22. Christmas Eve Party

Lana spent the next morning shopping around town for gimcrack gifts to take to the Christmas Eve Christmas party at the Millers. This was a tradition with them that this party would happen at one home or another of their gang. The gang this year included the Roiters, the Millers and the Sibleys as well as the Andrews. In the early afternoon she brought her usual flair to the wrapping. She calligraphed little notes with her pens and her inks, and her little poems summed up the friendships and the year nearly vanished. Scott was out at the airstrip, working on orders and maintenance. He usually left her to deal with the holiday chores. Every now and then, he’d surprise her and come up with some outlandish decorating idea, usually involving fireworks or electronics. One year, he’d jimmied the head lolling white wire reindeer to periodically work in double time. Every time it happened while he was looking out the window, he’d laugh like a child. She cherished such memories, as they dwindled and became fewer and farther between. He’d become a business automaton of late, trying to break his personal records, and, as he put it, trying to ‘make it, make a better life for themselves.’

When she got done with all of this, she read Julian’s blog. She checked her email for a sign of him, but he was silent. She figured he needed composing time. His blog post proved that he’d read her and responded. She smiled at the clever way he repositioned her as both predator and as prey. She’d rarely been read so keenly, and been made to want to sharpen rather than mind her tongue. It was a delicious game, and addictive. Were it not for her fear of Scott, she’d be playing it harder and faster. If she was not married, and there was no Scott period, she’d be working at getting an invitation to Winchester. What school was it? Blue Ridge? Never heard of it. No matter. Never mind.

It was late afternoon when he got home. He came in and trotted up the stairs. She heard him up there doing stuff. She went up after him. He was in the bedroom getting undressed to take a shower.
“Hey, Scott.”
“Hey.”
“Everything’s good in the hangar?”
“Oh yeah. Just taking care of business. Say, we’re going where tonight?”
“The Miller’s.”
“OK.”
“I got little gifts. Wrapped ‘em.”
“Great.”
“I’m going to get dressed up.”
“Yep. Me too.”
She regarded her husband’s musculature. That was the attraction. He was buff. She wondered if she could seriously entertain the idea of making out with some fat old guy, no matter how entertaining or smart. Somehow, she had doubts. Scott stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She went down the hall to the second bath and began getting cleaned up and dressed for the party.

In the car, on the way to the Millers, they had little to say to each other. She sat in her seat in his car, looking out at West Virginia’s woods and hoods in the dark. The control panel reflected in the window reminded her of night flights.
“What are you thinking, Lana?”
“Nothing much. I was thinking about night flights.”
“Ha! That’s funny! So was I!”
“Where to?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking how it used to be so romantic and how now it’s all business and getting to be more routine.”
“I can imagine. You’ve been really working hard.”
“Yeah. I have goals and plans.”
“Do you…”
“Do I what?”
“Have plans for me?”
“You?”
“I mean, do you expect me to be ambitious?”
“You know me, Lana. I’m from old southern stock. I’m a traditionalist. I want to be the breadwinner. I want you to be my wife. I want you to be comfortable, to have all you need. It’s very traditional.”
“So if I wanted to make my own money, say by blogging, as Bruce suggested, would you object?”
She felt compelled to test these waters.
“Not so long as you still got the housework done.”
“Hmm.”
She increasingly found this kind of talk blatant.
“Blog away. If it turns a profit, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“You never know.”
“No you don’t.”
He let a moment go by.
“Are there any expenses?”
“No. You get a site for free and you just put up content. Monetizing it, as they call it, is just a matter of using certain keywords in the texts, and allowing ads that support the content. So, if as Bruce says, your running recipes, shopping tips, or advice to the lovelorn, you’d have ads for utensil dealers, specific merchants you write up, or, I don’t know, condoms.”
Her husband’s chuckle was music to her ears. She should have taken this tack months ago.
“If it costs nothing to do it, then any money you earn is pure profit. What a great business!”
“Yes. I could be. Lots of blogs fail to attract readers.”
“You’ve got nothing to lose, Babe.”
They had now pulled in to the Miller’s circular driveway. They recognized the other vehicles as that of their friends.
“Looks like the Roiters and Sibleys beat us to the punch.”
“Funny, Scott.”
He had made a joke, but was oblivious. Grabbing the bottles and bag of gifts, they made for the door. It opened to reveal the beaming face of Jason Miller, Christine’s husband, all decked out in a bespoke suit. His tie was like a candy cane. He was full of Christmas cheer.
“Lana! Scott! Get your asses in here and Merry Christmas!”
“Ho Ho Ho! A Merry one to you too sir!”
Scott put out a hand and they shook on it. Jason gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Let me take the coats.”
A rustle and bustle, as they worked themselves in and took off boots, adding them to the pile by the door. At last erect and as tall as she ever got, Lana curtseyed in her finery. Out of her bag, she pulled a pair of fine high heels. The full effect at last achieved. From the same bag, she handed Scott his slippers with a wink. She was a class act.
“Oh my, Lana,” said Jason. “You just get finer every year.”
“You’re makin’ a girl blush!”
Scott looked at the floor for this aspect of ritual. He never knew what to make of these remarks. He thought them some sort of vestigial bit of tribal hoo-ha. It could be done away with and he would be happier.

They join the party, already in full swing. Greetings are called out. The small groups form with drinks in hand for chat.

On the way to the party, Bruce warned his wife, Annie, not to mention the blog. She’s been babbling about it for weeks, and is dying to meet the author of “Amy Tells All,” if only to gush and say to her “right on sister.” Bruce disabused her of this tempting conversational gambit, and recounted his visit to the Andrews’ in which Lana begged him not to mention it to Scott. He recalled for her the moment when Lana herself broached the topic and how Bruce had cited the famous Pioneer Woman blog as an example of a very financially successful ‘bloggerprise.’ Anne expressed her profound dismay that this was Lana’s situation and called Scott all sorts of nasty names.

Well before the party, the topic of the Andrews’ marriage was a gossip staple at the Roiters. Both Lisa and Ron know better than to talk about the blog in front of the controlling Scott.

In their bedroom, while dressing for the party after spending the afternoon in their wicked hideous kinky, Christine reminds Jason that the topic of the blog is taboo. Christine remarks that “Amy Tells All” has topped the list of most popular personal blogs nationwide, with much made of the no comments and no monetization policy. “Doesn’t the woman realize that she’s got a goldmine on her hands?” Wailed one enthusiastic follower. No, Lana has no idea. She’s too busy dancing her crazy dance, working her law firm gig, writing the famous blog, and trying to keep Scott from scolding her about some detail of housekeeping neglected. Jason remarks that Scott is a curious, old-fashioned man, for a man with such a dashing profession. He promises to keep off the topic of the blog.

Nobody but Lana has any idea about the correspondence with Julian, or the encrypted meaning of the latest ‘recipe’ post. If they had, they would have thought it a recipe for disaster. The only person who did not realize that the blog was a taboo topic was Scott.

So after a few drinks, when the company was called to table by the butler, the conversation veered after a breezy start into the insanity of intense irony.
“Hear hear!” Shouted Jason, at the head of his table. “We gather together once again for our annual Christmas Eve celebration. Welcome one and all. Tonight we’ll enjoy the best that Parkersburgers all over town wish they could partake of!”
There are shouts, laughter, and glasses are raised.
“We’ve had a great year, Christine and I. We really feel like celebrating. We’re a little fatter, a little wiser, and, I’m happy to say, a hell of a lot richer.”
Much laughter, some of it tinged by jealousy because of the bald truth of the matter. Jason has literally earned his bragging rights. Lisa raises her glass and proposes the next toast.
“I’ve had a good year, too. Not so much financially, but certainly in the fun factor frontier. Me and Christine and Lana have been to every honkytonk in town and painted the town some color or other.”
“Red!” Shouted Lana.
“Agreed!” Echoes Christine, to her husband’s left, glass held aloft.
“Scott and I have also had a stellar year. We’ve done better than I would have thought possible at this time last year.” Bruce took a swig of his wine.
“True, good buddy.” Scott stared at the table in front of him trying to think of something notable to add. “The aircraft parts business has really uh, taken off, so to speak.”
This brought a few giggles forth from the well-lubricated gathering.
“What about you, Anne?” Jason wants to be sure that all of his guests have the right to express their accomplishments and aspirations.
“Oh, little me. I am not a lion of business, but a mere grade school teacher.”
“A very important cog in the wheel of culture,” said Jason in his booming voice.
“Yes, well, my students had a very good year making bedroom planetariums and doing sight word hopscotch.”
“Ye gads,” squealed Lana. That sounds marvelous, but I have no idea what a sight word is.”
“Oh ‘sight words’ are common words that show up constantly in books, but often don’t follow regular spelling rules.”
“There are spelling rules?”
“Lana, you know there are. I’m going to make you stand in the corner!”
“The thrill of punishment. So name a few.”
“‘The, she, her, he, it, that, sit, etc…’”
“You teach first grade!”
“Right!”
“Hopscotch?”
“You write the words out on the sidewalk in chalk and have the kids hop on them, read them and call them out. If they miss, they go back to the beginning. It can be a riot.”
“That is so amazing! Thanks for sharing.”
There is a lull. Nobody, not even Jason Miller, was going to ask Lana what she’d been doing. They all knew full well. It was the unmentionable topic. But Scott felt that his wife had been slighted in some way. He didn’t know that she’d done anything noteworthy, other than party with her friends, but he knew that she had developed a business plan.
“Well…”
“Yes Scott?” Asked Jason.
“Lana was telling me on the way over here that she’s thinking of starting a blog.”
Lana’s smile developed a slight tremor. The silence at the table was like the black hole from which no light could escape.
“A blog,” echoed Jason.
“You know, one of those websites where you post recipes and such. She thinks she can make money at it.”
Always lightning fast on his feet in social situations, Jason raised his glass.
“Here’s to Lana’s blog!”
Crisis averted.