WELL DONE! Creative Nonfiction - A CHRISTMAS PURCHASE by Celia Miles

A Christmas Purchase by Celia Miles

We were young, silly, and naïve beyond belief; had new jobs as teacher and Christian Education director, and Christmas was coming. My husband and Jackie’s boyfriend were out of town. We had a couple of days to ourselves. We would celebrate.

We decided on spaghetti for supper and hot buttered rum to go with it. Spaghetti we had, but neither of us had ever bought liquor. Our parents didn’t have it in the house; our colleges allowed no alcohol on campus. In fact, our counties were “dry:” no beer or wine in grocery stores and no retail liquor outlets. To find hard liquor, off we went, some thirty miles to Asheville, with Jackie driving her first (badly used) car and me holding on to the dashboard as she tried to control the vehicle.

At a brick-faced structure with lots of glass, we stuttered to a triumphant stop. I waited for Jackie to get out. She was typically the leader, the one who sang loudest and best, who flirted easily and laughed sweetly.

“Well,” I said. “Go on in.”

“I’m not going in there,” she replied. “What if I see somebody from home? Or heaven forbid, some church member.”

In the almost deserted parking lot, two men walked to their car, not a glance in our direction. We looked at the store. No customers visible.

“Go on,” I urged.

“I drove,” she declared. “You go.”

I knew that determined tone. I’d go in or we’d drink Pepsi with our spaghetti. I squirmed a bit as she laid her hands on the steering wheel and waited.

“Okay, okay, I’m going. What kind?”

“Huh?”

“What, uh, brand do you want?”

“Do I want? You said we’d have hot buttered rum if I made spaghetti.” She sounded antsy, probably thinking about driving back. But she was right. In some magazine for new wives, I’d read about the joys of hot buttered rum on wintery nights. My suggestion. My turn.

She handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “We’ll split it.”

“I’m gone.” I hopped out.

Pushing the “Enter” door, looking neither to the right nor left, I went straight toward the rows and rows of bottles of all colors, prices, and sizes, clear, dark, amber, even green. I saw signs for Bourbon, Gin, Scotch, Vodka. Hmm. I was a bit overwhelmed by the possibilities. Maybe I’d get something else. I knew Hemingway drank…what was it? My mind went blank. Rum it would be.

After I’d gazed, entranced by all the options, the clerk, an older man, drawled, “Help you find something, young lady?”

Oh no. Would he ask for identification? I’d left my purse in the car, having been warned by Jackie’s dad that purse snatchers loved parking lots and single females. I glanced at him; he looked vaguely familiar. But not my kin. Maybe he was one of Jakie’s cousins and uncles. But he didn’t identify himself.

“Rum,” I managed. “I’m looking for rum.”

“Third aisle.” He waved toward the back of the store. “Not a big selection, not much demand.”

Being absolutely ignorant of quality, taste, or country of origin, I grabbed a bottle that the twenty would cover with some left over. Whew.

I set the bottle on the counter and said, as if the clerk cared, “Found it.” Almost proudly, I handed over the twenty. It seemed to take forever for him to place the rum in one brown bag and then into another.

“Don’t want to risk breaking it.” He handed me my change: a five, four ones and some coins. My hands felt a little clammy but I smiled and thanked him.

“Hope you like it,” he said. “My wife uses it in some fancy cakes she bakes.”

Baking? This was not for baking or wifely stuff! I had a sudden surge of confidence. We were going to drink this—not make muffins. I stood straighter and turned toward the door.

There, perched on a high stool, just outside the turnstile, sat a girl-child in a Salvation Army uniform. Pretty, pale, and smiling at me, she was the perfect picture of innocence—and I was surely the opposite. I felt myself shrinking. Could I just slip by the Madonna in prim blouse and longish blue skirt? Could I ignore the fact that I was spending “good money” on something trivial, frivolous, downright sinful, that I expected an adult evening of sipping hot buttered rum on this Christmas break, eating spaghetti without a thought of calories or essays to grade? Could I ignore the difference between my selfish self and Miss Salvation Army’s selfless giving of her time for the benefit of others? Could I possibly return the rum?

Not exactly an option. I was stuck between the arms of the exit turnstile.

“Hi,” the perfect girl murmured gently, a beatific smile on her no-lipstick face.

“Merry Christmas,” I muttered, hastily dropping the handful of dollars into her little red bucket. I heard a soft, “Thank you” and “God bless,” as I headed for the car. Breathing deeply, I thought, okay, the worst is over.

Jackie lied with aplomb after a siren pulled us over and a uniformed trooper approached. I dropped my Christmas scarf over the bottle at my feet as he pointed out a broken tail light and a muffler barely hanging on. Jackie charmed him with her patter about being late for the church’s children’s program. He tipped his hat. “Just a warning, ladies, but get those things attended to.” He grinned. “You don’t want to spend any time in the slammer.” We thanked him, and he gave us a cheerful wave. We seemed quietly guilt-ridden on the way back to her apartment. When I placed the double-bagged bottle on the kitchen table, she said, “Any change?”

“Gone to the Salvation Army.” I busily warmed a couple of cupfuls of rum on the stove. At my tale of remorse, she shrugged and put on the pot for spaghetti. With a cup of rum, a pat of butter on each, we sipped and wondered what the heck was so good about it. The spaghetti was boiling as we sipped and sighed, sipped again. No use. I emptied my cup into the sink and poured a small glass straight from the bottle. Much better.

“I read somewhere,” Jackie stirred the pot and kept sipping her warm drink, “that you know spaghetti’s done when it sticks to the wall when you throw it.”

She took another gulp and then with a great “splat” a glob of spaghetti hit the wall above my head.

“Sorry about that.” Jackie giggled. “Don’t worry. Darn. I meant to throw just a strand or two.”

I stared at the strings of spaghetti sliding down the wall, white on blue. She giggled again. “Guess it’s not done yet.” She finished her cup, pointed to the bottle. “I’ll have what you’re having.” She pursed her lips, slurred her words. “Did Spencer Tracy say that in Northwest Passage or Casablanca?”

Ultimately, we enjoyed all the spaghetti but not all the rum. Weeks later, I asked Jackie what happened to it when her mother visited. “Heck, she said, “I knew she’d rummage around here while I was at work. So I poured it down the toilet and put the bottle in Mr. Ramsey’s trash can.

“Next time,” I told her, “you’re buying,” and I vowed, “but no more rum for me.”

“Next time I’ll get Scotch. That’s what my pastor drinks.”

Long time retired community college instructor, Celia Miles has some twelve novels to her credit, a textbook, two short story collections. Her favorite topics are old grist mills and the neolithic sites in the British Isles. She lives and writes from Asheville.