Gertrude: A Christmas Tale

99 15 15
                                    

Gertrude couldn't figure why she was having so much trouble walking down California Ave. After all, this Chicago storm had nothing on the abominable weather she was used to. The homefolk would laugh if they could see her half sliding, half stumbling along, holding her arms out for balance as she struggled to avoid the slick patches of dirty snow. With a grand harumph, she pulled her hood tighter around her head to protect herself from the icy rain. She really should have opted for a pair of ice skates rather than these furry boots she chose for tonight. Now wouldn't that be a sight?

She took two more small steps, then stumbled, landing hard against the building. Already the ache in her shoulder was taking hold. Later, she knew she'd have to pull out the liniment, the old-time liniment she kept in a special drawer in her nightstand. None of that new-fangled Icy Hot stuff for her.

She dug deep in her pocket for the comfort she'd brought along. Closing her eyes, she took a nip, then gave the bottle a kiss. It gurgled back affectionately. The bottle looked like one of those they sold for five dollars a pop on airplanes. But this comfort was by far better than anything an airline could offer. Warmer now, and much surer in her step, she replaced the bottle in her pocket, careful not to disturb the wrapping on the gift beside it.

She made her way to the building's entrance and dug in her other pocket for the wilted piece of paper amidst the candy canes and root beer barrels. The paper was slightly damp from the ride here but she could still read the address and, more importantly, the name scrawled on it.

The Mary F. Greavy Memorial Home, 252 West California Avenue. Gertrude squinted up at the sign over the door and compared the name to the fading legend on the paper in her gloved fingers. "Yah." She smacked her lips together, the remnants of the nip still a potent taste on her tongue. "Good stuff," she said, pushing open the door.

***

"Can I help you?"

The reception area of the Mary F. Greavy Memorial Home was brightly lit, too bright, if you asked Gertrude. She pushed the hood off her head and wrinkled her nose at her surroundings, which were bathed in a cold light, a malevolent brilliance that Gertrude did not like one bit. Above the reception desk were red and green letters spread out to read Happy Holidays, although the s was hanging by a thread. No Merry Christmas here, even though it was December 24th. The Home was nothing if not politically correct. In the corner was a Christmas tree, unlit, boasting a meager collection of dusty ornaments hanging on the sagging branches like afterthoughts.

"Merry Christmas, Doreen." Gertrude stood at the desk and placed a candy cane next to the receptionist's hand, which held her place on page 12 of The National Enquirer. From the looks of it, Johnny Depp was having women trouble again.

Doreen lifted her head, her gaze was one of overwhelming disinterest dappled with impatience. Her face was long, thin and pale enough to make Gertrude think the woman hadn't seen the sun since last summer. She wore pink scrubs, her name tag crooked on the breast pocket, a faded ketchup stain on the collar. At least Gertrude hoped it was ketchup and not some sort of bodily fluid.

"Can I help you?" This time the emphasis was on the word help. Impatience had now beaten disinterest into submission.

"Ah, yes, Doreen." Gertrude dug out the paper again, which was now not only wilted but hopelessly crumpled as well. "I am here to see Miss Fiona Wingate."

Doreen's lips trembled, like she was about to laugh. But after a moment, she seemed to think better of it and returned her frown to its rightful place. "She's in the lounge." She waved one hand toward the corridor. "Down the end of the hall. Oh, and you're lucky. She's just had her meds." This time the laugh escaped Doreen, sounding like a rough bark from an ailing hound.

Gertrude: A Christmas TaleWhere stories live. Discover now