll go," she said, but only in feigned protest. Luther would
hike through the rain and they both knew it.
"Gimme a list."
"Just white chocolate and a pound of pistachios," she said,
relieved.
"That's all?"
"Yes, and make sure it's Logan's chocolate, one-pound bar, and
Lance Brothers pistachios."
"And this couldn't wait?"
"No, Luther, it cannot wait. I'm doing dessert for lunch
tomorrow. If you don't want to go, then hush up and I'll go."
He slammed the door. His third step was into a shallow pothole.
Cold water soaked his right ankle and oozed down quickly into his
shoe. He froze for a second and caught his breath, then stepped
away on his toes, trying desperately to spot other puddles while
dodging traffic.
Chip's believed in high prices and modest rent. It was on a side
alley, not visible from anywhere really. Next to it was a wine
shop run by a European of some strain who claimed to be French
but was rumored to be Hungarian. His English was awful but he'd
learned the language of price gouging. Probably learned it from
Chip's next door. In fact all the shops in the District, as it
was known, strove to be discriminating.
And every shop was full. Another Santa clanged away with the same
bell outside the cheese shop. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
rattled from a hidden speaker above the sidewalk in front of
Mother Earth, where the crunchy people were no doubt still
wearing their sandals. Luther hated the store-refused to set foot
inside. Nora bought organic herbs there, for what reason he'd
never been certain. The old Mexican who owned the cigar store was
happily stringing lights in his window, pipe stuck in the corner
of his mouth, smoke drifting behind him, fake snow already
sprayed on a fake tree.
There was a chance of real snow later in the night. The shoppers
wasted no time as they hustled in and out of the stores. The sock
on Luther's right foot was now frozen to his ankle.
There were no shopping baskets near the checkout at Chip's, and
of course this was a bad sign. Luther didn't need one, but it
meant the place was packed. The aisles were narrow and the
inventory was laid out in such a way that nothing made sense.
Regardless of what was on your list, you had to crisscross the
place half a dozen times to finish up.
A stock boy was working hard on a display of Christmas
chocolates. A sign by the butcher demanded that all good
customers order their Christmas turkeys immediately. New
Christmas wines were in! And Christmas hams!
What a waste, Luther thought to himself. Why do we eat so much
and drink so much in the celebration of the birth of Christ? He
found the pistachios near the bread. Odd how that made sense at
Chip's. The white chocolate was nowhere near the baking section,
so Luther cursed under his breath and trudged along the aisles,
looking at everything. He got bumped by a shopping cart. No
apology, no one noticed. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" was coming
from above, as if Luther was supposed to be comforted. Might as
well be "Frosty the Snowman."
Two aisles over, next to a selection of rice from around the
world, there was a shelf of baking chocolates. As he stepped
closer, he recognized a one-pound bar of Logan's. Another step
closer and it suddenly disappeared, snatched from his grasp by a
harsh-looking woman who never saw him. The little space reserved
for Logan's was empty, and in the next desperate moment Luther
saw not another speck of white chocolate. Lots of dark and medium
chips and such, but nothing white.
The express line was, of course, slower than the other two.
Chip's outrageous prices forced its customers to buy in small
quantities, but this had no effect whatsoever on the speed with
which they came and went. Each item was lifted, inspected, and
manually entered into the register by an unpleasant cashier.
Sacking was hit or miss, though around Christmas the sackers came
to life with smiles and enthusiasm and astounding recall of
customers' names. It was the tipping season, yet another unseemly
aspect of Christmas that Luther loathed.
Six bucks and change for a pound of pistachios. He shoved the
eager young sacker away, and for a second thought he might have
to strike him to keep his precious pistachios out of another bag.
He stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoat and quickly left
the store.
A crowd had stopped to watch the old Mexican decorate his cigar
store window. He was plugging in little robots who trudged
through the fake snow, and this delighted the crowd no end,
Luther was forced to move off the curb, and in doing so he
stepped just left instead of just right. His left foot sank into
five inches of cold slush. He froze for a split second, sucking
in lungfuls of cold air, cursing the old Mexican and his robots
and his fans and the damned pistachios. He yanked his foot upward
and slung dirty water on his pants leg, and standing at the curb,
with two frozen feet and the bell clanging away and "Santa Claus
Is Coming to Town" blaring from the loudspeaker and the sidewalk
blocked by revelers, Luther began to hate Christmas.
The water had seeped into his toes by the time he reached his
car. "No white chocolate," he hissed at Nora as he crawled behind
the wheel.
She was wiping her eyes.
"What is it now?" he demanded.
"I just talked to Blair."
"What? How? Is she all right?"
"She called from the airplane. She's fine." Nora was biting her
lip, trying to recover.
Exactly how much does it cost to phone home from thirty thousand
feet? Luther wondered. He'd seen phones on planes. Any credit
card'll do. Blair had one he'd given her, the type where the
bills are sent to Mom and Dad. From a cell phone up there to a
cell phone down here, probably at least ten bucks.
And for what? I'm fine, Mom. Haven't seen you in almost an hour.
We all love each other. We'll all miss each other. Gotta go, Mom.
The engine was running though Luther didn't remember starting it.
"You forgot the white chocolate?" Nora asked, fully recovered.
"No. I didn't forget it. They didn't have any."
"Did you ask Rex?"
"Who's Rex?"
"The butcher."
"No, Nora, for some reason I didn't think to ask the butcher if
he had any white chocolate hidden among his chops and livers."
She yanked the door handle with all the frustration she could
muster. "I have to have it. Thanks for nothing." And she was
gone.
I hope you step in frozen water, Luther grumbled to himself. He
fumed and muttered other unpleasantries. He switched the heater
vents to the floorboard to thaw his feet, then watched the large
people come and go at the burger place. Traffic was stalled on
the streets beyond.
How nice it would be to avoid Christmas, he began to think. A
snap of the fingers and it's January 2. No tree, no shopping, no
meaningless gifts, no tipping, no clutter and wrappings, no
traffic and crowds, no fruitcakes, no liquor and hams that no one
needed, no "Rudolph" and "Frosty," no office party, no wasted
money. His list grew long. He huddled over the wheel, smiling
now, waiting for heat down below, dreaming pleasantly of escape.
She was back, with a small brown sack which she tossed beside him
just carefully enough not to crack the chocolate while letting
him know that she'd found it and he hadn't. "Everybody knows you
have to ask," she said sharply as she yanked at her shoulder
harness.
"Odd way of marketing," Luther mused, in reverse now. "Hide it by
the butcher, make it scarce, folks'll clamor for it. I'm sure
they charge more if it's hidden."
"Oh hush, Luther"
"Are your feet wet?"
"No. Yours?"
"No."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"Just worried."
"Do you think she'll be all right?"
"She's on an airplane. You just talked to her."
"I mean down there, in the jungle."
"Stop worrying, okay? The Peace Corps wouldn't send her into a
dangerous place."
"It won't be the same."
"What?"
"Christmas."
It certainly will not, Luther almost said. Oddly, he was smiling
as he worked his way through traffic.
Two
With his feet toasty and besocked with heavy wool, Luther fell
fast asleep and woke up even faster. Nora was roaming. She was in
the bathroom flushing and flipping lights, then she left for the
kitchen, where she fixed an herbal tea, then he heard her down
the hall in Blair's room, no doubt staring at the walls and
sniffling over where the years had gone. Then she was back in
bed, rolling and jerking covers and trying her best to wake him.
She wanted dialogue, a sounding board. She wanted Luther to
assure her Blair was safe from the horrors of the Peruvian
jungle.
But Luther was frozen, not flinching at any joint, breathing as
heavily as possible because if the dialogue began again it would
run for hours. He pretended to snore and that settled her down.
It was after eleven when she grew still. Luther was wild-eyed,
and his feet were smoldering. When he was absolutely certain she
was asleep, he eased from the bed, ripped off the heavy socks and
tossed them into a corner, and tiptoed down the hall to the
kitchen for a glass of water. Then a pot of decaf.
An hour later he was in his basement office, at his desk with
files open, the computer humming, spreadsheets in the printer, an
investigator searching for evidence. Luther was a tax accountant
by trade, so his records were meticulous. The evidence piled up
and he forgot about sleep.
A year earlier, the Luther Krank family had spent $6,100 on
Christmas-$6,100!-$6,100 on decorations, lights, flowers, a new
Frosty, and a Canadian spruce; $6,100 on hams, turkeys, pecans,
cheese balls, and cookies no one ate; $6,100 on wines and liquors
and cigars around the office; $6,100 on fruitcakes from the
firemen and the rescue squad, and calendars from the police
association; $6,100 on Luther for a cashmere sweater he secretly
loathed and a sports jacket he'd worn twice and an ostrich skin
wallet that was quite expensive and quite ugly and frankly he
didn't like the feel of. On Nora for a dress she wore to the
company's Christmas dinner and her own cashmere sweater, which
had not been seen since she unwrapped it, and a designer scarf
she loved, $6,100. On Blair $6,100 for an overcoat, gloves and
boots, and a Walkman for her jogging, and, of course, the latest,
slimmest cell phone on the market-$6,100 on lesser gifts for a
select handful of distant relatives, most on Nora's side-$6,100
on Christmas cards from a stationer three doors down from Chip's,
in the District, where all prices were double; $6,100 for the
party, an annual Christmas Eve bash at the Krank home,
And what was left of it? Perhaps a useful item or two, but
nothing much-$6,100!
With great relish Luther tallied the damage, as if it had been
inflicted by someone else. All evidence was coming neatly
together and making a very strong case,
He waffled a bit at the end, where he'd saved the charity
numbers. Gifts to the church, to the toy drive, to the homeless
shelter and the food bank. But he raced through the benevolence
and came right back to the awful conclusion: $6,100 for
Christmas. -
"Nine percent of my adjusted gross," he said in disbelief. "Six
thousand, one hundred. Cash. All but six hundred nondeductible."
In his distress, he did something he rarely did. Luther reached
for the bottle of cognac in his desk drawer, and knocked back a
few drinks.
He slept from three to six, and roared to life during his shower.
Nora wanted to fret over coffee and oatmeal, but Luther would
have none of it. He read the paper, laughed at the comics,
assured her twice that Blair was having a ball, then kissed her
and raced away to the office, a
The travel agency was in the atrium of Luther's building. He
walked by it at least twice each day, seldom glancing at the
window displays of beaches and mountains and sailboats and
pyramids. It was there for those lucky enough to travel. Luther
had never stepped inside, never thought about it actually. Their
vacation was five days at the beach, in a friend's condo, and
with his workload they were lucky to get that.
He stole away just after ten. He used the stairs so he wouldn't
have to explain anything, and darted through the door of Regency
Travel. Biff was waiting for him.
Biff had a large flower in her hair and a waxy bronze tan, and
she looked as if she'd just dropped by the shop for a few hours
between beaches. Her comely smile stopped Luther cold, and her
first words left him flabbergasted. "You need a cruise," she
said.
"How'd you know?" he managed to mumble. Her hand was out,
grabbing his, shaking it, leading him to her long desk, where she
placed him on one side while she perched herself on the other.
Long bronze legs, Luther noted. Beach legs.
"December is the best time of year for a cruise," she began, and
Luther was already sold. The brochures came in a torrent. She
unfolded them across her desk, under his dreamy eyes.
"You work in the building?" she asked, easing near the issue of
money.
"Wiley & Beck, sixth floor," Luther said without removing his
eyes from the floating palaces, the endless beaches.
"Bail bondsmen?" she said.
Luther flinched just a bit. "No. Tax accountants."
"Sorry," she said, kicking herself. The pale skin, the dark eye
circles, the standard blue oxford-cloth button-down with bad
imitation prep school tie. She should have known better. Oh well.
She reached for even glossier brochures. "Don't believe we get
too many from your firm."
"We don't do vacations very well. Lots of work. I like this one
right here."
"Great choice."
They settled on the Island Princess, a spanking-new mammoth
vessel with rooms for three thousand, four pools, three casinos,
nonstop food, eight stops in the Caribbean, and the list went on
and on. Luther left with a stack of brochures and scurried back
to his office six floors up.
The ambush was carefully planned. First, he worked late, which
was certainly not unusual, but at any rate helped set the stage
for the evening. He got lucky with the weather because it was
still dreary. Hard to get in the spirit of the season when the
skies were damp and gray. And much easier to dream about ten
luxurious days in the sun.
If Nora wasn't worrying about Blair, then he'd certainly get her
started. He'd simply mention some dreadful piece of news about a
new virus or perhaps a Colombian village massacre, and that would
set her off. Keep her mind off the joys of Christmas. Won't be
the same without Blair, will it?
Why don't we take a break this year? Go hide. Go escape. Indulge
ourselves.
Sure enough, Nora was off in the jungle. She hugged him and
smiled and tried to hide the fact that she'd been crying. Her day
had gone reasonably well. She'd survived the ladies' luncheon and
spent two hours at the children's clinic, part of her grinding
volunteer schedule.
While she heated up the pasta, he sneaked a reggae CD into the
stereo, but didn't push Play. Timing was crucial.
They chatted about Blair, and not long into the dinner Nora
kicked the door open. "It'll be so different this Christmas,
won't it, Luther?"
"Yes it will," he said sadly, swallowing hard. "Nothing'll be the
same."
"For the first time in twenty-three years, she won't be here."
"It might even be depressing. Lots of depression at Christmas,
you know." Luther quickly swallowed and his fork grew still.
"I'd love to just forget about it," she said, her words ebbing at
the end.
Luther flinched and cocked his good ear in her direction.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Well!!" he said dramatically, shoving his plate forward. "Now
that you mention it. There's something I want to discuss with
you."
"Finish your pasta."
"I'm finished," he announced, jumping to his feet. His briefcase
was just a few steps away, and he attacked it.
"Luther, what are you doing?"
"Hang on."
He stood across the table from her, papers in both hands. "Here's
my idea," he said proudly. "And it's brilliant."
"Why am I nervous?"
He unfolded a spreadsheet, and began pointing. "Here, my dear, is
what we did last Christmas. Six thousand, one hundred dollars we
spent on Christmas. Six thousand, one hundred dollars."
"I heard you the first time."
"And precious little to show for it. The vast majority of it down
the drain. Wasted. And that, of course, does not include my time,
your time, the traffic, stress, worry, bickering, ill-will, sleep
loss-all the wonderful things that we pour into the holiday
season."
"Where is this going?"
"Thanks for asking." Luther dropped the spreadsheets and, quick
as a magician, presented the Island Princess to his wife.
Brochures covered the table. "Where is this going, my dear? It's
going to the Caribbean. Ten days of total luxury on the Island
Princess, the fanciest cruise ship in the world. The Bahamas,
Jamaica, Grand Cayman, oops., wait a minute, "
Luther dashed into the den, hit the Play button, waited for the
first notes, adjusted the volume, then dashed back to the kitchen
where Nora was inspecting a brochure.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Reggae, the stuff they listen to down there. Anyway, where was
I?"
"You were island hopping."
"Right, we'll snorkel on Grand Cayman, windsurf in Jamaica, lie
on the beaches. Ten days, Nora, ten fabulous days"
"I'll have to lose some weight."
"We'll both go on a diet. Whatta you say?"
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is simple. We don't do Christmas. We save the money,
spend it on ourselves for once. Not a dime on food we won't eat
or clothes we won't wear or gifts no one needs. Not one red cent.
It's a boycott, Nora, a complete boycott of Christmas."
"Sounds awful."
"No, it's wonderful. And it's just for one year. Let's take a
break. Blair's not here. She'll be back next year and we can jump
back into the Christmas chaos, if that's what you want. Come on,
Nora, please. We skip Christmas, save the money, and go splash in
the Caribbean for ten days."
"How much will it cost?"
"Three thousand bucks."
"So we save money?"
"Absolutely."
"When do we leave?"
"High noon, Christmas Day."
They stared at each other for a long time.
The deal was closed in bed, with the television on but muted,
with magazines scattered over the sheets, all unread, with the
brochures not Far away on the night table. Luther was scanning a
financial newspaper but seeing little. Nora had a paperback but
the pages weren't turning.
The deal breaker had been their charitable giving. She simply
refused to forgo it, or skip it, as Luther insisted on saying.
She had reluctantly agreed to buy no gifts. She also wept at the
thought of no tree, though Luther had mercilessly driven home the
point that they yelled at each other every Christmas when they
decorated the damned thing. And no Frosty on the roof ? When
every house on the street would have one? Which brought up the
issue of public ridicule. Wouldn't they be scorned for ignoring
Christmas?
So what, Luther had replied over and over. Their friends and
neighbors might disapprove at first, but secretly they would burn
with envy. Ten days in the Caribbean, Nora, he kept telling her.
Their friends and neighbors won't be laughing when they're
shoveling snow, will they? No jeers from the spectators when
we're roasting in the sun and they're bloated on turkey and
dressing. No smirks when we return thin and tanned and completely
unafraid of going to the mailbox.
Nora had seldom seen him so determined. He methodically killed
all her arguments, one by one, until nothing was left but their
charitable giving.
"You're going to let a lousy six hundred bucks stand between us
and a Caribbean cruise?" Luther asked with great sarcasm.
"No, you are," she replied coolly.
And with that they went to their corners and tried to read.
But after a tense, silent hour, Luther kicked off the sheets and
yanked off the wool socks and said, "All right. Let's match last
year's charitable gifts, but not a penny more."
She flung her paperback and went for his neck. They embraced,
kissed, then she reached for the brochures.
Three
Though it was Luther's scheme, Nora was the first to be tested.
The call came on Tuesday morning, from a pricklish man she didn't
much care for. His name was Aubie, and he owned The Pumpkin Seed,
a pompous little stationery store with a silly name and absurd
prices.
After the obligatory greeting, Aubie came right to the point.
"Just a bit worried about your Christmas cards, Mrs. Krank," he
said, trying to seem deeply concerned.
"Why are you worried?" Nora asked. She did not like being hounded
by a crabby shopkeeper who would barely speak to her the rest of
the year.
"Oh well, you always select the most beautiful cards, Mrs. Krank,
and we need to order them now." He was bad at flattery. Every
customer got the same line.
According to Luther's audit, The Pumpkin Seed had collected $318
from the Kranks last Christmas for cards, and at the moment it
did seem somewhat extravagant. Not a major expense, but what did
they get from it? Luther flatly refused to help with the
addressing and stamping, and he flew hot every time she asked if
so-and-so should be added to or deleted from their list. He also
refused to offer so much as a glance at any of the cards they
received, and Nora had to admit to herself that there was a
diminishing joy in getting them.
So she stood straight and said, "We're not ordering cards this
year." She could almost hear Luther applauding.
"Do what?"
"You heard me."
"May I ask why not?"
"You certainly may not."
To which Aubie had no response. He stuttered something then hung
up, and for a moment Nora was filled with pride. She wavered,
though, as she thought of the questions that would be raised. Her
sister, their minister's wife, friends on the literacy board, her
aunt in a retirement village-all would ask, at some point, what
happened to their Christmas cards.
Lost in the mail? Ran out of time?
No. She would tell them the truth. No Christmas for us this year;
Blair's gone and we're taking a cruise. And if you missed the
cards that much, then I'll send you two next year.
Rallying, with a fresh cup of coffee, Nora asked herself how many
of those on her list would even notice. She received a few dozen
each year, a dwindling number, she admitted, and she kept no log
of who bothered and who didn't. In the turmoil of Christmas, who
really had time to fret over a card that didn't come?
Which brought up another of Luther's favorite holiday gripes-the
emergency stash. Nora kept an extra supply so she could respond
immediately to an unexpected card. Every year they received two
or three from total strangers and a few from folks who hadn't
sent them before, and within twenty-four hours she'd dash off the
Kranks' holiday greetings in response, always with her standard
handwritten note of good cheer and peace be with you.
Of course it was foolish.
She decided that she wouldn't miss the entire ritual of Christmas
cards. She wouldn't miss the tedium of writing all those little
messages, and hand-addressing a hundred or so envelopes, and
stamping them, and mailing them, and worrying about who she
forgot. She wouldn't miss the bulk they added to the daily mail,
and the hastily opened envelopes, and the standard greetings from
people as hurried as herself.
Freed of Christmas cards, Nora called Luther for a little
propping. He was at his desk. She replayed the encounter with
Aubie. "That little worm," Luther mumbled. "Congratulations," he
said when she finished.
"It wasn't hard at all," she gushed.
"Just think of all those beaches, dear, just waiting down there."
"What have you eaten?" she asked.
"Nothing. I'm still at three hundred calories."
"Me too."
When she hung up, Luther returned to the task at hand. He wasn't
crunching numbers or grappling with IRS regs, as usual, but
instead he was drafting a letter to his colleagues. His first
Christmas letter. In it, he was carefully and artfully explaining
to the office why he would not be participating in the holiday
rituals, and, in turn, he would appreciate it if everyone else
just left him alone. He would buy no gifts and would accept none.
Thank you anyway. He would not attend the firm's black-tie
Christmas dinner, nor would he be there for the drunken mess they
called the office party. He didn't want the cognac and the ham
that certain clients gave to all the big shots each year. He
wasn't angry and he would not yell "Humbug!" at anyone who
offered him a "Merry Christmas."
He was simply skipping Christmas. And taking a cruise instead.
He spent most of the quiet morning on his letter, and typed it
himself. He would place a copy on every desk at Wiley & Beck.
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,
摘要：

JohnGrisham:SkippingChristmasOneThegatewaspackedwithwearytravelers,mostofthemstandingandhuddledalongthewallsbecausethemeagerallotmentofplasticchairshadlongsincebeentaken.Everyplanethatcameandwentheldatleasteightypassengers,yetthegatehadseatsforonlyafewdozen.Thereseemedtobeathousandwaitingforthe7P.M....

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Grisham, John - Skipping Christmas.pdf

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