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More of The Holly Wreath Man

Chapter 13: Pop's Secret

By CHRISTOPHER SCANLAN and KATHARINE FAIR
Published December 13, 2005

	Hear an audio version read by co-author Christopher Scanlan Subscribe to podcast Teachers using this serial story in class can encourage students to continue reading it during the winter break. Newspaper in Education The Holly Wreath Man Web site

At Wilford Memorial Hospital, Pop lay on a gurney in the emergency room.

"This is a lot of foolishness," he insisted to Allie and Jeff, his grandson, standing on either side. "I'm telling you, I'm fine."

"Maybe so, Pop," said Allie. "Your color is better." She brushed his snowy hair off his forehead. "But let's hear what the doctor says."

"Why?" said Dr. Quillen, opening the curtain and picking up the chart clipped to the end of the gurney. "He's never listened before."

"Hogwash," Pop muttered. Quillen was Tennyson's family doctor, the man who'd cared for Pop and his kin all their lives.

"Don't give me that, Eben. I've told you a hundred times you need to take it easy. Neither of us is getting any younger."

"Speak for yourself, sawbones." They grinned at each other.

"Did Pop have a heart attack?" Jeff said.

"I don't think so, son. His EKG was normal. I want to run some more tests."

Pop raised his arm in protest.

"That's right, my friend. You're spending the night." Quillen took Pop's pulse. "It's not unusual for other things to cause chest pain. You said this happened after lunch?"

Jeff nodded. "Yes, sir."

"If I were a betting man, I'd say it's a stomach ulcer. The symptoms mimic angina pectoris. But we'll know more tomorrow. In the meantime, my friend, you need to lie back and relax."

"Relax? Listen, you old quack, Christmas is around the corner, my busiest time." Pop tried to get up. "Just give me some antacid pills and let me get out of here."

Dr. Quillen rested his hand on Pop's shoulder and gently pressed back. "All right, now. That's about it. You're going to give Allie and Jeff here a heart attack. Now it might be heartburn, but it might be something more serious. One thing's for certain. Stress is not going to help. You need to rest. That's an order. For once, you stubborn old fool, do what you're told."

"Don't you worry, doctor," Allie said firmly. "He's going to get lots of rest. I'll see to that." She squeezed Pop's hand. "I can take care of things. And Jeff will help."

"Mom's right, Pop," the boy piped up. "We can pick up the wreaths from Mrs. Coffin and Miss Tammy, everybody's. You just take care of yourself."

"Jeff, I know you can," Pop said, grasping the boy's hand. He teared up and coughed.

"You, young man, are going home to finish your homework," his mother said. "I'll go to the office and look over the books."

"But I have a system," Pop protested. "You'll never figure it out."

Allie gave him an affectionate smile. "Pop, I can add and subtract, okay? We'll do fine. You just rest."

***

Allie gazed at two framed pictures on Pop's overflowing desk. The first was taken in 1952 just before Bobby, her husband, shipped out to Korea. He looked so young in his Marine uniform, standing between Pop and Allie. She was pregnant with the son he would never hold. In the other photo, a crowd of farmers gathered around a truck, Pop at the wheel, a huge wreath in back and, stretched across the side, a banner proclaiming "Radio City Music Hall or Bust!" From under a pile of invoices, she pulled out Pop's ledger.

***

Something didn't add up. The first time Allie totaled the season's receipts in Pop's ledger, she figured she had made a mistake. So she did it again. And then, with a sinking feeling growing in the pit of her stomach, she ran the figures through Pop's old adding machine one more time. The money coming in from buyers didn't match the amount Pop was paying the farmers who supplied the wreaths. And he hadn't made any entries, it seemed, in weeks. How could that be?

She lifted piles of paper, rooted through the desk drawer. Nothing there but letters and a shiny new key. Maybe there were invoices in the storage room next door.

Allie stood before the storage room door, staring at a padlock, shiny and new, like that key. Pop had never locked anything before. Why now?

She went back and got the key. It fit, and Allie opened the door. Even before she turned on the light, the pungent smell of decaying leaves revealed Pop's secret. Allie covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes filling with tears at the sight - stacks of unsold wreaths filled the room.

COMING TOMORROW: GOTCHA!

[Last modified December 12, 2005, 16:21:39]