Page 8 of Bright Lights, Big Christmas
“Okay, I’m hitting the sack now,” her brother announced. He handed her his phone and the credit card square attached to it. “Anyone wants their tree delivered, take down the address and phone number. Got it?”
Queenie thumped her feathery tail and moved beside Murphy, who held out his hand, palm down. “Stay, girl. Stay with Kerry.”
“Wait. You know that guy?”
Murphy yawned. “Which guy?”
“Patrick. Mercedes Man.”
“Yeah. He’s all right. Lives in the neighborhood. Does something in an office.”
“I saw him with a boy earlier. Is that his son?”
“Yeah. Austin. Okay, I’m out. Wake me up at nine and I’ll take the night shift.”
Murphy clambered into the trailer and closed the door. The snoring commenced.
Business was slow. A skinny redheaded teen rolled up to the stand on his skateboard. He took his time examining the trees, standing each one up, walking around it, humming softly.
“What kinda trees are these?”
“Fraser firs,” Kerry said.
The skateboarder held up a three-foot tree with a yellow ribbon tied to a branch.
“How much is this one?”
Kerry pointed to the sign. “Sixty dollars.”
“For real? Dude, I can buy a fake one for half that.”
“Okay.” She went back to her book. “Go buy a fake tree. Dude.”
He thrust a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in her face. “Here.”
“No,” she said. “It’s sixty. Not forty, not twenty.”
“That’s crazy,” he countered. “I bet it’s not even organic.”
She sighed and looked up. “My family grows these trees on a farm in North Carolina. They plant the seedlings and baby them, then transplant them and fertilize and shear them. It takes seven years to grow a tree this size. It’s hard work. We had a late-season frost this past May. Lost a lot of trees, which means we lost a lot of money. My brother cut and baled these trees last week, and my brother drove them up here, but my father couldn’t come because he recently had a heart attack. If you want a certified organic fake tree made in an overseas sweatshop, go buy one. But in the meantime, you should definitely go away.”
“Wow. Harsh!” the kid said, pocketing his money. He kicked the tree he’d been examining and laughed when it fell to the pavement.
Queenie, who’d been lounging at Kerry’s feet, stood up and gave a low, menacing growl.
The kid scooted away on his skateboard.
“You’re definitely Murphy’s sister.”
She turned to see Patrick, the Mercedes Man, had walked up during her exchange with the redhead.
“Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep, and he was really getting under my skin.”
“Hey, is all that stuff you told him about growing Christmas trees really true?” Patrick turned his head and sneezed, then sneezed again.
“Absolutely,” Kerry told him. “I mean, it’s not like I spend a lot of time on the farm, but it’s definitely a labor of love for my dad and brother.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Jock,” Patrick said. His eyes, she noticed, were red and watering.
