The Honk and Holler Opening Soon by Billie Letts Page B

a jiffy.”
    “Don’t go to any trouble for me, Caney.”
    “You’re no trouble, Vena. No trouble at all.”
    *
    Cocooned in Caney’s heavy flannel robe and a nest of thick blankets, Vena took the mug he offered, then blew at the steaming liquid before she took a cautious sip. “Um.” She ventured another taste. “This isn’t just ordinary hot chocolate, is it?”
    “No. It’s a secret family recipe.”
    “What’s in it?”
    “That’s the secret. And if I told you, my Aunt Effie would come out of her grave raising hell.”
    “You come from a big family, Caney?”
    “Not much family at all. My parents weren’t married. Hell, they were just kids. He took off when he found out she was pregnant.
    She stuck around till I was three or four, then my aunt took over.
    Well, actually, she was my great-aunt.” Caney tapped a cigarette from his pack and held it out to Vena.
    “Thanks, but I really am quitting.”
    “What about you?” Caney asked. “Your folks.”
    “My mom and dad are gone.” Vena’s voice was even, without emotion.
    “Any other family?”
    Vena pressed the back of her hand against her lips as if she might hold back the words. “No,” she said. “I had a sister.” Then she turned to stare at the blinking lights of the Christmas tree, her face bathed in color, then cast in darkness. “She died a few months ago.”
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
    “You didn’t.” Vena drained the last of her drink, then, forcing a lighter tone, she said, “This is nice, Caney. I mean, it feels like Christmas, doesn’t it? Snow, hot chocolate . . . the tree. Sort of like one of those Hallmark cards.”
    Caney slipped his hand into the pocket of his chair and pulled out the gift he had kept there all day.
    “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it to Vena.
    “Oh, Caney. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .”
    “It’s just something I had when I was a kid.”
    Vena peeled the tissue paper back to reveal a tiny clear figure, a prancing horse of spun glass. With her fingertips, she traced the delicate lines of the horse’s body and the smooth spirals which shaped its tail and mane. Then she held it up so that the lights on the tree sent gleaming flashes of reds and greens through the frag-ile glass.
    Smiling, she looked up and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Caney.” Then she placed the horse in the palm of her hand and gently closed her fingers over it. “Merry Christmas.”

Chapter Thirteen
    C ANEY HAD HEARD every sound Vena made from the time he turned out the light until the sun came up.
    He’d listened as she pounded her pillow into submission, wrestled blankets to defeat, forced the cushions of the couch to a truce.
    He’d heard her get up once, feeling her way to the dog where she stroked and soothed until it stopped whimpering; then she’d gone to the window where she’d stood for a long time, looking out into the night.
    Soon after she’d settled down on the couch again, he could tell when her breathing slowed that she’d given herself to sleep . . . knew, too, she was dreaming when he heard a soft whine of protest before she murmured, “No. Don’t.” A warning whispered in the dark.
    But as soon as the sky began to turn pink Caney went out like he’d had a whiff of ether.
    Sleep carried him so far under that he didn’t hear Vena stir, didn’t hear her fold away her bedding or tiptoe to the bathroom.
    But when he did begin to surface, in those few free moments drifting between dream and reality, he floated past watery images of a woman, dark hair spilling across a pillow, face turned toward dim light. And resting in her hand, a small glass horse.
    When he awoke to the sound of the shower, he felt time rewinding itself, felt again the wonder of other mornings—rousing on the first day of summer vacation; opening his eyes to the sight of a key on his dresser, the key to his very own car; waking on a fast-moving train to the view of a city skyline—knowing in those