FALL 2006 SHORT FICTION CONTEST

FIRST PLACE WINNER

Biscuit Connection
by Beth Groundwater

Samuel didn't know how his tie got stapled to the wall. Thank God he was alone in the Sunday school room. He'd been replacing the brown November bulletin board border with a green December one and had efficiently pinned his tie.

He plopped the offending stapler on the floor next to his knees and scrabbled his fingers among the supplies scattered around. At almost gagging range, he located the scissors. He used a blade point to jimmy out the staple but tore his tie.

Samuel surveyed the half-done transformation from turkeys to angels and heaved a great sigh. He wasn't even supposed to be doing this thankless job, but his wife had cajoled him into taking her place so she could videotape their daughter's dance rehearsal. Thus, he'd skewered his favorite tie - the one with white sailboats on it, from Maine.

Julia was the second grade Sunday school teacher, not him. Just as she was the Brownie Troop Leader and Children's Dance Hospitality Chair, not him. Now he had to meet with his insurance client while wearing a frayed tie, and he'd be late to boot.

Snatching up the stapler, Samuel returned to work. He'd decided long ago that December was the worst month of the year. Kachunk. Everyone was too darned cheerful to buy insurance. Extra activities got crammed into their already busy family schedule--performances, obligatory parties, relative visits, and endless shopping. Kachunk. Julia always insisted the whole family get involved in some burdensome holiday service project. Kachunk.

Last year they had stuffed shoeboxes with hygiene supplies, cheap toys, and candy to mail to hapless kids in Africa who probably had no idea what to do with a toothbrush or plastic racecar. This year they were delaying their Christmas dinner to serve at the Soup Kitchen. Kachunk. He couldn't wait until the day after New Year's Day, when all the schmaltzy decorations were boxed away and he was back at the office.

**********

Christmas dawned gray and gloomy, with pelting snow. Ordinarily Samuel wouldn't have cared, but he had to go out in it later to serve dinner to scruffy old men who slept in refrigerator cartons. The family rushed through opening presents so Julia could stuff the turkey and figure out the oven timer before they left. Samuel was sure the bird would be raw or burnt when they returned.

Leaving the kids to their new electronic gadgets, he shoveled four inches of snow off the driveway. From the way the snow was falling, he as sure the job would have to be repeated when they returned. Rubbing his frozen nose, Samuel went inside to bundle the clan into the van.

After spending two hours chopping onions, rolling silverware in napkins, and mixing cauldrons of lemonade and iced tea, Samuel stood in the serving line.

One cut finger was bandaged, his new red Christmas sweatshirt was damp with spilled tea, and his stomach rumbled ominously. However, the tray of mashed potatoes steaming before him wasn't for his consumption. He squared his shoulders as the greeters threw open the doors to the waiting masses.

Samuel spent the next hour spooning potatoes onto cafeteria trays. He avoided looking directly into the eyes of the people shoving trays along as he dispensed the required Merry Christmases and frozen smiles. Sure, there were the grizzled old men he'd expected, some with empty sleeves, some with their war unit's jacket proudly displayed. But there were also miniature widows with bent spines, frazzled young mothers with stringy hair and toddlers on their hips, and sullen young men wearing stained work overalls.

Samuel wondered what brought them all to this state.

After the serving line died down, he went out among the throng to clear dishes and wipe off tables. Lost in thought later, he let his hand swirl a grayed washcloth over the same spot, round and round.

"Hey you. Yeah, you. I'm talking to you."

Samuel blinked. A man with a salt-and-pepper beard pointed at the empty bench across from him. "You look plum wore out. Come set a spell." Samuel looked into crinkled, rheumy eyes.

"Ah, sorry. I've got to--"

"Nah, you don't. Look. Most folks've left. You can take a minute." The man's arm swept out, indicating the mostly empty hall.

Samuel realized he was stuck. The old guy probably craved companionship. 

All right. He could take a minute. He slid onto the bench. The man held out his gnarled hand. "Name's Dave. What's yours?" "Samuel." He shook Dave's hand. Unnerved by the man's stare, Samuel cast about for something to say and noticed the USMC insignia on Dave's jacket. "You serve in Vietnam?"

"Nah. Found this at Goodwill. Nice jacket. Warm. Only missing one button."

Dave studied Samuel over the rim of his coffee cup. "Why're you here?" "I, I'm one of the volunteers . . ." But Samuel saw from Dave's nod that he knew that already. So what was he asking? Dave cocked his head. "All them mission ladies hustling about are getting their Christmas jollies from doing this, but you ain't jolly. So. . . why're you here?"

Samuel would never see this guy again, so why not tell the truth? "My wife made me come. She's over there." He waved to Julia, and she smiled. She probably thought he'd finally gotten into the spirit of the whole thing and was reaching out to Dave. He squirmed on the bench.

"Nice looking wife you got there, Samuel. Smart, too, making you come here. You needed it.” Samuel peered at Dave, but the old guy was looking at his tray. A lone biscuit remained.

Dave picked up the biscuit and held it out to Samuel. "Here. You eat this."

"The food's for you, not us." Dave took Samuel's hand and laid the biscuit on his palm. "I ain't hungry, man. You are."

Samuel looked at the biscuit, then at Dave. Had he heard Samuel's stomach growl? No. From the warmth of the older man's gaze, Samuel realized Dave meant something else. "Th-thanks."

Dave nodded and sipped his coffee.

Samuel tried to think of something more to say to this man who'd reached out to him, but his tongue grew thick. Dave's bright gaze clouded over and lost its focus on Samuel. He burst into tuneless song.

"We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year."

He sang it again, while Samuel sat frozen, holding the biscuit. A burly young black man approached and put a gentle hand on Dave's shoulder. "Time to go, Dave." He looked at Samuel. "Sorry about that. Dave's got dementia, tends to do this singing thing. Got his lucid moments, but not often."

He helped Dave to his feet. "Say your goodbyes." Samuel stood and held out his hand. Dave shook it. "Name's Dave. What's yours?"

"Samuel." With a wink, the young man led Dave away.

Samuel watched them go, and then spotted his kids helping Julia collect glasses. He smiled. He wasn't in a hurry anymore to get home to his Christmas turkey. The other volunteers had finished wiping the tables. He sat down and bit into the biscuit.

Beth Groundwater has published seven short stories, and her debut mystery novel, A Real Basket Case, will be released by Thompson Gale/Five Star Publishing in March, 2007. Visit her Website at bethgroundwater.com and her blog at bethgroundwater.blogspot.com.