A hopeless cook, Bev's cuisine tasted worse after the renovation, according to witnesses.
Their haughtiness had been stopped cold, however, with the breast cancer eighteen months earlier. The Scheels had been humbled mightily. Keeping ahead of the neighbors didn't matter anymore. Things were useless. They had endured the disease with a quiet dignity, and, as usual, Hemlock had supported them like family. A year after the first chemo, the Belgian conglom had reshuffled itself. Whatever Walt's job had been, it was now something less.
The Christmas before the Scheels had been too distracted to decorate. No Frosty for them, not much of a tree, just a few lights strung around the front window, almost an afterthought.
A year earlier, two houses on Hemlock had gone without Frostys-the Scheels' and one on the west end owned by a Pakistani couple who'd lived there three months then moved away. It had been for sale, and Frohmeyer had actually considered ordering another Frosty and conducting a nighttime raid on the premises to erect it.
"Come on, Scheel," Luther mumbled in traffic. "Keep your Frosty in the basement."
The Frosty idea had been cute six years earlier when first hatched by Frohmeyer. Now it was tedious. But, Luther confessed, certainly not tedious to the kids on Hemlock. He had been secretly delighted two years before when the storm gusts cleared the roofs and sent Frostys flying over half the city.
He turned onto Hemlock, and as far as he could see the street was lined with identical snowmen sitting like glowing sentries above the houses. Just two gaps in their ranks-the Scheels and the Kranks. "Thank you, Scheel," Luther whispered. Kids were riding bikes. Neighbors were outside, stringing lights, chatting across hedgerows.
A street gang was meeting in Scheel's garage, Luther noticed as he parked and walked hurriedly into his house. Sure enough, within minutes a ladder went up and Frohmeyer scurried up like a veteran roofer. Luther peeked through the blinds on his front door. There was Walt Scheel standing in the front yard with a dozen people, Bev, bundled up in a warm coat, on the front steps. Spike Frohmeyer was wrestling with an extension cord. There were shouts and laughter, everyone seemed to be hurling instructions to Frohmeyer as the next to the last Frosty on Hemlock was heaved up.
Little was said over a dinner of sauceless pasta and cottage cheese. Nora was down three pounds, Luther four. After the dishes, he went to the treadmill in the basement where he walked for fifty minutes, burning 340 calories, more than he had just consumed. He took a shower and tried to read.
When the street was clear, he went for a walk. He would not be a prisoner in his home. He would not hide from his neighbors. He had nothing, to fear from these people.
There was a twinge of guilt as he admired the two neat lines of snowmen guarding their quiet street. The Trogdons were piling more ornaments on their tree, and it brought back a few distant memories of Blair's childhood and those faraway times. He was not the nostalgic type. You live life today, not tomorrow, certainly not yesterday, he always said. The warm memories were quickly erased with thoughts of shopping and traffic and burning money. Luther was quite proud of his decision to take a year off.
His belt was a bit looser. The beaches were waiting.
A bike rushed in from nowhere and slid to a stop. "Hi, Mr. Krank."
It was Spike Frohmeyer, no doubt heading home after some clandestine juvenile meeting. The kid slept less than his father, and the neighborhood was full of stories about Spike's nocturnal ramblings. He was a nice boy, but usually unmedicated.
"Hello, Spike," Luther said, catching his breath. "What brings you out?"
"Just checking on things," he said, as if he were the official night watchman.
"What kind of things, Spike?"
"My dad sent me over to Stanton Street to see how many Rudolphs are up."
"How many?" Luther asked, playing along.
"None. We smoked 'em again."
What a victorious night the Frohmeyers would have, Luther thought. Silly.
"You putting yours up, Mr. Krank?"
"No, I'm not, Spike. We're leaving town this year, no Christmas for us."
"I didn't know you could do that."
"This is a free country, Spike, you can do almost anything you want."
"You're not leaving till Christmas Day," Spike said.
"What?"
"Noon's what I heard. You got plenty of time to get Frosty up. That way we can win the award again."
Luther paused for a second and once more marveled at the speed with which one person's private business could be so thoroughly kicked around the neighborhood.
"Winning is overrated, Spike," he said wisely. "Let another street have the award this year."
"I guess so."
"Now run along."
He rolled away and said, "See you later," over his shoulder.
The kid's father was lying in ambush when Luther came strolling by, "Evening, Luther," Vic said, as if the encounter was purely by chance. He leaned on his mailbox at the end of his drive.
"Evening, Vic," Luther said, almost stopping. But at the last second he decided to keep walking. He stepped around Frohmeyer, who tagged along.
"How's Blair?"
"Fine, Vic, thanks. How are your kids?"
"In great spirits. It's the best time of the year, Luther. Don't you think so?" Frohmeyer had picked up the pace and the two were now side by side.
"Absolutely. I couldn't be happier. Do miss Blair, though. It won't be the same without her."
"Of course not."
They stopped in front of the Beckers', next door to Luther's, and watched as poor Ned teetered on the top step of the ladder in a vain effort to mount an oversized star on the highest branch of the tree. His wife stood behind him, helping mightily with her instructions but not once holding the ladder, and his mother-in-law was a few steps back for the wide view. A fistfight seemed imminent.
"Some things about Christmas I'm not going to miss," Luther said.
"So you're really skipping out?"
"You got it, Vic. I'd appreciate your cooperation."
"Just doesn't seem right for some reason."
"That's not for you to decide, is it?"
"No, it's not."
"Good night, Vic." Luther left him there, amused by the Beckers.
Chapter Six
Nora's late-morning round-table at the shelter for battered women ended badly when Claudia, a casual friend at best, blurted out randomly, "So, Nora, no Christmas Eve bash this year?"
Of the eight women present, including Nora, exactly five had been invited to her Christmas parties in the past. Three had not, and at the moment those three looked for a hole to crawl into, as did Nora.
You crude little snot, thought Nora, but she managed to say quickly, "Afraid not. We're taking a year off." To which she wanted to add, "And if we ever have another party, Claudia dear, don't hold your breath waiting for an invitation."
"I heard you're taking a cruise," said Jayne, one of the three excluded, trying to reroute the conversation.
"We are, leaving Christmas Day in fact."
"So you're just eliminating Christmas altogether?" asked Beth, another casual acquaintance who got invited each year only because her husband's firm did business with Wiley Beck.
"Everything," Nora said aggressively as her stomach tightened.
"That's a good way to save money," said Lila, the biggest bitch of the bunch. Her emphasis on the word "money" implied that perhaps things were a bit tight around the Krank household. Nora's cheeks began to burn. Lila's husband was a pediatrician. Luther knew for a fact that they were heavily in debt-big house, big cars, country clubs. Earned a lot, spent even more.