The fuzzy warmth from the sherry had spread all around her insides and out into her limbs on the car ride to the church. The toilet paper roll in the cramped church bathroom made the funniest sound as she pulled hard and watched it flap-flap-flap-flap as it unrolled, giggling at the soft pile that fell to the floor when she finally ripped it free. By the time Reverend Alsop asked them to stand for “Angels We Have Heard on High,” the candles were blazing in the stained-glass windows, the nave was filled with the scent of fresh pine needles, various perfumes, and colognes, and Vivian was bursting with the spirit of the Lord and celebrating the eve of His birth. Loudly.

By the final “Amen” of the service, Vivian’s warmth and bursting spirit had tapered off a little, and she wanted to make sure she wished the reverend a “Merry Christmas” before all her holiday cheer turned into a mild headache and soft, sherry-scented belches. She wouldn’t say she remembered too much of the evening, but, boy, if that sherry didn’t make her like everyone at church just a little better! People weren’t so bad!

When the Christmas decorations had been taken down, and all that holiday cheer swept off the floor of Forest Chapel Methodist Church, Vivian felt as if she, too, had been stripped of the holiday décor. What was left was her simmering hostility and extreme paranoia. During the next Sunday service she was too preoccupied with the congregation to pay attention to any of the divine guidance coming from Reverend Alsop at the pulpit. She barely noticed that Dora Archer was there by herself, and in the past that would’ve been the perfect occasion for a joke about Earl Archer’s forgetfulness. The old fart forgot to bring himself to church! She also barely noticed that Stewart Bowen’s wife had herself a new hat and coat, and maybe that meant Stewart had gotten a new job. And Maxine Butler was there with her mother, maybe up for the holidays and maybe she’d finally thanked her for the quilt. These things barely registered for Vivian. The focus for Vivian was herself. Herself and how everyone else was behaving toward her. Every one of her senses was attuned to the attention directed, or not directed, at her. The looks, whispers, and gestures coming from all around her. She was aware of Betty Miller, but careful not to meet her eye.

Vivian had made a trip to the stationery section of Woolworth’s in between Christmas and New Year’s, and had bought herself a small brown notebook and a small calendar booklet. She circled December 15 in the calendar booklet. The day that her life had changed. She made small checkmarks in the corners of each of the days that had followed that one. It was her own Advent calendar of anxiety.

The days leading up to Christmas showed a light penciled checkmark in the corner of each box. She’d been on her guard, listening in on each and every telephone conversation she connected at the switchboard, and keeping her other ear alert to the chatter and reactions of the other operators in the room, in case they happened to talk about something they’d overheard. December nineteenth showed a small x in the corner of the calendar booklet, instead of the usual checkmark. That was the night she’d succeeded in angering Edward with her dinner party for the Tomasettis. How did that feel, Edward?