Chapter 2
Santa’s Court, Jingle Bell Nail Art, and the Tall Elf
Ever since Jack interrupted my romantic moment on the front porch with Champ, Elvis has been greeting me first thing in the morning with his tail wagging and my pink, plush-lined bedroom slippers in his mouth. Call me sentimental, but I think it’s the sweetest thing that my dog wants to make sure my feet are warm. I think he’s trying to apologize for his bad behavior on the front porch the other night. Elvis actually growled and got his hackles up before I could figure out whether I was really into Champ’s kiss or just hoping to be.
If you treat a basset right, he’ll reward you by dying for you, if necessary. Of course, nobody around here is going to die if I have a say in it. This is Christmas. I’m just saying I don’t feel a bit silly when I get Elvis’ little four-pawed Santa suit out of the closet.
“You’re taking Elvis to the mall?”
Naturally Jack puts in his two cents. And naturally, he’s in my bedroom watching my every move, six feet of handsome and every inch tempting.
“Yes. The kids will love him.”
“They’ll love you, too.”
“A tall, skinny elf? Are you kidding?” Still, Jack’s comment pleases me. More than it ought to, really. If he doesn’t hurry up and get well and leave this house, I don’t know what I’m going to do about my runaway inconvenient attraction.
Jack’s black-eyed stare lets me know he’s not kidding. I have to distract myself with the business of making sure his meds are all lined up on the bedside table and his cell phone within easy reach. Things he’s perfectly capable of doing for himself. Still, kindness is my motto. This world would be a better place if more people spread it around. Especially at Christmas.
Finally Elvis and I head to the door, and Jack calls after us, “Be careful.”
Of what, I wonder, but I don’t stop to engage in further conversation. The less time I spend around my ex, the better for my peace of mind. In that light, it’s a good thing Uncle Charlie booked all the Valentines for this event.
The Barnes Crossing Mall is a sprawling complex of stores that started out in the middle of a pasture on the northwest side of Tupelo. Anchored by Sears on one end and Belk’s on the other, it features a food court in the middle and a movie theater tacked to the east side. Shortly after the mall was built, Walmart erected a store across the street, and then shops, service stations, restaurants, drugstores, a medical clinic, and a grocery store sprang up faster than Elvis can con Jack out of forbidden treats. (Don’t think I don’t know. I just pretend not to. Why spoil their fun?)
Elvis and I arrive well before the mall opens, park in the east lot near the double glass doors near the center court, and go in the entrance reserved for participants in the charity event. The mall is not officially open for another forty minutes and is empty except for volunteers. Mama and Fayrene aren’t here yet, but I’m happy to see that my new manicurist is already in the Hair.Net booth.
Darlene Johnson Lawford Grant is wearing her usual boots and jeans, a green sweater decorated with silver sequined snowmen, and the diamonds she kept from both her ex-husbands. With perfect makeup and nails, her hair a long silken sweep of blond, she will attract a large crowd. I give her the thumbs up, and Darlene gives me the victory sign.
Though at first I had my doubts about hiring her, especially after I found out she won’t paint your nails till she consults your horoscope, I’ve come to applaud my choice. My clients love her, and they enjoy getting their nails professionally done without having to drive to Tupelo.
At the rate Darlene is helping fill my coffers, I’ll soon be able to add a tanning bed to Hair.Net. My hope is to turn my beauty shop into a south of Mooreville Riviera. Now as I head toward the dressing room to find out what kind of elf costume awaits, Elvis jerks the leash out of my hand and bolts.
“Elvis, come back here,” I yell, but obviously his mismatched ears have suddenly lost the ability to detect sound. It’s not long before I see why.
“Elvis! You old chow hound.” Lovie has arrived, all hundred ninety pounds of her engulfed in sequins and jingle bells and the mingled scents of sugar and cinnamon. Food will get my dog every time.
I jog over to my cousin and best friend in the universe and give her a hug.
“Got your electric girdle?” I ask, and she deadpans, “Always.” We slap hands and chant, “God bless, Fayrene.”
We’re laughing with her, not at her. Thank goodness, the Valentines were brought up to know the difference.
“Do you need me to help you unload?” I spot Lovie’s van parked just outside the glass double doors to the mall’s east entrance near my Dodge Ram.
“Are you kidding? With this come-hither figure, I’ll soon have more male muscle than I can shake my National Treasure at.”
She’s talking about her tattoo—NATIONAL TREASURE, one word on each hip. In a weak moment I don’t even want to recall, we both got tattoos on Beale Street. I refuse to talk about mine. Suffice it to say, I’m not shaking it at anybody. Especially Jack.
“You’d better give the National Treasure a rest, Lovie. Santa’s Court is rated PG.”
“Maybe just a forbidden shake every now and then. Gotta keep in practice.” She dumps an oversize red-sequined tote bag into her booth. “I’m a little nervous, Cal.”
If you didn’t know Lovie the way I do, you’d scoff at the idea. But underneath all that bravado lurks a vulnerable woman who has a hard time believing she’s good enough. My secret theory is that’s the real reason she broke up with Rocky Malone.
“Ah, Lovie.” I hug her again. “Don’t you know? You’re the best cook in the South. People are going to snatch up your cookbook so fast your head will swim. Especially with part of the proceeds going to charity.”
A copy of her first cookbook peeks out of the top of her bag—Lovie’s Luscious Holiday Treats.
“Maybe I should have left Luscious out of the title.”
“You want people to make an instant connection with your catering business. People love your cooking.”
“That they do, dear heart.” Uncle Charlie strolls up, leans over to pet Elvis, then hugs us before he surveys the mall’s center court. “I don’t see Ruby Nell and Fayrene.”
“You know Mama. She probably had to change clothes six times before she was satisfied. It’s a wonder she didn’t call me this morning to change her hair color.”
Mama changes hair color more often than I change my air freshener. Currently her hair is still raven from her attempt at being a senorita in the Mayan jungle.
“We’d better get in costume, then.” Uncle Charlie says.
I leave my dog in the booth with Lovie, which is a polite way of saying a herd of stampeding elephants couldn’t have dragged him away from her sugared doughnuts.
“Watch him for me till I get back. And no sweet treats. He’s on a diet.”
Elvis and Lovie both give me innocent looks, but I’m not the least bit fooled. The minute my back is turned she’ll be feeding him, and he’ll be eating like he didn’t have a full bowl of dog chow this morning plus the stick of Pup-Peroni Jack sneaked to him.
I can’t be too hard on Elvis and Jack, though. Holidays are made for breaking rules. But I swear, as soon as the holidays are over I’m really going to clean up their act. Mine, too, but right now I can’t think about how to get Jack off my mind.
Uncle Charlie and I have arrived in the dressing room, and I have to use all my energy trying to figure out how I’m going to get nearly six feet of me into a little green costume made for someone who’s five feet tall.
Holding up the costume, I’m appalled at the amount of leg it will leave bare.
“Who was the elf before me? A Wizard of Oz munchkin?”
Uncle Charlie emerges from behind one of the three curtained-off cubicles. “I don’t know his name. All I know is that he was here for years.”
Uncle Charlie already has his red pants on over his khakis and is busy stuffing the waistband with pillows. It’s going to take several. He’s as fit and trim as any sixty-three-year-old gentleman you’ll ever meet. Which figures when you consider that he was once a Company man, like Jack.
“He wore a skirt?”
“I’d imagine he wore pants. That’s probably a costume used by the elf before him.”
In the Dark Ages, I’m guessing. In addition to having a too-short skirt with jingle bells on the bottom, my costume has a moth hole in the seat of the green underpants. I’ll have to remember not to bend over.
I step behind another curtain and into the costume, then proceed to tug at the skirt. Fortunately, the fabric is slightly damp and stretches to add about an inch to the bottom, enough so I won’t give mothers heart attacks and young kids an unexpected education. I glance at my watch to see if I have time to run to the fabric store in the mall and get six-inch-wide ribbon for the skirt, but it’s too late. I’ll just have to make do.
When I step outside the curtain I do a double take. In his coat and boots and faux white beard, Uncle Charlie looks like the real deal. Of course, in their red, fur-trimmed suits, all Santas look alike.
“Ho ho ho,” he says, and I applaud. He’s headed toward the door when I spot the rest of his costume lying on a metal chair.
“Wait. Your gloves.” When I pick them up, I notice they’re even wetter than my skirt. “These are damp, Uncle Charlie.”
“Probably a leak from the air conditioner or something. There’s construction going on all over the mall.”
“I wonder why they didn’t wait till after Christmas.”
“Who knows? The mall’s old. Maybe they had an emergency situation.” He offers his arm. “Ready, dear heart?”
By the time Uncle Charlie and I get to Santa’s Court, I’m tickled pink to see people lined up two-deep in front of the Hair.Net booth to sample Darlene’s free jingle bell nail art. Mama’s Fa La La La Farewell booth has attracted a crowd, too. And Fayrene is knee deep in people who’ll soon find out that pickled pigs’ lips are not an exotic new delicacy but taste as much like the barnyard as they sound.
Over at Uncle Charlie’s Eternal Rest Funeral Home booth, poor Bobby has no one itching to talk about kicking the bucket and receiving a free jazz funeral. My first thought is to call Jack to drop by the mall so Bobby will have somebody to talk to. Then I remember that Jack can’t drive yet. Maybe I’ll call Champ.
The star of the center mall, of course, is Lovie. Her griddle is smoking, her deep-fry cooker is sizzling, and you can’t stir her crowd with a peppermint stick. Everybody wants a taste of Lovie’s Luscious Eats.
I drop by her booth to pick up Elvis, then proceed to the back entrance of Santa’s Court. It’s a roped-off area with two security guards in elf costumes up front trying to keep order among the screaming kids and their tired-looking mothers. Somebody ought to tell those two guards that disgruntled is not the proper demeanor for Santa’s elves.
The centerpiece of the court is Santa’s throne, an elaborate metal structure spray-painted gold and adorned with faux jewels, plush, red-velvet cushions, and a string of Christmas bulbs that will light up when the opening ceremonies begin.
When Uncle Charlie takes a seat and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” you’d think Elvis himself had risen from the dead. The kids go into a screaming frenzy. Of course, with this age (two to six), they could be screaming for no reason at all.
Walking carefully so I won’t open the show with a flyaway skirt, I make my way through fake snow, plastic reindeer, faux trees hung with Christmas ornaments, and cardboard-cut-out elves. I’d make three of these little inanimate Santa’s helpers.
The kids waiting for a turn on Santa’s lap don’t notice. Partially because I head into the crowd to hand out candy canes but mostly because I have Santa Paws on a leash. (Let me tell you, Elvis is hamming it up.) With two Santas in the building, the screaming has reached near-hysteria, even if one of the Santas is canine.
A man with a face as wrinkled as a peach pit struts my way. In jeans and leather jacket, he’d look like an ordinary mall shopper except for his size. His head comes up barely past my elbow.
He makes no bones about looking me up and down, and Elvis makes no bones about his disapproval. Hearing that low grumbling growl, I lean over and try to soothe my dog’s ruffled feelings.
“Be nice, or I’ll call Champ to take you home.” Elvis gets the picture. When I straighten up, he’s a model of canine decorum. Translated, that means he’s not drooling and using my legs as a salt lick.
“You’re some tall elf.” The strange little man holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Corky Kelly. I just dropped by to wish you luck.”
I take an educated guess. “Former elf?”
He doesn’t laugh; he giggles. I know the difference. Lovie and I have spent hours down on Mama’s farm or sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed or mine eating popcorn and giggling.
“Retired elf.” A look of longing crosses his face. “I miss it, though.”
“Stick around, Mr. Kelly. I’d love for you to give me some pointers.””
“Wish I could, but I’m meeting my nephew across town at Danver’s. One of the perks of being retired. Leisurely lunches with family and friends.”
I don’t notice Elvis is missing until Corky strolls off. It’s just like my dog to pay me back for a public chastisement by slipping his collar and leaving me holding an empty leash. Panicked, I’m about to start calling his name when I hear him. Front and center in Santa’s Court, head thrown back, his throat working on a series of long howls.
Good grief. My dog is onstage, probably thinking he’s singing “Blue Christmas.” Listen, I know you think I’m crazy, but this basset acts like he’s a world-famous entertainer. He grabs every opportunity to perform.
The kids are laughing and clapping, which only encourages him. Elvis spins in a little circle, shows his audience a curled-up lip and a bit of teeth, then keeps on howling.
“Somebody grab that dog!” The screech comes from Mayor Earl Getty’s wife, Junie Mae.
Mayor Getty himself, who is standing in Santa’s Court fiddling with the microphone, tries to grab my dog, but I’m too fast for him. I leap into action and have Elvis back on his leash before he can pee on Junie Mae’s snakeskin pumps.
He hates being called a dog. I remind him that Junie Mae is one of my best customers. She drives all the way from Tupelo to Hair.Net and has a standing request for me to make up her up like Marilyn Monroe when she’s ready to pass on to Glory Land. When she delivered postmortem instructions, she said, “For once, I want to take the spotlight from Robert Earl.”
I have Elvis back under control before anybody has time to think our shenanigans are anything except part of the act. The kids start clapping, and Mayor Getty, who knows opportunity when it mows him down, is quick to take the credit.
“A little added attraction,” he says.
“Behave yourself,” I tell my dog; then I make sure his collar is a notch tighter, too tight to slip out of but not tight enough to be uncomfortable.
Meanwhile the mall’s PA system is blasting “Jingle Bells,” the crowd is getting restless, and Mayor Getty is tapping away at the microphone the way he always does.
At the front of the crowd, Junie Mae looks like an Easter marshmallow in her too-tight pink suit with the faux-fur collar and little matching pillbox hat. And I mean that in the best of ways. I like marshmallows.
“It’s working, hon,” Junie Mae calls out.
The crowd laughs. Every time the mayor makes a public appearance, he taps and she yells the same thing. Theirs is almost a George Burns and Gracie Allen routine.
With Elvis firmly on his leash, I station myself beside a Christmas tree in the corner of Santa’s Court. Mayor Getty glances at Uncle Charlie and me to mouth, Ready?
We both nod, and he says, “La-dies and gent-le-men.”
“Wait!” Somebody in the crowd yells. “Stop!”
It’s the mall’s manager, Cleveland White, his long legs pumping toward Santa’s Court, his wild red hair sticking up, his florid face redder than Santa Claus’ suit.
What now? I’m holding my breath, right along with the crowd, when Cleveland announces, “Rudolph is not here yet.”
On a collective exhale, we all turn to see a half reindeer, half man loping in our direction. The only way we know he is Steve Boone, owner of Tupelo Hardware, where Elvis bought his first guitar, is that he’s carrying his head. It has pointy antlers and a bright red nose.
Junie Mae grabs his furry left flank as he lopes by. “Psst. Put your head on.”
Steve heaves the big shaggy costume head over his, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer steps into Santa’s Court.
Mayor Getty clears his throat to start over. “Welcome to the North Pole! On behalf of the city of Tupelo and the Barnes Crossing Mall, I give you Santa Claus and his court!”
Elvis barks while Rudolph grabs Uncle Charlie’s gloved hand and leans over to whisper something to him. Suddenly the throne lights up, Rudolph’s nose starts flashing, and he flies through the air with the greatest of ease. Meanwhile, Uncle Charlie starts to “Shake, Rattle and Roll.”
Something is horribly wrong. While I’m frozen in fear, the crowd goes wild. Am I the only one who knows this is not part of the show? When Uncle Charlie topples from the throne, I shake off my paralysis and race his way. The clapping now becomes cheering.
Holy cow! Everybody still thinks they’re being entertained. Everybody, that is, except Lovie, who is shoving her way through the crowd.
An overwrought mother with rambunctious twin boys says, “You can’t cut this line.” Lovie would have ignored her if she hadn’t added, “You hog.”
“Kiss my grits, heifer.” Lovie keeps on trucking. Thank goodness.
Uncle Charlie and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer are lying on the floor, and they are not moving.