Eighteen
School was out the week before Christmas and Blanche’s girls were giddy with excitement. Even Blanche managed to suppress her sadness enough to get into the spirit of the season. I think it was hard not to anticipate the opening of all the presents under our tree. The three younger children spent most of their time with us, but Patrice had taken part-time job as a cashier at Winn Dixie and worked most evenings.
It’s funny how, just when you think you’ve settled into a routine and you know what to expect, something seemingly insignificant becomes a revelation.
We decided to bake cookies, a task I previously thought to be a necessary, but not particularly heartwarming, part of the holiday routine. I helped Blanche by planning, shopping and organizing before the cookies were baked, and by packing and sorting for the various charities afterwards. That was before we had children in the house.
Knowing I had resigned from most of my civic duties, Blanche assumed we would omit the baking part of our routine when she asked about the cookies one night at the dinner table.
“I don’t reckon we go’n be bakin’ them Christmas cookies this year, 'less you got something I don’t know about.
Three little heads snapped to attention and the younger girls all spoke at once.
“Cookies?”
“Aw, I done said it now,” moaned Blanche.
“I’ll help, Mama,” Patrice said, more eager than resigned.
“Pleeeease…” came the chorus.
“I don’t see why not,” I said and Blanche smiled in spite of herself.
“Of course, we won’t bake quite as many as last year,” I added, as Blanche’s smile turned to a chuckle.
We decided to make Christmas Butter Cookies, so the girls could use the cookie cutters and sprinkles, and Lemon Squares, Blanche’s favorite. Then I said I’d add Bourbon Balls to the menu. They were easy to make and required no baking at all, so I thought I could handle those myself while the girls decorated their cookies.
“Bourbon Balls?” Blanche asked. “We entertainin’ this year?”
“Not on a grand scale,” I replied. “I just remembered that I invited Clara Jean and her date to stop by for eggnog after their Christmas Eve dinner plans and, to my surprise, she accepted.”
“Bourbon Balls and eggnog?” Blanche cocked her eyebrow at me disapprovingly.
“I’ll get the non-alcoholic eggnog, if that’ll make you feel better,” I said.
The thought flashed through my mind that Blanche must have some newfound system of ethics because we had always had alcohol in the house, despite our Baptist affiliation. Walter was by no means a drunkard, but he did like to have his one glass of Scotch and water when he got home. I had personally never cared much for liquor, but we kept several bottles in our cabinet for the rare entertaining we did.
Blanche glared at me and I must have looked puzzled because she cut her eyes pointedly in Eddie’s direction. He was picking slowly at his food and did not look up. I got the distinct feeling that he was well aware of the current exchange and wished he were anywhere else but there at the moment.
I may be a little slow, but I’m no idiot.
“You’s all outta whiskey, Miz Ora. ‘Member you had me pour all that out when Mr. Walter passed. Said it reminded you too much o’ him to keep it around.”
Well, I said no such thing, but I went along with the charade.
“That’s right, I’d forgotten all about that. Well, there’s no sense buying a whole new bottle of Jack Daniels for just a few little bourbon balls. I’ll come up with something else to impress Clara Jean and her new beau.”
I tried to sound nonchalant, but my response was stilted at best.
Later that night, after Blanche and the girls went home and Eddie turned in, I checked the liquor cabinet. It was empty, as I suspected. I didn't have time to ask Blanche about it at supper, but I assumed she had indeed poured out what little had been there. I'm not sure why I didn't know Eddie was an alcoholic. I suppose I should have wondered why a hardworking man was homeless, but instead I’d taken it for granted that he wanted it that way. It was years before I understood what Eddie would do for a roof over his head and three meals a day, and how much he would sacrifice for the daughter he loved.
I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how Blanche knew to pour out the liquor, so I asked her the next day before Eddie got up.
“Some things you just know,” was all she would allow.
We sat down later to make a list for our cookie baking adventure. I got out the recipes and Blanche calculated what we would need.
“Baking powder?" I read from the book.
“Pro'bly want to add that. What we got is pretty old," Blanche said.
“Vanilla extract - should have plenty of that," I said and tried to skip over it.
“We out of vanilla, Miz Ora."
“We can't be out, Blanche. I just bought a huge bottle."
“We still out of it," she grumbled.
“Humor me and check, would you?" I was annoyed.
“I can check all day long, Miz Ora, and we'll still be outta vanilla."
She went to the pantry and brought back the eight ounce bottle I had recently purchased. She held it up to the light to prove that the bottle was indeed almost empty.
“What in the world happened?"
Blanche gave me the look that I'd become accustomed to getting from her. I don't think she meant to, but she had a way of making me feel like a pitiful old fool.
“Some things you just know," she repeated.
I added vanilla extract to the list.
Eddie tried his best to stay out of the way as preparation for the holidays proceeded, but Grace would have none of that. She was determined to have all the members of our improbable family together as much as possible. We grew accustomed to seeing Grace clutch Eddie’s hand in both of hers and drag him down the hall toward whatever event or task we had going on at the time.
I thought that Eddie would eventually relax and allow himself to enjoy the attention, but he seemed to grow sadder by the minute. I made up my mind to ask him about it after the holidays passed and the excitement died down but, as usual, Gracie beat me to the punch.
We were up to our elbows in flour and sugar, our cookie baking expedition in full swing. I was rolling out cookie dough, ReNetta was cutting the shapes, Danita and Gracie were decorating and Blanche was baking the cookies and washing up dishes between batches. Eddie’s job was to hold the old shoebox full of cookie cutters and dole them out at the appropriate time. We had stars of all sizes, bells and wreaths, snowmen, snowflakes, Christmas trees, reindeer and sleighs.
The girls were having great fun deciding how to decorate the cookies for maximum effect. When Eddie pulled out the Santa face cookie cutter and the girls cut the shape, Gracie was quick to point out a serious design flaw in our cookie project. Once the white sugar crystals went on for the beard and the red crystals adorned his hat, Santa was left with a decidedly pale complexion.
“Mama, how come we makin’ Santy Claus's face so white?”
I’m not sure who was more horrified, me or Blanche. I thought back to the painting of the Last Supper above Blanche’s red couch. It’s funny what you take for granted when your view of the world reflects your own skin color.
Before Blanche could say a word, I roared, “Blanche! Get the cocoa!”
Well, that sent us all into fits of laughter that had Blanche and me crossing our legs and clutching our chests. I had never heard Eddie laugh before and I have to tell you, it was a magical sound. We laughed until our sides hurt, quieted down briefly and then started right back up again as soon as one of us replayed the scene in our heads. The little girls were only mildly amused and rolled their eyes in disgust when it took too long to collect ourselves.
We did pull out the cocoa, though. I blended it into one batch of buttery dough and let the girls cut it all into Santa faces. I have to admit, I liked the end result and I found myself wishing I’d thought to do it years earlier, when my cookies were being delivered to the families in Blanche’s neighborhood.
We were putting the last batch into the oven when Grace noticed that Eddie had gone quiet again.
“Aw, Mr. Pecan,” Grace crooned softly. She climbed gently into his lap and, resting her head back onto his shoulder, said, “Why you always so sad?”
He hugged her then. Tucked her head up under his chin and wrapped his arms around her little body.
“I’m sad ‘cause I’m go’n miss you when I’m gone,” he said.
“Where you going?” Gracie asked.
“I don’t rightly know for sure, but I can’t stay here forever.”
“Why not?” Gracie wondered.
“’Cause this here ain’t my home.”
“Where is your home, then?”
Blanche interrupted then. “Gracie!”
“S’awright. She ain’t botherin’ me,” Eddie said to Blanche. “I ain’t got a home right now, child. I done left my home a long time ago.”
“Can’t you go back?” she asked.
“Too late to go back now,” he said.