Worth

Chapter 18 (Pt. 1)

"Have some Cinzano," her mother said, enjoying tiny glasses at a time of the sweet fortified wine. She liked to indulge a little when she was slaving over a big family dinner, and she had been slaving since mid-morning.

"It's not my favourite," Violet said, screwing up her nose.

"It's Christmas. Have something."

Violet took a palm full of slivered almonds that were meant for the cherry tarts. Her mother, just arriving at tipsy, disapproved of the spoilsporting. "Now what else can I do?" Violet asked, holding firm.

"Peel the potatoes. That's what we had kids for."

"Did you and Dad go to church last night?"

"We didn't stay too long. I feel kind of sorry for Father Ernie. Ever since they opened that huge prayer palace on Remy St., midnight mass has migrated. They televise it on local cable."

"I flipped past it. I thought it was an infomercial for big hats."

"Well, I like our little church. I like that it has a lawn instead of a parking lot."

"Yes, I've seen that nativity scene."

"Isn't it awful? That angel swinging from the window looks like he's been hanged. And I don't know if you've noticed, but the Joseph is just another Mary with a beard stuck on and her robes painted brown."

"I'll have to take a closer look."

"Your father has a picture of it on his phone. It reminds me of the time your grandmother was taking art classes and got inspired to paint clothes on all the marble nudes we had in the foyer. All the women got togas and the two male statues looked like the David in Bermuda shorts."

"Are we going to wait for Olivia and Lee to get here before we call Grandma?"

"That's what I figured. Mom's probably in the car with your uncle right now. And your sister and Lee will be at his parents' until around five o'clock. I hope they're not too stuffed. We could feed an army with all this food."

"An army still wouldn't eat those turnips."

Evelyn March smacked her lips. The love of turnips was hers alone and no amount of butter or salt could change the fact. As for the rest of the holiday meal - the turkey, mashed potatoes, veggies and salad, two kinds of stuffing no less, (both traditional bread with sage and sausage and herb varieties), not to mention all the cheese and olive platters before and all the pecan pie and cherry tarts afterwards - it was all fair game. Only one year had leftovers ever lasted past the next day and that was because a guest had made pasta. If any armies were passing by the March home this Christmas or any other, they'd be lucky to get their hands on some dinner rolls to ration out and it wouldn't happen without a skirmish.

"I hope those two get here a little earlier," Violet said. "I want to open my presents."

"You don't have to wait. Open one up."

"But then I'll have one less to open while everyone else is unwrapping theirs. That's no fun."

"I hope you like what we got you."

"I'm sure I will. Sometimes, when I'm looking at things, I don't know if I like them because they are my taste or because they remind me of yours."

"What a nice thing to say."

Violet's mother certainly had an enviable sense of style, and it was no secret she was proud of it.

The telephone rang. Violet gave a little jump and the potato she gripped slipped out of her hand and into the sink. Her mother picked up the kitchen phone but kept an eye on her daughter. "It's Aunt Eileen," she whispered like she did when she wanted the girls to keep quiet to spare them a long winded gripe. The conversation lasted through the entire bag of potatoes.