Free The Christmas Pearl by Dorothea Benton Frank

buffed until it was worthy of a queen’s table. She placed them both on a gleaming silver rectangular tray whose provenance I could not recall, but knew that I had not seen in at least thirtyyears. I remembered that it had once belonged to a Charleston family whose ancestor had signed the Declaration of Independence. What could have been more fitting for the moment? This was certain to be a Christmas Eve of historic significance.
    Pearl surrounded the bowl with the very same collection of mismatched engraved julep cups we had used for one of Barbara’s bridal lunches so many years ago. And for so many other occasions when times were happier and things were different.
    I have to say, by then I was somewhat hopeful about success because there was tangible evidence of a shift in the atmosphere. The outdoor manger scene was set up, and to my surprise, everyone made a positive remark about it, even though it tilted to one side. Perhaps more importantly, the children and even Camille, whether they would admit it or not, had found some authentic holiday joy at one another’s side while they baked together. And I had gained some insight into Teddie.
    Once again, the family relics rested on the dining-room sideboard with the sands, rum balls, and fruitcake. It did my heart good to see at least some piece of our family’s traditions restored. Getting back to the larger problem at hand, holiday food and old relics were nice, but I suspected it was the contents of the punch bowl that would matter.
    We were gathered together in the living room, placing last-minute gifts under the tree, listening to a medley of carols played by the Canadian Brass. Although the mood seemed festive, I was nervous, fretting about what the night would bring. Pearl must have read my mind because she brought me my cocktail on the same precious tray Eliza used. She gave me a wink and then turned to the others.
    “Y’all want to try some punch? It’s an old Gullah recipe my mother used to make for special occasions. It’s good, ’eah?”
    “Sure,” Barbara said. “Can the kids drink it? I mean, is it fortified with spirits?”
    Pearl burst into laughter.
    “Ms. Barbara?” She laughed again. “It’s perfectly safe for the children to drink. In fact, the more everyone drinks the better!”
    Pearl could barely contain her unmitigated glee. I knew why she was in stitches. That punch was fortified by spirits, all right, but not spirits of this world.
    “Probably better with some rum,” Cleland said, and took the bottle from the bar to his place at the table.
    “That’s up to you, Mr. Cleland,” Pearl said.
    I followed Pearl back to the kitchen.
    “What kind of concoction is in that bowl?”
    “We called it the Clean Slate punch.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, this ’eah family needs to wipe the slateclean. If I was you, I’d stick to bourbon or ice water. Somebody might have to be the referee.”
    Mystified by her explanation, I went to the dining room, where everyone waited. Teddie and George were the first ones to try it. It didn’t appear to have any special effect on them. Soon the others all had a cup and then another. Camille, given to excesses of all kinds, seemed to be serving herself more than double what the others consumed.
    “This is so delicious!” she said.
    I stuck with my cocktail and sipped it more slowly than I had sipped a drink in twenty years. Maybe longer. All I could do was worry about what was to happen.
    Soon we were gathered at the supper table for she-crab soup, which would be followed by bowls of shrimp creole over white rice. We’d always had seafood for Christmas Eve dinner, and even though the children were not particularly fond of it, that night they did not balk or complain. Large baskets of Pearl’s light-as-air biscuits almost floated around the table on their own and more punch was served in lieu of water or wine.
    However insincere it may have appeared to the outside observer, Cleland offered