Mary McGill stood on top of the library steps, trying to hear the person shouting at the other end of her cell phone. She could only make out every other word. It sounded as if they said the cow had run away. She should have learned to text.
‘Where did the cow go?’ She listened for a minute as the growing crowd made their way through the park toward the Victorian Christmas Extravaganza on Maple Street, one block over, wondering, not for the first time, why she’d agreed to once more chair the organizing committee for this event. ‘Why we ever let the Maids a-Milking bring a real cow, I’ll never know. Can you catch it? It what? Oh, oh. Keep me posted.’
She hung up, hoping Bobby Connors was right and he could keep the cow out of Mrs Wittiker’s mums. She was pretty proud of those mums. Oh, well. It was a bit late for them anyway.
It was getting dark fast. Clouds were coming in. The forecast was for rain, but not until later tonight. Mary sent up a silent prayer it would hold off until at least midnight. It would take that long to get everyone out of their costumes, make sure all the animals were accounted for and back in their barnyards or kennels and any stray children found and returned to their parents. No matter how hard you tried, children strayed.
Her cell phone rang again. ‘Mary here. Everything’s fine. No, no sign of the cow. You tell Bobby to get on it. We can’t have a cow running— Oh. Good. Where’s the posada? The donkey did what? Is Luanne all right? Take care of her. She’s about as far along as Mary was when they got to Bethlehem and I have no intention of closing this event tonight birthing a real baby.’ She listened a moment. ‘All right. I should hear the singing any time now.’
The library Mary stood outside of was in the middle of Santa Louisa’s town park, almost directly across from St Theresa of the Little Flower Church, where the posada was supposed to end. Mary and Joseph would finally be welcomed someplace after all the inns set up along the procession route had rejected them. Mary would lay baby Jesus in the manger, the children’s choir would sing a hymn, the people who had followed the procession would join in and a party would immediately commence. Libations were supposed to consist of lemonade and hot chocolate. Mary fervently hoped that was all that was served.
Many California towns had recently included posadas in their Christmas celebrations, but this was Santa Louisa’s first attempt. St Theresa’s had decided to hold the posada as their contribution to the annual Victorian Christmas Extravaganza and the plan, or at least the hope, was that after the singing and the breaking of the piñata, all the pilgrims would leave Main Street and move over to Maple Street and enjoy the extravaganza. Every house on Maple Street was lit to the hilt with Christmas lights, and almost every house offered some kind of tableau. This year it had almost gotten out of hand. The Maids a-Milking were really going to try to milk that cow while the lords were leaping all around them. How they could do that every fifteen minutes while people walked up and down the street, gaping at the exhibits, she didn’t know, and was afraid they didn’t either.
They weren’t the only ones taking the ‘extravaganza’ seriously. Mimes, Morris dancers, a barbershop quartet, a storyteller, a group wearing Dickinson-era costumes while singing Christmas carols, even Ebenezer Scrooge, were all making an appearance. Evan Wilson played Scrooge every year. He came out on his balcony, dressed in a bathrobe and stocking cap, shaking his fist at the children, telling them to ‘get off my property.’ Then he’d throw down gold-wrapped chocolates. The children loved it. Mary didn’t know how he did it. Evan was usually such a mild-mannered man.
The posada would come down Maple Street, turn the corner on 11th, a block before the extravaganza started, continue up Main Street and stop on the church lawn, where the manger scene was set up, just to the right of the church steps. Joseph, portrayed by Stan Moss, led the procession, walking alongside Luanne Mendosa who portrayed Mary. She was perched worryingly on the Bates’ donkey, an animal that wasn’t mild in the least. Shepherds walked behind, followed by the Three Kings, who had thankfully not been able to come up with any camels. They were mounted instead on Irma Long’s three most elderly and unflappable mares. The townspeople came next, singing traditional Mexican songs, and in this case, traditional English Christmas hymns as well, pausing only to howl in disappointment each time they were refused entry by one of the inns along the route. They should make it to St Theresa’s manger scene in – Mary checked her watch – about fifteen minutes. The crowd was already moving her way.
So many people. She thought back to the first extravaganza, over twenty years ago. She’d managed that one, too, but the crowd had been considerably smaller. Only a few houses were lit that year, the entertainment limited to a living manger scene, a barbershop quartet on the Martins’ lawn and the high-school choir. Where they had set up she couldn’t remember. What she did remember was her middle-school home economics class making Christmas cookies. How Samuel had laughed when he’d seen the few she’d brought home. Their nieces and nephews hadn’t minded how uneven they were or how sloppy the frosting. They’d gleefully added them to the Christmas breakfast Mary and Sam hosted every year. Sam had been gone some seven years now, but she still missed him dreadfully. Her days teaching home economics were also gone but not missed nearly as much. However, she still presided over the extravaganza, which now attracted visitors from all over the state. She sighed and shifted her weight. Why she’d allowed herself to be talked into coordinating this mob scene ‘just one more year,’ she had no idea. Yes, she did. It was either that or prance around in a reindeer costume. The choice had been clear. She surveyed the crowd and checked her cell phone again. All quiet.
‘Mrs McGill?’
Mary looked down at Dalia Mendosa. The child had climbed the steps without her noticing.
‘Dalia. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be over at the church waiting for the posada to arrive?’
Dalia nodded. ‘I was. We have the doll and everything, but he won’t get up and I don’t know what to do. Ronaldo’s there. He’s holding the doll.’
Mary surveyed the ten-year-old and shook her head slightly. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s Doctor Mathews. He’s lying in the manger, asleep, I think. He won’t get up.’
The child’s eyes were large and a little frightened.
‘Old Doctor Mathews? The vet? Are you sure?’
Dalia nodded, her large green eyes wide with apprehension. ‘We called his name, but he won’t get up.’
Oh, Lord. Cliff Mathews. He’d been so good too. Why did he have to pick this night, of all nights, to fall off the wagon? Why did he have to pass out in the manger? She clicked on her cell phone. ‘Tony? I think we have a problem. Can you meet me at the manger? No. St Theresa’s. Now. Cliff’s been drinking again and it looks like he’s passed out in it. The posada will be here in just a few minutes. I can’t get him out of there by myself.’ She listened for a moment. ‘Thanks.’ She hung up and took Dalia’s hand. ‘Let’s go.’
They crossed the street with some difficulty. People were everywhere. Strollers decorated with battery pack Christmas lights were pushed by parents who weren’t looking where they were going; dogs on leashes, even though outlawed, wound themselves between people’s legs, doing their best to trip someone. The traffic lights were off tonight and the sea of people that flowed in all directions, laughing, talking, kept Mary and Dalia from making much progress. Finally, they stood in front of the church. The lawn was clear of spectators. There was, so far, nothing to see, but as soon as the posada got closer … Was that singing coming their way?
‘Where is he?’
Dalia pointed to a rough-built lean-to, open to the street. Inside, where the manger was set up and the animals were housed, was in shadow. Spotlights were ready, sitting at both the inside and outside corners, for the arrival of Mary. The place would radiate light, the North Star would shine from the oak tree and angels would appear. But for now, everything was in shadow. Mary could just make out the outline of what looked like a goat. It bleated as she came up. A couple of other animals hung their heads over small pens, staring at the figure overflowing from the manger in the middle of the display, waiting for Mary and Joseph to appear.
‘Cliff Mathews, you promised.’ Mary let go of Dalia’s hand and marched up to the manger. ‘Get up right this minute. How you could—’
She stopped abruptly. Cliff wasn’t going to get up, now or ever again. He lay in the middle of the manger, eyes staring up at nothing, the shadows failing to hide the front of his gray hoodie, stained bright red.