Sweet Memories by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

not, and each sideward thrust of Amy’s hips.
    When the song ended, Margaret and Willard were standing in the doorway, applauding. Amy rushed for the telephone, undoubtedly to rave on about the good tidings to as many friends as possible, and Theresa reluctantly returned to the kitchen to listen from there while she worked.
    In the late afternoon, they all went to their respective rooms to change and get ready for the trip across town to Grandpa and Grandma Deerings’. When they rendezvoused in the kitchen to load the car, it was Margaret who suggested, “Why don’t you bring your guitars? We’ll do some caroling. You know how your grandparents enjoy it.”
    So the station wagon was packed with potato salad and cranberry jello, a vintage Gibson hollow-body 335 and a classic Epiphone Riviera, a rented amp, a stack of Christmas presents and six bodies.
    Willard drove. Theresa found herself in the back seat sandwiched between Jeff and Brian. His hip was warm, even through her bulky coat, and when he and Jeff exchanged comments, she was served up tantalizing whiffs of his sandalwoody after-shave, for he’d slung an arm across the back of the seat and repeatedly leaned forward to peer around her.
    If Brian thought he’d feel out of place at the family gathering, the delusion was put to rout within minutes of arriving. The tiny house of mid-forties’ vintage was popping at the seams with relatives of all ages and sizes. Grandpa Deering was deaf, and when Jeff took Brian over to introduce him to the shriveled little man, he shouted for his grandfather’s benefit. “Grandpa, this is my friend, Brian, the one who’s in the Air Force with me.”
    The old man nodded.
    “I brought him home to spend Christmas with us,” Brian bawled at the top of his lungs.
    Mr. Deering nodded again.
    “We play in a band together, and we brought our guitars along tonight to do a few carols.”
    The bald head nodded still once more. Grandpa Deering raised a crooked forefinger in the air as if in approval, but said not a word until the two were turning away. Then he questioned in his reedy old quake, “This y’r friend who fiddles with you?”
    It was all Brian could do to keep a straight face. Jeff turned back to his grandfather, leaning closer. “Guitar, grandpa, guitar.”
    The old man nodded and said no more, replaced his arthritic palms one on top of the other atop a black, rubber-tipped cane and seemed to drift into a reverie.
    When Brian and Jeff turned away, Brian whispered in his friend’s ear. “Doesn’t his hearing aid work?”
    “He turns it down whenever it’s convenient. When the music starts he’ll hear every note.”
    The thirty-odd aunts, uncles and cousins ate from a table containing more food than Brian had ever seen in one place, and after the buffet supper, opened gifts, having exchanged names at Thanksgiving. When it was time for the music, everyone found a spot as best he could on the floor, the kitchen cabinets, end tables, arms of furniture, and the entire group sang the old standard carols while Theresa was cajoled into playing along with the guitars on an ancient oak organ whose bellows were filled by foot pedals. She complied good-naturedly and pulled out the old stops from whose faces the mother-of-pearl inserts had long ago fallen. For the benefit of the small children in the group, Brian and Jeff were enticed into doing a run-through of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” which evolved into a jazz rendition that would have shocked its composer, Gene Autry. Jeff took an impromptu ride, taking outrageous liberties with the melody line, ad-libbing arpeggios while Brian modified the chords to smooth, fluid jazz. When it was over, the house burst into whistles and clapping, and the youngsters called for “Jingle Bells.” When that was finished, someone called, “Where’s Margaret? Margaret, it’s your turn. Get up there.”
    To Brian’s surprise, the hefty-chested dictatorial Margaret stepped center front, and