An Island Christmas (18 page)

“Oh my Lord,” whispered Jilly, her hand to her chest where her heart had begun to race.

“Put me down!” begged Portia, kicking her legs against Archie’s shoulders. “I want to go out on the ice, too.”

Felicia knelt on the dock. She spoke slowly, attempting to keep calm as her nephew bobbed in the icy water. “How did he get there? Oh. Look. A wooden ladder.” Rising, she glanced around. “I would think they would keep some kind of life preserver here somewhere. We could throw it to him and haul him back.”

“Haul him back?” Jilly repeated, and then gasped as she realized what was happening. The outgoing tide was slowly, gently, almost unnoticeably, but irrevocably carrying Lawrence on his ice raft out into the surging open harbor.

Archie carefully set Portia on the dock. Sternly, he said to the little girl, “Portia, I want you to hold your grandmother’s hand and don’t let go.” As he stood up, he said to Jilly, “Keep hold of her hand and don’t let go, okay?”

Jilly nodded, understanding from Archie’s expression the gravity of the matter. Lawrence was light enough to sit on the ice floe without breaking it, but he didn’t have a paddle or oar to navigate with. In the few seconds she had been talking to Archie, the ice raft had moved a few more feet away from the dock toward the open harbor where the wind made the waves leap and splash.

“I can’t find a life preserver anywhere,” Felicia told her fiancé. “Should I run over to the Ship Chandlery?”

“No time,” Archie said, stripping off his down parka.

“Hey,” yelled Lawrence. “I’m getting wet.” He started to stand up.

“Lawrence,” Archie called, “don’t stand up! You’ll make the ice tip back and forth if you move. Stay still. I’m coming to you.”

By now, other pedestrians, their arms full of Christmas packages, had gathered on the other dock to see what was going on.

The wind howled and blew sleet against everyone. Archie took off his heavy winter boots. On the other dock, a woman shrieked, “The little boy’s going to drown!”

Alarmed at her words, Lawrence moved onto his hands and knees, huddling in the very center of the ice circle. “Archie? Can you get me?”

“Call 911!” a man on the other dock yelled.

“Call the Coast Guard!” someone else yelled.

“Where’s my brother going?” Portia asked her grandmother. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Of course he is,” Jilly said. Kneeling down, she wrapped her arms protectively around her granddaughter. They were both shivering with cold.

“Archie?” Lawrence called again.

“I’ll be right there,” Archie called to the boy, and jumped feetfirst into the water.

Here at the end of the dock, with the tide halfway out, the water was only eight or nine feet deep, yet still deep enough to completely swallow Archie. For a moment Felicia couldn’t see him, and then he suddenly erupted from the water and began swimming toward Lawrence. By the time he reached the child, waves were breaking over the circle of ice, soaking the edges and also soaking his hands and feet. Lawrence started to crawl toward Archie, but Archie, treading water near the ice floe, said in a quiet but firm tone, “Don’t move, Lawrence. You’ll only make yourself wet. I’m going to tow you in.”

Jilly looked up at Felicia. “What
is
Archie doing?” Instead of catching hold of the child, Archie seemed to be involved in some complex maneuver underneath the water.

“I have no idea,” answered Felicia, her cold hands clenched anxiously.

As they watched, Archie pulled his belt out of the water and used his fist to hammer the buckle with its sharp prong into the edge of the ice.

“Sit still and hang on, kid,” Archie said to Lawrence with a grin. “I’m taking you for a ride.”

Holding the end of his belt in one hand, Archie lay on his side and did an awkward sidestroke back toward the pier. Because the tide was going out, it took him longer than Felicia thought it would and as they came closer she could see the first white patches of frost nip on Lawrence’s cheeks. The little boy was shuddering with cold, but he was smiling broadly.

Archie drew abreast of the dock and wrapped his belt around one of the rungs of the ladder. Bobbing in the water, he managed to grip Lawrence under the arms and lift the little boy toward the dock where Felicia lay with her arms outstretched to catch him.

“Lawrence, you were going way out!” said Portia with wide eyes.

Lawrence’s feet, legs, and arms were soaking wet but his torso was dry. Felicia tore off her own parka and wrapped it around him, pushing the hood up over his head. Archie grabbed the rungs of the ladder and hauled himself up onto the dry dock. He was completely dripping with ice water.

From the other dock, cheers and applause broke out. Several people took pictures with their cell phones.

“That’s my son-in-law!” Jilly cried to the crowd. “Isn’t he brave?”

“Mom.” Felicia hugged her mother. “Settle down.”

“I’m just so relieved,” Jilly said, and burst into tears. “Felicia, thank goodness we have Archie in the family.”

“Can you pose for me, holding the boy?” requested a
man with an expensive camera in his hand. “Hang on a minute, I have to adjust the lens.”

“Clueless idiot,” Archie muttered, pulling on his parka and his boots. “Come on, gang, let’s hail a cab and hurry home and dry off.” His teeth were chattering and his lips were blue. Felicia remembered that fifteen minutes in water below the freezing point caused death.

“Are you okay?” she asked but Archie didn’t wait to answer. Lifting Lawrence from her arms, he ran down the dock toward the taxi stand on the cobblestone street with Felicia, Jilly, and Portia right behind.

Archie opened the passenger door of the first cab. “Chestnut Street.”

The two women and the little girl slid into the back of the cab.

It was only a few blocks to the house on Chestnut Street, something that irritated the cab driver, but Jilly dug a twenty dollar bill out of her wallet, flung it at the man, jumped out of the cab, and sprinted to her front door to unlock it.

Portia squeezed in first and ran down the hall crying, “Mommy! Daddy! Lawrence almost drowned!”

22
 

General mayhem followed Portia’s jubilant announcement. Pat, Lauren, and Porter bumped into each other as they hurried down the hall. In the living room, George struggled to stand on his crutches and accidentally kicked the cat, who dashed, affronted, from the room. Jilly, Felicia, and Archie talked all at the same time in increasing volume to be heard over Portia who jumped up and down in time to her chant: “Lawrence almost drowned!”

Lauren clutched her son, carried him into the living room, and plopped right down on the rug by the blazing fire. She yanked off his wet boots, socks, and snow pants, and began rubbing heat into his feet with her hands. Jilly hurried up the stairs, snatched several blankets from the cupboard, and took them down for Lauren to bundle around Lawrence. Porter hurried into the kitchen to make a mug of instant hot chocolate in the Keurig and brought it to his son to drink, sloshing it on the rug and burning his hands—but not badly—as he ran.

In the front hall, Felicia helped Archie strip off his sodden
heavy outer clothing. Together they ran up the stairs and into the bathroom, where Archie removed the rest of his clothing and jumped into the shower, turning the water on full and hot.

Felicia stood by the shower curtain holding a towel. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

“I want some brandy!”

“I’ll be right back.” Felicia raced down the stairs.

Everyone else was still in the living room, gathered around Lawrence and Lauren, asking questions and offering suggestions. Should the little boy go to the hospital? Did the Gordons know a doctor who would come by the house to check on him? Were his toes blue?

Lawrence’s toes were pink. Jilly found a thermometer and Lawrence held it in his mouth for a full five minutes while everyone waited, scarcely breathing. His temperature was normal.

“I’m too hot!” the little boy objected.

Trembling with worry, Lauren decided, partly because his sharp elbows were digging into her side, that he was fine. “Very well, you can get off my lap, but you have to put on your pajamas and two pairs of socks and sit on the sofa with Granddad underneath this blanket until I say you can move.”

Grumbling, Lawrence obeyed. He snuggled up to his grandfather. George hugged Lawrence close to him and whispered, “You had your own wipeout, I guess.” They grinned at each other—two daredevils.

When Archie came down the stairs, dressed in dry clothes and looking perfectly healthy, the state of red alert dropped.

“I’m starving,” Archie said.

Pat, who could hardly hold her gigantic son on her lap, nearly burst with the chance to be helpful. “I have just the thing! I’ll bring you some of my Cajun seafood gumbo.”

“That sounds good,” said George, “but I need a drink and I’ll bet Archie does, too.”

And so it happened that Christmas Eve was spent with everyone gathered in the living room by the Christmas tree. Pat dished her gumbo into bowls for the others to carry in to the various invalids. She put the rest in one of Jilly’s soup tureens, carried it into the living room, and set it on the coffee table. Porter took on the responsibility of giving everyone glasses of wine or milk. Jilly sliced the baguettes she’d bought that morning and handed them around so people could dip the bread into their sauce.

It was only when Felicia came in carrying a handful of napkins and paper towels that Jilly realized how this Christmas was changing the decor of her perfect living room. Slushy spots from people’s boots darkened the living room rug. Her adorable granddaughter accidentally spilled the gumbo sauce, rich with tomato, onto the carpet, and a few other spots here and there implied other mishaps. The Christmas tree still looked as if it had been decorated by a committee of drunks and the presents beneath the tree were lopsided, the colorful bows limp and uneven. At least
the fireplace mantel, a focal point of the room with its cheerful Christmas stockings hanging down and the old-fashioned holiday figurines parading across the top, still remained intact and festive.

As she looked around the room, she noticed the cat sitting in the living room doorway staring directly at Jilly with exasperation.

“Oh, my goodness!” Jilly cried. “I forgot to feed you.” Jumping up, she hurried into the kitchen. She opened a can of cat food and dumped it into Rex’s bowl.

Rex sniffed it, then looked up at Jilly with disdain. Jilly stared at Rex.

“What’s wrong?”

As if he understood her question, Rex meowed and walked over to the stove where the pot still held some Cajun seafood gumbo.

“You can’t eat gumbo. It’s too spicy for a cat.”

Rex responded by rising up on his hind legs and clawing at the stove with his front paws, as if desperate to reach the pot of seafood.

“Do you actually think I’m going to give you expensive scallops and shrimp? You have perfectly decent cat food right there.”

Rex responded by jumping up on the kitchen counter next to the stove.

“No! Absolutely no cats on the kitchen counter!” Jilly picked Rex up and set him on the floor.

Rex stared at Jilly with an expression a Charles Dickens
orphan could have learned from, then spun around and slunk beneath the kitchen table, his eloquent back to Jilly.

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!” Guilt flooded Jilly. And after all, it was Christmas Eve.

With a slotted spoon, she carefully lifted out four of the scallops, three of the shrimp, and a nice big piece of cod. She rinsed them under the faucet to remove all traces of spicy tomato sauce and to cool them. She set them on the cutting board and chopped them into tiny pieces. She spooned them onto a plate and set them on the floor next to Rex’s bowl.

Rex stared at her suspiciously. Slowly, he strolled across the kitchen floor to the plate, and took a nibble of the fish. He took another bite. He began to purr as he ate, his tail slowly waving in appreciation.

Jilly smiled. Now everyone in her family was happy.

23
 

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. Felicia opened her eyes and thought:
I’m getting married today!