Stanley Wiley's father had founded Wiley & Beck in 1949. Beck had been dead so long now no one knew exactly why his name was still on the door. Had a nice ring to it-Wiley & Beck-and, too, it would be expensive to change the stationery1 and such. For an accounting2 firm that had been around for half a century, the amazing thing was how little it had grown. There were a dozen partners in tax, including Luther, and twenty or so in auditing3. Their clients were mid-range companies that couldn't afford the national accounting firms.
If Stanley Wiley'd had more ambition, some thirty years earlier, the old firm might possibly have caught the wave and become a force. But he hadn't, and it didn't, and now it pretended to be content by calling itself a "boutique firm."
Just as Luther was planning another quick departure for another sprint4 to the mall, Stanley materialized from nowhere with a long sandwich, lettuce5 hanging off the sides. "Got a minute?" he said with a mouthful. He was already sitting before Luther could say yes or no or can it be quick? He wore silly bow ties and usually had a variety of stains on his blue button-downs-ink, mayonnaise, coffee. Stanley was a slob, his office a notorious landfill where documents and files were lost for months. "Try Stanley's office" was the firm's slogan for paperwork that would never be found.
"I hear you're not going to be at the Christmas dinner tomorrow night," he said, still chewing. Stanley liked to roam the halls at lunch with a sandwich in one hand, a soda6 in the other, as if he were too busy for a real lunch.
"I'm eliminating a lot of things this year, Stanley, no offense7 to anyone," Luther said.
"So it's true."
"It's true. We will not be there."
Stanley swallowed with a frown, then examined the sandwich in search of the next bite. He was the managing partner, not the boss. Luther'd been a partner for six years. No one at Wiley & Beck could force him to do anything.
"Sorry to hear that. Jayne will be disappointed."
"I'll drop her a note," Luther said. It wasn't a terrible evening-a nice dinner at an old restaurant downtown, in a private room upstairs, good food, decent wines, a few speeches, then a band and dancing until late. Black tie, of course, and the ladies tried hard to one-up each other with dresses and jewelry8. Jayne Wiley was a delightful9 woman who deserved a lot more than she got with Stanley.
"Any particular reason?" Stanley asked, prying10 just a little.
"We're skipping the whole production this year, Stanley, no tree, no gifts, no hassle. Saving the money and taking a cruise for ten days. Blair's gone, we need a break. I figure we'll catch up rather nicely next year, or if not, the year after."
"It does come every year, doesn't it?"
"It does indeed."
"I see you're losing weight."
"Ten pounds. The beaches are waiting."
"You look great, Luther. Tanning, I hear."
"Trying a darker shade, yes. I can't let the sun get the best of me."
A huge bite of the ham-on-baguette, with strands11 of lettuce trailing along and hanging between the lips. Then movement: "Not a bad idea, really." Or something like that.
Stanley's idea of a vacation was a week in his beach house, a hand-me-down in which he had invested nothing in thirty years. Luther and Nora had spent one dreadful week there, guests of the Wileys, who took the main bedroom and put the Kranks in the "guest suite," a narrow room with bunk12 beds and no air conditioning. Stanley'd knocked back gin and tonics13 from midmorning until late afternoon and the sun never touched his skin.
He left, his cheeks full, but before Luther could escape, Yank Slader darted14 in. "Up to fifty-two hundred bucks15, old boy," he announced. "With no end in sight. Abigail just spent six hundred bucks on a dress for the Christmas dinner, don't know why she couldn't wear the one from last year or the year before, but why argue? Shoes were a buck-forty. Purse another ninety. Closets're full of purses and shoes, but don't get me started. We'll top seven grand at this rate. Please let me go on the cruise."
Inspired by Luther, Yank was keeping a precise tally16 on the Christmas damage. Twice a week he dashed in for updates. What he would do with the results was uncertain. Most likely nothing, and he knew it. "You're my hero," he said again, and left as quickly as he'd arrived.
They're all envious17, Luther thought to himself. At this moment, crunch18 time with only a week to go, and the holiday madness growing each day, they're all jealous as hell. Some, like Stanley, were reluctant to admit it. Others, like Yank, were downright proud of Luther.
Too late to tan. Luther walked to his window and enjoyed the view of a cold rain falling on the city. Gray skies, barren trees, a few leaves scattering19 with the wind, traffic backed up on the streets in the distance. How lovely, he thought smugly. He patted his flat stomach, then went downstairs and had a diet soda with Biff, the travel agent.
At the buzzer20, Nora bolted from the BronzeMat and grabbed a towel. Sweating was not something she particularly enjoyed, and she wiped herself with a vengeance21.
She was wearing a very small red bikini, one that had looked great on the young slinky model in the catalog, one she knew she'd never wear in public but Luther had insisted on anyway. He'd gawked at the model and threatened to order the thing himself. It wasn't too expensive, so Nora now owned it.
She glanced in the mirror and again blushed at the sight of herself in such a skimpy garment. Sure she was losing weight. Sure she was getting a tan. But it would take five years of starvation and hard labor22 in the gym to do justice to what she was wearing at that moment.
She dressed quickly, pulling her slacks and sweater on over the bikini. Luther swore he tanned in the nude23, but she wasn't stripping for anyone.
Even dressed, she still felt like a slut. The thing was tight in all the wrong places, and when she walked, well, it wasn't exactly comfortable. She couldn't wait to race home, take it off, throw it away, and enjoy a long hot bath.
She'd made it safely out of Tans Forever and rounded a corner when she came face to face with the Reverend Doug Zabriskie, their minister. He was laden24 with shopping bags, while she held nothing but her overcoat. He was pale, she was red-faced and still sweating. He was comfortable in his old tweed jacket, overcoat, collar, black shirt. Nora's bikini was cutting off her circulation and shrinking by the moment.
They hugged politely. "Missed you last Sunday," he said, the same irritating habit he'd picked up years ago.
"We're so busy," she said, checking her forehead for sweat.
"Are you okay, Nora?"
"Fine," she snapped.
"You look a little winded."
"A lot of walking," she said, lying to her minister. For some reason he glanced down at her shoes. She certainly wasn't wearing sneakers.
"Could we chat for a moment?" he asked.
"Well, sure," she said. There was an empty bench near the railing of the concourse. The Reverend lugged25 his bags over and piled them beside it. When Nora sat, Luther's little red bikini shifted again and something gave way, a strap26 perhaps, just above her hip27, and something was sliding down there. Her slacks were loose, not tight at all, and there was plenty of room for movement.
"I've heard lots of rumors28," he began softly. He had the annoying habit of getting close to your face when he spoke29. Nora crossed and recrossed her legs, and with each maneuver30 made things worse.
"What kind of rumors?" she asked stiffly.
"Well, I'll be very honest, Nora," he said, leaning even lower and closer. "I hear it from a good source that you and Luther have decided31 not to observe Christmas this year."
"Sort of, yes."
"I've never heard of this," he said gravely, as if the Kranks had discovered a new variety of sin.
She was suddenly afraid to move, and even then got the impression that she was still falling out of her clothes. Fresh beads32 of sweat popped up along her forehead. "Are you okay, Nora?" he asked.
"I'm fine and we're fine. We still believe in Christmas, in celebrating the birth of Christ, we're just passing on all the foolishness this year. Blair's gone and we're taking a break."
He pondered this long and hard, while she shifted slightly. "It is a bit crazy, isn't it?" he said, looking at the pile of shopping bags he had deposited nearby.
"Yes it is. Look, we're fine, Doug, I promise. We're happy and healthy and just relaxing a bit. That's all."
"I hear you're leaving."
"Yes, for ten days on a cruise."
He stroked his beard as though he wasn't sure if he approved of this or not.
"You won't miss the midnight service, will you?" he asked with a smile.
"No promises, Doug."
He patted her knee and said good-bye. She waited until he was out of sight, and then finally mustered33 the courage to get to her feet. She shuffled34 out of the mall, cursing Luther and his bikini.
Vic Frohmeyer's wife's cousin's youngest daughter was active in her Catholic church, which had a large youth choir35 that enjoyed caroling around the city. Couple of phone calls, and the gig was booked. A light snow was falling when the concert began. The choir formed a half-moon in the driveway, near the gas lamp, and on cue started bawling36 "O Little Town of Bethlehem." They waved at Luther when he peeked37 through the blinds.
A crowd soon gathered behind the carolers, kids from the neighborhood, the Beckers From next door, the Trogdon clan38. There by virtue39 of an anonymous40 tip, a reporter for the Gazette watched for a few minutes, then asserted himself and rang the Kranks' doorbell.
Luther yanked the door open, ready to land a punch. "What is it?" "White Christmas" resounded41 in the background.
"Are you Mr. Krank?" asked the reporter.
"Yes, and who are you?"
"Brian Brown with the Gazette. Can I ask you some questions?"
"About what?"
"About this skipping Christmas business."
Luther gazed at the crowd in his driveway. One of those dark silhouettes42 out there had squealed43 on him. One of his neighbors had called the newspaper. Either Frohmeyer or Walt Scheel.
"I'm not talking," he said and slammed the door. Nora was in the shower, again, and Luther went to the basement.
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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auditing
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| n.审计，查账，决算 | |
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sprint
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| n.短距离赛跑；vi. 奋力而跑，冲刺；vt.全速跑过 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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tonics
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| n.滋补品( tonic的名词复数 )；主音；奎宁水；浊音 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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maneuver
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| n.策略[pl.]演习；v.(巧妙)控制；用策略 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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41
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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42
silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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43
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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