Chapter 7
Mom might stubbornly adhere to her newly adopted catchphrase, “Leave it to me. I have it all taken care of,” but I’m not cruel enough to abandon her on the Mavericks’ card night.
It’s a fixture here at the Carlton house, like the drippy kitchen faucet and the midnight-blue shag carpet Pap swears will come back in style.
Pap adored Gran, but even she couldn’t nudge him out of his stubborn ways.
Much to Gran’s grief, their house never boasted a three-leaf table in their dining room, but four strategically placed card tables surrounded by plush seating.
The very tableau now before me.
“Why’d you throw that ace, partner?” Leonard slaps a hand over his chest as if the sight of an ace of diamonds gives him instant heartburn. Maybe it does.
“Because I had to,” Pap answers with a growl.
“No table talk.” Bruce’s severe gaze toggles between Leonard and Pap. “If you two can’t handle your tricks, then bow out.”
Such is an evening with the Mavericks. They may be grumpy, loud, and sport an embarrassing amount of Western wear, but I love them dearly.
Growing up, I always had a built-in cheering section.
Like the time Leonard brought a foghorn to the children’s church Christmas pageant.
I hated being in front of crowds, even then.
I was the Star of Bethlehem with zero lines or solos, but I felt on top of the world when I stood through all four verses of “Joy to the World” without puking.
Mom missed the program, but at the time of my bow, the Mavericks gave me a standing ovation, punctuated with the unloading of Leonard’s entire foghorn can.
Such devotion followed me throughout the years, and so I will forever tolerate the ever-present smell of menthol cream and tubs of Metamucil in the cabinet.
Most think their name is because of poker, but they barely play the game. No, they call themselves the Mavericks because that’s the only brand of cards they accept. Once, I went to the state capitol for a school field trip and brought home a deck made by Bicycle. Pap didn’t speak to me for a week.
So yeah, the men take their cards seriously.
Right now, they’re playing Spades at two tables, and the pair that wins from each battles it out for the trophy—the winning hand.
Which is actually … a hand. Gran had an old mannequin from the shop that cracked down the center after tumbling down the stairs.
Pap had dismembered it and took the hand.
So the champ receives the “winning hand” along with murmured old-people puns like “Gotta hand it to you.” It’s been passed among themselves for two decades now.
The Mavericks see the trophy as a token of cardsharp supremacy, but I see it as something that needs to be disinfected.
“Who wants snacks?” I wasn’t joking when I told Fletcher that snack dealing is my skill set. It’s been my lifelong role to be the DD—designated distributor.
All the men raise their hands like first graders. I smile and pass out the goodie bags I made earlier.
“Leonard.” I purposely withhold his. “Did you bring me what I asked?”
“Give me my snacks, woman.” He lightly slaps the table. “That’s bribery.”
I cluck my tongue and step back. “No, it was our agreement.”
After a lengthy sigh, he jerks a thumb toward the foyer. “It’s in the box by the door.” He motions me closer. “But if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with it.”
“Deal.” I hand him the two bags he requested last week, and he grins wide. “You better not have been shy with the chocolate chips in the brownies.”
“You insult me,” I say and turn toward Bruce. “And you? Are you ready for next week?” This time next Friday, we’ll be gracing Silver Creek’s Main Street.
Bruce chomps on a pretzel stick, his lips smacking loudly. “Have I ever let you down?”
“Never, but your role is bigger this year.”
He scoffs, disturbing the salt crystals that crumbled onto his gray whiskers. “I was born for it.”
It seems like everything is falling into place for my White Christmas float. I may not be great at papier-maché or painting décor, but I am skilled at one thing—wardrobe. This year, the people are going to be the props.
Mom breezes into the room, her schnauzer, Oggy, following close behind. “How does it look?” She spins around, her voluminous skirt flaring out in waves of red satin.
I examine my stitchwork like an artist scrutinizes their brushstrokes. The A-line silhouette gown was a slippery beast to sew, but worth it. The faux fur on the collar, cuffs, and hem offers the perfect contrast to the shimmering crimson.
Once satisfied, I smile at Mom. “You look like Judy Haynes.” And she did.
Mom’s hair is a lighter shade of blond than mine, and her frame’s thinner.
While I prefer Judy’s dress to Betty’s in the final scene of White Christmas, I will swallow my pride for the good of the prize.
If The Memory Bank doesn’t win the Most Festive Float Award, it won’t be for lack of effort. If we do win, it’s in Gran’s honor.
She and I began making these costumes a few years ago to wear to a caroling event.
Gran initially helped me cut the fabric but turned the entire project over to me because she didn’t trust the steadiness of her hands.
I loved the challenge of recreating the timeless pieces, but it means even more to know she had a part in all of this.
Earlier in the week, I recovered the pieces from the attic to alter sizes. While both the men in the actual movie were several years younger than the ones for our float, I can’t complain about that either. I have to work with what I’ve got. Plus, the Mavericks are easily bribed with baked goods.
Speaking of baked goods, Mom offers me a plate of raisin cookies. “They’re fresh from Merrit’s Bakery.” She moves them closer to my face, and I try not to gag. I struggle with raisins, the grainy texture, the shriveled look. Blech.
I politely decline.
“A little birdie told me,” Jonesy, the oldest Maverick, speaks up from the other table, “Fletcher Thomas is taking you on a date.”
Mom’s brows waggle, and Pap grunts his disapproval. If it were up to him, I wouldn’t date until forty.
I shrug off the attention. “It’s just for the Firefighters’ Charity Gala because his date bailed on him. We’re only friends.”
“The richest family in Silver Creek, eh? Not bad, not bad.” Leonard swigs his milk as if it were spiked eggnog.
“He’s not from the richest family.” Professor pipes up from across the room.
He’s playing the second game, along with Jonesy, but keeps his ears perked in every conversation, mainly to correct his fellow card players’ verbal mistakes.
He taught at the local university for decades, hence the nickname Professor.
As to his actual name? I’ve no idea. “The Mathises are the richest.”
Pap sniffs. “Mathis.” He spews out the name as if the family were responsible for world tragedies, like global hunger.
“Just because Archie Mathis turned down your invitation to be a Maverick doesn’t make him a bad person.” This from Bruce, a former minister who never fails to uplift a fellow human, except when playing gin rummy, then it’s every man for himself.
I mock gasp at this new information. “You mean the legendary, exclusive club once extended an elite welcome to its hallowed doors?”
“I note that sarcasm, young lady,” Pap grumbles. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Archie was too dignified to accept. Too busy with his nose in the stock market.”
I shake my head. “Cardinal sin, indeed.”
The Mavericks mumble at my sassiness, and a piece of caramel popcorn hits my cheek. “Hey!” I scoop it from the ground. “I used the name-brand ingredients for this. Show some respect.”
Pap shuffles the deck. “I’m good as long as this Thomas boy shows you respect. Let us know if he needs roughing up,” says the man with a double hip replacement.
Mom links her arm through mine like Tilly often does. “Those events are fancy. Do you need a dress? Because we can go shopping.” She brightens. “I know I missed my chances to get your prom gowns, but I’m here now.”
She’s missed more than just gown shopping, but I’m not ready for that conversation yet.
You know, the one where I ask where she’s been the past twenty-some years.
She moved out when I was three to pursue her own life.
At least that’s what Gran claimed. I know Mom traveled a lot for her job as some sort of international tour guide, but I never asked her to explain all the particulars.
It was my teenage self’s mild version of rebellion, as in, why should I invest in her life when she hardly cared about mine.
“I already have a gown.” I watch her shoulders lower.
Barely into her forties, she’s retained a youthful glow I hope I inherited.
Yet the dejection on her face makes her appear older.
Despite my mountain of mommy issues, I soften. “But I still need shoes.”
She nods rapidly with a growing smile. “Then we’ll find you the perfect pair. Besides, I need to find a pair of boots for this costume.” She runs a hand over the fur trim. “You’ve outdone yourself with this.”
“I enjoy it.” And I do. Sewing is one of my creative outlets.
I’m grateful that everything is coming together for the float, but something—no someone—is missing in all of this.
I glance at Gran’s empty chair. As hurtful as it sounds, my birthmother stands only a few feet from me, but Gran had been my true mom all these years in April’s absence.
This will be my first Thanksgiving without her, and I’m not sure my heart can take it.