Six Geese A-Slaying(4)

The house really did look fantastic. The exterior of our once-dilapidated three-story white Victorian was now in immaculate condition, thanks to the Shiffley Construction Company and Michael’s and my depleted checkbook. Left to my own devices, I’d have stuck electric candles in the front windows and a tasteful wreath on the door and called it quits. In fact, and given how busy I was with the parade, I’m not sure I’d even have managed that. I’d assumed that Mother would expend her holiday decorating energy on their summer cottage—actually a farmhouse that she and Dad had bought, on the next farm down the road from Michael and me. But when she realized that hundreds—perhaps thousands—of holiday tourists would be seeing our house with its minimalist holiday décor, she’d immediately offered to take care of the decorations and had enlisted a small army of helpers from the ranks of the Hollingsworths, her vast extended family.

Every single stretch of roofline, including all the dormers and gables, was trimmed with a three-inch fringe of icicle lights. Every shutter, window-frame, and doorway was outlined with evergreen garlands trimmed with red bows. Every window had been painted to look like stained glass and behind each set of brightly colored panes glowed not only a flickering electric candle but a small constellation of prisms to reflect and scatter the light. Fortunately, Mother’s taste didn’t run to reindeer on the roof, but she had sent a team up to drape it with a giant banner that read “Peace on Earth.” A pair of Christmas doves the size of turkeys hovered over each end of the banner, pretending they were holding it up, though in reality that function was performed by a sturdy cable around the chimneys on either end of the main house. A wreath the size of a truck tire obscured most of the front door, and more evergreen garlands made a festive path down to the mailbox. As we watched, the cousins were arranging the cartload of poinsettias into a bank of red and green on the front porch.

It wasn’t exactly my taste, but considering that I hadn’t lifted a finger to bring it about, I wasn’t going to complain. I just had to remember not to fetch the paper in my bathrobe for the rest of the holiday season—in the three days since Mother’s crew had finished it, the house had become a minor local tourist destination.

Even as we spoke, another family group flagged down a passerby to take their picture on our front steps. All in all, the decorations were a smashing success, and boded well for the interior design business Mother had announced she’d be opening in the spring.

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “I just stopped by to ask where the Dickens are.”

“Where the dickens are what?” I asked.

Mother allowed a small note of exasperation to creep into her sigh.

“The Dickens characters, dear,” she said. “For the Christmas Carol float. You know—Scrooge, Tiny Tim—”

“Oh, right.” I checked my clipboard. “Front yard, to the left of the walkway. Who are you, anyway?”

“You can tell she’s having a bad day when she can’t recognize her own mother,” Clarence said, almost managing to keep a straight face.

“I’m playing Mrs. Cratchit,” Mother said. She floated off toward the front yard, pausing briefly to straighten the evergreen garland decking one of the trash barrels. As Mother was fond of saying, it’s those little details that really make a design.

“I thought the Cratchits were paupers,” Clarence said.

“They were. Poor as churchmice. Mrs. Cratchit is described as ‘dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence.’ ”

“Have you memorized the whole book?” he asked. “I’m impressed.”

“Only parts of it,” I said. “The abridged version. Michael’s rehearsing for his one-man Christmas Carol show, so by the time he’s ready, I’ll have the whole thing down pat.”

“Oh, wonderful! When?”

“Six P.M. tomorrow night at the college auditorium; tickets ten dollars at the door; proceeds to benefit the Caerphilly Children’s Fund,” I rattled off.

“What a lovely way to spend Christmas Eve,” he said. “I’ll be there. Meanwhile, don’t worry about Larry. He’s fine.”

“Larry?” I repeated. My glance strayed down to my clipboard. Was I missing a Larry?

“Larry the camel.”

“Oh, that’s right. Trust Dr. Blake to name his zoo’s camels after the Three Stooges.”

“A wonderful sense of humor, your grandfather.”

I made a noncommittal noise. Less than a year ago we’d learned that Dr. Montgomery Blake, the world-famous conservationist and animal welfare activist, was Dad’s long-lost father. I was still working on thinking of him as “Grandfather” instead of “Dr. Blake.” I hadn’t yet begun learning to appreciate his odd, curmudgeonly sense of humor.