Free A Camp Edson Christmas by Cynthia Davis Page B

in
exasperation. “He was too busy up here eavesdropping on everyone to
send his broom into real action.”
    “Church down the road said he’s the best
they’ve got. Sent him up here special,” Anna insisted. “And as far
as the craft cabin,” Anna said, “No way can we send a volunteer in
to clean up after what goes on in there.” The old woman flashed a
mischievous glance toward Christina, recalling any number of the
artistic mishaps which shaped Christina’s first summer leading arts
and crafts at camp. After giving Christina a playful swat with her
towel, Anna turned her attention to the turkey, frowning as she
tapped the thermostat. “Cooking kind of fast,” she muttered,
fiddling with the oven’s temperature control knob.
    She wandered out to the lounge. Jimmy, the
kid with the thick glasses, circled the tree, making inane rhymes
based on the lyrics of Christmas carols. Christina scrapped any
leftover thoughts she may have had concerning his future success.
This kid was just out there. She glanced toward Faith, who had also
lost interest in decorating and was folding and creasing what
little was left of her reindeer. Christina sighed. Didn’t these
kids appreciate what they were doing? Their attention spans seemed
shorter than the stubby bristles on the end of Mr. Engal’s
broom.
    “Snow!” shrieked one of the campers, running
toward the big picture window behind the tree, leading a stampede
that threatened to create an indoor shower of glass ornaments.
“That’s not snow,” Michael said, stroking the dark stubble that
spoke of extended time away from a normal grooming routine. “That’s
sleet.”
    “Sleet!” Jimmy hollered. “Heat! Meat! Hey,
when’s that turkey gonna be done?”
    As if on cue, Anna burst from the kitchen,
smoke billowing behind her. “Heating element blew,” she managed
between heaving coughs. Groans of disappointment preceded chaos.
Windows flew open. Cold, stiff air replaced blackened smoke and
fumes. Kids screamed, raiding rooms down the hall for blankets.
Anna pulled a five pound bag of frozen French Fries from the
freezer and began shoving them into a toaster oven in hasty
batches.

    “French fries!” Jimmy yelled, waving one over
his head. “Fries from France! France rhymes with dance, D-A-N-C-E!”
he called, wiggling and shaking a path across the room.
    At the height of the pandemonium, the lights
flickered, and the building was plunged into darkness. The initial
screams quickly turned to deafening silence. And then the phone
rang.
    Meg tried to keep her voice down but the
silence seemed to amplify her somber tones. She didn’t give
anything away with her words, but Christina didn’t need anything
spelled out. One look out the window told her all she needed to
know. The entire world looked was encrusted beneath a glassy sheet
of ice.
    Christina bit into half-baked French fry. The
warm, crispy exterior surrounding a bitter cold core seemed a
fitting symbol for her Christmas Eve. There would be no warm meal,
no toys for the kids, and, blinking back tears, she acknowledged
the truth that was hardest to face: she herself would share in the
cold and giftless Christmas morning to which they all seemed
destined. Christina tossed the French fry into the garbage,
suddenly aware that at least for this one night they all shared the
same miserable lot.
    “Have you seen Faith?” Dee hissed in her ear.
Startled, Christina stared into Dee’s wide eyes. She’d been busy,
gathering the children around the tree, distributing pillows,
flashlights and candy canes.
    “I was just going to read to them, when I
realized that I haven’t seen Faith.” Panic washed across Dee’s
face. “I don’t want to worry them,” she tossed her head to toward
the kitchen, where Meg, Michael and Anna were slapping together
some hasty PBJs.
    Could things get any worse?
    Two images flashed through Christina’s mind
and she instantly knew where to look. “I’ll be right back,” she
called,