"What about the cat?" Bev asked.
Walt pinched his chin in serious thought and said, "Yes, that's a real problem. Too late to call the kennel."
With uncanny timing, a large black furry cat sneaked into the foyer, rubbed itself on Walt's right leg, then gave a long look up at Luther.
"We can't just leave him," Bev was saying.
"No, we can't," Walt said.
Luther hated cats.
"We could ask Jude Becker," Bev said.
"No problem. I'll take care of him," Luther said, swallowing hard, knowing perfectly well that Nora would get the chore.
"Are you sure?" Walt asked, a little too quickly.
"No problem."
The cat took another look at Luther and slunk away. The feeling was mutual.
The good - byes took much longer than the hellos, and when Luther hugged Bev he thought she would break. Under the bulky sweater was a frail and ailing woman. The tears were halfway down her cheeks. "I'll call Nora," she whispered. "Thanks."
Old tough-as-nails Walt had moist eyes too. On the front steps, during their last handshake, he said, "This means so much, Luther. Thank you."
When the Scheels were once again locked away inside, Luther started home. Unburdened by the thick envelope now, shed of its pricey tickets and thick brochures, freed of all the self-indulgence contained therein, his steps were a little quicker. And, filled with the satisfaction of making the perfect gift, Luther walked straight and proud with hardly a limp.
At the street he stopped and looked over his shoulder. The Scheels' home, dark as a cave just moments earlier, was now alive with lights being flipped on both upstairs and down. They'll pack all night, Luther thought to himself.
A door opened across the street, and the Galdy family made a noisy exit from the Kranks' living room. Laughter and music escaped with them and echoed above Hemlock. The party showed little signs of breaking up.
Standing there at the edge of the street, light snow gathering on his wool cap and collar, gazing at his freshly decorated house with almost the entire neighborhood packed into it, Luther paused to count his blessings. Blair was home, and she'd brought with her a very nice, handsome, polite young man, who was quite obviously crazy about her. And who, at that moment, was very much in charge of the party along with Marty Whatshisname.
Luther himself was lucky to be standing, as opposed to lying peacefully on a slab at Franklin's Funeral Home, or pinned to a bed in ICU at Mercy Hospital, tubes running everywhere. Thoughts of snowballing down his roof, headfirst, still horrified him. Very lucky indeed.
Blessed with friends and neighbors who would sacrifice their plans for Christmas Eve to rescue him.
He looked up to his chimney where the Brixleys' Frosty was watching him. Round smiling face, top hat, corncob pipe. Through the flurries Luther thought he caught a wink from the snowman.
Starving, as usual, Luther suddenly craved smoked trout. He began trekking through the snow. "I'll eat a fruitcake too," he vowed to himself.
What a ridiculous idea.
Maybe next year.