Santa Clawed

me.”
    “Anything I can do for you?”
    “Yes. We’re singing at St. Luke’s Christmas party, which you know. I look forward to it, but I’ve lost my pitch pipe. Do you have one? It would save a trip down the mountain.”
    “I’ll get one. We’re going to have a huge crowd because you’re singing.”
    “That’s very flattering.”
    “How often do we hear a Met star?” Harry named the New York opera house where Brother Morris enjoyed his first taste of fame.
    “Again, that’s very flattering, but my gift is useless if it’s not in God’s service.”
    Harry kept her deepest religious thoughts to herself. She never quite trusted those who flaunted theirs. But Brother Morris was a monk, so perhaps his protestations of faith weren’t as offensive as if coming from a layperson. Still, it made her want to take a step back.
    Instead, she said, “What’s wonderful, Brother Morris, is that everyone has some God-given talent. At least, I hope so.” She paused a moment and her humor took over. “Some people’s talent is to make the rest of us miserable. That way we realize how lucky we are when they aren’t around and that we’re not that kind of person. See, nothing is wasted.”
    He chuckled. “Harry, you’re incorrigible. You know that talent was a form of money during Roman times. It’s interesting that a special skill demanded talent, more money. Over time we get talent in its modern form.”
    “Took Latin.”
    “Lucky you. When they removed Latin from the schools and as a requirement to get into college, they assigned generations to ignorance. Those who don’t know the past are doomed to repeat it, and those who don’t know Latin don’t know the past. They don’t even know their own language.”
    “I appreciate that, but at the time our high school Latin teacher was such a dragon. Hated every minute of it. Do you know we had to sing ‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’ in Latin?”
    He laughed. “I take it your Latin teacher was elderly.”
    “Yes. She was pickled in high-grade bourbon, but she never let a declension slip.” Harry laughed, too. “Do you need the pitch pipe before the party? Sorry, Brother Morris, I do that all the time, just switch from one subject to another. I mean, do you need me to run the pitch pipe up to you tomorrow?”
    “No, I can do without. If you’d be so kind as to give it to me when we arrive at St. Luke’s, that would be sufficient.”
    “Will do.”
    “You and Fair are in our prayers.”
    They said their good-byes. Harry hit the end button on her cell and said to Fair, “Brother Morris needs a pitch pipe.”
    “Get it back from him after the party and put it on eBay. You’ll make a bundle.”
    Harry smiled at him. “Good idea, but I don’t think I’ll ask for it back. And he wanted to talk about Christopher, but he wasn’t maudlin. He was solicitous about us since we knew Christopher from high school. Very kind of him, really.”

O n Thursday, December 18, the temperature plunged into the mid-twenties, quite cold by Virginia standards. A swirl of snow heightened the sense that it truly was Christmas. Try as she might, Harry couldn’t get into the spirit. She turned off the Christmas carols on the radio as she drove. They irritated her, and she usually enjoyed them.
    Harry thought about body language. How the body told the truth, whether it was Tucker’s extra alertness and sweet expression when the biscuit tin was opened or whether it was Fair swearing he wasn’t exhausted when she could see his six-foot-five-inch frame sagging from the hard physical work an equine vet must perform. The hours were unpredictable. A call would come in at three in the morning. He’d jump out of bed, get in his truck, and drive. She’d drag herself out of bed and make him a thermos of coffee in the time it took him to put on his flannel-lined coveralls. One of her unspoken fears was that he’d be so dead-tired he’d drive off the road. The last of foaling season ended in July, so by that time things would calm down. Then they’d both say a prayer of gratitude.
    Drivers on Route 250 were usually more sensible than those on the interstate, who would fly along above the speed limit in wretched weather. The old Three Chopt Road, one branch of which was Route 250, was more used by locals and proved safer in the snow.
    At the top of Afton Mountain, she swung right, the remnants of an old Howard Johnson hotel still in pathetic evidence. She slowly drove