Free Holly Blues by Susan Wittig Albert

too big for Santa Claus can look for coal in his stocking.”
    “Coal?” Brian asked, distracted from making his case for the lameness of fairies. “You mean, like the kind of stuff they burn in dirty power plants?” He appealed to me. “Why would I get coal in my stocking, Mom?”
    He stopped, biting his lip, obviously puzzled by differentiating between Mom One and Mom Two, or Old Mom and New Mom, or maybe even Usually Absent Mom and Always Present Mom. When Sally wasn’t here, I could be pretty sure where I stood (Mom-in-chief, to borrow a phrase), but at the moment, I wasn’t clear about my position.
    “That’s the stuff,” I replied. “And you’ll get it in your stocking if you bad-mouth Santa.”
    “Sick,” Brian said admiringly.
    “It is not sick ,” McQuaid snapped. “It’s traditional. It’s been happening for centuries. Good kids get presents. Bad kids get coal.”
    “No, I meant really sick ,” Brian insisted. “Beast. Cool. Awesome.”
    I was glad to have the explanatory synonyms. Sick was new to me, but cool I understood from my own youth and awesome from last year or the year before. I don’t try to keep track of the evolving linguistic universe of young adults, however. I just listen and say “uh-huh” and try to catch the general drift.
    “Young man,” McQuaid said sternly, “you can leave that slang at school.”
    “Yeah,” Brian said, leaning on his elbows. “Hey, Dad, I’d really like to have some coal. I could burn it and see if it’s as bad as Mr. Nordyke says.” He pulled down his mouth and said in a deep voice, presumably Mr. Nordyke’s: “ ‘There is no such thing as clean coal, boys and girls. It’s all dirty.’ ” He popped back into his usual Brian voice. “I’d like to see how dirty. Measure the pollutants. You know, the particulates. Any idea where I can get some?”
    I had nothing to suggest, but McQuaid did. “You might ride your bike over and talk to Mr. Rich. He’s got a blacksmith’s forge and does some horseshoeing. He could maybe give you a couple of lumps of the stuff.”
    “Or you could wait until Christmas,” Sally said in a meaningful tone, “and check your stocking.” She turned back to Caitlin. “You and I, on the other hand,” she added sweetly, “will have candy and presents in our stockings. Because we’re good girls.”
    Caitlin looked up at her, eyes wide, and I could see that she was smitten. “You’re going to have a stocking, too? Here? With us ?”
    Brian looked at me, surprised and alarmed. I guess Sally hadn’t told him that she was here for the duration.
    McQuaid looked at his plate.
    I looked around the table. “Yes, Brian’s mom is going to have a stocking,” I said brightly. “Here. With us. Isn’t that awesome?”
    And seeing Sally and Caitlin together, I had to agree with my somewhat optimistic remark: it was pretty awesome. Come to think of it, there was something about Sally that reminded me—and perhaps Caitlin, too—of Marcia, before she became so sick. Sally and Marcia were both perky and outgoing, with a cheerful, playful spirit. Both of them seemed to relate to Caitlin on her level, as if they were best friends or Barbie buddies, rather than adult and little girl. That takes a special flair, I think, and I’m not sure I have it. Caitlin misses Marcia terribly, and since she came to live with us, I’ve been trying hard to stand in. But let’s face it. I’m not the playful type, and my experience of fairies is severely limited. If Sally could begin where Marcia left off, she might help to make the holiday fun for a lonely child facing the bitter realities of loss.
    I smiled at Caitlin. “We’ll put in an extra nail and you can hang Sally’s stocking on the mantel, right next to yours. Would you like that?” We were out of Christmas stockings, but I’d bet Ruby would have an extra.
    “Yeah,” Caitlin said shyly. She dipped her spoon into her chowder. “Sure.” She smiled again at Sally, a