lips, with a cracking voice, I whispered, “Please. Help me. Do whatever it takes, Daddy. Do whatever they say to do. Help me.”
I tried to squeeze out a tear, but I was too dehydrated. The speech would have to do. My fate was in my father’s hands. He had better have been listening. He had better cooperate.
For my part, all I could do was continue to be someplace else in my mind.
Foods, Drinks, and Games
A s always, Victoria and Albert had decorated the house beautifully for the holidays. Albert had volunteered to help redecorate the Square, too. Perhaps he felt partially responsible for the mess. That would have been just like him.
Anyway, the damage from my father’s helicopter assault had all been undone. The circle of trees, one for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas, had been restored. Santa and his reindeer had been raised from the dead. All was in order.
The “celebration” began when our group—my father, Mickie, Lena, Kurt, and I—met up with Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, Patience, and Hopewell in front of the Eight-Maids-a-Milking tree. We stood in the Square with about one hundred other Highlands residents to experience Christmas songs by the Dickens Carolers and another shower of fake snow, this time courtesy of the Martin County Fire Department.
This fake snow was actually freezing slush, expelled from fire hoses atop a hook and ladder truck. The firefighters then proceeded to spread a thin layer of slippery wetness over the streets of The Highlands. As part of the celebration, several families had modified their golf carts into sleighs in order to enjoy a “jingling sleigh ride” home.
While the rest of us were climbing into the Pattersons’ sleigh, Mr. Patterson pulled my father aside and made another offer for our house. Right then and there. “I’ll give you hard currency,” he told him. “You can have it all in yuan if you like. I’ve got it right in the vault.”
My father just smiled. Mickie, however, looked interested.
Patience and I climbed into the back of the sleigh last, and then it took off. The Pattersons’ RDS servants, Daphne and Herbert, were left to walk behind us, traversing the slushy streets as best they could. As soon as we picked up speed, Patience whispered something very disturbing to me: “Listen to this—Daphne told Herbert that Victoria’s little break in November was an emergency trip to bury her father down in Mexico City.”
My eyes started to tear up immediately. I whispered, “Oh my God. No.” I thought back to earlier in the day. I told her, “Albert was trying to talk to Victoria about something, but she wouldn’t answer him. That must have been it.” I shook my head slowly. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“She’s not allowed. She can’t tell you anything personal.”
“But this is different.”
Patience just shrugged. “Not really.”
That made me angry. “Yes, really!”
Patience pointed to her servants. “Be careful. They’re getting too close. They’ll hear us.” She raised her voice and changed the subject. “So, what’s the theme of the show tonight?”
I was still angry, and hurt, and upset, but I managed to suppress it all. I answered, “We have two themes tonight. The dinner theme is ‘An Edwardian Christmas.’”
Patience deadpanned, “There’s a surprise.”
“And the overall theme is ‘Living with Divorce.’ Mickie is doing a series on how a divorced couple can still have a good time with their kids over the holidays by agreeing not to bring up marital issues.”
“That should be nice and tense.”
“Do you think?”
The sleigh skidded to a halt at the front gate and we all climbed out. Mickie led everyone into the house, past the glittering white lights framing our doorway and into the sumptuously decorated foyer.
Kurt hefted a camera onto his shoulder and spun in slow circles, shooting as Mickie pointed out the different features—the nut garland, the cards on ribbons, the candles, the boughs and
I tried to squeeze out a tear, but I was too dehydrated. The speech would have to do. My fate was in my father’s hands. He had better have been listening. He had better cooperate.
For my part, all I could do was continue to be someplace else in my mind.
Foods, Drinks, and Games
A s always, Victoria and Albert had decorated the house beautifully for the holidays. Albert had volunteered to help redecorate the Square, too. Perhaps he felt partially responsible for the mess. That would have been just like him.
Anyway, the damage from my father’s helicopter assault had all been undone. The circle of trees, one for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas, had been restored. Santa and his reindeer had been raised from the dead. All was in order.
The “celebration” began when our group—my father, Mickie, Lena, Kurt, and I—met up with Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, Patience, and Hopewell in front of the Eight-Maids-a-Milking tree. We stood in the Square with about one hundred other Highlands residents to experience Christmas songs by the Dickens Carolers and another shower of fake snow, this time courtesy of the Martin County Fire Department.
This fake snow was actually freezing slush, expelled from fire hoses atop a hook and ladder truck. The firefighters then proceeded to spread a thin layer of slippery wetness over the streets of The Highlands. As part of the celebration, several families had modified their golf carts into sleighs in order to enjoy a “jingling sleigh ride” home.
While the rest of us were climbing into the Pattersons’ sleigh, Mr. Patterson pulled my father aside and made another offer for our house. Right then and there. “I’ll give you hard currency,” he told him. “You can have it all in yuan if you like. I’ve got it right in the vault.”
My father just smiled. Mickie, however, looked interested.
Patience and I climbed into the back of the sleigh last, and then it took off. The Pattersons’ RDS servants, Daphne and Herbert, were left to walk behind us, traversing the slushy streets as best they could. As soon as we picked up speed, Patience whispered something very disturbing to me: “Listen to this—Daphne told Herbert that Victoria’s little break in November was an emergency trip to bury her father down in Mexico City.”
My eyes started to tear up immediately. I whispered, “Oh my God. No.” I thought back to earlier in the day. I told her, “Albert was trying to talk to Victoria about something, but she wouldn’t answer him. That must have been it.” I shook my head slowly. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“She’s not allowed. She can’t tell you anything personal.”
“But this is different.”
Patience just shrugged. “Not really.”
That made me angry. “Yes, really!”
Patience pointed to her servants. “Be careful. They’re getting too close. They’ll hear us.” She raised her voice and changed the subject. “So, what’s the theme of the show tonight?”
I was still angry, and hurt, and upset, but I managed to suppress it all. I answered, “We have two themes tonight. The dinner theme is ‘An Edwardian Christmas.’”
Patience deadpanned, “There’s a surprise.”
“And the overall theme is ‘Living with Divorce.’ Mickie is doing a series on how a divorced couple can still have a good time with their kids over the holidays by agreeing not to bring up marital issues.”
“That should be nice and tense.”
“Do you think?”
The sleigh skidded to a halt at the front gate and we all climbed out. Mickie led everyone into the house, past the glittering white lights framing our doorway and into the sumptuously decorated foyer.
Kurt hefted a camera onto his shoulder and spun in slow circles, shooting as Mickie pointed out the different features—the nut garland, the cards on ribbons, the candles, the boughs and
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