Free Weeping Underwater Looks a Lot Like Laughter by Michael J. White

MS symptoms had officially remitted. (While My Ántonia contains no shortage of pickle references, I’ve since scoured its pages only to find, time and time again, in differing editions, that there exists not a single pickle in the pastoral picnic scene Katie related during my first hospital visit.) The pain in her legs had fallen to a minimum, which implied a return to what the Schell family called her “big time” mood or, in its most extreme form, her “great balls of fire” mood. Feeling an immediate remission of my own, I learned that Katie’s initial resurgence manifested itself over a hardworking Saturday spent choreographing a front-yard Christmas display, which included a life-sized Santa Claus gleefully whipping his reindeer. By noon she’d already hung enough strings of light to safely reach her goal of doubling the electric bill. Then she wrapped the mailbox in a garland and lined the driveway with illuminant candy canes, all the while arguing the case for her father’s purchase of an artificial snowmaker in case Mother Nature refused to comply with the Christmas spirit. Apparently Mrs. Schell was in a big-time mood as well, as Emily explained:
    “Yesterday, out of nowhere, she bought eggnog and rum and called all the girls from her tennis team over. It started off pretty tame, with holiday music, a bunch of middle-aged girls making pine wreaths for their front doors—”
    “She didn’t call me over. I like eggnog and rum. Your mom and I have more in common than I thought. I have a pretty good backhand, too. It’s two-handed.”
    “My mom will be thrilled to know,” she said. “The point is that by about five o’clock she was feeling pretty good. I can’t say she was drunk, but she was pretty good and tipsy. That’s when my dad showed up from the basement with an old guitar. There was no way she could say no with her friends all buzzed up, hooting and cheering her name. Well, let’s just say I learned a little something about Maureen Schell. Not only can she play , but the woman can friggin’ sing .”
    “Where did this guitar come from? What other secrets is she keeping? Do you even know this woman?”
    “I thought I did. Have you ever heard a song called ‘Edelweiss’?”
    “My mom’s got a music box that plays ‘Edelweiss.’ The Sound of Music is her favorite movie.”
    “Well, we practically grew up watching that movie. Every time we had a babysitter we watched it, and Katie knows all the lines by heart. I’m talking verbatim.”
    “Did you know your mom even had a guitar?”
    “Hang on,” she said, the sound of her voice immediately reverberating. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
    “Merry Christmas, George Flynn,” Katie said, after a long pause. “Can you believe it? It’s unreal, isn’t it? Did you know my mom used to be Southern Baptist? She converted after she met my grandma Schell, who when you meet her someday you’ll see that she wears rosaries like costume jewelry.”
    “Merry Christmas,” I said. “It sounds like there’s some kind of revolution happening over there.”
    “It’s huuuuge . So when are you coming over to view the most fantastic holiday display in greater Des Moines? I can assure you it’s not over-the-top, either. It’s very tasteful, as opposed to the display put on by those fanatics from Ankeny who made the front page of the communities section with a shining blood-and-guts Jesus on a cross. Our Jesus is sleeping peacefully in a crib, well protected by two wings of nutcracker soldiers. Have you heard that I’m requesting a dog for Christmas?”
    “No one ever gets a dog for Christmas. That only happens in commercials for long-distance phone companies.”
    “Listen here, pal, I’ve been tolerant all year long. I’m not planning to beg, but this is all I’m asking for. Nothing else, just a dog who only answers to me.”
    “Miniature poodle?” I asked, relieved to hear Katie admit such a wish and finally act like a seventh grader