“Janet, what was that?” Carol hollered, cutting off the choir in the middle of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”
“What did you say?” Janet, who had just turned 80 three weeks ago, replied, pointing to her left ear. “I can’t hear too well.”
Carol slammed her songbook on the ground and marched to the back row of singers, standing directly next to Janet.
“Your solo …” she screamed. “Your solo … sounded AWFUL!”
She looked up at the other singers, who seemed uncomfortable to say the least.
“What are the rest of you looking at?” Carol barked. “Dave and Sue, you weren’t any better. Everybody, take five!”
The singers in the Pleasant Hills Main Street group tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, probably because this wasn’t out of the ordinary. When the folks in the neighborhood got together 10 years ago, Carol, then in her early 50s, was upbeat, happy, and loved leading the group of singers door-to-door through the bedroom community of Pleasant Hills during the holiday season.
Over the years, however, her happy-go-lucky friendly attitude gave way to an obsession with sounding perfect. The smile that greeted families that answered the door turned into a cold steel gaze.
The first family to experience this was Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, and their three-year old daughter Brittany, about seven years ago. Carol knocked on their door, and Mrs. Roberts greeted them.
“Wow! Christmas carolers!” she said. “What are you guys going to -“
“Shhhhh,” Carol snapped. “We sing. You listen.”
Some of the singers shrugged their shoulders as if to say sorry. A round of “Jingle Bells” followed, and little Brittany thought she could join in.
“Ding-o bell, ding-o bell,” Brittany sang. “Ding-o aw da way.”
Carol immediately stopped singing. Anger swept over her eyes. She bent down and looked Brittany face-to-face.
“Aren’t we just an inconsiderate, interrupting little devil child?” Carol hissed. “Why don’t you just sing all the songs?”
She shoved the songbook into Brittany’s tiny hands, as the poor girl’s face went flush.
“Brittany, maybe we should let the carolers move along,” said Mr. Roberts, taking her hand and pulling her inside.
“Oh, now Mr. Roberts wants to join the act. Maybe the whole family can start their own little choir. I’m sure they are sooooo good,” Carol said sarcastically as the door closed. “See you heathens in church Sunday, NOT.”
As she stormed away, the other singers squirmed awkwardly. After taking a few steps, Carol whipped back around. Her old, gentle smile was back for a moment.
“Come along all. We’ve got Christmas cheer to spread!”
That was the first time Carol’s dark side was seen by the rest of the carolers. She became a little ruder and meaner the next year. A year after that, she had an outburst that made it official that she was taking things way too seriously.
Petey Henderson was on the receiving end of Carol’s anger this time. He was only eight, but could sing marvelously. Denise, his mother, thought it would be a good experience for him to sing with Carol’s group, especially under Carol’s guidance. That was one thing no one could ever argue with. She had a terrific voice. It took her to Broadway and beyond, as she had toured the country several times in several vocal groups.
But Denise wasn’t aware of what Carol had become. Denise had only known the Carol that led the singers from stoop to stoop with a big smile on her face.
Petey was doing well in the choir. The other singers loved him, and he was Carol’s star pupil. She even gave up some of her solos so that the young boy’s voice could shine.
Things changed when he caught a harsh fit of laryngitis, though. While he lay in bed, Carol went to visit him one night around 8 p.m.
“What seems to be troubling you sweet child?” Carol politely asked.
Petey struggled to respond.
“My … voice … h-h-hurts,” he croaked. “Can’t … sing.”
Carol’s slight smile immediately turned to a scowl, like someone had flipped a switch.
“Silly boy,” she said solemnly. “You don’t have a choice.”
“What?” whimpered Petey.
“Up you go!”
Carol scooped the boy up in a pile of blankets and ran out of his bedroom, leaping down the steps two at a time.
“Petey! What’s going on here?” hollered Denise.
“Rehearsals, rehearsals,” Carol answered as she skipped out the door nonchalantly.
Outside, Petey wiggled and broke free. He fell from her arms into a snow bank.
“Leave me alone,” he yelled as loudly as he could, the laryngitis muffling his voice.
She lunged at him, and he moved to the side just in time, sending Carol face first into the snow bank. As she stood up, only her eyes and mouth were visible, as her face was caked with snow. She must have been freezing, but for all Petey knew, there was steam emitting from her ears and fire burning in her eyes.
“Why you little – HEY!”
Petey hit her right between the eyes with a snowball. Another one followed, striking her shoulder. Then another. Then another.
“Cretin!” Carol screamed, rousing people to move to their windows and doors to see the commotion. “Monster! Demon boy!”
She scooped up snowballs of her own and began to fire back.
Denise finally ran outside and grabbed Petey, pulling him in the front door. She slammed the door closed and locked it behind her.
“The Hendersons are mad!” Carol bellowed, from the middle of the street, her voice echoing through the neighborhood. “Little Petey Henderson is the one who trampled everybody’s flowers last summer! He tipped over Mrs. Smith’s garbage cans and blamed it on Mr. Blackford’s dog! He drives up and down the roads in his mother’s sports car like a maniac, burning rubber and revving his engine!”
A bold claim, as Petey was eight and definitely did not know how to drive a car. Even after this incident, Carol was still able to put on a happy face and attract others to sing with her during the holiday season.
In fact, most people knew Carol had reasons to be upset. Two years after the caroling group formed, her ex-husband, Willy, left her. His reason? She wasn’t famous enough for him anymore. He couldn’t be seen with a simple small town choir member. Never mind that Willy, who met Carol in Las Vegas while she was on tour, had evolved from a handsome, sweet man, into a chubby, bald codger during the 25 years they were married. He told her he was getting back into the limelight (in which he never actually stood), and wanted to try falling in love with another young, popular singer.
Last Carol knew, he was living in a rundown apartment somewhere in Nevada. She didn’t know if he had a job, girlfriend, or even a car.
Even today, though – nine years later – Carol still seemed bitter. The only difference was now she took her anger out on others.
Despite countless run-ins that saw Carol cursing out choir members and threatening listeners, people in the neighborhood still held on to hope for Carol. Some would join the carolers out of pity for her, others out of fear, some out of bribery.
Yes, Carol had bribed one member of the group – Harold Decker. Harold was in his early 30s, made a decent wage by running a local business, and had a lovely wife, Jillian. Vocally, Harold could really croon, often wooing women by simply arching his eyebrows or flashing a little smile.
Harold wasn’t interested in joining the Pleasant Hills Main Street Carolers, but Carol had to have her way. So one day while Jillian, a schoolteacher, was away at work, Carol walked down the sidewalk, stopping in front of the Deckers’ house. There was snow on the ground, and the sidewalks had spotty ice. She ran up the walkway to the front door of the house and hit the doorbell. Immediately, she returned to the sidewalk, and started walking as if nothing had happened.
She was walking away when Harold answered the door.
“Carol?” he hollered. “Can I help you?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, playing dumb.
“Didn’t you just ring the doorbell?”
“Doorbell?” Carol said. “Me? No. Must be some dang kids. Probably Petey Henderson. A horrible boy from what I’ve heard. However, no, I did not – whoa!”
In a swift, smooth movement, Carol feigned a fall that was so gracefully without grace, one could never tell she was acting. Her legs kicked out, and her body went straight. It seemed as thought she was suspended in midair for a moment. She landed flat on her back and lie there, waiting for help.
“Carol, are you alright?” Harold asked, sprinting to where she fell.
“Ooooh, my back,” Carol said between gritted teeth, a grimace on her face.
“I’m so sorry. I guess I should’ve put some salt on the sidewalk. Please, come in and let me call the doctor.”
“No need for that,” she replied. “If I can just sit down for a moment to get my wits back.”
Harold helped her through the door and led her to a chair.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked politely. “Water? Soda? Wine?”
“Perfect,” Carol thought. Then she answered him. “Wine, please. It always helps me forget about pain. Ooowwww. Speaking of pain.”
As Harold poured her a glass of wine, Carol pulled out her cell phone, clicking a button on the side to activate its camera. She snapped a quick photo of Harold pouring the wine. Then, as he approached, she stood up. He handed her the glass. She set it on the table and then clutched her back.
“What’s wrong? Still hurting?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s just – whoops!”
Carol faked another fall, and this time she was caught by Harold. Amid the commotion, she snapped another photo, which made it look as though he was dipping her like one does when doing the Tango.
“My goodness,” Carol said. “I can’t seem to get myself aligned correctly.”
“I guess not,” Harold said.
“Oh, by the way, Harold,” she uttered, taking her seat. “Will I be seeing you at practice tomorrow at 7 p.m.?”
“Practice? For what?”
She chuckled and took a drink of wine. The kind look on her face switched to one of discontent.
“Christmas caroling practice, of course,” she responded. “We’re practicing at the Methodist Church tomorrow. I expect you’ll be there.”
“But, I’m not part of the group,” he said with confusion.
Again, Carol chuckled, holding up her phone to show him the picture that made it appear they were dancing.
“Well, it’d be a tragedy to tell everyone I was inquiring about you joining the choir, only to find out you were drinking,” she paused and scrolled to the photo of him pouring the glass of wine. “Of course, I used my better judgment and walked away before it was too late.”
“That’s black mail!” Harold shouted. “You can’t do that!”
“I already did, my good man. It takes two to tango,” she replied, showing the incriminating dancing photo again. “It looks like you’ll be joining us after all. … OUCH! My back!”
Once again, she clutched her back, this time leaning forward.
“Carol?” Harold said, leaning forward.
She grabbed him around the neck and kissed him on the lips, snapping another photo. She released him, leaving him with a look of awe on his face. Carol still had an evil glow in her eyes.
“As I was saying, 7 p.m. at the Methodist Church,” she stated matter of factly. The mad look left her face, and a cheerful one replaced it. “Good day sir. Your participation is greatly appreciated.”
****
Back at practice, Carol had just finished giving Janet a five-minute verbal thrashing.
“Maybe you’ll see Jesus soon enough old lady,” she screamed. “Then you can explain to him why you sung so poorly on his birthday!”
Luckily, Janet had clicked off her hearing aid after she heard the call for a five-minute break, and just stared blankly at Carol. Out of all the different ways people had to deal with her anger – another lady, Lonnie Jenkins actually made a voodoo doll that she stuck pins into each time Carol reamed her – Janet probably had the best move. She was thankful for the hearing aid during caroling practice.
“Alright everybody! Time to get back to work!” Carol announced.
“But we’ve been practicing for three hours,” Dave Johnson complained.
“And it’s just Christmas caroling,” added Sue Johnson, Dave’s wife.
“Just Christmas caroling?” Carol growled. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” said Lonnie Jenkins, stepping forward out of her spot in the choir. “That it’s just singing Christmas songs to people who don’t care how we sound. They just want to smile, and be entertained, and to see happy people singing joyfully about Christmas.”
“IT DOES NOT MATTER WHAT THEY WANT!” Carol shrieked. “It matters what they need! They need to hear good caroling. If we don’t sing well, no one will like us. If no one likes us, no one will want to hear us. If no one wants to hear us -“
“No one wants to hear you Carol,” Harold snapped angrily. “I’m married, and my wife is pregnant. She needs me at home. I didn’t even want to join this stupid choir. So go ahead, tell everyone your little story you made up three years ago. I don’t care anymore.”
Harold tossed his songbook on the floor and walked away.
“You know what,” said Sue Johnson. “I don’t want to sing with you anymore, either. Come on Dave.”
They walked away. Others followed.
“Where are you all going?” she cried. “Next weekend we’re going down Main Street to sing to all the lovely families. What will I tell them?”
“Whatever. I’ve got a date with a voodoo doll,” Lonnie said.
Only Janet remained after a couple of minutes.
Carol sat down in a chair and stuck her head in her hands. She had finally done it, she thought. Not only would there be no caroling, but now she was friendless. She wept into her hands.
Janet set down next to her.
“Carol,” she said softly. “You didn’t finish what you were saying.”
“What do you mean?” Carol whimpered. Her face was emotionless.
“You were saying ‘If no one wants to hear us,’ but then you didn’t finish,” Janet said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Carol answered.
“Too late. I’m already worried. Please finish what you were saying. I’ll turn my hearing aid up.”
“If no one wants to hears us …” Carol murmured. “Then I can never be famous again. And if I’m never famous again, I can never meet someone who loves me again.”
“I don’t believe that,” Janet said.
“You wouldn’t,” Carol replied. “Your husband still loves you after all these years. He still smiles at you and holds your hand in church. Willy used to treat me like that. Then we settled down here. Gone were the days of me singing in New York and Los Angeles and Las Vegas. It made him fat and bald.”
“You not singing did that?” Janet asked.
“That’s what he said,” she answered. “It made him stop showering regularly and dressing like a gentleman. It made him stop working. It made him start drinking.”
“Carol,” Janet said softly, grabbing her by both hands. “What type of work did Willy do while you were touring?”
“Well, he would go and get me bottles of water. He would run to the store and use my money to buy makeup. He would choose what movie we’d rent at the hotels. Mostly he picked horrible action films, but that was OK. As long as I didn’t have to make another decision.”
“And why did he dress like a gentleman when you were together? Why did he shower regularly?”
“He had to. I was always getting invited to fancy balls and galas. I would buy him expensive suits and he would wash up and look so wonderful. We would have such fun times. Willy loved these events.”
“When you stopped singing, why did he stop doing all those things? When he did them, didn’t it make you happy?” Janet prodded.
“Of course it did.”
“The way I see it, Willy should have continued to do these things then, even after you stopped singing.”
“Why would he?”
Janet sighed.
“Carol, when you were living the high life, he came along for the ride. He only did what you asked him to so he could experience the fame wealth you enjoyed,” she said.
“But,” Carol started to answer.
“But nothing. You can still sing like an angel. You are still beautiful. There is no need for you to keep yourself tied down over what your ex-husband – who is a hairless, unattractive sponge – thought of you.”
Carol stared ahead. She dried her eyes and sniffled a few times.
“I guess I’ve taken all this anger out on everyone for no good reason,” she said.
“You had your reasons,” Janet said. “But you took your anger out on everyone so you could try to attract another selfish, disloyal fool like Willy.”
“Wow,” Carol replied. She paused and looked around the empty room. “Looks like I messed up. Now, I can’t even go caroling this year, because I have no carolers.”
“Miracles happen this time of year,” Janet said, winking at Carol. “Why don’t you plan on coming to practice tomorrow night?”
“Maybe,” Carol said.
****
The next night, Carol pulled into the church parking lot. It was empty. She thought about not going in, but figured that since she was here, she could at least go inside and make sure the practice room was in order.
She stepped into the choir room and flicked on the light.
“Surprise!” roared a crowd waiting in the room.
“Carol, we’re sorry for the way things went down last night,” Dave Johnson said.
“Yeah, we’re here for you,” Sue added.
“Hey Carol, check it out,” Lonnie Jenkins piped up. “I hope this doesn’t work!”
She took her little Carol voodoo doll and twisted its head off, tossing it into the garbage.
Carol giggled at the little doll, and then noticed there were a few extra faces at practice tonight.
“Hey Carol,” said a young man she didn’t recognize.
“Ummm, hi,” she answered, confused.
“It’s me. Petey Henderson. Listen to this.”
He sang a rendition of “Silent Night” that was pitch perfect.
Carol was blushing. She moved to the front of the room where she officiated over practice.
“I must say, everybody, I have been so terrible over the past few years. I should be apologizing to all of you. Can you please forgive me?”
“Water under the bridge,” yelled Harold Decker from the back of the room. Jillian, his wife, was standing next to him, smiling.
“Are you all sure you still want me to lead?” Carol asked.
Everyone nodded.
“OK, well, we’re going to pick up where we left off last night, with Janet’s solo,” Carol said. “Janet. Janet? Janet!”
Janet stood in her usual spot in the choir. Carol walked up to her. The group held their breath, anticipating an outburst.
Carol marched up to Janet quickly. She flashed a warm smile.
“Janet, dear, we’re going to begin with your solo,” she said. Then, she leaned in close.
“And thanks for getting everybody to come back to the choir,” Carol whispered.
“What did you say?” Janet answered, pointing to her left ear. “I can’t hear too well!”