Free Skipping Christmas by John Grisham Page B

this year.”
    “Sort of, yes.”
    “I’ve never heard of this,” he said gravely, as if the Kranks had discovered a new variety of sin.
    She was suddenly afraid to move, and even then got the impression that she was still falling out of her clothes. Fresh beads of sweat popped up along her forehead. “Are you okay, Nora?” he asked.
    “I’m fine and we’re fine. We still believe in Christmas, in celebrating the birth of Christ, we’re just passing on all the foolishness this year. Blair’s gone and we’re taking a break.”
    He pondered this long and hard, while she shifted slightly. “It is a bit crazy, isn’t it?” he said,looking at the pile of shopping bags he had deposited nearby.
    “Yes it is. Look, we’re fine, Doug, I promise. We’re happy and healthy and just relaxing a bit. That’s all.”
    “I hear you’re leaving.”
    “Yes, for ten days on a cruise.”
    He stroked his beard as though he wasn’t sure if he approved of this or not.
    “You won’t miss the midnight service, will you?” he asked with a smile.
    “No promises, Doug.”
    He patted her knee and said good-bye. She waited until he was out of sight, and then finally mustered the courage to get to her feet. She shuffled out of the mall, cursing Luther and his bikini.
    Vic Frohmeyer’s wife’s cousin’s youngest daughter was active in her Catholic church, which had a large youth choir that enjoyed caroling around the city. Couple of phone calls, and the gig was booked.
    A light snow was falling when the concert began. The choir formed a half-moon in the driveway, near the gas lamp, and on cue startedbawling “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” They waved at Luther when he peeked through the blinds.
    A crowd soon gathered behind the carolers, kids from the neighborhood, the Beckers from next door, the Trogdon clan. There by virtue of an anonymous tip, a reporter for the Gazette watched for a few minutes, then asserted himself and rang the Kranks’ doorbell.
    Luther yanked the door open, ready to land a punch. “What is it?” “White Christmas” resounded in the background.
    “Are you Mr. Krank?” asked the reporter.
    “Yes, and who are you?”
    “Brian Brown with the Gazette . Can I ask you some questions?”
    “About what?”
    “About this skipping Christmas business.”
    Luther gazed at the crowd in his driveway. One of those dark silhouettes out there had squealed on him. One of his neighbors had called the newspaper. Either Frohmeyer or Walt Scheel.
    “I’m not talking,” he said and slammed the door. Nora was in the shower, again, and Luther went to the basement.

      Ten      
    Luther suggested dinner at Angelo’s, their favorite Italian place. It was on the ground floor of an old building downtown, far away from the hordes at the malls and shopping centers, five blocks from the parade route. It was a good night to be away from Hemlock.
    They ordered salad with light dressing and pasta with tomato sauce, no meat, no wine, no bread. Nora had tanned for the seventh time, Luther for the tenth, and as they sipped their sparkling water they admired their weatheredlooks and chuckled at all the pale faces around them. One of Luther’s grandmothers had been half-Italian, and his Mediterranean genes were proving quite conducive to tanning. He was several shades darker than Nora, and his friends were noticing. He couldn’t have cared less. By now, everybody knew they were headed for the islands.
    “It’s starting now,” Nora said, looking at her watch.
    Luther looked at his. Seven P.M.
    The Christmas parade was launched every year from Veteran’s Park, in midtown. With floats and fire trucks and marching bands, it never changed. Santa always brought up the rear in a sleigh built by the Rotarians and escorted by eight fat Shriners on mini-bikes. The parade looped through the west side and came close to Hemlock. Every year for the past eighteen, the Kranks and their neighbors had camped along the parade