Carol for Another Christmas by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Page B

coat and hat, and after a moment, the mother came from the kitchen bearing a platter large enough to cover her distended belly.
    â€œCome on, hon,” the father said.
    â€œI—okay, but let me set this down. I have to make one more trip to the bathroom,” she said, and waddled with all speed back into the house before returning to put on her own coat and hat and take up the platter again.
    Then they all trundled out into the snow, and the father and daughter hurriedly scooped up big snowballs and threw them at each other, the father laughing delightedly, the daughter shrieking with glee, while the mother, watching each step as best she could, carried the platter to the car. The little girl looked around her neighborhood one last time before getting into the car. The familiar houses had, with the onset of darkness, taken on the aspect of Santa’s workshop, each of them strung with bulbs of red, yellow, green, and blue glass shaped like little candle flames. Some houses had Christmas stars on the roof; some had Santas and reindeer teams driving across. Her own yard at least had the snowman she and her daddy had made the day before, though his carrot nose had fallen off.
    As the car drove away, Scrooge and Monica watched the snowman wave good-bye to the back of the girl who had created him. The car slushed through snow-muffled streets until Daddy had to stop to put on chains, and after that it clinked and clanked and jingled like sleigh bells.
    â€œI want to see the lights downtown!” the little girl cried, and her parents were only too happy to oblige.
    If Scrooge had been awed by the neighborhood light display, the downtown city buildings, comprised of more floors than Scrooge would have thought it possible to pile atop one another, were wonders bedecked with winking glass candles and wrapped like packages. The little girl had to admire the mechanical displays in the store windows—far more elaborate ones than in Scrooge’s day—Christmas trains bearing presents in every car and driven by St. Nicholas himself, Christmas parties enacted by windows full of beautifully dressed mannequins, and a completely equipped Santa’s toy shop with elves hammering and sawing on wonderful playthings. Christmas music blared out into the streets as if played by invisible orchestras.
    Little Monica was most fascinated by the crèche in front of a large church whose steeple bore a brightly lit star at its tip. “I hope Santa remembers my Betsey Wetsey,” she said to her father in a hushed, excited voice, watching Baby Jesus in Mary’s arms as if anxious to see if he dampened his swaddling clothes. “Where will we put the manger when our baby is born?” she asked her parents.
    â€œWe won’t need a manger,” her mother said. “We have your old cradle.” Then she gave a little yelp and rubbed her belly. “We’d better get on to Mother’s, dear.”
    â€œBut I was going to use that for Betsey Wetsey,” Monica said.
    Then, suddenly, the family was on the doorstep of a large house on the outskirts of the city. The door had a big wreath of holly with fat red berries and a fat red bow to match, and when it opened, amazing smells wafted into the snowy air. Women in silky dresses and frilly aprons bustled around the dining table, filling it with various treats, but Scrooge could recognize only the cranberries, turkey, and dressing.
    Much fuss was made over Monica’s mother during the meal, and Monica was asked repeatedly by one aunt or uncle or another, “What do you want, Monica, a baby brother or a baby sister?”
    She shrugged. “I just want the baby to come out of Mama’s tummy so she’s not fat anymore and her back doesn’t hurt.”
    Instead of being pleased by her thoughtfulness, her mother blushed. “Monica! That’ll be enough of that showing off,” she said.
    But her daddy ruffled her hair.
    Later, everyone