Page 53 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Young Elvis, not Vegas Elvis," she clarifies. "Very different bone structure."
The hardware store is chaos. Apparently, a tilting tree is the type of emergency that requires full town participation. Mrs. Chang is arguing with Giuseppe about rope thickness while June documents everything for posterity.
"We need maritime rope!" Giuseppe insists, gesturing dramatically. "Strong as the sea!"
"We're in Vermont," Mrs. Chang points out. "The sea is a rumor here."
"Can we focus on the tree?" I suggest. "The one currently defying physics?"
"Physics is more of a suggestion anyway," Wren says, grabbing several coils of rope. "Like serving sizes or speed limits."
"Those aren't suggestions," I point out.
"They are if you're creative," she says cheerfully.
We haul approximately a hundred miles of rope back to the square, where Finn has positioned his truck and Delia has created what appears to be a pulley system designed by either an engineer or someone having a breakdown. Possibly both.
"Attach here, here, and here," she directs, pointing at seemingly random spots on the tree.
"This looks like we're about to torture it for information," I observe.
"If the tree knows why it's tilting, it better talk fast," Delia says grimly.
We spend the next hour playing what can only be described as festive tug-of-war with a forty-foot spruce. Every time we think we have it straight, it lists in a new direction, like it's doing some sort of slow-motion hula hoop.
"Pull!" Delia commands.
We pull. The tree leans left.
"Other way!" she shouts.
We pull the other way. The tree leans right.
"Are we sure the tree wants to be straight?" Wren pants beside me, her face red from exertion. "Maybe it's expressing itself."
"Trees don't express themselves," I say, adjusting my grip on the rope.
"You don't know that. You don't speak tree," she argues.
"Nobody speaks tree," I point out.
"Druids do," Teddy offers helpfully, somehow completely tangled in his section of rope.
"We don't have any druids here," Finn says from his truck.
"Can we please focus?" Delia demands.
My phone rings again, the doom theme cutting through the chaos. Everyone stops pulling to stare at me.
"Is that 'Carol of the Bells' in minor key?" June asks, pencil poised.
"It's festive," I defend weakly.
"It sounds like Christmas got fired," Wren corrects. "From a cannon. Into the sun."
"Just answer it," Delia orders. "We can't work with that funeral dirge playing."
I step away and finally answer. "What?"
