Skipping Christmas by John Grisham Page A

rumors about Luther Krank and his goofy plans for Christmas. Frohmeyer’d told him. He’d driven by the night before and seen the handsome undecorated house with no Frosty, just sitting alone, peacefully yet oddly so different.
    “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Salino said, sadly. “We’re just trying to raise a little extra to help needy kids.”
    Nora wanted to burst through the door and say, “Here’s a check! Give me the calendar!” But she didn’t, because the aftermath would not be pleasant.
    Luther nodded with jaws clenched, eyesunflinching, and Treen began a rather dramatic rerolling of the calendar that would now be hawked to someone else. Under the weight of his large paws it popped and crinkled as it became smaller and smaller. Finally, it was as narrow as a broomstick and Treen slid it back into its tube and stuck a cap on the end. Ceremony over, it was time for them to leave.
    “Merry Christmas,” Salino said.
    “Do the police still sponsor that softball team for orphans?” Luther asked.
    “We certainly do,” Treen replied.
    “Then come back in the spring and I’ll give you a hundred bucks for uniforms.”
    This did nothing to appease the officers. They couldn’t bring themselves to say, “Thanks.” Instead, they nodded and looked at each other.
    Things were stiff as Luther got them out the door, nothing said, just the irritating sound of Treen tapping the tube against his leg, like a bored cop with a nightstick looking for a head to bash.
    “It was only a hundred dollars,” Nora said sharply as she reentered the room. Luther was peeking around the curtains, making sure they were indeed leaving.
    “No, dear, it was much more,” he said smugly, as if the situation had been complex and only he had the full grasp of it. “How about some yogurt?”
    To the starving, the prospect of food erased all other thoughts. Each night they rewarded themselves with a small container of bland, fat-free, imitation fruit yogurt, which they savored like a last meal. Luther was down seven pounds and Nora six.
    They were touring the neighborhood in a pickup truck, looking for targets. Ten of them were in the back, resting on bales of hay, singing as they rolled along. Under the quilts hands were being held and thighs groped, but harmless fun, at least for the moment. They were, after all, from the Lutheran church. Their leader was behind the wheel, and next to her was the minister’s wife, who also played the organ on Sunday mornings.
    The truck turned onto Hemlock, and the target quickly became obvious. They slowed as they neared the unadorned home of the Kranks. Luckily, Walt Scheel was outside wrestling with an extension cord that lacked about eight feet inconnecting the electricity from his garage to his boxwoods, around which he had carefully woven four hundred new green lights. Since Krank wasn’t decorating, he, Scheel, had decided to do so with extra gusto.
    “Are those folks home?” the driver asked Walt as the truck came to a stop. She was nodding at the Kranks’ place.
    “Yes. Why?”
    “Oh, we’re out caroling. We got a youth group here from the Lutheran church, St. Mark’s.”
    Walt suddenly smiled and dropped the extension cord. How lovely, he thought. Krank just thinks he can run from Christmas.
    “Are they Jewish?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Buddhist or anything like that?”
    “No, not at all. Methodist actually. They’re trying to avoid Christmas this year.”
    “Do what?”
    “You heard me.” Walt was standing next to the driver’s door, all smiles. “He’s kind of a weird one. Skipping Christmas so he can save his money for a cruise.”
    The driver and the minister’s wife looked long and hard at the Krank home across the street. Thekids in the back had stopped singing and were listening to every word. Wheels were turning.
    “I think some Christmas carolers would do them good,” Scheel added helpfully. “Go on.”
    The truck emptied as the choir rushed onto the