A Dixie Christmas

  That wasn’t the worst part, though. All of the characters were made up as Elvis versions—What else!—of the Nativity figures, complete with fluffed-up hair and sideburns.

  The Three Wise Men were tall, lean men in their late teens or early twenties wearing long satin robes of jewel tone colors, covered by short shoulder capes with high stand-up collars. Their garish attire was adorned with enough sequins and glitter to do the tackiest Vegas sideshow proud. They moved efficiently about their jobs in well-worn leather cowboy boots, except for the shepherd in duct-taped sneakers. Belts with huge buckles, like rodeo cowboys usually wore, tucked in their trim waists.

  The shepherd, about thirteen years old, wore a knee-high, one-piece sheepskin affair, also belted with a shiny clasp the size of a hubcap. Even the sleeping baby, placed carefully in a rough manger, had its hair slicked up into an Elvis curl, artfully arranged over its forehead.

  Joseph was a glowering man in his mid-twenties, wearing a gem-studded burlap gown, a rope belt with the requisite buckle, and scruffy boots. Since he kept checking the infant every couple of minutes, Clay assumed he must be the father.

  “Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Baaaa! Baaaa! Hee-haw!”

  Clay’s attention was diverted to an animal trailer, parked behind the pickup truck, where one of the Wise Men was leading the braying donkey and two sheep, none of which appeared happy to participate in the blessed event. In fact, the donkey dug in its hooves stubbornly—Do donkeys have hooves?—as the obviously cursing Wise Man yanked on the lead rope. The donkey got the last word by marking the site with a spray of urine, barely missing the boot of the Wise Man who danced away at the last moment. The sheep deposited their own Nativity “gifts.”

  Clay would have laughed if he weren’t so angry.

  Then he noticed the woman.

  Lordy, did he notice the woman!

  A peculiar heat swept over him then, burning his face, raising hairs on the back of his neck and forearms, even along his thighs and calves, lodging smack dab in his gut, and lower. How odd! It must be anger, he concluded, because he sure as hell wasn’t attracted to the woman. Not by a Wall Street longshot!

  She was tall—at least five-foot-nine—and skinny as a rail. He could see that, even under her plain blue, ankle-length gown . . . well, as plain as it could be with its overabundant studding of pearls. In tune with her outrageous ensemble, she sported the biggest hair he’d ever seen outside a fifties movie retrospective. The long brunette strands had been teased and arranged into an enormous bowl shape that flipped up on the ends—probably in imitation of Elvis’s wife. What was her name? Patricia? Phyllis? No. Priscilla, that was it. She must have depleted the entire ozone layer over Tennessee to hold that monstrosity in place. Even from this distance he could see that her eyelids were covered with a tawdry plastering of blue eye shadow and weighted down with false eyelashes. Madonna, she was not . . . neither the heavenly one, nor the rock star with the cone-shaped bra from a few years back.

  Still, a strange heat pulsed through his body as he gazed at her.

  Does she realize how ridiculous she looks?

  Does she care?

  Do I care?

  Damn straight I do! he answered himself as the woman, leader of the motley Biblical crew, waved her hands dictatorially, wagged her forefinger and steered the others into their places. Within minutes, they posed statue-like in a Memphis version of the Nativity scene. The only one unfrozen was the shepherd whose clear adolescent voice rang out clearly with “Oh, Holy Night.”

  Already tourists passing by were pausing, oohing and aahing, and dropping coins and paper money into the iron kettle set in the front. It was only noon, but it was clear to Clay that by the end of the day this group was going to make a bundle.

  “Not on my property!” Clay vowed, grabbing his overcoat and making for the door. At the last minute, he paused and handed the clearly disapproving bellhop a five dollar bill.

  For some reason, the scowling man made him feel like . . . well, Scrooge . . . and he hadn’t even said “Humph!” again. It was absurd to feel guilty. He was a businessman . . . an investment banker specializing in venture capital. He had every right to make a business decision.

  “Thank you for your service,” he said coolly. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again during my stay here in Memphis.” Clay intended to remain only long enough to complete arrangements for the razing of the hotel and erection of a strip mall on this site and the adjoining property. He expected to complete his work here before the holidays and catch the Christmas Eve shuttle back to New Jersey on Thursday. Not that he had any particular plans that demanded a swift return to Princeton. On the contrary, there was no one waiting for him in the big empty mansion, except for Doris and George Benson, the longtime cook/housekeeper and gardener/driver. No Christmas parties he would mind missing. No personal relationships that would suffer in his absence.

  Clay blinked with surprise at his out-of-character, maudlin musings. This hokey Elvis mania that pervaded Memphis must be invading his brain, like a virus. The Elvis virus. Ha, ha, ha!

  The bellhop’s eyes bored into him, and then softened, as if seeing his thoughts.

  Clay didn’t like the uncomfortable feeling he got under the bellhop’s intense stare.

  “You really plannin’ on kicking the Fallons off your property? At Christmastime?” the bellhop inquired in a condemning tone of voice.

  “Damn straight.”

  “Even the iciest heart can be melted.”

  Now what the hell does that mean? “Yeah, well, it’s going to take a monumental fever in my case because I have plans for that property.” This is the craziest conversation in the world. Why am I even talking to this kook?

  “Don’t be cruel, my boy. You know what they say about the best laid plans?”

  “Am I supposed to understand that?” Shut up, Jessup. Just ignore him.

  “Sometimes God sticks out his big toe and trips us humans. You might just be in for a big stumble.”

  God? Big toe? The man is nuts. “Lock up on your way out,” Clay advised, opening the hallway door. Time to put a stop to this nonsense . . . the bellhop, the hotel, the Nativity scene, the whole freakin’ mess.

  But damned if the impertinent old fart didn’t begin singing some Elvis song about cold, cold hearts as Clay closed the door behind him, thus getting in the last word.

  All shook up! …

  “This is the dumbest damn thing you’ve ever conned us into, Annie.”

  “Tsk-tsk,” Annie told her brother Chet in stiff-lipped sotto voce. “We’re supposed to be statues. No talking. Furthermore, St. Joseph should not be swearing.”

  A flush crept up the face of her oldest brother, who was handsome, even with the exaggerated Elvis hairdo. Chet was the kind of guy who would probably make a young girl’s heart stop even if he were bald.

  Good looks aside, her heart went out to Chet. He was twenty-five, only three years younger than she, and so very solemn for his age. Well, he had good reason, she supposed. He’d certainly never hesitated over taking responsibility for raising his baby, Jason, when his girlfriend Emmy Lou “abandoned” the infant to his care a month ago. Even before that, he’d tried hard to be the man of the family ever since their parents died in a car accident ten years ago, changing overnight from a carefree teenager to a weary adult.

  Well, they’d all changed with that tragedy. No dwelling on what couldn’t be helped.

  “There’s no one around now,” Chet pointed out defensively.

  That was true. It was lunch hour and a Sunday; so, only a few people had straggled by thus far. But tourist sidewalk traffic past their panorama on Blues Street, just off the famous Beale Street, should pick up soon. Yesterday, their first day trying out this enterprise, had brought in an amazing seven hundred dollars in tips between eleven a.m. and five p.m. Annie was hoping that in the five days remaining before Christmas they would be able to earn another three thousand dollars, enough to save the farm, so to speak.

&
nbsp; “I feel like an absolute fool,” Chet grumbled.

  “Me, too,” her other four brothers concurred with a unified groan.

  “Wayne keeps trying to bite my butt,” Johnny added. “I swear he’s the meanest donkey in the entire world. Pure, one hundred proof jackass, if you ask me.”

  “He is not mean,” Jerry Lee argued. The only one Wayne could abide was Jerry Lee, who’d bred him for a 4-H project five years ago. “Wayne senses that you don’t like him, and he’s trying to get your attention.”

  “By biting my butt?”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “I had a girl once who bit my butt—” Roy started to say.

  Annie gasped. “Roy Fallon! If you say one more word, I swear I’ll soap your mouth out when we get home. I don’t care if you are twenty-two years old.”

  Everyone laughed some more. Except for Annie.

  “Your sheep keep nuzzling this fleece outfit you made me wear,” Johnny continued to gripe. He directed his complaint now at Annie. “I think they think I’m one of their cousins.”

  Ethel and Lucy were Annie’s pets. She’d won them when they were only baby lambs in a grange raffle two years ago.

  “Stop your whining, boys,” she snapped. “Do you think I’m enjoying myself? My scalp itches. My skin is probably breaking out in zits, like a popcorn machine. I’m surely straining some muscles in my eyelids with these false eyelashes. And I’m just praying that the barn roof doesn’t cave in before we earn enough money for its repair. Or that the price of milk doesn’t drop again. Or that we’ll be able to afford this semester at vet school for Roy. And—”

  “Don’t blame this sideshow on me,” Roy chimed in. “It’s not my fault the government cut the student aid program.”

  “Oh, Roy, don’t get your sideburns in a dither,” she said, already regretting her sharp words.

  “Or get your duck’s ass hairdo in a backwind,” Hank taunted.

  Annie shot Hank a scowl, and continued, “No one’s to blame, Roy. Our problems have been piling up for a long time.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing. If anyone from school comes by, I’m outta here, barn roof or no barn roof,” Jerry Lee asserted. At fifteen, peer approval was critical, and dressing up as an Elvis Wise Man probably didn’t cut many points with the cheerleading squad.

  “You’re just worried that Sally Sue Sorenson will see you,” Hank teased.

  “Am not,” Jerry Lee argued, despite his red face.

  “Shhhh,” Annie cautioned.

  A group of tourists approached, and Annie’s family froze into their respective parts. Johnny, her youngest brother—God bless him—broke loose with an absolutely angelic version of “Silent Night.” He must have inherited his singing talent from their parents, who’d been unsuccessful Grand Ole Opry wannabees. The rest of them could barely carry a tune.

  In appreciation, the group, which included a man, a woman and three young children, waited through the entire song, then dropped a five dollar bill into the kettle, while several couples following in their wake dropped a bunch of dollar bills each, along with some change. Thank God for the Christmas spirit.

  After they passed by, Roy picked up on their interrupted conversation. “Actually, Jerry Lee, don’t be too quick to discount the appeal of this Elvis stuff. Being an Elvis lookalike could be a real chick magnet for some babes.”

  “You’ve been hanging around barns too long,” Jerry Lee scoffed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice. Roy was a first year vet student and graduate of the University of Memphis. Jerry Lee wasn’t totally sure his big brother, at twenty-two, hadn’t picked up a few bits of male-female wisdom.

  “He’s bullshittin’ you,” Hank interjected with a laugh, ignoring the glare Annie flashed his way for the coarse language. Hank was a high school senior, a football player, and the self-proclaimed stud of the family.

  Jerry Lee gave Roy a dirty look for his ill-advice. Obviously, Hank ranked as the better “chick” expert.

  “What do you think, Annie?” Roy asked, chuckling at Jerry Lee’s gullibility.

  “How would I know what attracts women? I haven’t had a date in two years. Then it was with Frankie Wilks, the milk tank driver.”

  “And he resembles the back end of a hound dog more than Elvis,” Hank remarked with a hoot of laughter at his own joke.

  “That was unkind, Hank,” Annie chastised, “just because he’s a little . . . hairy.”

  They all made snorting sounds of ridicule.

  Frankie Wilks had a bushy beard and mustache and a huge mop of frizzy hair. Masses of hair covered his forearms and even peeked out at the neck of his milk company uniform. Hirsute would be an understatement.

  “You could go out with guys if you wanted to,” Chet offered softly. “You don’t have to give up your life for us or the farm. It was different when we were younger, but—”

  “Uh-oh!” Roy said.

  Everyone stopped talking and stiffened to attention.

  A man was stomping down the sidewalk toward them, having emerged from the hotel entrance. He wore a conservative black business suit, so finely cut it must be custom-made, with a snow white shirt and a dark striped tie, spit-shined wing-tip shoes and a black cashmere overcoat that probably cost as much as a new barn roof.

  He was a taller, leaner, younger version of Richard Gere, with the same short-clipped dark hair. He would have been heart-stopping handsome if it weren’t for the frown lines that seemed to be etched permanently about his flaming eyes and tight-set mouth. How could a man so young be so disagreeable in appearance?

  Despite his demeanor, Annie felt a strange heat rush through her, just gazing at him. It was embarrassment, of course. What woman enjoyed looking like a tart in front of a gorgeous man?

  Unfortunately, Annie suspected that the flame in his eyes was directed toward them. And she had a pretty good idea who he was, too. Clayton Jessup, III, the new owner of The Blue Suede Suites and the vacant lot where they had set up their Nativity scene.

  The kindly couple that managed the hotel, David and Marion Bloom, had given them permission for the Nativity scene when Annie had asked several days ago. “After all, the lot has been vacant for more than thirty years,” Marion had remarked. “It’s about time someone made use of it.”

  But when Annie and Chet had stopped in the hotel a short time ago, where David and Marion had also been nice enough to let them use an anteroom for changing Jason, they soon realized that everyone at the hotel was in an uproar. The new owner had arrived, unannounced, and he intended to raze the site and erect a strip shopping mall. As if Memphis needed another mall! Didn’t the man recognize the sentimental value of the hotel and this lot? No, she guessed a man like him wouldn’t. Money would be his bottom line.

  Just before Mr. Jessup got to them, some tourists paused and listened with “oohs” and “aaahs” of appreciation, dropping more paper money and change into their kettle. The boys stood rock still, but Annie saw the gleam of interest in their eyes at one petite blonde woman in gray wool slacks and a cardigan over a peach colored turtleneck that stood staring at them for a long time. There was a hopeless sag to her shoulders until Hank winked at her, and she burst out with a little laugh.

  Drawing the sides of his overcoat back, and planting his hands on slim hips, Mr. Jessup glared at them, his lips curling with disdain on getting a close-up view of their attire. At least he had the courtesy to wait till the tourists passed by before snarling, “What the hell are you doing on my property?”

  The baby’s eyes shot open, and he began to whimper at the harsh voice.

  “We have permission,” Chet said, his voice as frosty as Mr. Jessup’s while he leaned over and soothed his child. “Hush, now. Back to sleep, son,” he crooned, rocking the manger slightly.

  Annie tried to explain, “Mr. and Mrs. Bloom told us it would be all right. We’ll only be here for a few days, and—”

  He put up a hand to halt her words. “You won’t be here for
even a few more hours.” He peered down at his watch . . . probably one of those Rolex things, equal in value to the mortgage on their farm . . . and gritted out, “You have exactly fifteen minutes to vacate these premises, or I’ll have the police evict you forcibly. So, Ms. Fallon, stop fluttering those ridiculous eyelashes at me.”

  He knows our surname. Not a good sign! “I was not fluttering.”