Drama of the gifted

In Tritown, the present counts for more than the past

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

Back in the 1930s, President Franklin Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving from the fourth to the third Thursday of November to lengthen the Christmas shopping season. Public outcry foiled the experiment, but had FDR asked Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother), he would have been told, "Heck yes! Move it to August -- I can shop even more." As for Hollis the Mountain Man, who has a small band of family upon which to bestow presents, he regards the post-Thanksgiving shopping cycle with distaste (though he's careful to mention to his parents that he could certainly use a new chainsaw and another five-gallon plastic barrel for his home-brew experiments, and all his wool socks seem to have holes because he can't find his nail clippers).

It's a gray and sere afternoon that finds Hollis and Delia in the front booth at Happy's Coffee & Qwik-Stop (30 kinds of doughnuts, 20 kinds of lottery tickets, one kind of coffee). Her little yellow Winksta is filled with gifts, while the cargohold of Hollis's truck is empty save for clanking two-by-fours he saw behind the Tritown Packie. They are each munching a Christmas wreath, a créme-filled holiday doughnut, one of $erena the Waitress's inventions that involves massive amounts of red and green icing and confectioneries. As a dollop of banana créme falls squarely onto Delia's lap (in her excitement over the holiday season she has not adorned herself with a napkin), she swears.

"Shoot," she mutters (substitute teachers in the elementary/middle schools train themselves out of bad language if they expect to be asked back). "This doughnut is impossible to eat," she complains.

Hollis continues to chew. "Well," he says, "It's not like we have to pay for it. You know how $erena needs an audience to audition her concoctions."

"I know," Delia sighs mournfully. "I have no idea what to get her and Hasky. What are you going to do?" Hollis looks at her aghast. He'd always known that Delia's gift-giving inclinations had the force and randomness of a microburst, but it never occurred to him that he might be expected to join in. He decides to take refuge in the oldest stereotype: gender.

"Well," he says. "As a male, I'm actually not obligated to give anyone outside my immediate tribe a gift. Especially not married women!" He leans back in his booth content. His twill trousers are a little tight; he might have to remind his Mountain Mum that he's taking a 36/32 these days, not a 34. Still, he licks his fingers. "That was a lot better than last year's," he says. "Didn't she use pineapple and those sparkle sugars?"

But Delia's mouth is a rosy O of outrage. "Hollis, no subject-changing. That is the lamest argument you've used all week. You always get me something -- don't you know the Christmas spirit isn't about these petty distinctions of status or culture, but rather a celebration of general gratitude?"

As $erena comes by with coffee to refill their cups, she asks, "How's the Christmas wreathe?"

Delia speaks up quickly. "Oh, just delicious, and so cute."

But $erena turns to Hollis, who represents the larger doughnut-buying population (single, male, slightly chubby). He clears his throat and says, "Not so sure about the silver BBs. They could crack one of my crowns. But I'll take a bearclaw." $erena casts a thoughtful look and tucks a reddish curl behind one ear.

"Point taken," she says. "We can probably get by with just frosting."

As she moves on, Hollis folds his work-creased palm around the warm coffee cup. "Getting you something isn't like getting a married woman a present," he says. "Although if you end up getting hitched to Whitey Leblanc, I may have to continue the practice just to piss him off."

Delia blushes to the roots of her hair. Her romance with Whitey Leblanc (of Leblanc Brothers Salvage) was on the upsurge last winter after he was smashed in the head by a hockey puck and thus transformed into the more charming and continental Jean-Paul. Unfortunately, the personality-smoothing effects of a mild concussion dwindled. By summer's end, Jean-Paul, whose velvet eyes once smoldered in Delia's heart, had all but vanished; in fact, his last romantic gesture toward Delia included a large bunch of silk flowers and a pair of tickets to the Monster Truck Races in Laconia. "Oh, I don't think he'd notice, " she says. "I never hear from him these days."

"Well," says Hollis. "I still don't think it's appropriate for a single man to give presents to a married woman who's not in his immediate family. However . . .," he pauses. "If you were to get Hasky and $erena something and let me sign the card, I'd definitely kick in."

Delia's thin lips curl into a sly smile. She has to hand it to Hollis, you don't get to be a Mountain Man without learning how to exert absolutely minimal effort. Of course she had to get something for Hasky and $erena, especially after they lost the baby. And of course she'd be consumed by guilt if she didn't let Hollis sign the card. But, by god, he is going to go shopping with her, principles or not.

In years past, Hollis had usually done a one-store sweep for his holiday needs, which meant that everyone got work gloves and garden trowels (if he'd gone to the Tritown Homeporium), or jars of discount jam (if he'd gone to the DisCount Kastle), or just strips of scratch tickets (if he had left it all to Christmas Eve, and then driven past the Qwik-Stop). This year, thinks Delia, he'll probably parcel out bags of seconds from Tri'd 'N Tru Potato Chips.

"Actually," Hollis says. "Tri'd 'N Tru is doing a gift package this year. They have these really nice canisters with old-fashioned Santa Claus designs, and they fill 'em with an assortment of Vinega, Dubl-Salt, and Bah-B-Q."

Delia's forehead slowly sinks onto the table, where it narrowly misses the sticky remnants of her Christmas wreathe. "Hollis," she says. "You are too old to give your great-aunt with high blood pressure potato chips. You are also too old to give people junk that fell off the truck from where you work."

"Does that mean you'll help me do my shopping?" he asks with a boyish but effective whine in his voice.

Delia jerks to attention. She's been itching to hit the other stalls at the Ant Bar (formerly the Antiques Barn, but crucial letters fell off long ago). And here is Hollis, a bachelor with no dependents, whose biggest expense this year had been new tires. And he has no ideas about what was appropriate for holiday gift-giving. You could practically wrap up this scenario with a big bow. "Hollis," Delia says, reaching for her striped cap with ear-flaps (she could definitely use something more stylish, and Hollis was just the person to give it to her). "This is just like that O. Henry story The Gift of the Magi, except that we each will get what we want. Let's go shopping!"

As they get ready to leave, Hollis lingers at the counter to pay the tab. "Just don't let her get me bath salts," pleads $erena. "I still have the last five years' worth."

"Deal," says Hollis. "As long as you give her a gift canister of Tri'd 'N Tru chips."

Sally Cragin has enough trouble living in the present without thinking about the present.

---

The Tales From Tritown archive

---