The house is quiet, for a change. Helen and I have three sons, only one of whom is known for his reserve, and a daughter who can make a whole crowd’s worth of commotion all by herself. It’s made for some rather rowdy times over the years, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Right now, however, most of them are busily occupied elsewhere. I’m sitting here in our most comfortable armchair, a bowl of mixed nuts in their shells by my side, and the room lit by the crackling fire and the lights on the tree. Outside the window, a dull afternoon light encourages me to stay where I am and enjoy the moment. I’m taking my time to apply the nutcracker to a particularly tough brazil nut when I notice an intruder to my peaceful solitude – an intruder who appears to be intent on a nefarious and covert mission, so intent that he has not seen me.
“If you don’t behave, Santa won’t leave you any presents,” I intone to our youngest, in my most stern voice.
The aforementioned Robert Andrew Belden moves into plain sight and rolls his eyes. “I’m twenty-two, Dad,” he points out. “Don’t you think that’s a little too old to be believing in Santa?”
“If you want him to leave you any presents, you’d better keep believing and behaving,” I answer, even as the daughter I referred to earlier entered the room.
“Are you talking about Santa?” she asked, grinning over her shoulder at her brother as she piles the presents she carried under the tree. “I sure still believe and I’m older than you. And you’d better believe I’m behaving!”
Finishing her task, she drops down onto the arm of my chair and kisses my cheek to greet me.
“Yeah, right,” Bobby mutters, backing away.
“Not so fast,” I tell him. “I think you still have some explaining to do. What’s that in your hand?”
He looks at the item as if he has never seen it before. Meanwhile, Trixie is struggling not to laugh. I keep my cool exterior, even though their antics amuse me greatly. I very rarely allow myself to let go of my dignity. If I am to deal with this recalcitrant young man, I will do well to stay in character.
“This?” he asks, holding it out. “I, uh, must have picked it up somewhere by accident.”
At this, Trixie loses the battle and laughs aloud. “You accidentally picked up a hand-carved wooden candlestick, complete with candle, and didn’t notice? How, exactly did that happen?”
The candlestick is one of a pair given to us years ago by my well-meaning but misguided sister-in-law, Alicia. Made of several different kinds of wood, they are intricately carved, highly polished and decorated with touches of gold paint. I’ve always loathed them. They arrived the year that Bobby turned eight and have gotten in the way on our Christmas table ever since. Last year, one tipped over into the scalloped potatoes. On more than one occasion, I’ve suggested to Helen that they might be better placed elsewhere, but she thinks otherwise.
Bobby glares at Trixie, but I can see his mind working. He’s trying to find a way out of the situation without admitting what he was actually doing. What he needs is a distraction…
…which arrives right on cue, in the form of two of my grandchildren.
You know, Helen was the one excited by the prospect of grandchildren. I was, quite frankly, just a little bit horrified and a lot ashamed of the feeling. I knew, in my head, that once our children got married they might start producing offspring of their own, but when Trixie announced that she was expecting at this time of year three years ago… well, let’s just say that when I helped myself to one of the innocent Grinch-themed mocktails that Helen had prepared in deference to our still-underage son, mine wasn’t so innocent any more. In fact, it contained a healthy slug of the only hard liquor I could get my hands on easily and which I thought I could get away with. It happened to be vodka. Unfortunately, I failed to notice that it had been infused with chilli pepper, of all things, a fact which I very soon regretted. But I digress.
As the two toddlers enter the room, Bobby sets down his ill-gotten goods and grabs the pair of them, swinging them up into his arms. On his left side, her reddish-gold curls in their usual disarray, is Trixie’s first-born. On his right, Mart’s son struggles to be let down. The two are eleven weeks different in age, in a strange echo of their parents’ eleven-month age gap.
“Now, I’ve got you!” Bobby cries, making the little girl squeal and the little boy struggle harder.
“He might bite you,” Trixie warns and Bobby hastily rearranges his grip just as a small set of teeth hover over his arm.
“We don’t bite,” the little boy’s mother adds firmly, as she joins the melee.
I smile at Honey, but she’s too busy keeping a sharp eye on her mischievous son to notice. The next thing I know, my peaceful spot is filled with chattering family. Trixie moves away from me to take their baby son from Jim. Honey reclaims her own son from his uncle and holds him on her lap on the sofa. Her husband Mart joins her, but not before setting a large platter of Christmas cookies on the coffee table and helping himself to a couple. Brian is there, too, looking weary. He greets me in a low voice and sinks into the other armchair.
Helen is at the door, greeting Dan and Diana and their two children. They join the growing throng and the noise level rises again. This, of course, is to be expected on Christmas Eve, which has evolved its own traditional gathering of the Bob-Whites and their families. And then Helen enters the room and our eyes meet. She’s in her element, I can see. Our empty nest is full to the brim again and she couldn’t be happier. She makes an offer of drinks, but Trixie jumps up to do it for her, handing the baby back to Jim. He lets out an indignant squawk, but hardly anyone can hear it over the general din.
I let the conversation flow around me, without joining in. I’ve still got my eye on Bobby and he knows it. He casts quick glances in my direction every so often. Inwardly, I feel a quiet satisfaction but I don’t let it show in my face. He might just possibly be too old to believe in Santa Claus, but he’s by no means too old to believe that his parents can know things just by looking at him. It is, in fact, very often true. And even when it’s not true, it’s useful. Like now, for instance. He’s trying very hard not to squirm.
In a strategic move, I let my attention wander away from Bobby for a few moments. I notice that Mart and Honey have somehow moved across the room to the darkest corner and are now kissing under the mistletoe. I make a mental note of its position; I’ll want to take advantage of it later. Helen sees the direction of my gaze and she smiles at me. Right now, she has two grandchildren on her lap. Later, they’ll be asleep, as will their exhausted parents. Then, provided I can deal with our youngest, the opportunity is mine. Twenty-two isn’t too old to be sent to your room, is it?
I snap my gaze back to Bobby, just as he begins to relax. I can almost read the curse on his lips. He thought I’d forgotten amidst all the other things going on. And I can almost see his point. I love having them all here almost as much as Helen does. But I know he was up to something and that it’s up to me to put a stop to it, if necessary. Though, if he was just intending to hide those wretched candlesticks and keep them off of Helen’s delicious home-made scalloped potato casserole, I may have to reconsider.
My mouth waters as I think about the Christmas feast to come, only a day away now. Helen sighs each time I suggest she makes scalloped potatoes. In my view, they are the ultimate in side dishes; in hers, they constitute too much washing up for their relative benefit. As a result, I usually only get them once a year.
“Are you sure we don’t have enough other potato dishes?” she asks, every time. “Isn’t it enough to have mashed potatoes, roast potatoes and sweet potatoes?”
And each year, I suggest she leaves out one of the others and she reminds me of who likes those best. In the end, I give her that disappointed look and say, “I suppose there’ll be enough without them.” After that, she usually relents. The one time that she didn’t, she made it up to me in other ways. My gaze strays off to the place where the mistletoe hangs, now free of any amorous young couples.
Trixie interrupts my musings by handing me a cup of coffee. Mart holds out the platter of cookies and I take just one. I don’t have that much of a sweet tooth, but I need to try each variety of cookie that enters the house, or is produced in it, each year. I take a bite of cherry shortbread, courtesy of Honey, I think. It’s delicious.
“So, have you solved the problem yet, Dad?” Trixie asks, as she hands another coffee to Brian.
My eyes swivel to Bobby and narrow. “I think I’ve made some significant progress.”
She casts her younger brother a wicked grin. He visibly gulps. I suppress a smile. Trixie may have been the most troublesome teenager of the four of them, but she’s making up for it now by being a first-class ally.
As she hurries back to the kitchen for her next load of drinks, I take the time to observe some more. The candle, I notice, has been removed from the candlestick and lies on the floor, next to the sofa. I can just see about half an inch at the wick end. If he’d been a little more careful, it would have disappeared completely underneath. The candlestick itself still stands on the side table where he put it earlier. Helen has not noticed; she’s too busy entertaining little children.
What could you have wanted with that, son of mine? I wonder, as I sit looking at him. I take a deliberate sip of coffee, eyeing him over the rim of the mug the whole time. He shifts uncomfortably.
At that moment, I come to a conclusion. The whole time I’ve been watching him, there is one area he has avoided looking at. I turn my eyes to the mantel shelf, which Helen has artistically draped with evergreen boughs. There, right in the middle, stands the nativity set gifted to us by Diana some years ago. Each piece in the set is tall, slender and rather triangular. It’s not a style that I usually admire, but she painted the pieces herself and they are exquisitely done and always take pride of place.
Today, however, pointy-headed Joseph has disappeared somewhere, to be replaced by one of Alicia’s gaudy candlesticks. I can only assume that the Mary figure was to be next. I turn my eyes back to Bobby, who has the grace to shrug and look guilty.
I take a moment to consider my options. If I do nothing, Bobby may or may not restore the nativity to its original state. He also may or may not restore the candlesticks to the dining table, where they threaten to spill wax on unsuspecting potato dishes and potentially set the tablecloth on fire. I would infinitely prefer some other form of table decoration; something edible would be ideal. I do like a decorative bowl of green bean casserole, for example, with its tasty little chunks of bacon. It would not be less decorative if I ate some of it.
If I act to restore order, then the candlesticks will definitely be on the table. After a short wrestle with my conscience, I decide against this course of action. I do not want those monstrosities on my Christmas table every year and it’s high time we had a break from them. Alicia will have no need to forgive me for this decision, because she will never know I had this conversation with myself.
But do I need to ensure that Bobby doesn’t just put everything back? Can I drop him some kind of hint that the nativity scene should be undisturbed, but the candlesticks can disappear, for all I care? I wrestle with my conscience just a little longer and opt for this course. But I will have to take care not to be too explicit, so that I can plead ignorance if necessary.
I see Bobby eyeing the cookies and decide that this is my opportunity. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and a second cookie can’t hurt that much, can it? As he rises to help himself, I do the same, timing it so that we meet.
“Put Joseph back where he belongs and nothing will be said,” I tell him in a low voice.
A slight, knowing smile springs up on my youngest son’s face and he nods. It occurs to me that Bobby is rather fond of scalloped potatoes, too.
I settle back in my chair, this time with a rather tasty-looking peppermint chip cookie, and let the matter go. I have confidence that Bobby will effect the exchange before the night is out. And, unless he’s very unlucky, it will be before Helen notices.
It’s late, now. The visitors have left and those staying in the house have retreated to their rooms. A blessed silence has fallen over the house. The fire burned down to coals long ago. In the light from the Christmas tree, I glance around the room and am satisfied. Despite the mess they and their little ones made earlier, our grown children have made a reasonable job of returning the house to the state it should be. And Bobby has both restored Joseph to his proper place and tucked those wretched candlesticks away somewhere, out of sight.
“That was a lovely evening,” Helen comments, as she walks into the room.
I watch her straighten cushions and tidy odds and ends that I hadn’t noticed.
“It’s good to have everyone here,” I agree. “And it’s good to have the quiet back again.”
She shakes her head at me and moves into another part of the room.
“I know you’ve been conspiring with your son,” she tells me.
I try to look confused. “I thought Brian looked very tired this evening. And he went to bed before some of the children.”
She shakes her head. “Not that son.”
I begin to follow her. “Mart has his hands full–”
“Uh uh.” She stops in the darkest corner. “Peter, you know which son I’m talking about.”
“Ah.” I step a little closer. She’s right under that mistletoe, but it’s too soon to take advantage. I need to set this straight first. “I wouldn’t call it conspiring. In fact, I got him to stop doing the thing he had planned.”
She gives me a look; it’s one I know well, after all these years. It means that she’s not angry, but isn’t quite ready to let me know that, yet.
“The nativity is exactly how it’s supposed to be,” I continue. “I especially checked.”
That look is still there.
“And I have no knowledge of anything else he may have done,” I finish.
“Peter,” she chides.
“Well, I don’t,” I answer, taking another step forward. “But if you need me to speak to him, I can go and do that right now.”
She glances upward and shakes her head. “I don’t suppose we need to use those candlesticks every year,” she whispers.
I smile and gather her into my arms. “My thoughts, exactly.”
The End
Merry Christmas, Julie! I hope you enjoyed this peek into the mind of Peter Belden.
Author’s notes: This story was written for the annual Jix authors’ Secret Santa for Julie/Macjest. Julie is well known for her love of prompts, so this story contains several which were supplied by the Jix authors. They are: 1. a nutcracker, either ornamental or functional; 9. when your kid is old enough to stop believing in Santa Claus; 10. a nativity set; 12. mistletoe; 18. a spiked holiday drink; 19. a handcrafted decoration (there are two of these); 21. a special holiday treat that a couple has different opinions on. I also might have trawled the Jix message board and found a conversation about potato dishes at Christmas that might possibly have made an appearance.
A very big thank you to Mary N./Dianafan for editing and encouraging me. It’s very much appreciated.
The mistletoe in the title graphic came from Pixabay.
Please note: Trixie Belden is a registered trademark of Random House Publishing. This site is in no way associated with Random House and no profit is being made from these pages.