The Christmas Pearl by Dorothea Benton Frank Page B

of Adam and Eve had scared us half to death, the beautiful calligraphy, how I marveled at the formation of the letters and the gold leaf when I learned to write in cursive. That same Bible had been as much a part of our day-to-day activities as my mother’s cast-iron skillet.
    I looked at the corner table where it used to rest for the Christmas season. I decided that was where it should go this Christmas day as well. The table was covered with silver frames filled with pictures of family vacations and other landmark events. They could all go in a drawer for the remainder of the season. I wondered if anyone would object. If they did, I would say that this day was not about remembering playing around on a beach, catching a fish, or seeing the Eiffel Tower. Christmas was a serious occasion. The Bible belonged on display. Period. I needed a silver tray on which it would rest, so I went toward the kitchen and the door swung open.
    “’Eah!” Pearl said, handing me the exact one I wanted.
    “Thanks,” I said, thinking it was lucky for me the tray didn’t come flying right through the air. It could have cut my head right off!
    I put the tray on the table right in the center, opening the Bible to the Gospel of Luke, where my favorite story of the birth of Jesus was found. I looked around for extra candleholders. Finding none whose removal wouldn’t make a table or a nook appear to have been robbed, I went to Pearl.
    “I need—”
    “I know.” She pointed to the counter, where four silver candlesticks and four bayberry tapers waited.
    She lifted the large bowl of eggnog and placed it on a tray. With less energy than it takes to extinguish a candle, she blew the kitchen door open to pass through. I shook my head at her otherworldly antics for the thousandth time since her arrival, took the candles and candlesticks, and followed her to the dining room.
    “I’ve got ham biscuits and pimento cheese sandwiches to hold them until dinner is ready,” she said. “Remember! They need to drink a cup of this!”
    “Think it will do the trick?”
    “Ms. Theodora? My God and my Gullah heritage ain’t failed me yet, so I imagine they is still up to the task!”
    “Lord, I hope so!” That was a prayer for divine intervention, not a blasphemous remark. “So, tell me, Pearl. What’s for dinner?”
    “Oh! My old sweet friend! What’s your favorite Christmas dinner you ever had?”
    “Me?”
    The walls started to rattle, there were feet stomping overhead, and all the pictures went crooked again!
    “I guess I ain’t the only one asking!” she said, waving her arm at the walls as the pictures righted themselves and the house became quiet again.
    “Or the only one who’s hungry! Goodness! Let me think! The most delicious dinner I can recall right nowwas when I was about eight. My grandmother got it in her head that we were going to have a traditional English Christmas-day dinner. It wasn’t easy in those days to find a good piece of roast beef or a fattened goose; at least that’s what I remember them saying. Of course, there was no goose to be found, so they settled on roast beef.”
    “Hmmph! You think I don’t remember? Who do you think cooked that meal?”
    “Oh! Of course ! You did!”
    “That’s right ! Minted peas with little tiny white onions, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding…”
    We started to laugh again. Oh, by golly, this time we laughed until tears were streaming down our faces, whooping until some impatient, unseen force seemed to give Pearl a nudge.
    “Oh, fine! Fine!” she said to the ceiling.
    I looked at her, knowing that message meant we only had a short time left together. The thought of it made me want to break down and cry enough tears to fill the Ashley River. The Cooper, too.
    I looked at my wristwatch. “Five minutes, maybe ten. Then they’ll all be here!”
    “What are you worried about? Let’s close these living-room doors.”
    We slid them together with the sound of a pleasant thump.