Page 1 of Single Dad's Christmas Cookie

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NOVA

Conversations rolled in muted tones back and forth across the long table. Even though I was sitting in the middle of the party, the noises of cutlery on fine China and distant murmured discussions made me feel even more isolated.

Everything seemed so elegant. The lights sparkled differently in the Grand Ballroom than I think I had ever seen them sparkle anywhere before. The glasses clinked with a different tone than the sound of regular wine glasses. Maybe there really was a difference in the quality of glass and crystal.

I was perched like some kind of dividing line between two groups of people who knew each other. The group to my left kept their conversation among themselves. The group to my right did the same.

The conversation never crossed past me at any given point in time, nor did they include me, something I was very well aware of. I didn’t fit in as much as I wanted to, and as much as I tried, I was completely out of place, and I don’t think I was the only one who noticed, but everyone seemed to ignore it in the name of good manners.

The banquet hall was in the grand ballroom at the local hotel. This was the place where people had office Christmas parties, wedding receptions, anniversary parties, birthday parties, and conferences. It was a multi-purpose space, and yet, the way they decorated it, it looked like an ice queen’s palace. Everything sparkled with silver and crystal and white. If I let myself, I could believe that I wasn’t sitting in a hotel somewhere in the great cold north without any friends or family.

I barely had work acquaintances. I did not spend my day having meaningful conversations with other adults. My meaningful conversations revolved around the different sounds vowels made and whether little Johnny was pulling little Susie’s hair or not and gross, unmentionable body fluids about which first graders had no boundaries.

I quite liked my little charges, but they were a challenge, and they were one of the many reasons I had been looking forward to tonight’s banquet. It was the first time I was really going to have an opportunity to get to know my teaching peers at the small private school, Wentworth Academy. This was the great Wentworth Academy Christmas dinner that apparently was so grand and so beautiful that some of the seasoned teachers would occasionally talk about it in the teachers’ lounge. The way they waxed poetic over the evening really had me expecting something truly amazing.

I was looking forward to tonight, not only to see what grandeur was in store for me, but also, tonight was the night the headmaster handed out our much anticipated Christmas bonus.

I really needed something to cheer me up right now. I was a thousand miles away from home, feeling homesick, and feeling alone and lonely. I sat in front of my meal that was dry whenit should have been moist and greasy when it should have been dry.

What kind of cuisine were these people used to eating if they thought this was good? I was led to believe tonight’s culinary delights would be Michelin Star-quality food. This tasted like something that got heated up from the frozen food section at the grocery store. Not even the quality stuff, but the cheap, discount brand.

I was raised around good home cooking. This was not it. I could do better than this with a hot plate and a Crock Pot. This hotel had a full commercial kitchen with a catering service that was supposed to be professional.

I poked at my pitifully dry piece of roast and couldn’t stomach the thought of drowning it in the goo that was presented as gravy. I’d be better off hitting some drive-through on my way home if I wanted something tasty to eat.

Everybody around me was eating and laughing. They seemed to be enjoying it just fine, and I knew that nobody was so drunk that they thought the food was good, because this was a non-alcoholic function. Our beautiful wine glasses were filled with sparkling apple juice. Normally, I wouldn’t have cared, but my classroom smelled like apple juice every single day, and I was really, really beginning to dislike the smell of apple juice. It instantly made me think of sticky, small children.

As mercenary as it sounded, I kept my focus on that Christmas bonus. When I had first accepted the position at Wentworth, I had been reluctant. It was so far away. It was a different world from what I was used to. I thought I was going to become a teacher at some local elementary, a public school with too many screaming kids in my classroom. At least I would have someunderstanding of where and how those kids were coming from, similar socio-economic backgrounds and experiences.

The students at Wentworth Academy were completely different. These kids received allowances that rivaled, or were more than, my annual salary. At six and seven years old, these kids had already done more international traveling than I could have ever imagined.

After my first semester teaching, I was beginning to wonder precisely how penny pinching and greedy really rich people were. Promises had been made, excuses had been given, and I was not in the situation I had expected to be in.

I wasn’t going home for Christmas, something I had been led to believe that not only would I have been able to afford it, but it would have been expected of me. But that wasn’t going to happen.

At least once I got that bonus in my hands, I could relax knowing that my finances would at least be secure for the next month. Not working for two and a half weeks was beginning to tie my stomach in knots. I was definitely worried about being able to cover some of the bills I hadn’t expected to have, such as rent and insurance on the car I wasn’t supposed to need. Two things I had been led to believe during the hiring process that the school would be providing.

When the headmaster stood up at the end of the table, more than one of the other teachers began tapping a spoon or a fork against their glass. The table practically sang with a chorus of clinking glass. With so much enthusiastic tapping going on, I was prepared for someone to break a glass. I let out a breath when that didn’t happen and our headmaster started to speak.

“Welcome, friends, new and old, to the annual Wentworth holiday supper.”

He spoke with a booming voice that said he was used to making grand speeches.

When I first met him, I was pulled in by that ability of his to command an audience. I no longer found enthusiasm when it came to listening to him. I found that his words and his actions didn’t necessarily always match.

“We know how important family is at this table,” he continued.

Family, my backside, which was starting to get sore in this chair. He talked about the school as if it were a family. The school was nothing but a bunch of…

“And as a family, when things get tough, we all come together.”

Oh, God, what was he saying? I could feel that bonus slipping through my fingers the longer he prattled on.

“I know every year, we all look forward to those extra gifts. But we must maintain the ability to remember what’s important. So as Gladys passes around your bonus envelopes, remember, we think of you as family here at Wentworth Academy.”

He really was good at making speeches, and I almost believed him. Almost, until I received my envelope from Gladys.

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