SOUR SWEETENER

Rich we are not. Comfortable we are. Christmas has always been weeks of work, plans, fun and excitement. It takes so long to happen and disappears in a wild frenzy of eating, giving, getting and then Larry and I settle down to complete our yearly February plans for a cruise, just a small one, one week of paradise is magical. I want to go thru life this way until we run out of islands.

Young dreams have detours. Our daughter Ruby was named after our trip to Aruba had to be cancelled to await her birth. Sure, I had mixed feelings but when it came down to it, our doll baby more than replaced the rainbows swimming in schools, humming birds drinking their fill from the insides of scarlet red hibiscus. The birds can manage nicely without the constant clicking of Larry’s Nikon.

Ruby smells delicious after her bath. Her tiny fingers curl around mine and I can’t stand it. I am so happy. Larry loves the week-end and parades Ruby around the block, to the park, kitschy cooing her all the way. He matches ribbons to her sweaters and wears a silly grin on his face when a neighbor takes at peek at Ruby. I see them both as one person and my heart fills with pleasure. Sniffles, teething, splashed spaghetti on the wall are part of the loving. We handle it all.

I feel content except sometimes Larry’s tone makes me edgy and I worry what I am doing to annoy him, yet he gives no hint of what is on his mind.

Christmases pass and another is here. Ruby is two and understands presents. She becomes a holy terror as she rips the pretty colored papers off their boxes. That is her present. What is inside is not important. Larry lets her mess up everything, no matter how much the bows and ribbons cost. I try to salvage some but am tsk tsked every time. Ruby can’t lift or move the heavy box in red shiny paper with glistening silver star dust and a huge silver bow. ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Her little arms stretch out to him. Ruby and Larry love the mess. He goes crazy nuts over the leather bomber jacket I bought for him. ‘Thanks, Josie. I love it. It is so retro!’

All of the gifts have been opened. How can there be nothing for me? My face must match my mood. I am crest-fallen. Larry waves to me, says, ‘So long. Merry Christmas. See you later,’ and walks out the front door. My attention turns to Ruby who is chewing on green ribbon. I pull it out of her hands. Ruby screams her head off. One look at her angry face, green dye on her lips, her cheeks and I can’t help but laugh, take her to the kitchen sink and clean her up. Flash, there is a flash and Larry’s Nikon catches the moment. He gives me a huge hug and a warm, sweet kiss, plus a small box wrapped in newspaper. It feels empty. Puzzlement sparks my eyes. No sexy underwear will fit in this box, not even suede gloves. Paper is inside, a colorful brochure shows Nevis and St. Bart, plane tickets, itinerary for ten days of peace, quiet, lobster fishing, quaint French mortar houses. Words elude me. I jump on Larry’s back and we both fall on the floor. Ruby climbs on top of both of us.

I need a few new clothes, no dresses, no heels, just shorts, tops, sandals. ‘Larry, do you think the mountains will be cool enough for you to take your new jacket? Don’t answer that. I’m kidding. Leave it home.’

February 10 is around the corner. So is my mother. She is delighted to be Ruby’s sitter. My dad will be glad of the rest while Mom stays in our house. Before we go, I fix Larry’s favorite supper for him. He isn’t going to get this in St. Barts. Fresh rye bread for his cold cuts of fat corned beef, thin salami slices, hot sauerkraut, ½ done green tomatoes, two full glasses of Diet Coke. A couple of strong burps and the man is so pleased with himself, he utters. When I die, I hope it’s like this.’ Larry brings Mom over, along with 3 suitcases, a box of shoes, and an 18" walking, talking baby doll for her favorite, and only, grandchild.

The clouds look like white mountains. The lower ones are huge lakes of fluff. There are no voids. Rivers are inches wide. The ocean is missing, hiding from the roaring, zooming planes that go back and forth, up and down, all day. San Juan is coming to meet us. I plant my feet flat on the floor, grasp the arm rest and wait for the turquoise sea , the white caps, to become reality. Steel drums pound as we deplane. My body rocks. We are transferred to a midget plane, holding 8 passengers and a crew of one, the Pilot, heading southwest for St. Kitts. We swoop down between 2 Mt. Everests that are waiting to destroy us, but miss.The other passengers stay aboard.

Our luggage will come the next day, we are told and will be brought to us at La Corniche. A single run-down cab winds us up the mountain. A woman with a large blue apron greets us in the tiny lobby with a ‘Bon jour.’ I look over the 4 hard back wooden chairs and the two love seats with matching flowered chintz, a small round wooden table, perfect for solitaire. Larry and I make strange eyes at each other and if we had our druthers, we’d druther be elsewhere.

A blond haired boy about 12, wearing tan shorts and high socks, tells us lunch is ready, motions for us to follow him. The dining room has 4 tables, a magnificent view of the Carribean, and no diners. The young boy pulls my chair out for me, bows and leaves us alone. Bottled water, uniced, is on the table. Larry opens one and we toast each other. Within 15 minutes the Master of the House and his wife arrive. She has taken off her apron. He is carrying a tray of lobsters, trapped only a few minutes ago. My eyes bulge at their size. I salivate. ‘Madam, would you care for a cold beer, a lovely salad before I prepare the lobsters? We grow our own vegetables so everything will be fresh.’ Larry and I use the little French we know. ‘Oui, Madam, oui. Merci.’Boiled skinless potatoes, fresh crispy bread accompany the beer. Larry and I eat with relish, anticipating the lobster. We are not disappointed. The lobster is nothing like those I’ve had before. The shells are orange red, strong and sharp. I cannot crack them. Larry does it for both of us. Chewing the tender meat is almost unnecessary. It is sweet and spicy at the same time. We are filled and the shells are empty. The young man clears the table and brings in large slices of still warm lemon meringue pie. We force ourselves to take a taste but then empty the plates in jig time.

It has been a long day and I am exhausted. ‘Let’s take a nap, Larry. When it’s dark we can go outside and touch the stars. The moon coming over the mountain has to be worth our getting up. We expected peace and quiet but not this much.’ ‘Rest is good, Josie,’ Larry says, ‘ but lets start thinking about next February. I need company, some night life.’ ‘We have plenty of time to think about it, Darling.’

Christmas does come faster every year and this year we have cancelled St. Kitts so we can be at home with our daughter, Kitty. We won’t ever plan on going to Cartagena. What kind of name would that be for a daughter or son? We’ll wait and see what comes in a few more years. St. John’s? Maybe we’ll go to Maryland and see Ft. Mc Henry.Say, Henry is a pretty good name.