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Why do some people think that no one should be alone at Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving? Some of these occasions I have enjoyed most I have spent alone, especially the Christmas just after I separated from my wife, which I celebrated with a small bottle of champagne and a good book, thankful not to be at a boring party with her fashion-obsessed, what-kind-of-car-are you driving? friends.
For some reason, Mr. Fergus, Blandsville High School’s retired principal, decided to invite several of his single retired teachers, including me, for Christmas dinner. The invitation said “RSVP,” which I wanted to interpret as “Refusez s’il vous plait,” but at four pm on Christmas Day I was ringing the Ferguses’ doorbell. Mr. Fergus and his wife Dora both answered the door, wearing red Santa Claus toques, but whereas she looked charming, he looked ridiculous. I presented them with the gift I had brought, a bottle of Piqûre de moustique rouge wine. I don’t drink much and I know little about wines, but this one had an appealing price.
Inside, a traditional tree, littering the floor with needles, leaned precariously while the star on top tilted and many of the lightbulbs flickered dangerously. To add to the atmosphere, a record was playing which I learned later was seasonal songs by Earl and the Elves, such non-hits as “Santa Sewed the Hole in My Stocking,” “Yuletide Yodelling,” and “It’s a Cinch, the Grinch Won’t Flinch an Inch.” It had been a gift last year.
Mrs. Fergus pointed out the two bowls of punch, alcoholic and non-alcoholic. I tried one, surreptitiously emptied it into a potted plant, tasted the other and poured it into another plant pot.
The other guests began to arrive like pupils returning from recess: Brenda, the Latin teacher; Darlene, the art teacher; Michel, from the French Department; and Jack from Geography. By a startling coincidence, each brought a bottle of the same wine I had. It was either a good year or a good price.
We circulated and reminisced about the brilliant students, their opposites, and the “characters,” students and staff. We also recalled the Fergieisms: getting Brenda to teach a noon-hour Latin class, although she already had a full timetable; getting Darlene to decorate the halls and cafeteria with student art for parents’ night; exiling Mike to another school far from his rented apartment; and having Jack teach each class in a different and distant room, consoled only by the comment “Think of the exercise you’re getting.” As we relived these events, we hoped the punch was a safe potable for the plants.
Suddenly someone screamed. In a punch bowl, a photo of the director floated upside down. It could not have fallen from the mantel into the punch. Mrs. Fergus rescued the picture, dried it with a towel, and replaced it on the mantel.
Later, another scream drew attention to a grad photo of Mr. Fergus with a letter opener through it like a dagger. This was definitely not an accident. Someone was committing symbolic murders.
We took our seats at the table for the traditional turkey dinner. Mr. Fergus, at the head of the table, carved the bird, and being a former zoology teacher, he did so with the skill of a surgeon, as if he intended to sew it back together again. He passed each plate down the table where one person added potatoes, another gravy, someone else vegetables, and another cranberry sauce. I tried to remember who had been in a position to perpetrate the quasi-killings, but it was like following the flight of one mosquito in a swarm.
Mr. Fergus took his first mouthful of food and began choking and coughing. Something noxious had been slipped onto his plate.
The dinner ended without further incident and we adjourned to the living room for coffee. Mrs. Fergus said, smiling: “Perhaps Mr. Petty, in his new rôle of sleuth, could identify our criminal.”
“Yes, Elmer, show us your detecting skills,” said Mr. Fergus, with a strong element of sarcasm.
“Well,” I said, “here we are like guests in the drawing room in an English murder mystery and I, as the detective, am supposed to go over the evidence and name the criminal.” I was not being prolix as retired teachers often are; the truth is that I had no idea who the culprit was. I decided to try a trick, a gamble I used to try to identify a student disrupting a class. I looked at the suspects with a laser stare and talked as if I knew who the guilty person was. And it worked! One person blushed and became obviously nervous.
Then I thought: if I name him or her, the rest of us may be invited back next year; besides, I had a secret admiration for the clever pseudo-killer. “The truth is – this person has completely outwitted me. I have no idea who he or she is. I’m sorry, Mrs. Fergus.”
As we guests were leaving, one of them leaned close to me and whispered: “Thank you.” “You’re welcome,” I replied sotto voce.
“Thank you for trying, Elmer,” said Mrs. Fergus. “Here.” And she handed me two bottles of Piqûre de moustique rouge.
I have lots of good books to read; now if only I had a second wife from whom to separate.
