Chapter 25
As Nina’s arrival approaches, my father and I make a run into town to pick up some presents and supplies for the holiday week ahead.
None of us is especially gift oriented, but I want to make sure we have a few things to unwrap on Christmas morning.
Deb’s Depot is the obvious destination, given how jam-packed it is with the most random merchandise imaginable.
We choose flannel pajamas for Nina and a buffalo-check work shirt for Nils; then I send my father off to browse on his own so I can find a gift for him.
He won’t remember even if he spies what I’m buying, but I feel the need to uphold a certain amount of Christmas protocol.
I choose a hat with ear flaps, an electric mosquito-swatter in the shape of a tennis racquet, a pack of maple candy, and the extra-long matches that he likes.
When I’m satisfied, I go aisle by aisle and finally find my father near the hunting equipment.
“This is the one,” he says definitively, holding up something called the EZ Grunter Xtreme, which is a tubelike object that mimics a deer’s call. We are not hunters, but he seems enamored, and I figure we’ll find some use for it.
“Perfect,” I say, adding it to my basket. As we make our way toward the checkout, my father also picks up a block of cheddar cheese, a giant popcorn tin, and a pair of tiny socks with snowmen on them.
“I’m not sure we need these,” I say of the socks.
“For the baby?”
“We don’t have a baby.”
“Do we not?” He puts the socks back.
When we get to the cash register, the woman working it is picking at a hangnail. It’s not Deb, but she looks like she could be a close relative.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“You know. Livin’ the dream,” the woman deadpans. I find her blasé manner both off-putting and refreshingly honest. “You are the only ones who’ve been in all day.”
I grab a few extra items—a moose-shaped lollipop, a pack of batteries, a lighter—in a modest attempt to boost the store’s bottom line.
The smattering of businesses in Locust generate most of their revenue between Memorial and Labor Days, when tourists stream through at a steady clip.
The off-season represents a fight for survival, and though Deb’s Depot has held its own for thirty years, this particular employee doesn’t seem optimistic about business.
“Let’s get a lotto ticket,” says my father. “I’ve got scratch fever.”
I laugh and try to gauge whether he’s joking. This is unlike him, but then I feel a frisson of excitement—perhaps this is his next premonition. “Do you think we’ll win?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Trust me—you don’t want to win the lottery. It will ruin your life. But it’s still fun to play. Dance with danger.”
We buy a few tickets.
“Merry Christmas,” the checkout woman says halfheartedly as we gather our things.
“Same to you,” says my father with genuine enthusiasm.
Outside the store, a motion-sensor Santa raises its arm and gives us a jerky “HO, HO, HO!” before keeling forward into the snow face-first.
I pull Santa back onto his feet, brush him off, and assure him: “You’re doing great.”