Skipping Christmas by John Grisham

route and made an event out of it. It was a festive evening, one Luther and Nora wished to avoid this year.
    Hemlock would be wild with kids and carolers and who knew what else. Probably bicycle gangs chanting “Free Frosty” and little terrorists planting signs on their front lawn.
    “How was the firm’s Christmas dinner?” Nora asked.
    “Sounded like the usual. Same room, same waiters, same tenderloin, same soufflé. Slader said Stanley got drunk as a skunk during cocktails.”
    “I’ve never seen him sober during cocktails.”
    “He made the same speech—great effort, billings up, we’ll knock ’em dead next year, Wiley & Beck is family, thanks to all. That sort of stuff. I’m glad we missed it.”
    “Anybody else skip it?”
    “Slader said Maupin from auditing was a no-show.”
    “I wonder what Jayne wore?”
    “I’ll ask Slader. I’m sure he took notes.”
    Their salads arrived and they gawked at the baby spinach like famine refugees. But they slowly and properly applied the dressing, a little salt and pepper, then began eating as if they were completely disinterested in food.
    The Island Princess served nonstop food. Luther planned to eat until he popped.
    At a table not far away, a pretty young lady with dark hair was eating with her date. Nora saw her and laid down her fork.
    “Do you think she’s okay, Luther?” Luther glanced around the room and said, “Who?”
    “Blair.”
    He finished chewing and pondered the question that she now asked only three times a day. “She’s fine, Nora. She’s having a great time.”
    “Is she safe?” Another standard question, posed as if Luther should know for certain whether their daughter was safe or not at that precise moment.
    “The Peace Corps hasn’t lost a volunteer in thirty years. Yes, trust me, they’re very careful, Nora. Now eat.”
    She pushed her greens around, took a bite, lost interest. Luther wiped his plate clean and honed in on hers. “You gonna eat that?” he asked.
    She swapped plates, and in a flash Luther had cleaned the second one. The pasta arrived and she guarded her bowl. After a few measured bites, she stopped suddenly, her fork halfway to her face. Then she laid it down again and said, “I forgot.”
    Luther was chewing with a vengeance. “What is it?” Her face was stricken with terror.
    “What is it, Nora?” he repeated, swallowing hard.
    “Don’t those judges come around after the parade?”
    Then it hit Luther too. He retired his fork for a moment, sipped water, gazed painfully at nothing in the distance. Yes, indeed, it was true.
    After the parade, a committee from Parks and Rec toured the neighborhoods on a float pulled by a John Deere tractor and examined the level of Christmas spirit. They gave individual awards in various categories—Original Design, Festive Lighting, etc. And they handed out an award to the street with the best decorations. Hemlock had won the blue ribbon twice.
    The year before, Hemlock had placed second, primarily because, according to the gossip on the street, two of the forty-two homes had not put up a Frosty. Boxwood Lane three blocks north had come from nowhere with a dazzling row of candy canes—Candy Cane Lane it described itself—and took away Hemlock’s award. Frohmeyer circulated memos for a month.
    Dinner, now ruined, came to a standstill as they picked through their pasta and killed as much time as possible. Two long cups of decaf. When Angelo’s was empty, Luther paid the bill and they drove home, slowly.
________
    Sure enough, Hemlock lost again. Luther fetched the Gazette in the semidarkness, and was horrified with the front page of Metro. The award winners were listed—Cherry Avenue first, Boxwood Lane second, Stanton third. Trogdon across the street with more than fourteen thousand lights finished fourth in Festive Lighting.
    In the center of the page was a large color photo of the Krank home, taken at some distance. Luther studied it intently and tried to determine