Page 57 of The Hockey Grump Saves Christmas

“When’s your next rehearsal, Natalie?” Victor asks. “It would be great for Divina to see it. She could offer some tips, some pointers.”

“Oh yes.” Divina swishes back toward us. “Always delighted to offer input.” I bet she is. “As Stephen Sondheim used to say, ‘Teaching is a sacred profession.’”

“You’ve worked with Sondheim?” I ask, trying to sound like I actually believe that might be a possibility. “That’s impressive.”

“Well, not so much worked with…” She does the vague hand-circling again while casting a disapproving look at the costumes I’ve separated out over the seats. “When you’re on Broadway it’s as if everyone in every production works together. Like one big family.”

“Oh, so you’ve actually performed on Broadway?” I’m thoroughly ashamed of the hint of sarcasm that leaks out in my voice, but she’s turning me into a bad person—or rather, the appointment of her is.

“Oh, Broadway.” She tips up her chin and focuses on nothing in particular in the middle distance. “Or Off Broadway. It’s all the same. All the same fa?—”

“Family?” I finish for her. “Yes. We’re definitelyverymuch a family here.”

Divina’s eyes settle on the spread-out icicle outfits. “And I see an untalented and possibly shortsighted grandmother has tried her hand at costumes.”She chuckles at her own nonjoke and holds up a hand like all it’s missing is a cigarette in a holder.

“Tell me.” She leans forward to peer at what’s draped across the third seat from me, like she can’t bring herself to step any closer to it. “What’sthat?”

I put down the icicle costume, pick up the one she’s looking at and hold it up in front of me.

She screws up her eyes as she scans it. “It’s exceedingly…green,” she says. “And what are all these bits sticking out?”

“Leaves.” I tell her.

“They’re especially large leaves,” Victor chimes in.

“Yes. This is a terrible tree,” Divina sneers.

“It’s not a tree.” It’s hard to not sound snippy.

“Then what exactly is it?” She’s getting snippy.

“A lettuce.”

Victor snorts with derision.

“Why on earth are you dressing up a child as a lettuce?” Divina asks.

“It’s an iceberg lettuce,” I explain.

And I pause. Leave a second of silence. Then another. Waiting for the penny to drop. For someone to laugh. Then another second.

“Oh,” Victor cries. “Iceberg!Because you’re staging the play on ice. Iceberg lettuce. Yes. I get it. Very clever.”

It’s Divina’s turn to snort and screw up her nose like a bad smell unworthy of her attention just drifted under it.

“So, anyway.” She spins again and heads off toward the stage, the steps quaking under her determined feet. “When is all this going to be fixed?”

She flings her arms in the general direction of the charred area of the stage as if introducing the night’s starturn, and marches toward it, completely ignoring the two orange cones.

“Careful,” I call out, “there’s a ho?—”

“Argh.”

And the bottom half of Divina’s right leg disappears into the hole in the stage floor.

The sight of her half crouched in the pool of her voluminous skirts, arms flailing above her head, face red with a mixture of shock and anger, is too much. The only thing I can do to stop myself from laughing at her misfortune is to turn my back and concentrate on gathering up the costumes.

“Oh my Lord.” Victor snaps as he trots off to help her. “Are you all right, Divina? Nothing broken?”

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