Mr. Mace's First Cookie Exchange

Outside 111 Sycamore the street was blanketed by a thimble-thick layer of pure white snow. Flakes the size of quarters were still floating lazily to the ground. Though the road was still a clean sheet of winter powder, the sidewalk was traced with the lines of modest strides coming from either direction. The footprints combined to clear most of the snow leading up the walkway to the Hines' wraparound porch. But the last guest had arrived ten minutes ago, and the clearing was slowly beginning to fill in. The final guest was on his way and would clear the path with a shovel before heading inside.

Peering through the window with cupped hands, you would have seen a group of women who had once fawned over Elvis in Love Me Tender at the Victoria Theater downtown. Now with hair thin and gray, they were gathered around the long, holiday-clothed and lacy table. In front of each were mugs with no steam rising from them and plates of half-eaten cookies--or places where whole-eaten cookies used to be. Inside and across the foyer, a fire crackled wholesomely in the hearth, above which hung two worn stockings stitched by Carol Hine herself. Bing Crosby's crooning drifted in from the kitchen tuner, singing about being home for Christmas, if only in his dreams. 

“Any luck finding a new bridge partner, Joyce?" asked Beatrice Kline, wearing the clip-on candy cane earrings she always wore for the exchange. 

"I'm having trouble even seeing a point in looking any more," said Joyce Halladay, a tall woman who used to hang glide with her husband.

"What about that teacher fella who played every now and then at the library? Such a lovely young man. What was his name?”.

   “Carter,” Joyce spat. “You know I gave that boy a list of bidding cues and responses to memorize, and when he showed up the next week it was obvious he hadn’t even glanced at it.”

   “He’s a young man, Joyce,” Carol put in, dextrous fingers working an ancient pair of wooden knitting needles about the beginnings of a peach-colored scarf. “He’s probably got more pressing things on his mind than knowing what to bid with a biddy on bridge night at the public library.”

   “Besides,” this from Louellen Schwartz, who owned zero pairs of clip-on anything, “he referees youth basketball at the Legion on Wednesdays, too.” 

            Joyce sighed and shook her head, before glancing at the ceiling.

   “Some people are just more--what do you call them?--general, like a generalist. Carter is one of those, knows a little about a lot,” said Carol, more focused on her knitting than her speaking. “Likes to try new things, but he’s not going to go all in, bid seven no-trump,” with a wink, “if he doesn’t see anything to be gained from it.”

“Just like a pisces,” said Evelyn Wasakowsi

“Oh, Evvy,” Carol placed a purple-veined and liver-spotted hand atop her friend's, “have another cookie.”

Evelyn looked at her high school friend as if seeing her for the first time, accepted the snickerdoodle, dropped it in her cold hot chocolate and began poking it with the mini spoon she always carried in her parka. 

“You can’t use personality traits, or the stars, to defend negligent behavior," said Joyce. "He should have never said he would be my partner unless he wanted to be my partner.” 

Carol opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a man walking through the doorway. “Anyone care for more tea?”

Arnold carried a wooden tray with a teapot of hot water, tea bags, a saucer of sugar, and a small pitcher of warm whole milk. He set the tray at an empty spot near the head of the table and bent down to plant a kiss on Carol’s wrinkled cheek. All the girls smiled at the hosts, except for Joyce. Arnold began fixing tea for everyone. Joyce added a few oatmeal raisins to her nearly full tupperware. 

“You know how each of us take it, don’t you Arnie?” Beatrice asked.

“Of course he does,” said Joyce, “Doesn’t take a genius to keep track of how four women like their tea. And how long have we been doing this?”

“Harold would never be able to remember how each of us like our tea,” said Louellen, “He can’t even remember what time the six o’clock news starts.”

Everyone laughed while Joyce stared across the house at the two stockings hanging in contentment above the fireplace. 

“And Randall would be asleep in front of the TV on his lazyboy if we did this at my house,” said Beatrice. Carol looked up at Joyce, willing her friend to return the gaze and smile, even if it was forced.

“My husband’s overseas mowing down them filthy krauts,” said Evelyn.

“You can’t say things like that, Evvy,” Carol reprimanded, grinning. "And Sam's at home with your poodle, Giblets." 

Joyce unleashed one of her signature throaty laughs, and the sound of her laughter made Carol smile. She thought of how little she had heard it since Thanksgiving. Evelyn gave Joyce a sharp look of contempt.

“What are you, a Nazi, woman?”

“Oh, Evvy,” Carol touched Evelyn’s hand again, “You just hush now.”

"Yes, enough with the husband talk," said Joyce.

A knock came at the door.   

   “Well, that must be Mace,” Carol said, setting aside her knitting and getting up to welcome her final guest.

   “Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’ll get it,” Arnie eased his wife of sixty years back into her flower-upholstered chair and gave Joyce her tea before heading for the front door.

   “You are the epitome of chivalry, Arnold,” Joyce said in lieu of thanks, “I suppose chivalry is not dead, but it’s got one steel-gaiter booted foot in the grave. Why do you insist on inviting this man? It’s like planting weeds in your garden.” 

Unlike Joyce, Carol lowered her voice, “He is our neighbor, Joyce. And despite his...strange profession and...humble intelligence--perhaps because of them--we like having him around. We’re not just being neighborly.”

“Oh, I see. You like having the man around?”

“Yes.”

“So you like it when your guests get completely pissed and jump off your porch railing and onto your patio furniture as if the former were the top rope and the latter some overpaid, untalented, bicep-brained oaf of a--”

“Mace!” Carol rose to greet the last arrival to the annual cookie exchange at 111 Sycamore. “You remember Louellen, Beatrice, Evelyn, and Joyce.”

Arnold was dwarfed by the man standing next to him. His hair was golden blonde and shoulder length. He wore a white dress shirt and a brown tie with the back part hanging down past the front, his acid-wash jeans straining at the thigh. The weathered cowboy boots brought the entire outfit together. Joyce looked away, embarrassed on the man’s behalf.

“It’s nice to see you ladies again,” Mace circled the table, kissing the hand of each woman as he went. Joyce withdrew hers as if the lout might bite it off.

“Why don’t you have a seat here next to Joyce, Mace.”

“Ok.”

Mace plopped in the chair next to the tall woman with raptor eyes and a full moon of a perm on her head. Arnold arrived at Mace’s side and placed a teabagged cup in front of him. 

“I’ll have to teach you how to tie your tie right, son,” Arnie said, pouring steaming hot water into the cup, “Can I getcha anything stronger?” Mace glanced around the table. Everyone, except you-know-who, was looking at him, remembering.

“No, I’ll just--tea’s fine. Thanks, Mr. Hine.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Mace,” Arnie dropped into a big announcer voice, “The Destroyer of Your Face, The Bane of the Human Race, The Lethal Weapon that Leads the Chase, In Spades, The Ace...Misterrrrrrrrrrrr MAAAAAAAAAACE!”

“Arnold, you fool!” exclaimed Joyce, “You’re overflowing the cup!”

Water spilled over the lip of Mace’s cup and spread in a dark stain on the forest green table cloth.

“Oh, Mace. I’m so sorry, son. Let me get you a paper towel.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Hine. It’s fine...Mr. Hine,” Mace giggled at the unintended rhyme, and his glib humor was well-received by all but his table mate.

“Why, you’re a poet and didn’t know it,” said Beatrice, invoking polite chuckles from the table.

“Try to be less trite, Bea, honestly.”

“So, Mace, how has work been?” Carol asked.

“Work’s been great, Mrs. H,” Mace spoke through a mouthful of frosted polar bear sugar cookie, made by Joyce. “Last Monday night I had a match with Quincy Quest for the belt. It was so crazy. I hit him a buncha times,” long draught of steaming hot tea, spoon still inserted, “Ahhhhh, he hit me a buncha times. He got the ladder out from under the ring, and I pushed him off it onto the head table when he was working the crowd. He got to pin me, though. But it’s ok because the producers say they want me to go down so the numbers go up. It’s all about the numbers.”

“That sounds very interesting, Mace,” said Carol. “Would you like to take some cookies home with you?”

“Oh heck yes, Mrs. Hine. That’d be rad,” Mace grabbed another one of the treats that Joyce had brought, not a cookie but a pretzel topped with a melted chocolate kiss and a red M&M.

“You are aware, young man, that this is a cookie exchange. You know the meaning of that word? Exchange?”

“Give the boy a break, Joyce,” said Beatrice.

“Yes, Joyce. It’s time to replace your brakes. And did you get your snow tires on? Are you even driving anywhere?” Evelyn waited sincerely for an answer and then rediscovered Mace's presence. 

“I didn’t bring any cookies to trade. I forgot that it wasn’t just a party. I could go buy some quick at Good’s.”

“That will not be necessary, Mace. Will it, Joyce?” Carol looked at her with big eyes.

“Might as well change the name of the event then. Call it a “Come-and-take-the-product-of-other-people’s-labor-without-returning-the-gesture party.”

Mace’s gleeful chewing slowed, and he swallowed the gooey lump along with a surge of tears. Carol went to the kitchen to get some tupperware.

“So what does your mother say about your career choice, Mace?” asked Louellen.

“She didn’t want me to be a wrestler. She didn’t even want me to be an actor. She really didn’t want me to be doing the type of acting I was doing before I got on at Monday Night SLAM.”

“And what kind of acting was that, dear?”

Mace’s cheeks grew redder than Christmas balls, and he looked at his lap. Nobody noticed that Arnold’s face was just as flushed.

“Oh, well isn’t that just wonderful? Are you trying to make us think the least of you? Well, are you?”

Mace did not answer, just took another drink of tea, only a sip this time. Not another word was said until Carol returned with the plastic container. “Ok, Mace. There you are, sweetie. Take as much as you’d like, and don’t mind this crabby woman next to you. She’d be happy for you to have her cookies.”

“Oh, yes. You’ve had plenty of strange women’s cookies before. What’s another notch in the giant gold-plated belt?”

“Joyce, I think you need to start treating Mace with a little more respect,” said Carol.

“Respect!” shouted Evelyn.

“Respect? Because this young man is so worthy of my respect? Excuse me, Carol, if this makes me seem old-fashioned and...hidebound to you, but someone who has sex with women with whom he is not in a relationship and in front of a camera, no less, I cannot bring myself to--”

Mace stopped listening, distracted by the big container he had just acquired, with which he could fill with tasty treats, heedless of what the producers had told him about holiday weight. He reached for a plate of Lou’s white chocolate macadamias.

“--and to be part of such a mindless, brutish, and...gaudy form of entertainment, why I--”

Joyce shrieked and pushed herself back from the table. The previously pure white napkin on her lap stained with a brown blotch. Mace’s overturned cup lay before her, the last of its contents dribbling onto the carpeted floor. She stood and towered above the big, fragile man next to her.

“You idiot! How could you be so careless? Don’t you ever watch what you’re doing? If your head wasn’t attached to your shoulders it’d still be in your kindergarten classroom. I think it still must be. You drive me mad! You drive me so mad, Winston, but I don’t know how I’d live without you.”

Joyce, who had been hovering over the object of her desire, her disdain, straightened her spine once she realized what she had said, what she had admitted. Mace was staring a hole through his muscular thighs, angry at himself for being so clumsy, for realizing how right the bitter old lady was. Tears began welling in their eyes at the same moment. Joyce’s prevailed first, and she collapsed onto the floor.

“Joyce!” Carol was at her side in less time than it took her to collect a trick at the library on Wednesday nights. Soon her arm was draped around the girl she used to go on double dates with, the girl whom she introduced to her cousin Winston at the ‘57 Spring Fling at Sharpeton High. Louellen and Beatrice rushed over, too. Arnie watched from the doorway, bewildered and ignorant. Evelyn slurped at the mush that was her hot chocolate-cookie mixture. Carol cooed and shushed her carefully, rubbing her shoulders. Dean Martin's voice floated in from the kitchen.

The things we did last summer, I'll remember all winter long

“He was the love of my life,” Joyce said, sobbing. “You all have your husbands still, and my husband is dead. It’s Christmas, and I am alone. I wish I was dead, too. I wish I could be with my dear Winston again. I don’t want anything else. I want my Winston! Why did it have to be him? Why me? Why now?”

“I know, sweetie. I know. It’ll be ok, darling. We’re here for you.”

“And that boy, that young man. Mace. Mace,” her tears ceased. She stared through the window, past the falling snow, and into the gray clouds that blocked her view of heaven. She began to stand. Her friends helped her up. Mace stood as well. He faced her, head down, unwilling to meet her mournful eyes with his shameful ones. She grabbed his hands and held them lightly. 

“Look at me, Mace. I said look at me.”

Mace did, reluctantly. The side of Joyce’s mouth curled in a benign smile.

“What’s your real name?”

She still held his hands. Joyce was tall, 5’11’’ at her tallest, but the man before her had her by two heads. He could barely meet her blazing blue eyes.   

“Vaughn. Vaughn Boyer.”

“Vaughn, my husband Winston died the day before Thanksgiving. Would you believe that I hadn’t cried at all before tonight? Before you arrived?”

“Ok. Why not?”

“I believed that crying would just make it real. That if I cried Winston would really be gone. I denied the truth and grieved in another way, a way I’m more adept at, you could say.” Her disarmed smile put him at ease. His hands felt warm in hers, her slender fingers soft.

“From the moment I met you, you reminded me of Winston. He too was a bit...dense, but I loved him more than anything because he was so much more than that. He was sweet and funny and handsome and loving and--” the tears reasserted themselves, “and you being here was like him being here. And that’s a good thing, dear. A damn good thing. This is the biggest step I’ve taken on my path of grief. It’s a long path, one I’ll walk till the end of my days, but I’m finally moving down it, thanks to you.”

“And Mrs. Hine,” Mace said.

Joyce used her eyes to ask Carol for an explanation.

“Joyce, I know you, hon. I knew you weren’t dealing well with Winston being gone, and I knew you needed to have your first cry. I guess you could’ve cried at home without anybody seeing, but I figured you didn’t. So I invited Mace because I knew he irritated you in that same appealing way that Winston always had. I'd hoped that he would get it out of you, and he did.”

“So you intentionally tried to make me angry, Vaughn? And spilt hot tea on my lap to finally push me over the widow's edge?”

“The tea was an accident, honest, Mrs. Halladay. I didn’t try to make you upset. I was just myself, just like Mrs. Hine asked me to be.” A toothless smile sprouted on her face. Joyce reached up and gently grasped the bullish nape of Mr. Mace’s neck. Mace lowered his head and allowed himself to be kissed on the cheek. She pulled back and placed a hand on either of his cheeks. Her eyes desperately searched his for any trace of Winston but found none.

“Thank you, Vaughn. Thank you. And I’m sorry that I was so cold to you.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Joyce hugged him, resting her head on his sternum. A tear glided slowly down her lined cheek. Soon she was enveloped by all her friends. There in the dining room of 111 Sycamore, a knot of old friends gave solace to the one at its core. It was the most memorable cookie exchange to date. Everyone around Joyce remembered with stark acceptance that their loved ones would one day die, that they themselves would one day die.

“What the--?” Mace jumped as if he was just pin-pricked in the rear. He looked down and saw Evelyn gazing up at him.

“You bring your camcorder, big fella?"