Let’s go. This one will be fine.”
Fleur started, “No, I didn’t mean—”
“I like this one,” Trish called from the end of the aisle. Another piñon pine.
“It might be fun to have a different kind of tree this year,” I said to Bjorn.
“I hate piñons. They look like overgrown bushes,” he said under his breath.
“Honey, come and look,” Trish called to him again.
Richard began pulling ridiculous-looking trees, with huge sections missing, trees two feet high, from the racks. “I want this one,” he said. “No, this one. This one is my favorite.” Ashley, Fleur, and I laughed harder than we needed to, but we all wanted to get away from Bjorn and Trish.
Bjorn walked down the aisle to where Trish held her choice. He took the spruce with him. They huddled together in a whispered conference.
“Here.” Richard continued his antics. “This one can be used for a swordfight. Hold on to this,” he said to Fleur, handing her the most emaciated-looking little tree on the lot. She took it from him. He chose another almost like it and they began fencing. Fleur used both hands to hold the tree and went after Richard like a terrier after a rat.
Ashley grabbed a tree and went for Richard’s back.
“Hey, no fair,” he cried. He grabbed one end of the tree Ashley was holding and swung it around. Fleur hit him from behind.
Down the aisle, Bjorn and Trish were gesturing at different trees. Bjorn was doing most of the talking; Trish looked more and more defeated. Once in a while I heard an isolated “but honey” from her. Soon Bjorn strode back down the aisle holding the spruce like a victory lance. “We decided on this one.”
We?
Trish smiled weakly, then looked down at her feet, then up over the fence, across the street, anywhere but at any of us. I felt sorry for her. Even though I did like the tree Bjorn had chosen better than any of the piñon pines, I also knew what it was like to be railroaded by Bjorn. He was pigheaded sometimes.
Richard, Fleur, and Ashley put their “swords” back and followed Bjorn to the shack at the far end of the lot. We all went inside. A guy with mossy teeth—the kind of teeth so greenish and repulsive that you can only stare at them—sat in a lawn chair just inside the door.
“How much?” Bjorn asked.
The man told him. The price startled Bjorn. His head jerked up involuntarily.
Richard saw it too. “I have some money with me,” he offered.
“Piñon pines are cheaper,” the man said.
“Well, if they’re cheaper—” Trish started.
But Bjorn was already paying the man. “It’s fine,” he said.
“How about some ornaments?” The man nodded into the corner. “My wife and her friends make them,” he said.
The ornaments, mostly crocheted stars, hung by strings from the low ceiling.
“Oh, let’s get some. Aren’t they beautiful?” Trish’s energy level was back. “These are just wonderful. Bjorn?”
“Honey, I don’t have any more money—really,” he said.
“But honey, they’re not that much.”
“Honey, please—”
You’d have thought we were in a beehive with all that “honey” flowing about.
“Thanks a lot,” Bjorn said to the man, and opened the door of the shack. A blast of cold air hit us.
Trish turned back for a last look at the crocheted stars.
Bjorn and Richard tied the tree to the top of the Cherokee and we were off for home. It was a very quiet ride back.
* * *
T HE FRONT HALL looked like a Dutch flower garden when we got home. Mother had brought all the potted tulips up from the basement. They were wrapped in dark green shiny paper with red ribbons. “Where did you buy tulips at this time of year? They’re absolutely lovely!” Fleur said.
Richard had picked up one of the pots. “She forces them herself. This neighborhood would be in crisis if Mrs. Bjorkman stopped giving away tulips at Christmastime.”
“Hardly,” Mother said, pulling her coat out of the closet. “Did you find a tree?”
“We got a
Fleur started, “No, I didn’t mean—”
“I like this one,” Trish called from the end of the aisle. Another piñon pine.
“It might be fun to have a different kind of tree this year,” I said to Bjorn.
“I hate piñons. They look like overgrown bushes,” he said under his breath.
“Honey, come and look,” Trish called to him again.
Richard began pulling ridiculous-looking trees, with huge sections missing, trees two feet high, from the racks. “I want this one,” he said. “No, this one. This one is my favorite.” Ashley, Fleur, and I laughed harder than we needed to, but we all wanted to get away from Bjorn and Trish.
Bjorn walked down the aisle to where Trish held her choice. He took the spruce with him. They huddled together in a whispered conference.
“Here.” Richard continued his antics. “This one can be used for a swordfight. Hold on to this,” he said to Fleur, handing her the most emaciated-looking little tree on the lot. She took it from him. He chose another almost like it and they began fencing. Fleur used both hands to hold the tree and went after Richard like a terrier after a rat.
Ashley grabbed a tree and went for Richard’s back.
“Hey, no fair,” he cried. He grabbed one end of the tree Ashley was holding and swung it around. Fleur hit him from behind.
Down the aisle, Bjorn and Trish were gesturing at different trees. Bjorn was doing most of the talking; Trish looked more and more defeated. Once in a while I heard an isolated “but honey” from her. Soon Bjorn strode back down the aisle holding the spruce like a victory lance. “We decided on this one.”
We?
Trish smiled weakly, then looked down at her feet, then up over the fence, across the street, anywhere but at any of us. I felt sorry for her. Even though I did like the tree Bjorn had chosen better than any of the piñon pines, I also knew what it was like to be railroaded by Bjorn. He was pigheaded sometimes.
Richard, Fleur, and Ashley put their “swords” back and followed Bjorn to the shack at the far end of the lot. We all went inside. A guy with mossy teeth—the kind of teeth so greenish and repulsive that you can only stare at them—sat in a lawn chair just inside the door.
“How much?” Bjorn asked.
The man told him. The price startled Bjorn. His head jerked up involuntarily.
Richard saw it too. “I have some money with me,” he offered.
“Piñon pines are cheaper,” the man said.
“Well, if they’re cheaper—” Trish started.
But Bjorn was already paying the man. “It’s fine,” he said.
“How about some ornaments?” The man nodded into the corner. “My wife and her friends make them,” he said.
The ornaments, mostly crocheted stars, hung by strings from the low ceiling.
“Oh, let’s get some. Aren’t they beautiful?” Trish’s energy level was back. “These are just wonderful. Bjorn?”
“Honey, I don’t have any more money—really,” he said.
“But honey, they’re not that much.”
“Honey, please—”
You’d have thought we were in a beehive with all that “honey” flowing about.
“Thanks a lot,” Bjorn said to the man, and opened the door of the shack. A blast of cold air hit us.
Trish turned back for a last look at the crocheted stars.
Bjorn and Richard tied the tree to the top of the Cherokee and we were off for home. It was a very quiet ride back.
* * *
T HE FRONT HALL looked like a Dutch flower garden when we got home. Mother had brought all the potted tulips up from the basement. They were wrapped in dark green shiny paper with red ribbons. “Where did you buy tulips at this time of year? They’re absolutely lovely!” Fleur said.
Richard had picked up one of the pots. “She forces them herself. This neighborhood would be in crisis if Mrs. Bjorkman stopped giving away tulips at Christmastime.”
“Hardly,” Mother said, pulling her coat out of the closet. “Did you find a tree?”
“We got a
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