Skipping Christmas by John Grisham Page A

the angle. The photographer had shot down and at a wide angle, sort of an aerial view.
    Next door, the Becker house positively glowed with a blinding display of lights. On the other side, the Kerrs’ house and lawn were perfectly lined with alternating reds and greens, thousands of them by now.
    The Krank home was dark.
    To the east, the Frohmeyers’, Nugents’, and Galdys’ could be seen, all glowing warmly, all with their Frostys sitting snugly on the roofs. To the west, the Dents’, Sloanes’, and Bellingtons’ all radiated Christmas splendor.
    The Krank home was very dark.
    “Scheel,” Luther grumbled to himself. Thephoto was taken from directly across the street. Walt Scheel had allowed the photographer to climb onto the roof of his two-story house and shoot down with a wide lens. Probably had the whole street egging him on.
    Under the photo was a brief story. Headlined “SKIPPING CHRISTMAS,” it read:
The home of Mr. and Mrs. Luther Krank is rather dark this Christmas. While the rest of their neighbors on Hemlock Street are decorating and busily preparing for Santa, the Kranks are skipping Christmas and preparing for a cruise, according to unnamed sources. No tree, no lights, and no Frosty up on the roof, the only house on Hemlock to keep Frosty hidden in the basement. (Hemlock, a frequent winner in the Gazette ’s street decoration contest, finished a disappointing sixth this year.) “I hope they’re satisfied now,” complained one unidentified neighbor. “A rotten display of selfishness,” said another.
    If Luther’d had a machine gun, he would’ve bolted outside and commenced spraying houses.
    Instead he sat for a long time with a knot in hisstomach and tried to convince himself that this too would pass. Just four days until they left, and when they came back all those damned Frostys would be stored away, the lights and trees would be gone. The bills would start flooding in, and perhaps then all his wonderful neighbors would be more sympathetic.
    He flipped through the newspaper but his concentration was shot. Finally, Luther found his resolve, gritted his teeth, and took the bad news to his wife.
    “What a horrible way to wake up,” Nora said as she tried to focus on the photo in the newspaper. She rubbed her eyes and squinted.
    “That jerk Scheel allowed the photographer to get on his roof,” Luther said.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of course I’m sure. Look at the picture.”
    She was trying. Then she found her focus and read the story. She gasped at “… rotten display of selfishness.”
    “Who said that?” she demanded.
    “Either Scheel or Frohmeyer. Who knows. I’m in the shower.”
    “How dare they!” Nora said, still gawking at the photo.
    Atta girl, thought Luther. Get mad. Stiffen your back. Just four days to go—we’re not collapsing now.
    That night, after dinner and an effort at television, Luther decided to take a walk. He bundled up and wrapped a wool scarf around his neck; it was below freezing outside with a chance of snow. He and Nora had bought one of the first homes on Hemlock; damned if he’d be forced to hide inside. This was his street, his neighborhood, his friends. One day soon this little episode would be forgotten.
    Luther ambled along, hands stuck deep in his pockets, cold air invigorating his lungs.
    He made it to the far end, to the intersection of Moss Point, before Spike Frohmeyer picked up his trail and caught him on a skateboard. “Hi, Mr. Krank,” he said as he rolled to a stop.
    “Well hello, Spike.”
    “What brings you out?”
    “Just taking a little walk.”
    “Enjoying the Christmas decorations?”
    “Of course. What brings you out?”
    “Just watching the street,” Spike said, then looked around as if an invasion were imminent.
    “What’s Santa gonna bring you?”
    Spike smiled and pondered for a second. “Not sure, but probably a Gameboy and a hockey stick and a set of drums.”
    “Quite a haul.”
    “Course I don’t really