Chapter One
The gate was packed with weary travelers, most of them standing and huddledalong the walls because the meager allotment of plastic chairs had long sincebeen taken. Every plane that came and went held at least eighty passengers, yetthe gate had seats for only a few dozen.
There seemed to be a thousand waiting for the 7 p.m. flight to Miami. They werebundled up and heavily laden, and after fighting the traffic and the check-inand the mobs along the concourse they were subdued, as a whole. It was theSunday after Thanksgiving, one of the busiest days of the year for air travel,and as they jostled and got pushed farther into the gate many asked themselves,not for the first time, why, exactly, they had chosen this day to fly.
The reasons were varied and irrelevant at the moment. Some tried to smile. Sometried to read, but the crush and the noise made it difficult. Others just staredat the floor and waited. Nearby a skinny black Santa Claus clanged an irksomebell and droned out holiday greetings.
A small family approached, and when they saw the gate number and the mob theystopped along the edge of the concourse and began their wait. The daughter wasyoung and pretty. Her name was Blair, and she was obviously leaving. Her parentswere not. The three gazed at the crowd, and they, too, at that moment, silentlyasked themselves why they had picked this day to travel.
The tears were over, at least most of them. Blair was twenty-three, fresh fromgraduate school with a handsome resume but not ready for a career. A friend fromcollege was in Africa with the Peace Corps, and this had inspired Blair todedicate the next two years to helping others. Her assignment was eastern Peru,where she would teach primitive little children how to read. She would live in alean-to with no plumbing, no electricity, no phone, and she was anxious to beginher journey.
The flight would take her to Miami, then to Lima, then by bus for three daysinto the mountains, into another century. For the first time in her young andsheltered life, Blair would spend Christmas away from home. Her mother clutchedher hand and tried to be strong.
The good-byes had all been said. "Are you sure this is what you want?"had been asked for the hundredth time.
Luther, her father, studied the mob with a scowl on his face. What madness, hesaid to himself. He had dropped them at the curb, then driven miles to park in asatellite lot. A packed shuttle bus had delivered him back to Departures, andfrom there he had elbowed his way with his wife and daughter down to this gate.He was sad that Blair was leaving, and he detested the swarming horde of people.He was in a foul mood. Things would get worse for Luther.
The harried gate agents came to life and the passengers inched forward. Thefirst announcement was made, the one asking those who needed extra time andthose in first class to come forward. The pushing and shoving rose to the nextlevel.
"I guess we'd better go," Luther said to his daughter, his only child.
They hugged again and fought back the tears. Blair smiled and said, "Theyear will fly by. I'll be home next Christmas."
Nora, her mother, bit her lip and nodded and kissed her once more. "Pleasebe careful," she said because she couldn't stop saying it.
"I'll be fine."
They released her and watched helplessly as she joined a long line and inchedaway, away from them, away from home and security and everything she'd everknown. As she handed over her boarding pass, Blair turned and smiled at them onelast time.
"Oh well," Luther said. "Enough of this. She's going to befine."
Nora could think of nothing to say as she watched her daughter disappear. Theyturned and fell in with the foot traffic, one long crowded march down theconcourse, past the Santa Claus with the irksome bell, past the tiny shopspacked with people.
It was raining when they left the terminal and found the line for the shuttleback to the satellite, and it was pouring when the shuttle sloshed its waythrough the lot and dropped them off, two hundred yards from their car. It costLuther $7.00 to free himself and his car from the greed of the airportauthority.
When they were moving toward the city, Nora finally spoke. "Will she beokay?" she asked. He had heard that question so often that his response wasan automatic grunt.
"Sure."
"Do you really think so?"
"Sure." Whether he did or he didn't, what did it matter at this point?She was gone; they couldn't stop her.
He gripped the wheel with both hands and silently cursed the traffic slowing infront of him. He couldn't tell if his wife was crying or not. Luther wanted onlyto get home and dry off, sit by the fire, and read a magazine.
He was within two miles of home when she announced, "I need a few thingsfrom the grocery."
"It's raining," he said.
"I still need them."
"Can't it wait?"
"You can stay in the car. Just take a minute. Go to Chip's. It's opentoday."
So he headed for Chip's, a place he despised not only for its outrageous pricesand snooty staff but also for its impossible location. It was still raining ofcourse—she couldn't pick a Kroger where you could park and make a dash. No, shewanted Chip's, where you parked and hiked.
Only sometimes you couldn't park at all. The lot was full. The fire lanes werepacked. He searched in vain for ten minutes before Nora said, "Just drop meat the curb." She was frustrated at his inability to find a suitable spot.
He wheeled into a space near a burger joint and demanded, "Give me alist."
"I'll go," she said, but only in feigned protest. Luther would hikethrough the rain and they both knew it.
"Gimme a list."
"Just white chocolate and a pound of pistachios," she said, relieved.
"That's all?"
"Yes, and make sure it's Logan's chocolate, one-pound bar, and LanceBrothers pistachios."
"And this couldn't wait?"
"No, Luther, it cannot wait. I'm doing dessert for lunch tomorrow. If youdon't want to go, then hush up and I'll go."
He slammed the door. His third step was into a shallow pothole. Cold watersoaked his right ankle and oozed down quickly into his shoe. He froze for asecond and caught his breath, then stepped away on his toes, trying desperatelyto spot other puddles while dodging traffic.
Chip's believed in high prices and modest rent. It was on a side alley, notvisible from anywhere really. Next to it was a wine shop run by a European ofsome strain who claimed to be French but was rumored to be Hungarian. HisEnglish was awful but he'd learned the language of price gouging. Probablylearned it from Chip's next door. In fact all the shops in the District, as itwas known, strove to be discriminating.
And every shop was full. Another Santa clanged away with the same bell outsidethe cheese shop. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" rattled from ahidden speaker above the sidewalk in front of Mother Earth, where the crunchypeople were no doubt still wearing their sandals. Luther hated thestore—refused to set foot inside. Nora bought organic herbs there, for whatreason he'd never been certain. The old Mexican who owned the cigar store washappily stringing lights in his window, pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth,smoke drifting behind him, fake snow already sprayed on a fake tree.
There was a chance of real snow later in the night. The shoppers wasted no timeas they hustled in and out of the stores. The sock on Luther's right foot wasnow frozen to his ankle.
There were no shopping baskets near the checkout at Chip's, and of course thiswas a bad sign. Luther didn't need one, but it meant the place was packed. Theaisles were narrow and the inventory was laid out in such a way that nothingmade sense. Regardless of what was on your list, you had to crisscross the placehalf a dozen times to finish up.
A stock boy was working hard on a display of Christmas chocolates. A sign by thebutcher demanded that all good customers order their Christmas turkeysimmediately. New Christmas wines were in! And Christmas hams!
What a waste, Luther thought to himself. Why do we eat so much and drink so muchin the celebration of the birth of Christ? He found the pistachios near thebread. Odd how that made sense at Chip's. The white chocolate was nowhere nearthe baking section, so Luther cursed under his breath and trudged along theaisles, looking at everything. He got bumped by a shopping cart. No apology, noone noticed. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" was coming from above, asif Luther was supposed to be comforted. Might as well be "Frosty theSnowman."
Two aisles over, next to a selection of rice from around the world, there was ashelf of baking chocolates. As he stepped closer, he recognized a one-pound barof Logan's. Another step closer and it suddenly disappeared, snatched from hisgrasp by a harsh-looking woman who never saw him. The little space reserved forLogan's was empty, and in the next desperate moment Luther saw not another speckof white chocolate. Lots of dark and medium chips and such, but nothing white.
The express line was, of course, slower than the other two. Chip's' outrageousprices forced its customers to buy in small quantities, but this had no effectwhatsoever on the speed with which they came and went. Each item was lifted,inspected, and manually entered into the register by an unpleasant cashier.Sacking was hit or miss, though around Christmas the sackers came to life withsmiles and enthusiasm and astounding recall of customers' names. It was thetipping season, yet another unseemly aspect of Christmas that Luther loathed.
Six bucks and change for a pound of pistachios. He shoved the eager young sackeraway, and for a second thought he might have to strike him to keep his preciouspistachios out of another bag. He stuffed them into the pocket of his overcoatand quickly left the store.
A crowd had stopped to watch the old Mexican decorate his cigar store window. Hewas plugging in little robots who trudged through the fake snow, and thisdelighted the crowd no end. Luther was forced to move off the curb, and in doingso he stepped just left instead of just right. His left foot sank into fiveinches of cold slush. He froze for a split second, sucking in lungfuls of coldair, cursing the old Mexican and his robots and his fans and the damnedpistachios. He yanked his foot upward and slung dirty water on his pants leg,and standing at the curb with two frozen feet and the bell clanging away and"Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" blaring from the loudspeaker and thesidewalk blocked by revelers, Luther began to hate Christmas.
The water had seeped into his toes by the time he reached his car. "Nowhite chocolate," he hissed at Nora as he crawled behind the wheel.
She was wiping her eyes.
"What is it now?" he demanded.
"I just talked to Blair."
"What? How? Is she all right?"
"She called from the airplane. She's fine." Nora was biting her lip,trying to recover.
Exactly how much does it cost to phone home from thirty thousand feet? Lutherwondered. He'd seen phones on planes. Any credit card'll do. Blair had one he'dgiven her, the type where the bills are sent to Mom and Dad. From a cell phoneup there to a cell phone down here, probably at least ten bucks.
And for what? I'm fine, Mom. Haven't seen you in almost an hour. We all loveeach other. We'll all miss each other. Gotta go, Mom.
The engine was running though Luther didn't remember starting it.
"You forgot the white chocolate?" Nora asked, fully recovered.
"No. I didn't forget it. They didn't have any."
"Did you ask Rex?"
"Who's Rex?"
"The butcher."
"No, Nora, for some reason I didn't think to ask the butcher if he had anywhite chocolate hidden among his chops and livers."
She yanked the door handle with all the frustration she could muster. "Ihave to have it. Thanks for nothing." And she was gone.
I hope you step in frozen water, Luther grumbled to himself. He fumed andmuttered other unpleasantries. He switched the heater vents to the floorboard tothaw his feet, then watched the large people come and go at the burger place.Traffic was stalled on the streets beyond.
How nice it would be to avoid Christmas, he began to think. A snap of thefingers and it's January 2. No tree, no shopping, no meaningless gifts, notipping, no clutter and wrappings, no traffic and crowds, no fruitcakes, noliquor and hams that no one needed, no "Rudolph" and "Frosty," no office party, no wasted money. His list grew long. He huddled over thewheel, smiling now, waiting for heat down below, dreaming pleasantly of escape.
She was back, with a small brown sack which she tossed beside him just carefullyenough not to crack the chocolate while letting him know that she'd found it andhe hadn't. "Everybody knows you have to ask," she said sharply as sheyanked at her shoulder harness.
"Odd way of marketing," Luther mused, in reverse now. "Hide it bythe butcher, make it scarce, folks'll clamor for it. I'm sure they charge moreif it's hidden."
"Oh hush, Luther."
"Are your feet wet?"
"No. Yours?"
"No."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"Just worried."
"Do you think she'll be all right?"
"She's on an airplane. You just talked to her."
"I mean down there, in the jungle."
"Stop worrying, okay? The Peace Corps wouldn't send her into a dangerousplace."
"It won't be the same."
"What?"
"Christmas."
It certainly will not, Luther almost said. Oddly, he was smiling as he workedhis way through traffic.
Continues...
Excerpted from Skipping Christmasby John Grisham Copyright © 2002 by John Grisham. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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