Chapter 7 #2
I wanted quiet. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think of antics and adventures for Roxy Belle, who comes from a normal family where the parents will never ask their children to work in a bar and mix alcoholic drinks.
I felt a responsibility to my mom, though, because I love her so much.
She has worked so hard for this bar—it’s her dream, it’s her baby, her life’s work, the place she created for us and for others…
but if I lived here, in Montana, I would end up living here, in the bar.
It is not my dream, not my baby, not my desired life’s work.
So many people asked about my mother’s “runaway” and “stolen” and “rebellious” and “bad” uterus, I was kept busy assuring everyone that Lady Whiskey was recovering without her irritating and prickly uterus and would be back in no time at all.
They were so relieved. Why, it wouldn’t be Christmas without Whiskey at Lady Whiskey’s!
I worked about eight hours, straight through, serving drinks, delivering food, taking orders, catching up on the books, working on schedules for the many employees, and talking to customers.
The building itself is large and rambling, tables lined up, pool tables busy, the scent of beer, steaks, and fries in the air.
Finally, I remembered that I needed to get things rolling for the fundraiser for the children of Kalulell. I headed to my mother’s office at the back of the building and shut the door, blocking out a mix of country and Christmas music.
Her office is large and bright and light because of two big windows that she had installed. “I cannot work in a cave as I am not a cavewoman,” she’d said. “Although I do think I would have wielded a club with ferocity.”
A white desk and a plush white couch piled with colorful embroidered pillows take up most of the room.
Light yellow paint gives it a cheery air.
Two bookshelves are tastefully decorated with plants, photographs, Bohemian/Montana/flowery art, and books.
Every Roxy Belle book I’ve ever written is lined up on its own shelf, just like at her house.
“I need your books around me at work and home, sweetie pie,” she’d told me.
A giant blue ceramic cowgirl boot hangs on the far wall.
A long rack underneath holds some of my mother’s “work” outfits, filled with sequins and sparkles, boas and ruffles, swirling skirts, and fancy cowgirl boots.
A lacy red bra hangs in a corner from the ceiling to remind her to “love her body as it is.” Her office could not be more different than the bar, as it’s an oasis of peace and prettiness.
I sank into her chair for a few minutes and tried to breathe. I was already exhausted. When I could think again, I wrote an email. I had strict instructions from my mother on what to put in it.
Hello, everyone,
Merry Christmas!
As usual, we will be having our annual Lady Whiskey’s Christmas show on December 20 at six p.m. My mother, as most of you know, will not be in charge this year.
She wanted me to tell you that Dr. Brenda stole her uterus, with her permission, and she is at home resting and getting caught up on her favorite reality TV shows.
She recently saw Marry Me, the dating show for older folks.
The groom and his new bride are seventy years old.
She has asked me to ask you to nominate her to be on the show as a bridal contestant, as she says she wants to find a husband.
The link is at the bottom of this email.
In other news, Mom has named this year’s fundraiser “Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show.” Don’t jump to conclusions! The T stands for tinsel, and the A stands for All I want for Christmas Is Santa.
This year, my mother’s wish is that we have a burlesque show. I have attached photos of people in burlesque outfits. As you can see, there are a lot of feathered boas, colorful makeup, flashy and shiny outfits, knee-high boots, foot-tall headdresses, sequins and glitter, etc.
Please let me know if you would like to participate.
If so, I need the names of the people who are performing, what you’re going to do, and the name of your act.
For example, if you are going to form a band and play a Christmas rock song in burlesque costumes wearing elf ears, you might call yourself “The Excellent Rockin’ Elf Show. ”
Remember: This is a FAMILY EVENT. There will be children present, so keep it VERY clean and try to put a little Christmas in your performances.
Tickets will be sold here at Lady Whiskey’s. All profits will go to buy the children of Kalulell toys and gifts so everyone can have a happy Christmas.
This is, as always, a potluck. Please bring your favorite dinner dish.
Lady Whiskey’s will be providing wine/beer/lemonade and desserts made by the Bommarito sisters in Trillium River.
We will also be giving everyone a small bag of Julia’s Chocolates.
We have hired Grenadine Scotch Wild to make a painting/collage of the town of Kalulell.
We will be auctioning it off for the kids, so bring those checkbooks!
Please make sure that your children do not drink wine/beer at the Christmas show. Last year, a four-year-old got ahold of a beer. His mother said he had a terrible hangover the next morning. Let’s keep the kids safe!
Also, many of the children of Kalulell need new coats, mittens, hats, and scarves. Please bring them into the bar. There will be a huge box right at the entrance. You get a free beer for each new coat. Let’s keep our kids warm and happy this winter!
Thanks, everyone! Come on in and visit us at Lady Whiskey’s anytime.
Merry, Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays to all!
Yours sincerely,
Bellini O’Donnell
And, of course, Lady Whiskey wanted me to remind you all to, “Kick some merry-making a**.” Here’s the link for the Marry Me show. Don’t forget to nominate Whiskey!
My cats were clearly enjoying their time with their grandmother, Nana Whiskey, when I arrived that night.
I called for them when I got home. They came running, and I made a big fuss while they meowed and circled my legs.
I checked on my mother upstairs. She was doing well and enjoyed “catching up on reality shows that I have not had time to watch due to the real-life reality of my busy schedule.”
“And you still want your own reality to include going on Marry Me,” I said.
“Yes. If that Ruthie Deschutes O’Hara can do it, so can I. I’m going to meet my man on that show. He’ll appreciate my curvy physique, my five feet, eleven inches of pure love, and my gentle, obedient, subservient personality.”
Oh, how we laughed at that one. My mother was about as likely to be “obedient and subservient” to a man as she was to turn herself into one of Santa’s reindeer.
“I think people will nominate you,” I said.
“They already have. They’ve texted me, too. Once the producers find out I own a bar named Lady Whiskey’s, I think I’m in.” She winked at me. “I have to recover my moxie and fire-breathing ways first.”
“Seriously, how are you, Mom?”
“I’m fine. For heaven’s sakes. I have no problems, minus the burglary of my uterus.
Aunt Yolanda and Aunt Zoe were here today.
They brought me cinnamon rolls and fresh homemade bread and sweet butter.
No need to whine or bluster about this type of thing.
I’ve been in bed practically all day, and I love it.
I could get used to this. Read the paper, that’s where you’ll find some true problems, but speaking of problems, have you heard that the Bunger Farmhouse burned down? ”
“What? No. What happened?” The Bunger Farmhouse was an old building that we always rented for the Christmas show. We strung lights, brought in Christmas trees, added holiday decor, and set up tables with red and green place settings and flowers. “No one hurt?”
“No one hurt,” she said. “But it was close. Mrs. Bunger found out her husband, Albert, was cheating with a woman twenty years younger.”
I sighed. “What a cliché.”
“She didn’t like the cliché at all. She dumped gasoline and torched the building. He apparently said that he was going to take the Bunger Farmhouse in the divorce. It became totally consumed by flames and burned down to dust. She told me that she told him he could have it now.”
“Mrs. Bunger was always so sweet. Calm. Controlled.”
“That was her veneer. Her real self is out and about now. She told me that she didn’t realize how suffocated she felt in her marriage until Mr. Bunger took off.
She said she’s learned that her normal was abnormal.
Once the farmhouse burned down, she said most of her anger burned down with it.
She’s been on two cruises so far and said both times she had two weeklong affairs.
She said she’s never felt better, and the girlfriend has already broken up with Mr. Bunger.
Mr. Bunger came back and said he wanted to be back together, and she told him, and I am quoting her directly, ‘I’ve had sex with five men since you left, and the worst one was twice as good as you in bed.
No, thank you. I don’t want your limp sausage or your laziness.
’ Plus, Mrs. Bunger got all the friends.
Didn’t work out well for him, but it did for her. ”
We chatted about the limp sausage and men’s denseness, and then I said, “So where are we going to have the Christmas burlesque show?”
“Brace yourself and gather your inner oomph. I think we should have it at Logan’s office, kid.”
I froze like a snowwoman. “No. I don’t need my inner oomph. No.”
“I think so, sweetie.” She squeezed my hand. “There’s nowhere else. He has a whole huge floor we can use. Ask him.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Remember to say please.”
“I can’t. I can’t ask him for anything.”
“Sure, you can, baby. On another holiday note, let’s have some cinnamon rolls. Heat ’em on up and drop some of that sweet butter on them. They’ll calm down my phantom uterus pains.”
We ate in her bed with the cats and chatted about Christmas and the upcoming O’Donnell family activities. Then I watched a home decor show with her, and she fell asleep. I tucked her in, turned off the lights, gathered up the cats, and left.
Downstairs, I flicked on her gas fireplace and lit of couple of candles—cranberry and vanilla—and their scents wafted together. I collapsed on the couch.
I thought of Logan for the hundredth time since I’d returned to Kalulell. Seeing him had turned me upside down. Everything I felt for him turned into a tornado of emotion. It was going to be hard to avoid him, too, so I could expect the tornado to return again and again.
I wasn’t slipping in and out of town. I was here for at least seven weeks.
The Christmas tree lighting in town was coming up.
I decided I wouldn’t go because he would probably be going.
I would tell all my cousins I was having cramps.
I sighed. That wouldn’t work. They would tell me to “take legal drugs, plus eat chocolate mint ice cream. It always works.” I would say I was in perimenopause.
That wouldn’t work either. They would say, “Have a hot flash with your cousins!” I would say I was having a mood swing.
They would laugh and tell me to “swing around the Christmas tree.”
Our own Christmas tree shone from the corner, the white lights twinkling on and off.
It was ten feet high, skimming the ceiling.
The Sisters put it up for my mom. All The Sisters love Christmas and start celebrating the day after Thanksgiving.
Covered in white lights and ornaments we’ve had forever, the tree was a testament to tradition, to hope, to love between my mother and me and the love I have for my six aunts and their families.
The first Christmas that I wasn’t with Logan, when we returned from college, when we didn’t go to all of my family’s oddball Christmas activities together, as we had since grade school, I thought my heart would shatter. Christmas hadn’t gotten any better since then.
We used to make each other Christmas cards.
It started in kindergarten. Over the years, I’d drawn different designs.
One card had a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Claus, but they looked a lot like us.
Another year, two elves holding hands and grinning were definitely us.
I drew both of us in the back of Santa’s sleigh one snowy Christmas, and another year we rode together on a reindeer.
He would make me cards, too, because he has a talent for drawing, but I told him he had to write me a poem, too.
His grade school poems were short and sweet and still make me laugh.
In middle and high school, they were much better, funny but romantic.
I still have all of them, along with the ornaments we exchanged for years, in an old cardboard box under my bed.
What did Logan do now on Christmas? Since he moved back to Kalulell, I knew he went to my family’s Christmas activities if I wasn’t there.
He was so respectful. If I was in town for Christmas, he didn’t come.
I had missed Christmases in years past because of…
I didn’t even want to think of that. Of him.
The mistake. The person I allowed to take me from myself. The soul-crusher.
Two cats crawled onto my lap. “Merry Christmas,” I whispered, and I said a bad word I shouldn’t say. Merry Christmas.
I couldn’t ask Logan to lend us his office building for the Christmas show, could I?
I thought of the other buildings in town and in the country.
Nothing. I would have to ask him. I didn’t have a choice.
And that would mean I would have a lot of communication with him.
Talking. Back and forth. Questions. Answers.
More talking. Time together. Staring up into those eyes.
Wondering yet again in a lustful way what he looked like naked all these years later.
That would hurt. Good God, it would hurt.
But it would undoubtedly inspire a rush of passion, too, that I’d have to hide from him so I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
The Christmas lights twinkled. I wanted Christmas to be over. I hadn’t felt the Christmas spirit since Logan and I broke up.
I cried that night, holding my cats, my tears trickling through their fur. They didn’t seem to mind. Seeing Logan made me feel more alone and lonelier than ever.
I hardly slept, the moon shining brightly into my bedroom, my cats clearly upset by the blackness of my loneliness.