PART TWO: On the Second Week of Christmas….
Around 1 a.m., Roy and Joanne settled into bed, their TV set still tuned to a repeat of Late Night with David Letterman. Their minds were not focused, however, on Jennifer's suspension from school.
“Mother called around suppertime,” began Joanne. “She and her new boyfriend are coming over for the holidays. They'll be coming here tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good God!” Roy was slightly concerned. “My sisters and their families will be here tomorrow, too, and so will Chet Kelly, Marco Lopez and their families. You know, Marco and his wife just had a baby girl, and Chet's wife is pregnant with their second child. Their son is a total brat, and he's only three years old.”
“If that kid grows up to become anything like his dad, then God forbid,” sighed Joanne. “This is going to be a full house, Roy . Where are we going to put everybody?” She leafed through the latest copy of Good Housekeeping , looking for Christmas recipe and craft ideas between celebrity profiles, product testing results and parenting tips. “We threw out that old hide-a-bed not long ago.”
“We have plenty of sleeping bags, old mattresses and a couple of newer hide-a-beds.” Roy was always prepared for multiple guests and the like. “But it feels weird. Since Teresa, Scott and their kids moved to Chicago a few years ago, the only Christmas guests we've had were Johnny and Sally, and Sally is a lousy influence on everyone – hell, she'd even influence Ronald Reagan into dropping a bomb on Moscow . She may get straight A's in school, but scores F's in common sense.”
“One of us will have to pick up the Lopezes at the airport,” suggested Joanne. Marco Lopez now worked as a fire captain for a national park in Idaho , and his new family just moved into a rural ranch house outside Boise . “Since that accident in 1980, Marco's been scared to drive long distances, and counseling didn't help much.”
“I've got Johnny to pick them up,” said Roy . “I told him to leave Sally at home in case she causes more trouble for Jennifer. But he doesn't entirely trust Sally, either, so I won't be surprised if she tags along. They might also be staying over for the holidays, but not until Sally finishes school in two weeks.”
“I hope Johnny's going to send her up to Tacoma for that Scout winter camp,” suggested Joanne.
Roy replied, “Sally got thrown out of Senior Girl Scouts last spring for wearing spiky hair, too much makeup and weird clothes to an international Girl Guide/Girl Scout event, and for calling the dress code fascist and stupid. Sally is a feisty young lady, but she's destined for a nasty end if she keeps up.”
“Then, Johnny's hands are tied, and so are ours.” Using a remote control, Joanne turned off the TV set. “I hope my mother doesn't share the guest room with your mother.”
“She won't have to. Both my parents are dead.” Roy 's parents were killed in a car accident outside San Diego a few weeks earlier, and while Roy was depressed about the incident at the time, he handled the loss of his parents well.
Joanne continued, “It's just that my mother doesn't like Hispanics.”
“My background is Spanish, rather than Mestizo, Mexican. My direct descendants came from Europe in the 15 th century. So, by the way, I am Hispanic, but I call myself white because I don't look Hispanic, but Irish or German. And,” Roy grew disappointed with his mother-in-law, “I don't understand why people hate one another because of what they were born with. I'm not raising Christopher and Jennifer to be racists, and I've gotten Christopher in trouble a few times for calling people racist names. Would Sally appreciate being called a squaw? I don't think so, just like blacks don't like being called niggers, Jews don't appreciate being called kikes, and Germans don't want to be called Nazis because of the actions of a few a-holes like Hitler.”
“Okay. I'll tell mother to keep her mouth shut on the matter, but it won't be easy. She puts her foot in her mouth half the time, and when it's not appropriate to do so.”
“So does everyone else. It's human nature.” Roy fell asleep on his pillow without turning off the lamp that rested on his night table, next to his copy of Real Men Don't Eat Quiche . Joanne reached over to turn off his lamp, then took a deck of cards out of her night table and played solitaire on her lap.
It was early Saturday afternoon, and the DeSoto household was abuzz with activity.
Christopher was in the living room, reclined on the sofa next to the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree was one that was chopped down a week earlier, but looked different with plenty of golden glass balls, miniature multi-colored Christmas lights, gold aluminum garlands, and white novelty ornaments that were shaped like Santa Clauses, reindeer and snowmen. Christopher wasn't admiring its festive beauty, but he was paying attention to Jennifer, whose chores for the day involved replenishing the tree water and vacuuming the pine needles that fell on the carpet.
“Dad gave you grunt work for getting drunk on a field trip,” sarcastically remarked her brother.
“Screw you, Chris.”
Jennifer finished vacuuming the carpet, but her brother cried, “Missed a spot.”
I'm going to kill you, Chris. I swear to God. Jennifer was mutely angry with her lazy brother, whose eyes were now glued to the television set. He watched yet another Christmas movie, the 1954 Bing Crosby-Danny Kaye classic White Christmas , while eating his canister of Pringles potato chips and drinking yet another can of Diet Coke. On the coffee table was an empty wrapper of Twix, which Jennifer snatched: “Mom's going to kill you for leaving garbage around the house.”
“I was going to throw it out during the commercial,” cried her brother.
“Sure.”
As Jennifer turned and walked towards the hallway, vacuum cleaner being wheeled in front of her, Christopher said, “Hey, Alice . Could you clean the boys' room for Mrs. Brady, please?”
Jennifer gave her brother a middle-finger salute. Then, she walked away, with the TV set playing out yet another set of commercials for Coca Cola, McDonald's new Chicken McNuggets, and Atari video games. As Jennifer predicted, Christopher remained inclined on the sofa, munching on his junk food and watching TV. Their Golden Retriever puppy, Higgins, joined Christopher at the sofa, but soon jumped off to follow Jennifer into the kitchen, where she put the vacuum cleaner into the utility pantry.
Joanne was behind the kitchen island, stir-frying pepper steak in her electric wok. “Tell Chris and your dad that lunch is almost ready,” she said.
“Chris has been eating junk food between meals again,” Jennifer reported, “and dad's still putting up the Christmas lights outside.”
“Is that so,” smiled Joanne, shaking her head. “Chris will get fat if he keeps up. He knows that potato chips and soda pop aren't part of the recommended daily allowance.” She noticed Higgins tipping over her kitchen garbage pail: “HIGGINS! GET OUT OF THERE, YOU NAUGHTY PUPPY!”
The animal ran upstairs. The DeSotos had recently built an addition to their old bungalow, putting all their bedrooms on the second floor, adding a guest bedroom, and enlarging their kitchen into a combination kitchen/dinette suite. The old bedrooms were converted into a home office and a large recreation room with bar.
As Joanne picked up the mess that Higgins created, Roy walked inside the house. Immediately, he was greeted by the aromatic smells of Joanne's latest passion, Chinese food: “Mmmmm. That pepper steak sure smells good, Joanne.”
Since Joanne used her hands to pick up empty cans, spoiled food and used paper towels, Jennifer had to take over her cooking chores. “Higgins made a mess again,” she said.
“Dumb dog,” grumbled Roy . “I wish we bought a cat instead. I don't care if I'm allergic to cats or not.”
Joanne finished picking up the garbage and putting them in their place. She walked to the sink, poured on some hand soap, turned on the tap, and briskly rubbed on her hands. “I'll not have a cat in this house,” she snapped.
“Why not,” argued Roy . “Cats are easier to take care of.”
“They're smelly,” countered Joanne, wiping her hands with another paper towel before throwing it into the garbage pail, “they destroy furniture, and don't get me started on their litter changes, hairballs, shedding fur, and the odd dead bird or mouse where we could see it.”
“And Higgins isn't these things.”
“Remember, Roy : Dogs are unconditional love, cats are a pain in the ass.” After putting the pepper steaks, Chinese fried rice, egg rolls and fortune cookies onto four plates on the table, she and Jennifer sat down. Roy soon followed: “Chris, lunch!”
“Not now, dad. I'm not hungry.”
“He'll come around,” smiled Roy .
Joanne shook her head once more, “I'll never buy potato chips and soda again.”
The doorbell rang.
Roy figured that it came from his mother-in-law, so his rose from his chair to fetch the door. Christopher got to it first and, sure enough, it was Joanne's mother and her boyfriend.
Agnes Lucchese was a miniscule woman of less than five feet tall. She had a slight build, with a well-coiffed head of silver grey hair. She was a woman in her late sixties, but possessed a feisty, rather youthful attitude towards life. Her clothing was a mid-priced version of Nancy Reagan's: boxy collarless jacket, bow-front white shirt, and knee-length pleated skirt. Agnes was accompanied by a much taller, dapper-looking gentleman, about the same age, who wore a suit that may have looked nearly 25 years old, but was at least clean, well-cut and well-pressed. His narrow, striped tie also screamed early 1960s, but it also looked strangely new.
“Hello, Christopher! My, have you grown!” Agnes hadn't seen her grandson in nearly five years, when she moved to Florida . She had to embrace him, and Christopher accepted – she was his favorite grandmother, since she was extremely generous and gave good gifts for Christmas and his birthday. She handed him a shopping bag reading “Tower Records”: “Go ahead, Christopher! Open it!”
“I don't know,” smiled Christopher. “I usually like to keep things wrapped until Christmas.”
“I can always get you something else by then,” she said. “Open it. You'll like it.”
Christopher pulled something out of the shopping bag. Ripping apart the metallic red and green striped foil, his eyes opened wider when he saw a Def Leppard LP, several Iron Maiden cassettes and a roll containing a poster of his favorite heavy metal groups. “You know what I want, all the time,” he proclaimed before embracing Agnes one more time.
“And this handsome gentleman here is Archibald Birney. Call him Archie,” said Agnes, pointing her hand to her traveling companion. Then, she turned to Roy, who smiled and said “hello” to her: “Since Ralph, Joanne's father, passed on 10 years ago, I felt very lonely. Then, Archie came along, and he's made me very happy.”
Joanne entered the front foyer, and embraced her mother and new companion. “Please feel at home,” she smiled. “I'll show your place to sleep after we finish our lunch. You must be starving.”
“Can't get anything this good at the airport,” proclaimed Agnes, who followed Joanne to the kitchen. “All they sell at the airport food court is McDonald's. I don't know how could people eat those Big Macs, but they don't taste like food.”
“Oh, mother,” said Joanne, “they aren't all that bad.”
“You know what they put in the special sauce, Joannie?” Agnes called Joanne “Joannie” all the time while she was growing up.
Before anyone could hear Agnes tell horror stories about the special sauce that allegedly made Big Macs so addictive, Archie accompanied Roy and Christopher into the living room.
“We fully renovated this house earlier this year,” said Roy , in the early part of his home tour. “The house was too small and was showing its age, so we gutted the whole place and put a second floor on it. We even had to replace the drywall – when the contractor took down the bathroom walls, he saw mold behind it. No wonder why everyone was getting sick.”
“Judging from the architecture of this house,” said Archie, “I'd say it was built around 1956.”
“That's right,” nodded Roy . “How'd you know that?”
“I was one of the architects of the houses in this subdivision,” the older man said. “Back in 1956, Carson was a growing suburb, so we tore down groves of oranges and built your house and all the others on this block. Of course, by today's standards these homes are small and plain-looking, but gee willikers, they were something back then. And, expensive, too – a factory worker with a wife and six kids couldn't afford a bungalow like this on his wages. Most of the people here were young executives with a housewife and two or three little ones.” Archie took a beat. “So, what do you do for a living, Mr. DeSoto?”
“I'm a fire captain and paramedic for Station 18,” Roy replied.
“My son is a fire chief in San Francisco .” Archie saw something in common with his new acquaintance. “He's the same age as you, and just as fine-looking. I hear that he's also a paramedic.”
Roy beamed, “You just can't find a more rewarding job than this. Sure, you'd prefer that kids not play with matches or old people not overdose on their medications, but when you leave work at the end of a 24-hour shift, you feel good for saving lives. The pay isn't great, but the rewards are plenty.”
The doorbell rang again. Roy politely said, “Please sit down. The TV set's on…” He turned to Christopher: “WWF again, Chris?”
“We've seen White Christmas nearly a hundred times,” said Chris, who paid attention to the match between Hulk Hogan and a lesser known wrestler.
Archie was more liberal-minded than his age and appearance suggested. “Let the boy watch what he wants,” he said. “I like WWF wrestling, too. Watch it with my grandkids all the time.”
I'm going to like this old guy , thought Chris, as he offered potato chips to him. He took a couple of chips and put them into his mouth. He wore dentures, but that didn't stop him from munching on his chips.
At the door, Roy was greeted by eight people, but he didn't feel even slightly overwhelmed. And the two women looked like they would be his siblings: a slim, tall woman wearing a short, permed, asymmetrical hairdo embraced Roy , and so did her shorter sister, who wore her hair shoulder length and straighter, but with no less flare. These women were accompanied each by two kids, and they must have been of early school age, if not younger. Their husbands stood right behind this harem, and followed them into the house. Everyone carried wrapped presents, even the kids.
“Jessica! Ryan! Put the presents underneath the Christmas tree over there,” kindly commanded Penny, the taller sister.
Five-year-old Jessica asked. “Why aren't we opening them yet?”
“Is Santa bringing us more toys,” asked her twin brother.
“Yes, Santa is bringing you more toys,” answered Penny. “But don't open what's already underneath the tree until Christmas morning, or Santa Claus will be very sad.”
“Is Christmas going to be tomorrow?” That was four-year-old Alicia's question.
Meredith, her mother, lifted her to her arms. “Christmas will come very soon, Sugar Plum. But you'll have to wait, like everyone else.”
Five-year-old Brooke tugged on her mother's skirt. “Where are we going to sleep,” she asked.
Roy squatted down, allowing Brooke to crawl onto his back. She knew she would go piggyback on her uncle, as he stood up, his arms supporting the child's legs. “I'll show you where you and your sister will sleep,” he said, as he carried Brooke upstairs, with her sister and cousins following them. Their mothers tagged along.
Penny and Meredith's husbands, Michael Taggart and David McLean, remained in the living room. “Looks like we're getting a full house around here,” commented Michael, as Jennifer carried around a tray of soft drinks, offering them to each guest. Michael graciously accepted his can of regular Coke. “Whoever Roy hired to redo his place was worth every penny and then some. It looks great.”
“I just hope that John Gage's wild niece doesn't wreck it,” commented David, over his can of Sprite.
Although the McLeans lived in Mill Valley , the Sally Gage urban legend traveled far and wide. She was known for holding bush parties along railroads and in abandoned warehouses, the Los Angeles and San Francisco dumps, and even schoolyards on weekends. And teenagers from as far away as Nevada would attend these events, which often consisted of underage drinking, loud music, and young couples sneaking into dark corners for sex. Too often, the police would break up these parties and give Sally warnings about the consequences of disturbing the peace. And, too often, Sally would laugh the warnings off behind their backs, even calling the police officers “pigs” and hypocrites: “I just hope that kid doesn't end up dead, like her boozy mother.”
“Sally's probably the reincarnation of Houdini, and really smart, too. She'll get out of it just fine.”
“I don't know,” said Michael. “Kids today don't know their limits. If Sally's faced with a lot of crap right now, as we head into 1984, how will Jessica and Ryan handle it in 1994? We grew up in the ‘60s, and compared to today's kids, we had it good.”
Archie joined in the conversation from the sofa, which he shared with Christopher. “Kids are no better or worse today than they were in previous generations,” he said. “In my day, I got whacked with a horsewhip for drinking my daddy's black currant wine and smoking his cigars in the horse shed. When my son was growing up, it was going to pool halls, watching B movies at the drive in – total passion pits in those days – and smoking in the school hall. Not to mention sneaking girlie magazines into the house and calling the teacher ‘Daddy-O'.”
“I guess you have a point,” resigned Michael.
Just then, John Gage stepped into the DeSoto household. “Hello, hello, hello, good people,” he cheered, as he closed the door behind the Kellys and the Lopezes.
“Good grief,” sighed Michael. “ Roy may know how to pick contractors, but he sure doesn't know how to pick his friends.” He strode into the kitchen, where at least he didn't have to see Gage's latest shenanigans – for now.
John Gage accompanied Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez into the living room, where Jennifer now put a tray of coconut squares, chocolate Rice Krispies squares, and peanut butter and jelly squares onto the coffee table, next to the lemon meringue, key lime and mincemeat tarts. Chet Kelly was now engineer for John Gage's station, Station 127, and the huge curly black hair that he wore during most of the 1970s was now shorter and straighter, with flecks of grey along the temples and sides. His mustache was shaved off a few years ago. Marco Lopez also lost his mustache due to the changing styles of the time, and his head, once black and full, was almost completely bald.
Roy returned from the second floor, minus Brooke, but accompanied by Jessica, Ryan and Alicia. “Chet Kelly? Marco Lopez?” The three men gave a group hug for old times at Station 51. Then, he turned to Marco: “How's life in Idaho ?
“I love it there,” he said. “The people in our town are very friendly, there's hardly any crime where we live, and I think it'll be a great place for Ana Maria to grow up in. But,” he added, “I miss the nice weather you guys get in Los Angeles County . Where we're at, it's snowing and around 20 degrees.”
Chet Kelly threw in a monkey wrench. “ Roy ,” he said, “I noticed something's not right about your Christmas lighting.”
“I put up outdoor lights, didn't use octopus plugs, and made sure those things are UL-approved.”
“Not that, Roy .” Chet lead Johnny and Roy outside the house. The eaves trough had two strands of Christmas lights with green bulbs and the palm and pine trees were covered in lights with red bulbs. There was also a lighted manger scene underneath the palm tree, with Mary and Joseph beholding baby Jesus on his bed. The entrance door held a green wreath reading “Merry Christmas – Feliz Novidad,” and each side had giant polyurethane candles reading “Noel.” And, as a finishing touch, Roy fastened a lighted polyurethane Santa, his sleigh, and eight reindeer on the roof. It was a tastefully elaborate display of Christmas spirit – nothing excessive or tacky at all.
John Gage asked Chet Kelly, “What kind of hard drugs are you on?”
“Nothing,” Chet replied, “nothing.”
“I worked like a slave to put up a great holiday display this year,” cried Roy . “So, got any ideas on how to jazz it up even more?”
Chet Kelly lead Johnny and Roy to something the latter didn't know about: an animated set of Santa's elves in Joanne's flower bed. “Try it out, guys,” he said.
“ Chester B., I hope it's not one of your crazy inventions again.” Roy stepped into the garage.
Chet shouted, “Press the green button. You'll like what you see and hear.”
Roy did press the green button. What he heard was the opening of Rockin' around the Christmas Tree , a Brenda Lee Christmas song that became a hit during his first year in the Army.
Johnny cried, “ ROY ! Come see this! I love it!”
The animated elves moved their mechanical lips to the tune of the old rock song. Chet continued, “I also programmed the play list to include the Phil Spector version of Santa Claus is Coming to Town , Burl Ives' Have a Holly-Jolly Christmas , and every Christmas song that Bing Crosby, Perry Como and Frank Sinatra ever recorded. Everyone in this neighborhood will want to see your Christmas display now. Christopher and Jennifer will be the most popular kids at their schools.”
“Jennifer is pretty popular right now, and she just got suspended for it,” Roy said.
John Gage added, “And I grounded Sally for getting your kid in trouble. She's staying at her aunt's place for two weeks. If that fails, then I have to send her to private school, even if it costs me my year's salary.”
“Jim Reed's kid is at Fort Jefferson . They've just started letting girls in there and, I'd tell you. That has to be the strictest military school in the country. These teachers don't take shit from anybody. I think it'll fix Sally up one-two-three.”
Joanne stepped out of the house. “You and your bright ideas, Roy ,” she smirked. “I've just lent out the last hide-a-bed to the kids, and it seems as though Chet and Marco will have to sleep in the garage.”
Johnny gave his crooked grin to Chet. “Tough break, Chester B.,” he said. “You guys will be sleeping in this cold, dirty garage.” He turned towards his Land Rover, which sat on the driveway. “I've got to leave now. I've got a date with Carrie tonight at seven, and I have to be washed up and spiffed up by then.” He raced excitedly to his car, backed onto the road, and drove away. Joanne had already disappeared into the house.
That night, the DeSoto household continued to be abuzz with activity.
Christopher and his friends Scott Brice and Jeremy Kelly watched Saturday Night Live , some Ed Wood movies from the 1950s, and reruns of Star Trek on their bedroom TV set.
Jennifer shared her bedroom with Jessica, Ryan, Alicia, and Brooke. All four of the kids slept in her bed rather than the two hide-a-beds that Joanne lent to them. Jennifer felt squished by four kids and, tossing and turning uncomfortably and almost forcing them onto the floor, she mumbled sleepily, “Get off me, you little shitheads.”
“Oooh, Jennifer swore,” whispered Brooke. “I'm going to tell on her.”
“Try it, kid, and you won't make it to the First Grade.”
Agnes and Archie slept on the love seat-sized chesterfield in the living room, their TV set tuned to late-night reruns of Hogan's Heroes , The Beverly Hillbillies and Leave it to Beaver. At around 4 a.m. the station, which ran continuously on Friday and Saturday nights, segued into special interest and religious programming, but Agnes and Archie slept through them.
Roy and Joanne slept in their usual bedroom, their clock radio playing such golden oldies as Mack the Knife , All Shook Up and Calendar Girl . Their TV set was off.
Penny and Meredith shared the guest bedroom with their husbands. While Penny and Michael slept at the headboard end, Meredith and David slept at the baseboard end. In the same room, Marco's wife Irena was seated underneath the dimmed tent-shaped brass floor lamp, bottle-feeding three-week-old Ana Maria and singing Mexican lullabies. Chet's wife Julie, who looked at least close to full term, slept on the old twin mattress on the floor. Their son, Matthew, cuddled next to her.
That left Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez in the garage, shivering in their light sleeping bags and feeling uncomfortable on the bare concrete floor. The outdoor temperature dipped to 45 degrees overnight, and the sleeping bags did little to shelter the men from the coolness of the late autumn air, even in Los Angeles County . They listened to an old transistor radio that was perched on a shelf in a corner workshop, and the music playing from that radio was country – not Kenny Rogers, Waylon Jennings or Dolly Parton, but Hank Williams, Tex Ritter, Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline and early Johnny Cash. Higgins moved his four legs to Chet's sleeping bag and began licking Chet's face.
“Kiss something else, you puppy breath,” he cried, burying his head underneath the sleeping bag.
Higgins, feeling dejected, found himself a corner and started yelping for attention. Chet then said, “Okay, you dumb dog. Come here. I don't hate you. I just need my beauty sleep.” Higgins crawled to Chet once more. This time, he petted the animal and offered him a Milk Bone, which he accepted greedily before returning to the corner to get his sleep.
Marco Lopez said in a semi-slumber, “Beauty sleep? I wouldn't have noticed that you're Miss America material.”
Chet closed his eyes. “Oh, Marco, couldn't you shut up?”
* * *
Five blocks from Roy DeSoto's home, on 875 Orange Grove Avenue , another two-storey home was abuzz with activity – of another sort.
Hank Stanley woke up to the sound of his clock radio, around 7 a.m. He pressed the snooze button once, then tried to fall back to sleep.
Ten minutes later, the clock buzzed again. Hank sleepily pressed the snooze button. Then, the telephone rang, and his wife Emily picked it up. “Hello,” she said, sleepily.
“Hi, mom, it's Devon ,” a male voice inflected through the phone.
“Hi, Devon , isn't it a little early to call anyone?”
“Early? Mom, this is New York City . This place doesn't sleep, as the song says.”
Hank Stanley sleepily shouted, “Ask Devon how Sinatra was like.”
“ Devon , Sinatra had that concert last night. Your dad wants to find out how he's like in person.”
Devon said, “I couldn't say one way or another. Sinatra hires his own people to promote his concerts. I mostly deal with Top 40 artists – you know, MTV, Solid Gold, maybe the odd Soul Train.”
“ Devon , I have some important news for you,” said Emily. “We can't send Angela up to New York this Christmas. She went on a school field trip and, on the last night, got drunk at a bush party.”
“I hate to think how Fat Ass Brokaw handled the matter,” laughed Devon . The Iron Lady of Orange Grove Junior High School , heavyset Pat Brokaw had been its principal for nearly 15 years. She was a disciplinarian, once expelling a group of students for vandalizing her school property on Devil's Night, and suspending two students for drawing an unflattering image of her on the blackboard. Once, Devon and his friends went on a panty raid of the girls' change room during their gym class, and Principal Brokaw caught them using an air duct to escape. She suspended the boys for three days, after which they started a rumor that she was a lesbian who “liked” teenage girls. When Principal Brokaw learned who started the ugly rumor, Devon and his friends had already gone to high school.
“Well,” sighed Emily Stanley, “the principal gave Angela and her friends a five-day vacation. Their Christmas vacation starts next Monday, so they'll be out of school until the New Year. In the meantime, I hope they'll stay away from the likes of Sally Gage.”
Devon replied, “Oh, that four-eyed freak. How she goes on the honor roll is beyond me.”
“Sally probably has an IQ of 160,” defended his mother. “She's a lot of things – con artist extraordinaire, especially. But she's no idiot. She conned some 21-year-old college boys into buying booze at the local convenience store, and even stole some wine coolers and peach schnapps from her uncle's fridge. What's next? Sally will spike the punch with Jack Daniels at the senior prom?”
“Who knows with Sally,” said Devon . “Mom, dad, I want you guys to do me a big favor. I still want Angela to come with Lindsay to New York , but do a little reverse psychology. Make her feel as though she's not going, and give her more work whenever she slips up. Then, on the date of the departure, say you have a big surprise for her. She'll eat this up like candy.”
Hank took over the phone. “I think this is an excellent idea,” he said, now awake. “I hope Angela falls for it, but it won't be easy. She could spot a phony from a mile off. But this is still a stroke of genius.”
“I guess I must get going now,” spoke his son. “I have to fine-tune the publicity for that Thompson Twins concert tour next summer, and it looks like I'll have to pull off an all-nighter.”
Just then, Angela walked into her parents' bedroom, carrying a tray of pancakes with round sausages, butter, Mrs. Butterworth syrup and orange juice. Hank just hung up. “So, who called,” Angela inquired, putting breakfast on her mother's lap. Lindsay followed, carrying Hank's breakfast.
“Oh, it was Devon ,” their father replied, burying his fork into the pancakes. “He's very busy working on publicity for yet another group I've never heard of.” He bit into his breakfast, nodding, “This is good, girls.”
Lindsay also had some news to tell. “Eric's just come home from college,” she smiled. “He's just gotten himself an internship at the White House.”
“Oh, that's great,” cheered Emily, after swallowing her sausage. “Maybe with Eric's involvement we could fix Reagan's arms policies.”
“His internship doesn't start until the summer,” corrected Lindsay. “He graduates from Northwestern in the spring, and he's here on a Christmas internship with the County of Los Angeles . Right now, though, he's outside putting the finishing touches on our holiday decorations.”
“That boy sure is multi-talented,” smiled Hank. “I hear that the L. A. County Fire Department's now holding a holiday decorating contest for all its firefighters. The winner of that contest will get a $10,000 Christmas shopping spree at the Palisades Center .”
“Wow,” cheered Angela. “That is the coolest mall in L. A. County !”
“They just opened that mall last summer,” reported Lindsay, “and it's awesome.”
“Let's find out what Eric's done outside.”
Still in their pajamas, the Stanleys walked outside. On their front yard, all the holiday lights were on, because Eric wanted to see if they worked. The decorations were elaborate – more elaborate even than Roy DeSoto's, who always had the fanciest front yard decorations around the holidays. There was fake snow on the grass. On the fake snow was a fake frozen pond, used by mechanical skaters who wore early 20 th century clothes. Surrounding that pond was a pathway lit by plastic candy canes, leading up to Santa's house. Eat your heart out, Roy DeSoto!
“How'd you do it, Eric?” That was his father's question.
“I took inspiration from those little village sets that you like to put underneath the tree,” enthusiastically said Eric. “It took me all night to finish, but I think we'll be the envy of L. A. County in the end.”
“Gnarly,” commented Angela, who toured the pathway. “How'd you get the fake snow to stay on the ground?”
Emily told Eric, “Don't reveal the secret.”
Jennifer's long week of misery began the next day, when both Roy and Joanne reported to work and Christopher went to school.
Since Jennifer didn't have to go to school, she slept in until 9 a.m. By then, everyone else in the house was gone: Agnes and her boyfriend went with Marco, Penny, Meredith and their families to Disneyland , and Chet's family went to the doctor to make sure that Julie was well enough to give birth “naturally.” Chet had to report to work as well.
Staggering into the abandoned kitchen, Jennifer saw a note, obviously written by her mother:
Jennifer,
This is your list of errands for today:
• Wash dishes (excuse the mess)
• Vacuum all bedrooms and the second floor hallway
• Feed Higgins (I noticed that Chet brought over Popsicle – damn cat! – as well, so feed him, too)
• Dust all the nooks and crannies of the living room and dining room
• Buy milk and Wonder bread (no junk food!) at the nearby Safeway(I left $10 on the table in the front foyer – you may also buy yourself something delicious and healthy, like a bag of lettuce and some light salad dressing)
• Don't make any phone calls to your friends, watch TV or listen to the radio – remember, you are under suspension from school
See you tonight,
Mom
Wearily, Jennifer gathered a stack of dishes from the dinette table and put them into the opened dishwasher – she felt too lazy to wash them by hand. With all the slots filled, she closed the door and turned the dishwasher on. That was a time-saving activity, she thought, as she took the vacuum out of the utility pantry and carried it upstairs. Plugging it into an outlet, she turned on the vacuum and glided it over the carpet in all the bedrooms. That was a more time-consuming errand, since the kids threw something resembling Silly String onto her bedroom carpet. It was hard to remove this stuff.
When Jennifer stepped into the guest room, she noticed a brown tortoiseshell Maine Coon cat lying leisurely on the bed. When it saw Jennifer at the doorway, it meowed and purred. Jennifer sat on the bed, and stroked the cat's long, soft fur: “You're all alone here, Popsicle. Where is everyone, baby?”
Popsicle purred contentedly, lying on the bed as if he owned it. His round eyes suggested one thing: he wanted food. Jennifer's eye darted around the bedroom for a bag of cat food. She saw one – a large-size bag of Meow Mix. Finding a scoop in the bag, Jennifer took out a half-cup of the cat food and poured it into a plastic double bowl that read “Popsicle.” Luckily, there was enough water in the second bowl to last awhile, so Jennifer did not have to go into the bathroom to get more.
As Popsicle jumped off the bed to eat his breakfast, Jennifer stood up and walked out of the guest room: “Bye-bye, Popsicle. See you later.” She walked down the stairs and, in the kitchen pantry, found a bag of Puppy Chow. Pouring the food into a larger double-bowled pet feeder, Jennifer cried, “Higgins, chow down!”
Jennifer didn't need to call her puppy, since he ran upstairs from the basement to munch on his Puppy Chow and slurp on his water. But she needed to dust the living and dining rooms. She took a duster out of the utility pantry and, finding her way to the living room, began dusting the bookshelf, tables, TV set and lamps. Jennifer felt tempted to turn on the TV set since no one else was home. So, she did, and on a Monday morning she noticed that TV stations aired nothing but talk shows like Donahue , game shows like The Price is Right, and soaps such as Santa Barbara and The Young and the Restless . She tuned in to Donahue , which aired yet another episode on homosexuality and the workplace.
The phone rang. Jennifer knew she would get into serious trouble if she either called her friends or accepted phone calls from them, but nobody was home. She picked up the phone, and the caller was yet another telemarketer selling carpet cleaning services: “I'm sorry, but we're not interested.” She hung up, and then she resumed her chores.
Jennifer almost finished dusting the dining room area when the phone rang once again. Racing to the living room end table, she picked it up. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Jennifer. It's your mom,” introduced Joanne. She sat behind her desk in the newsroom of The Los Angeles Examiner . The newsroom echoed the sounds of noisy typewriters, clacking computer keyboards, buzzing dot matrix printers and teletype machines, and numerous telephone rings – hardly conducive of a phone call. “You don't have to worry about going to the supermarket today. Your dad was given only a 12-hour shift today, so he'll get some milk and bread on his way home – they're on special at Albertson's, as well as the eggs, yogurt and detergent.”
Nervously, Jennifer turned the TV set on mute. Should her mother realize that it was on, she'd be in trouble. She replied, “That's okay. I didn't feel like going out, anyway. I'll be doing some homework before everyone comes back from Disneyland around seven.”
“That's good,” replied Joanne. “Just make sure the house looks spic and span by the time your dad comes home around seven. I'm afraid I'll be here until midnight because a few important people from Washington will be at the convention center tonight and the editor wants me to finish the write-up before the deadline. It might have something to do with the Democrat GOP convention.”
“Are you Republican or Democrat,” asked Jennifer.
“Neither,” answered Joanne. “I don't get involved in politics. Your dad is a Republican, though, but he might vote Democrat next year.”
“I asked because one of my teachers discussed national politics during civics class the week before that field trip,” remembered her daughter. “One thing that Mrs. Chartrand asked was about our parents' political leanings, and most of the kids' parents in our class are Democrats. I said we were independents only because I didn't know.”
At work, an intern handed Joanne a press release. She told Jennifer, “I must get going now. I have a lunch meeting with the president of the California Democratic society, or something like that, and then I have to attend an anti-nuclear demonstration at the East Square at three. I hope it doesn't result in violence – some of these anti-nukes types are a little crazy.”
Joanne attended the anti-nuclear demonstration at the East Square . Young people in spiky multicolored hairdos, khaki outfits and “no nukes” buttons greeted her. So did their disdain for Ronald Reagan: “No nukes, Reagan” and “Give peace a chance.” It was a rougher-edged version of the anti-war demonstrations that Joanne remembered only 15 years earlier.
In that crowd stood three girls named Sally Gage, Lindsay Stanley, and Lisa Stoker. KNBC-TV aired that demonstration, and the girls' burning of Reagan in effigy, on the 11 o'clock news that evening. Unfortunately for them, John Gage, Roy DeSoto and their former Station 51 colleagues saw it.
“Completely disgraceful,” said Hank Stanley, shaking his head.
“Standing up for a cause is one thing,” philosophized Mike Stoker, “but making an ass of yourselves in public is another.”
“I don't support nuclear warfare,” said Marco Lopez, “but these kids aren't helping matters behaving the way they do.”
“Giving the reporters a middle-finger salute,” added John Gage. “What did I do to deserve a rat like that for a niece?”
Roy DeSoto spoke, “Nothing at all. Sally's just another kid testing her limits.”
“She overstepped her bounds, Roy , and so did Hank's and Mike's girls.”
Chet Kelly stood at the front foyer of Roy 's house, eating a tuna fish sandwich. He mumbled, “Apparently, there's something in L. A. County 's water supply. It's making everyone between the ages of 12 and 17 behave weird lately.”
“Santa will be busy handing out lumps of coal this year.”