This short story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s twisted imagination.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living, dead, or anywhere in between) is purely coincidental.

Cover art by Katerina Vamvasaki

Edited by Jo Jo Zawawi

“It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife”

Copyright © 2011 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell

Books in the Barbara Marr Series:

Take the Monkeys and Run, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (#1)

Citizen Insane, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (#2)

The Chronicles of Marr-nia, Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr

Silenced by the Yams, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (Feb 2012)

“It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife”

A Barbara Marr Holiday Tale

by Karen Cantwell

I have three daughters—peer pressure is my constant nemesis. Not a day goes by that I don’t remind one, two, or all three of my darlings that they are individuals—gorgeous, independent beings with minds and unique personalities of their very own. If I’ve asked the proverbial, “If-so-and-so-jumped-off-a-bridge” question once, I’ve asked it a billion times.

Imagine the irony, then, that I would find myself on a bridge on Christmas Day, lamenting my inability to measure up to the silly standards of other mothers.

My name is Barbara Marr and I have a confession to make:  I can’t cook a turkey.

***

Two weeks before Christmas, I huddled with friends in front of the blazing gas fireplace at Cappuccino Corner. A peppermint latte warmed my hands and the holiday scent tickled my nose.

“Don’t look now,” Peggy whispered over her own cup of java. “It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife.”

The problem with the don’t-look-now command is that everyone looks before they register the fact that they were just directed not to. My head spun to the door just as fast as Roz’s. But Dunder-Bull wives don’t mind. In fact, they want people to look. They expect people to look. They’re perfect and they want everyone to know it.

Dunder-Bull is the town adjacent to our cozy enclave of Rustic Woods. So close in vicinity, yet so far apart in flavor. Rustic Woods wives drive ten year-old minivans, while Dunder-Bull wives drive shiny new Lexus SUVs with sunroofs and built-in seat warmers. The wives of Rustic Woods feed their grumpy kids processed chicken tenders from the drive-thru at Chick Hurray at least two nights a week, while Dunder-Bull wives deliver fresh, healthy, home-cooked meals to their happy, smiling families every day, morning, noon and night. Rustic Woods wives clip their own nails in between soccer games and PTA bake sales, but Dunder-Bull wives somehow manage to squeeze in full mani-pedis every week after throwing one-hundred-dollar-a-plate charity fundraisers. Rumor has it that they get bikini waxes and high colonics after the mani and before the pedi. Let’s put it this way: Dunder-Bull wives make the Stepford wives look like couch potatoes.

Even worse than the fact that a Dunder-Bull wife had crossed the border was the fact that I actually knew this freak of nature. Her name was Tru Diamond.

No, I’m not making it up. I wish I were.

Tru Diamond was married to Daniel Diamond of Diamond Real Estate, and if you happened to stroll past Pathmore’s Portraits on the upper level of Thornwood Mall, you’d see them, their five stunning children and all 224 of their perfectly white teeth on a twenty-four by thirty-six-inch canvas. That’s right—you know the kind of family I’m talking about now.

Turning my head away as quickly as possible, I moaned. “Please don’t let her see me.”

“You know her?” Roz asked.

“You don’t?” Peggy whispered in reply. “That’s Tru Diamond—she’s practically a celebrity.”

Roz tipped her head in understanding. “I’ve heard the name, never met her.” She continued to spy Tru from the corner of her eye. “Wow. She’s hot. I’ll bet she doesn’t have a single ripple of cellulite. How many kids?”

Peggy nodded. “Five.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair.” Roz’s expression oozed disgust.

I sipped from my peppermint latte while trying to will myself invisible. Why did Tru Diamond have to walk into my territory? Here, I was allowed to be myself—the sweats I’d worn for five days straight without washing were perfectly acceptable. And no one cared that my ancient sweatshirt had more pills than a drugstore.

I hunched over my coffee cup in an attempt to hide. My Gollum impression didn’t work.

“Barb?” Tru squinted from across the shop. “Barbara Marr—is that you?”

So much for hiding. Now I had to engage in small talk. First on the agenda would be pretending that I hadn’t seen her.  “Tru?” I pasted on my best fake smile, which wasn’t easy, since it was 8:45 in the morning and I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.

She glided in our direction—Dunder-Bull wives don’t walk, they glide—and then landed ever so gently next to me. Since I was sitting and she was standing, I assessed her from the bottom up: tan leather ankle boots clad her pretty, petite feet. They were probably designer, but since I don’t even know how to pronounce Blahniks, I sure as heck wouldn’t know her shoes from a pair of Wal-Mart specials. They were cute, though. If I didn’t have feet big enough and flat enough to stamp out forest fires, I might’ve considered a pair. That is, if their sticker price didn’t require that I take out a second mortgage.

Onward and upward: a red velvet skirt that fell just above the cute boots and hung over her perfect curves like satin on a Mercedes. Her too-precious Christmas sweater was topped by a black suede, belted coat that I’d kill for if I thought I’d ever have somewhere better than Cappuccino Corner to wear the thing. Her blonde, wavy ’do looked right-from-the-salon. And finally, those Christmas wreath earrings looked to be constructed with the real deal—diamonds, rubies and emeralds. They spelled “class,” while the flashing bulbs dangling from my own ears screamed “cheapskate.” Well, they’d seemed fun and festive when I bought them.

Not wanting to appear rude, I rose from my chair. This, it turns out, was a mistake, because I’d forgotten that the drawstring on my sweatpants was loosened, and those suckers slid right down over my derriere. I caught them in time just before giving the show of the century, but with the grace of a donkey on ice skates, spilled my peppermint latte, which really made me mad because I hadn’t yet ingested enough caffeine to get my day going. Lovely Peggy dabbed coffee off the floor while I scrambled to re-tie my sweats. It’s really not easy to look nonchalant tying up stinky sweats while Wonder Woman is watching. But I was not going to crumble. I whipped that drawstring into a quick knot and kept talking.

“So,” I said, tucking some stray curls behind my ear, “what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

Tru instantly broke into laughter. “Oh, you are so funny!”

I was? What did I say? I was confused.

“Rustic Woods, our neck of the woods . . . you do have a way with words.”

If only I were that quick. I smiled anyway and pretended the pun was intended.

There was a brief moment of awkward silence that puzzled me until I realized that Tru was waiting for me to introduce my friends. “Tru, this is Peggy Rubenstein and Roz Walker.”

She nodded to each. “Tru Diamond. Very nice to meet you.”

I was hoping she would be in a hurry to get her drink and splitsville, but it just wasn’t my lucky day.

“So, Barb,” she continued, “are you ready for the holidays?”

My first reaction was to guffaw and ask if anyone is ever really ready for the holidays, but that sort of rhetorical humor doesn’t work with Dunder-Bull wives. They’re ready for everything: every holiday in the book, death in the family, two-foot snowstorms, hurricanes, earthquakes—they’ve got it covered. Heck, I’ll bet each one of them has an emergency preparedness plan for the Zombie Apocalypse.

And the truth was, I wasn’t ready. For the holidays, that is. Presents were bought for the most part, but they weren’t wrapped. I had paper, but not bows. I had the flashy earrings but neglected to dig my Reindeer sweater out from the back of my closet. But was I going to admit this to Tru Diamond? No way.

“Sure.” I nodded. “Ready with a capital R.”

Peggy and Roz exchanged quizzical glances.

Tru was practically giddy with excitement. “Really? Are you having guests?”

“Yup.”

“Excellent! How many?”

Geez, these women always had to get specific, didn’t they? I pulled a good, even number out of the air. “Twenty.”

“Twenty!” I thought Tru would have an orgasm on the spot. “Good for you! How many turkeys?”

“Two. And a ham.”

Don’t judge me. Remember, until you’ve walked in someone else’s stinky sweatpants, you never know how you’ll react under pressure.

“What kind of stuffing do you make? Cornbread? Sausage?”

Uh oh. I was in deep now. Not only had I never made stuffing before, I didn’t even know there were different kinds. Well, when in doubt, cover all bases. “Both. Two turkeys, you know.”

***

Tru eventually moved on to secure a hot coffee drink and then head out for “some Christmas shopping followed by an afternoon of helping the homeless.” When the door closed behind her and I knew she couldn’t possibly hear, I turned to Peggy and Roz. “Okay. How do you cook a turkey?”

Peggy laughed. When I didn’t laugh with her, she stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

Roz shook her head. “She’s not kidding.”

“Never?” Peggy asked.

“I tried a turkey tetrazzini but I used processed turkey slices. I guess that doesn’t count, huh?”

“Was it any good?” Roz’s expression indicated that she didn’t expect a positive answer.

“You know your kooky Uncle Bertram?”

“We don’t talk about him.”

“Right. Same with the Great Turkey Tetrazzini Debacle of 2005.”

“What do you cook at Thanksgiving and Christmas?” Peggy asked.

“Never had to cook. My mother takes us to restaurants on Thanksgiving, and we always travel to Mama Marr’s on Christmas Day. Now she can cook a turkey.”

“So you’re not going to her place this year?”

“I’m thinking of changing things up.”

Roz laughed. “Just because you lied to Tru Diamond?”

“I didn’t lie. What are you doing for Christmas dinner? I need a few more guests.”

“You’re crazy. Why do this to yourself?”

“To prove I can. It’s time I rose to the occasion. I’m not going to be bested by a Dunder-Bull wife. Now, you didn’t answer my question: how do you cook a turkey?”

***

Roz and Peggy are my dearest friends, but they weren’t able to join my guest list for Christmas dinner. Something about having their own family plans, yada, yada, yada. Which meant I had to find quite a few extra guests, and I had to find them fast. Howard, me, Callie, Bethany and Amber made five. I needed fifteen more. That night I approached Howard while he sat on the couch watching a football game.

“Hi, honey,” I said, handing him a cold beer and planting a warm kiss on his lips. “How was your day?”

The beer and kiss were accepted, but he never turned his attention from the TV. “Fine.” He swigged on the beer.

“How about we ask your mother to come here for Christmas? She always goes to so much trouble for us, cooking those big dinners. I think it’s time we gave her a break—she could take the train down and then just relax.”

After another swig and a grunt: “I’ll call and ask her.”

“How many friends do you think she has?”

I must have caught his attention, because he finally looked my way. “What?”

“Well, maybe she’d like to bring some friends along.”

“Why would her friends want to come here for Christmas?”

“Let’s not ask ‘Why?’ but ‘Why not?’ So how many? Two? Three? Fourteen?”

Howard put the beer down on the coffee table while rolling his eyes and blowing a particularly hefty sigh. “What have you done?”

I couldn’t see whether his teeth were clenched, but I was guessing they were.

“I haven’t done anything. I’m not sure what you’re getting at exactly. I’d just like to feel the spirit of Christmas in our own home this year and share with friends and family.” A tickle in my throat made me cough. “Lots of friends and family,” I added when the tickle subsided.

Before I could blink, he was in front of the fridge, throwing open the freezer door. His jaw dropped and I do think I saw steam literally coming out of his ears. “Two turkeys?” he shouted.

“And a ham. It’s in the fridge. Apparently, you don’t have to freeze them.” I picked up a book up from the counter—my proud new purchase from Rustic Woods Books Galore—and held it up for him to see. Holiday Dinners for Dummies. “See? I have a how-to guide, and they have a special section for parties over twenty. Tell me again how many friends Mama Marr can bring?”

***

Let’s put it this way: the rest of that conversation didn’t go so well.  It was kind of like a super scary roller coaster, but with way more frightening drops and a few too many loop-de-loops. I eventually got my way, but not until Howard brought up the Turkey Tetrazzini incident and made me cry.

It turned out that Mama Marr did have two widowed friends who would be happy join her at her son’s house for Christmas dinner, so I only needed to find twelve more guests. Much to my teenage daughter Callie’s dismay, I invited her friend-she-wished-were-a-boyfriend, Brandon, and his mother, father and brother. Actually, “dismay” wasn’t quite the word. Mortification would describe her reaction more precisely. She also tried to bring up the Tetrazzini, but I stopped her at the pass, threatening the removal of cell phone privileges.

My mother, it turned out, was a blessing. Not only did she agree to join us, but she was bringing my brother who was coming into town, his life partner, two people from her art class, and Master Kyo from Tae Kwon Do.

That only left me two people short of the twenty-person goal. Now I know what you’re thinking—why was it so important to have exactly twenty people? Certainly, Tru Diamond would never know. And you are right. But the fact of the matter is that I would know. Whether it’s a strength or a flaw, I insist on being true to my word. Or, in this case, true to Tru. Besides, I had taken this on as a challenge and I was going to meet it head-on. I was going to find those last two guests if it killed me.

***

According to Holiday Dinners for Dummies, food isn’t the only component of the perfect dinner experience. This, to say the least, was unsettling. There were the invitations, decorations and table settings. “Table settings” had two chapters all to itself. I had no idea these things were so important. Of course, I’m sure Tru Diamond knew. She didn’t even need a book—the knowledge was probably encased in her DNA.

And it doesn’t take a Dummy to know that my house had to be cleaned before the grand affair. So I made a to-do list three pages long, and started in. I couldn’t just buy invitations, because a Dunder-Bull wife wouldn’t settle for anything less than handmade. After three hours in the craft store, I had collected up and purchased the necessary items. The burns on my fingertips were a testament to the fact that I’d never used a hot glue gun before. When all was said and done and the invitations mailed, I think they weren’t so bad and actually, kind of pretty, despite the fact that my Amber, my five-year-old, had mistaken the paper mistletoe leaves for the dangerous types of leaves illustrated in the pamphlet distributed at school, Drugs are Bad, Bad, Bad. Since it was so close to Christmas, I had to get those suckers in the mail lickety-split. True, I’d already invited everyone and received verbal acceptances, but, again, this had to be done the right way. The Dunder-Bull way.

Then I was off to the discount store for decorations and table setting items. Since I have no imagination nor a single creative bone in my body, I decided to copy one of the place settings from the book. This required the purchase of not one, but three sets of plain white dishes. Holy cow. Twenty blue cloth napkins, three silver tablecloths for three tables, ten tea lights per table, ball ornaments in both blue and silver. As you can see, I had chosen the blue and silver theme. As for decorations, red poinsettias didn’t fit in with the blue and silver, so I had to head back to the craft store for a blue and silver wreath. Then I really put a dent in the wallet when I splurged on two of those mechanical lighted reindeers. I could have bought just one, but it would have looked so lonely without a mate. There was a deal (thank goodness) on snowflake decorations that I thought I could hang from the ceiling to give the feeling of a wintry wonderland, so I snatched up four boxes and said “check” on the buy-the-decorations part of my list.

Phew! I was exhausted and hadn’t even reached the clean-the-house portion of the list yet, much less the actual cooking of the meal. And somewhere in there I had to wrap those presents.

By Christmas Eve I had only slept a total of ten hours out of the past seventy-two and I was operating on pure adrenaline boosted by hourly espresso shots. At eight o’clock that morning, I realized I’d never located the final two guests to attain the perfect twenty. I was panicked. Thankfully, while scanning my address book for people I knew who might need a place to eat on Christmas, my phone rang. Caller ID told me it was our friend, Colt Baron, to whom I’d promised a ride to the airport at nine a.m. so he could spend Christmas with his family in California.

“Hi, Colt,” I answered. “How are you?”

“I’m not so hot, but you sound worse,” he answered back.

“Just tired.”

“Your big Holiday To-Do?”

I grunted an affirmative, because I barely had the energy to use real words. “But don’t worry. I’ll be by to pick you up like I promised.”

“No need. The trip is cancelled.”

“Why?”

“Both of my parents and half my siblings have the flu. They said to stay away and I’m not arguing with them. Not a big fan of the flu.”

“That’s great!” I shouted, gaining some energy with the news.

Colt didn’t seem as excited as me. “In what way, exactly?”

“Not great for them or you. That’s awful—really it is. I’m sorry. But now you can come here for Christmas and then I only need to find one more guest!”

“Is your mother coming?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know—”

“Coltrane Amadeus Baron, you’re coming and that’s all there is to it.”

“If I say yes, will you promise never to call me that again?”

“Of course.”

“And can I sit at the kids’ table? It’s more fun there.”

“Where else would I put you?”

***

The rest of Christmas Eve day was spent wrapping presents, double-checking the recipes with the ingredients to make sure I had everything on hand for the big day, making sure Howard picked up his mother and friends from the train station, making guest beds, calling my mother and confirming that she was bringing the pies, getting the keys from my neighbors, the Perkins, so I could use their oven as well (they were travelling early in the morning to spend the day with their kids and grandkids in Southern Virginia), making sure my new and perfect Christmas Day ensemble was wrinkle-free, and finally, painting my nails a glorious glossy red. By one o’clock I felt I was as prepared as I could be, and sat down on the couch to take a breather. I’d completed every item on my list and had some time to spare before showtime. I easily had an hour before Howard returned from the train station with our house guests. I laid back and closed my eyes. Wine, I thought. I could use a glass of wine right now. No, I thought again. I could use a nap right now. I was already drifting off into heavenly slumber when my ten-year-old daughter, Bethany, plopped down next to me and whispered in my ear.

“I sure hope you got Amber that Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume that she asked Santa for, because if you didn’t, none of us will hear the end of it. If she doesn’t stop talking about that costume, I’m going to scream.”

My eyes popped open and I released an involuntary scream of my own. “Santa!” I howled.

Bethany’s face went pale. “Mom? Please tell me you got it.”

Disoriented, I stood up and then wobbled as a dizzy spell took hold. “Where’s Amber?”

“You took her to the Horners’ to play with Emily, remember?”

Of course I didn’t remember. I was a zoned-out idiot mother who had become overwhelmed with planning Christmas dinner and had completely forgotten to buy the Santa gifts.

Bethany had caught onto the Santa game very early in life—she was just too logical to buy into the ruse. And Callie, of course, was in high school. She’d left Santa behind years earlier. But Amber was only five and not only did she believe in Santa, she had no reason to think there was even a choice in believing or not believing. Santa simply was. He existed, and she had told him when she’d sat on his lap at the mall that she wanted the Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume, Limited Edition, complete with the lighted bubble-making wand. With the exception of the baby elephant she’d asked for last year, Santa had always granted her wishes. He’d always put exactly the right presents under the tree. As for the baby elephant, well, he left her a certificate proving that a baby elephant in Africa had been named Amber, in honor of the lovely Amber Marr. Along with the certificate was a personal, handwritten note by the man himself, explaining that the mama elephant and baby elephant just could not be parted, no matter how good of a mother he knew Amber would be, and that he knew Amber would understand. She did, of course, and most of Rustic Woods had been told about the baby elephant in Africa named Amber and what a great and wise man Santa Claus was.

Until now.

When the room stopped spinning, I tried to round up some semblance of composure. The only course of action was to get my tooshie to a toy store and find that Glinda costume, and find it fast. Like a drill sergeant on uppers, I barked out a round of orders to Bethany for handling the house and then shot out the door, keys and purse in hand. “I’ll be back in an hour. Hour and a half at the most,” I said. “Call Daddy and tell him to pick Amber up on his way home from the train station.”

Twenty minutes later, I was rushing up and down the aisles of Toys Ahoy, searching for the box Amber had pointed out more than once. I wasn’t too worried when I didn’t find it immediately—I mean, Glinda-the-Good-Witch costumes couldn’t be in that much demand, right? Surely there’d still be a few left on the shelves. Empty Barbie shelves I could understand; empty Baby-Alive shelves were expected (despite the fact that, personally, the whole doll-that-poops-and-pees thing grosses me out); even empty Tickle Me Teenage Ninja Turtle shelves I could understand. But Glinda-the-Good-Witch costumes? Who’s really into The Wizard of Oz any more? I figured Amber had to be one of few.

I’d figured wrong.

Evidently there was a whole modern revival of The Wizard of Oz thanks to that silly Broadway play, and according to the laughing man in the Toys Ahoy uniform, you couldn’t find a Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume this side of the Rocky Mountains. He ventured to guess that they didn’t exist on the other side, either.

Not to be discouraged, I motored my way to three more toy stores, only to receive the same answer—Glinda-the-Good-Witch costumes were gone, gone, gone with the wind. Desperate for something remotely similar, I nabbed a sparkly princess crown, a sequined, flouncy dress, and a bubble gun at the last store, and headed home, chiding myself the entire way for falling down on my Santa duties. I doubted that Tru Diamond would perform so dismally.

When I finally stepped back into the house, it smelled deliciously of goulash. I knew who’d been cooking in my kitchen—that had to be Howard’s mother, whom we lovingly referred to as Mama Marr. She was born and raised in Pennsylvania, but somehow talked with a thick Polish accent just like her own mother, whose hometown was Gdansk. Everyone loved Mama Marr’s goulash, and the fact that she was cooking meant I could rest up for the impending workout of tomorrow’s feast.

Howard greeted me at the door with a glass of wine. “Merry Christmas Eve,” he said. “Come meet my mother’s friends.”

I took the wine without objection and shoved the Santa gift into the hall closet to handle after Amber went to bed.

Seated on my living room couch was a bent woman with a very interesting sort of red-orange hair sitting next to a chubby Chihuahua that growled at me when I stepped near its owner to shake hands. “Oh, don’t worry about her,” smiled widow number one, whose name was Marion. “This is Chimichanga and she’s just grumpy after that long train ride. Settle, Chimi—mind your manners for our kind guest.” Marion’s hair was a little scary and her dog was terrifying, but she had a sweet smile and singsongy voice that warmed my heart immediately.

Leaning into Howard, I whispered with some concern, “Where are the cats?”

“Put them in the basement,” he whispered back.

Disaster averted. Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce kitties weren’t likely to roll out the welcome wagon for this fido. “Welcome to our home,” I said, attempting another handshake. When Chimichanga’s lips curled and revealed a set of sharp canines that rivaled Cujo’s, I decided to move on to widow number two.

“Nice to meetcha,” said the round woman with a crew cut. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a crew cut, but it was . . . short. “I’m Delilah, but you can call me Butch.”

I thought maybe I’d misheard her. “Butch?”

She nodded. “Nickname from my days in the Army.”

Chimichanga-the-killer-chihuahua growled again. Maybe she favored the Navy—who knows?

Butch growled back. “Ah, shut your snout, you little testy taco. Honestly, Marion, can’t you put that rabid rat in its box? It’s ruining the Christmas mood here.”

Marion smiled. “Our hostess doesn’t seem to mind. Do you mind, Barbie?”

I did fear for the life of my children, but I shook my head “no.” A Dunder-Bull wife would be happy to host a pack of snarling beasts, right?

“See, she doesn’t mind. Really, Butch, you’ve just been so darned crabby since you quit smoking!”

Knowing that Butch had been a smoker explained her gruff, raspy voice. In a dimly-lit room I might have mistaken her for Ed Asner. “When did you quit, Butch?”

“Three years ago,” she said with a frown.

Marion added her two cents. “She’s been crabby a long time.”

“You finished that fast,” Howard said, nodding at my empty wine glass.

“Wow, I did, didn’t I?” I handed him the glass. “Mind refilling me?”

Howard was a good husband and did as I asked, while I spent a few more minutes asking the ladies about their train ride and whether their guest rooms were comfortable.

In the kitchen, I was handed my second glass of wine after giving a big bear hug to Mama Marr, who was stirring a bubbling skillet of goulash. Mama met the textbook definition of a Polish grandmother—small, round body; short, gray hair; and spectacles on a bulbous nose.

“Mama, you didn’t have to fix dinner,” I scolded, even though I was uber exuberant. Her goulash could win blue ribbons.

“Yes, I did—the poor children are so hungry! I come in the door and they cry for the food.” She patted me on the hand. “But this is okay, Barbara. You are very busy with the grand dinner tomorrow. This is probably why you do not clean so well.” She came in close for a whisper. “I hope you don’t mind I helped you there, too.” I loved Mama Marr, but she had a subtle way of fueling my insecurities.

I spied my two turkeys sitting out on the kitchen counter. “Who put those out?”

She winked at me. “I did. They are still a teentsy, weentsy bit frozen.” She paused. “Well, a big bit frozen, if we are telling the truth. This will thaw them right.”

I drained my second glass of wine.

Glasses three and four went down during dinner, as the girls begged to open just one present before going to bed and I worried about the pathetic Santa gift and my ability to pull off an edible meal the next day.

***

Now I really do want to make it clear that I’m not a heavy drinker. I sip on wine every now and then, but never get drunk or even tipsy, really. So imagine my surprise when the living room started spinning as the girls opened their one present. In fact, the spinning was the last thing I remembered until six o’clock the next morning, when Howard shook me as I lay drooling on my pillow.

“Barb. Barb. Wake up.”

Grunt.

“Are you awake?”

Grunt.

“Amber wants to know if it’s okay to go downstairs and open presents.”

My eyes flew open at the same time that I registered the throbbing under my scalp. Opening my eyes that fast was painful, and I moaned. When I tried to speak, the cotton in my mouth prevented words from forming.

“Barb, what do I tell her?”

Finally I managed to mumble out a croaky “no.”

“No?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t just tell her ‘no’. When can they go down and start opening presents?”

“How about tomorrow? I should be over this hangover by then.”

He shook me again.

“Okay, okay. Stall her—tell her to go back to her bedroom. I need to go put out her Santa gift.”

“Singular? Doesn’t Santa usually put out more than one present?”

I glared him down. “You’re sounding awfully judgmental for someone who’s never done any Santa present shopping.”

While he talked to Amber, I stumbled into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. The reflection in the mirror was sad. My skin was pale, and deep, dark circles hung under my Beelzebub-red eyes. And if I looked like the walking dead, I felt even worse. Like I’d been a victim in a bad game of Whac-A-Mole.

As I slithered down the stairs and hid the “costume,” I had a flash of foreboding. Something told me my day wasn’t going to go as smoothly as I’d planned. I put on a pot of coffee (extra strong), then took a few free minutes to take the wrapping off the turkeys, pull out the innards, and rub the turkeys in butter just as the book instructed. Okay, that wasn’t so bad. Maybe the foreboding was just that wine still festering in my gut.

I took cups of steaming coffee to Mama Marr and Howard, who were watching the girls dig into their packages like hyenas digging into a fresh kill. Mama said that Marion and Butch were still in the room they were sharing, but would be down soon. I sipped my brew and savored. The headache was starting to subside.

I heard a thump from the kitchen. “What was that?” I asked.

No one heard me. They were swimming in a sea of wrapping paper. Mama Marr was oohing and ahhing over her new hand-knit sweater from the girls, and Howard was fiddling with the digital photo frame I got him.

And Amber found her Santa present.

She quietly inspected it—the dress first, then the crown, and finally the bubble gun, which seemed to puzzle her more than the other two items. “Mommy, what do you suppose this is?”

Bless her heart, Amber was never one to get whiny or cry over disappointments.

“Well, I’m thinking that’s the Glinda costume, Sweetie.”

She chewed on that one for a minute or two. “You think so?” she asked finally.

Another thump sounded from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I coughed. “I do think that’s what it is.”

For a moment I considered getting up to check on those noises, but given that most of the people in the house were in the living room and the rest were still upstairs, I stayed to monitor the Amber situation.

She dug around under the tree one more time, moving the piles of wrapping paper around. Then she came back to the “costume.”

“Hmm,” she said finally, with a very sad face.

“What, sweetie? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Santa must be off his game this year.”

My heart shattered, but any attempt I might have made to mend things was interrupted by Chimichanga, who was flying down the stairs in a yapping frenzy. He yapped in everyone’s faces for about three seconds and then tore off into the kitchen. Marion was yelling after him, but her legs didn’t move as quickly down the stairs. Before I could register that a problem might be brewing, the cats started howling. They were in the kitchen with Chimichanga. There was howling and there was growling and suddenly it all became very clear.

“Who let the cats out of the basement?” I screamed.

“I did,” said Bethany. “Why?”

“Did you feed them?”

“No—that’s Callie’s job this week.”

When Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce don’t get fed in what they consider to be a timely manner, they go in search of food themselves, and that includes jumping on the kitchen counter looking for scraps. If my sick-to-my-stomach suspicions were correct, they’d found my turkeys, and the thumping I’d heard was the fowl hitting the floor.

I was first on the crime scene, followed by Howard, Mama Marr, Bethany and Callie. Indie and Millie were licking and nibbling on one bird, while Chimi ravaged the other.

Instinctively, I moved in to shoo them away, but the truth was, those turkeys were goners and everyone knew it. We wouldn’t have the pleasure of choosing white or dark meat this Christmas. Howard and I managed to scoot the cats away with a fair amount of ease, but Chimichanga wasn’t letting anyone near his prize. Marion had finally made her way down the stairs and was crying because her sweet Chimi was chowing down on raw turkey meat. Butch followed on Marion’s heels. Once she registered what all of the hubbub was about, she grabbed a nearby blanket and threw it and herself on top of the dog as if she were throwing herself over a live grenade.

Amber was the last to wander into the kitchen, but her mind wasn’t on turkeys.

“Mommy, Daddy,” she stated simply. “It occurs to me that Santa must have had a whole lot of very poor children to visit this year, and maybe that’s why he didn’t give me the real Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume like I asked, and that’s okay, because I really have lots of really nice things anyway. Besides, the bubble gun is kind of cool.” Then she held up the gun and filled the air with bubbles.

***

After the birds were thrown out and the floor mopped up of butter mixed in with turkey and bubble goo, I washed my hands and dried them with a green and red hand towel. “Well, at least we have the ham,” I sighed.

“Oh, dear,” gasped Mama Marr. “You don’t mean that leetle ham in the ’frigerator? The one I used for the goulash?”

To avoid a total meltdown, I closed my eyes and took three deep, cleansing breaths. After the third breath, I opened my eyes again, renewed with hope. “How about mashed potatoes and sausage stuffing for Christmas dinner? We still get our starch and protein.”

I didn’t have to see Mama Marr’s face to understand the meaning of the “uh-oh” that followed.

Evidently, most of our Christmas dinner had found its way into the goulash. If I’d been in the right frame of mind, I might have let it roll off me like water on a duck’s back—just be happy in the fact that we’d all had a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner, and leave it at that. But I wasn’t in that frame of mind—I was in a “keeping up with the Dunder-Bulls” frame of mind, and my entire day of playing the quintessential wife, mother, daughter-in-law and friend had just been killed.

Things get a little fuzzy for me after Mama Marr’s “Uh-oh.”

I remember seeing Chimichanga barf all over the bags of table setting items I’d stowed in the corner on the dining room floor, the room spinning again, people yelling for me to stop, and then I was in my van and the windshield wipers were on full tilt because it was sleeting. I must have been driving on Purple Poplar Way, because the next thing I knew, the van was impaled on the large oak tree near Purple Poplar Creek. Crawling out of the driver’s seat, I quickly determined that the only way this van was moving was with the help of a tow truck.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and tried to warm myself by blowing into my hands. The blue bathrobe and slippers I had on did little to keep the biting cold air from creeping through and chilling me to the bone.

I stumbled over to the little foot bridge and gazed into the rippling waters of the creek. “Why?” I raged.  “Why?”

Still watching the creek as it bubbled along without a care in the world, I pondered on my miserable failure. Mistakes had been made, and they were all mine, because I wasn’t a Dunder-Bull wife. A Dunder-Bull wife would have had a full Christmas Eve supper planned, too. Or maybe a nice layout of cheeses and crackers and soups. I nodded when I considered this idea. That would have been so nice.

And a real woman, one who was on top of things, would have inquired of her guests about pets prior to their arrival. If I’d known ahead of time that the Chihuahua from Hell would be accompanying one of the widows, I could have planned accordingly. I pondered on that a little more, because even with foreknowledge, I couldn’t think of how I could have prevented the turkey disaster. Then I sobbed even harder, because certainly, I thought, a Dunder-Bull wife would have had an answer immediately.

“Let’s face it, Barb,” I said to myself, “you’re a loser. A big, fat LOSER!” I shouted the word “loser” for the world to hear, but I don’t think anyone was listening. It just echoed on down the creek valley for me to experience over and over again.

When the echoing faded, I was left with the gentle sounds of the rippling creek and sleet hitting the leaves of the trees around me. I was wiping my nose with a damp tissue I’d found in my robe pocket when a voice startled me.

“Don’t jump!”

I did jump, but not into the water (which was only two feet deep at best). Standing behind me was a woman I would have guessed to be my age, give or take a couple of years. She stood just slightly shorter than me and had an enviable head of wavy brown hair that fell to just below her shoulders and was topped with a white knit hat. Her long wool coat was white, as were her pants and pretty but practical shoes. She held a small black device that looked like Callie’s new data phone.

“Is that a cell phone?” I asked the lady.

“Promise me you’re not going to jump!”

“Why would I jump?”

“To kill yourself.”

I looked back down into the creek, then pointed for her to look as well. “If I jumped into that, the most that might happen is I’d snap an ankle or break a leg.”

The lady peered over the railing of the bridge. “I see what you mean.” She tapped thing in her hand and smiled. “Excellent. That makes my job so much easier.”

My only thought was getting her cell phone so I could call home for help. “Can I use that please?”

“Heavens no. Angels only.” She held her hand out for me to shake. “My name is Claire.”

I didn’t take her hand, but I did take several steps backward.

She held up the cell phone that she wasn’t sharing. “It says here that you are a fan of the cinema and that on your list of top twenty favorite films, It’s a Wonderful Life is number six, so this should all be fairly familiar territory for you.”

“Your cell phone tells you I’m a movie buff?”

She smiled. “I think when we’re done here today, you’ll be moving that little masterpiece from number six to number one where it belongs.”

A quick up and down visual reinspection over Claire and her attire left me a little stunned. Despite the fact that the falling sleet was slowly turning to snow, Claire was as dry as a rock star in rehab. And her uncovered hands were pink and obviously warm, even though my own hands . . . yikes! My heart flipped hard and then flopped harder when I realized my own hands weren’t cold any longer. I held them up—they were dry, too. And my robe and slippers—well, you can guess.

“Am I dead?” I asked, more calmly than one might think.

A puzzled look crossed her face. She looked at her cell phone again and then at me. “It’s number six in your top twenty—you should know this one, Barb.” She put her hands on her hips, obviously frustrated. “Did Jimmy Stewart die in the movie?”

I shook my head and quietly considered the possibility that I’d been admitted to an insane asylum and this was all part of a drug-induced hallucination.

“That’s right. He didn’t die, and neither did you,” she affirmed. “Now, let’s get this party started. I have some wings to earn and you have a family to get back to.” She tapped the railing. “Step over here and look into the creek.”

Even though I did as she instructed, I had to ask. “Why?”

She punched a few numbers into her cell phone. “Give it a minute . . . there, see it?”

The waters of Purple Poplar Creek stalled and then transformed into a sort of glistening movie screen, and the image displayed was the Rustic Woods “Welcome” sign that greets travelers from Dunder-Bull to Rustic Woods on the Rustic Woods Parkway. Only this sign was in terrible condition, with one of the two posts cracked and bent. The paint was chipped and worn, so it appeared to read “elome to Rus oods.”

“Okay, Barb,” Claire said, “this is what would have happened to Rustic Woods if you and your husband had moved to Dunder-Bull and you’d been one of those wives instead. Remember? It almost happened.”

She was right. We had put in an offer on a house in Dunder-Bull—it was smaller than our house in Rustic Woods, but was right next door to the elementary school. Someone had come in with a better offer than ours, though. I had completely forgotten.

The image changed from the sad welcome sign to an image that caused me to gasp out loud. It was Tulip Tree Elementary where Callie had gone, and now hosted Bethany and Amber. Only this Tulip Tree Elementary had bars on the windows and graffiti painted on the brick walls. A bus pulled up front and an armed guard stepped off before the children, who then ran in fear to their front doors.

“That’s awful!” I said. “Why?”

“Many reasons.  Remember the day soon after you moved into Rustic Woods and you met that nice lady at the doctor’s office? She asked where you lived and you said Rustic Woods. You told her you had just moved there and loved the town, but the principal of the elementary school had just retired and you were worried about who would replace him because he was such a good principal.”

“Claire, I’m forty-five and perimenopausal. Sometimes I can’t remember my middle name.”

“Trust me—it happened. To make a long story longer, she was vice-principal at a nearby school and when you told her about Tulip Tree Elementary, she decided to apply for the principal position.”

I nodded, remembering when they’d hired Mrs. Solomon. She’d turned out to be even better than the previous principal and had gone on to become the county’s Principal of the Year.

“No wonder she looked familiar the first time I saw her in the school.”

Claire shook her head. “No—Mrs. Solomon wasn’t the lady in the doctor’s office. That was Madelyn Goofenhouser. She applied, but also told her friend, Ruth Solomon, about the opening. Ruth got the job.” Claire was silent for a moment. “Sadly, Ruth took her to People’s Court to get revenge. They haven’t spoken since.”

The image on the creek “movie screen” changed to the storefronts of the Rustic Woods Shopping Center. I saw some familiar haunts—Cappuccino Corner, my favorite family-run Italian restaurant, Fiorenza’s, and . . . holy cow. Instead of Hunan Rustic Woods, a glaring neon sign that flashed “Adult Bookstore XXX.”

“What happened to Mr. Chang and his Chinese restaurant?”

“They closed shop. You didn’t live in Rustic Woods and they relied heavily on your carry-out business.” Claire patted my hand. “See, Barb—the fact that you don’t cook and order in so often is actually a good thing.”

My tummy grumbled thinking of Mr. Chang’s chicken lo mein, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten. “Are we done with this? I’m getting hungry.”

“Just one more thing.”

The image changed again, and now I was looking at a smiling, larger-than-life Howard. He appeared even more handsome than his usual George Clooney look-alike self, and sported a designer suit accented with a super snazzy tie. He was in an office, talking with two other fancy-looking men.

“That’s my husband.”

“Yes, that’s Howard,” she said with a nod.

“But he looks great there. He hasn’t suffered at all.”

“It’s true that living in Dunder-Bull and having a Dunder-Bull wife helped him move swiftly up the ranks at the FBI. He moved from field agent work long ago and he’s both respected and feared. You live a comfortable life financially.”

“And that’s bad, how? You’re not making your case here, Claire.”

“Just keep watching.”

Howard laughed another minute more with the fancy-looking men. I crossed my arms and watched, not content that Dunder-Bull was bad for him. When the men left Howard’s office, he closed the door. The smile faded instantly and his shoulders dropped. He walked around his desk and flopped into the chair, staring solemnly into space. Eventually, he opened the side drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle, unscrewed the top and drank.

I was shocked. “What is that?”

“Bourbon.”

“Howard doesn’t drink bourbon.”

“In your Dunder-Bull life, he does. He hates his job. Desk work isn’t for him. Eventually the drinking will force him out of the FBI altogether and you’ll have to go to work to support your family.”

“Really?”

Claire hesitated. “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s not entirely true. He does drink too much and you fight about it, but that’s really all. As in most movies, we exaggerated the circumstances of the story here to enhance the drama and emotional appeal. But the bottom line remains the same—Dunder-Bull bad, Rustic Woods good.”

She tapped her cell phone one more time. “But here’s one image that’s not exaggerated. There’s your perfect wife-friend, Tru Diamond, in present time.”

Oh, poor Tru. Her hair looked like it had been attacked by varmints and her house was a shambles. She wasn’t wearing a pretty holiday dress, and her nails weren’t painted. Kids were running through the kitchen screaming while she fanned the smoke off a burnt turkey. I felt bad for her on the inside, but I have to admit, I was smiling on the outside. “That’s happening right now?”

“As we speak.” She was smiling too. “Now, that completes our virtual tour and life lesson. How are you doing, Barb? Feel good?”

“I suppose. I’m still craving chicken lo mein though.”

“No problem. I just need you to do a quick survey to rate my service to you today, then I’ll get out of your hair.” She handed me her cell phone and once I got a better look at it, I saw that it wasn’t a cell phone at all—it was an iPod Touch. I think. Anyway, it had a blank screen.

“Am supposed to do something here?”

“The survey question is, ‘Did I convince you that,’” she shook her head slightly and gave me an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, this gets a little cliché. Remember that these surveys come from,” she pointed upwards, “above.” She sighed lightly then continued reciting. “‘Did I convince you that you are perfect just the way you are?’ Press YES or NO.”

The screen lit up with the two words.

“So if I press YES, you get your wings, right?”

She nodded.

“And if I press NO?”

“That’s another movie.”

***

Someone was shaking me. “Ma’am?” More shaking. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

My eyes opened and began to focus on a police officer who kneeled next to my open car door. I wasn’t on the bridge. I was in my van. I looked through my windshield and saw steam rising from under the crunched hood.

“Damn, it was a dream,” I mumbled. “Cheap, overused plot trick.”

“What’s that, Ma’am?”

“Nothing. Just get me home, please.”

***

I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say getting home wasn’t quick and easy. The policeman had already called in emergency technicians. Then Howard had to be contacted, the EMTs took their time doing their job diligently (as they should), and the tow truck must have taken the route through China to find us.

Hours later, as we walked through the door of my house, the smell enveloped me like a warm blanket. “Who’s cooking?” I asked Howard.

“When I called around to your friends to ask them if they’d seen you and they heard about your botched meal, they all brought food. I think we have enough to feed a hundred guests.”

He walked me into the dining room, where I beheld a glorious sight. Two golden turkeys, a ham, bowls of stuffing, gobs of cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, stuffing, baked apples and more. My mom was there with Master Kyo and her art class friends, along with my brother and his life partner. I hugged them all.

“The pies are in the oven,” my mom told me.

“See,” Howard said as he rubbed my back. “There was no reason to get so upset. It all worked out.”

I sighed. “I know, but I wanted it to be me. I wanted to be perfect.”

“You’re already perfect.” He planted a kiss on my pouting lips. “Now go upstairs and get into some dry clothes so we can eat.”

As I neared the front door, it flew open and Colt bounded in. A large package occupied his arms, precluding a hug. “Hey, Curly. Merry Christmas!” He gave me a visual once-over. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He called out, “Where’s Amber?”

“What is that?”

He winked. “It’s a surprise.”

Amber landed at his feet. “What’s a surprise?”

“Guess who I ran into just a few minutes ago?” he asked her.

“Is that a ’torical question?” she responded. “Mommy asks them all the time, and honestly, they tire me out.”

“Santa Claus,” he said. “He saw me driving here from his sleigh way up high in the sky and swooped down to give me this. He said something about leaving you the wrong present?”

A smile the size of the North Pole filled her face and she grabbed the package from his arms. It only took her two pulls at the wrapping paper to see that “Santa” had given her the real Glinda-the-Good-Witch costume. She jumped up and gave Colt the hug that I couldn’t. “But Colt, don’t think I’m falling for that ‘Santa Claus’ line.”

I took a deep breath, worried that she’d stopped believing.

She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Santa’s back at the North Pole by now. You got this yourself.”

He put his hands up in the air. “You got me, kiddo. Guilty as charged.”

The doorbell rang as Amber tore off with her new gift.

Colt took the knob and turned. “That must be my friend. She followed me over—you needed twenty guests, right?”

When he pulled the door open, my breath stopped. “Claire?” I asked.

The beautiful woman standing in my doorway cocked her head. “Nicole.”

“Sorry,” I said, brushing it away as a silly mistake. “You look so much like a Claire that I . . .” I let the sentence just hang there, because I really didn’t know how to finish it.

We all stood awkwardly for a moment until Nicole spoke again. “My mother’s name was Claire, though.” She took the red cap from her head and I noticed a tiny bell sewn on the top. “I miss her most this time of year.” Nicole shook the snow off her cap, and the little bell tinkled. “She was an angel.”

And if I guessed right, she’d just earned her wings.

***

So, after a bit of a hiccup getting started, it turned out that Christmas in the Marr House that year, deep in the cozy town of Rustic Woods, was just . . . perfect. It’s really true you know—when you have friends and family, you have it all. I guess I just had to learn that lesson the cinematic way.