Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011

“When? When did you tell me that?”

“Oh, Ma.” Colin sighed. “We’ve been saying it since Thanksgiving.”

“But it’s tradition. We always spend Christmas on the farm.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s time we started our own family traditions.” Colin sounded like the stubborn little boy he’d been so many years ago.

Moira clicked her tongue in annoyance. “This was your great-grandparents’ farm. We’ve been coming here since you were an infant. You can’t just stop because you’re too lazy to make the drive.”

“I’ve got to go. Merry Christmas, Ma.”

“Wait a minute.” She put her drink on the counter and held the receiver in both hands. “What about Justin and Emily? Have you spoken with them?”

“I think you better talk to them.”

“Answer me. Is your brother coming up?” Moira fought to keep her voice steady.

“I don’t think so.” His voice sounded distant, as though he’d already turned away from the phone.

“But why? Emily doesn’t have a ‘condition,’ as you call it.”

“But they are trying to get pregnant, Ma, you know that. And besides, I don’t think she’s ever gotten over losing Sadie.”

“Sadie? Sadie was a dog, for God’s sake. Not a child.”

“She was like a kid for Em.”

“Oh please. I’m sick of hearing about it. You have no idea how dreadful it was for me having that animal around. She went into heat. It was disgusting. The other dog owners complained. She dug holes all over the garden. My beautiful roses. All destroyed. And then she ran a—”

“She was just a dog, Ma,” Colin said, “doing what dogs do. I’ve got to go. You take care, okay?”

Moira slammed the phone onto the counter, drained her glass, and poured herself another. How dare he? How dare he throw Sadie in her face? She’d never asked to look after her. Royce was the one who’d capitulated. Couldn’t see the harm in taking care of the animal for six months so Justin and Emily could have a sabbatical in England. But had Royce looked after it as he’d promised? Of course not. It fell to good old Moira to do that chore as she did everything else. And then they’d all blamed her when the creature disappeared. She carried the phone and her drink into the living room and sank onto the sofa. A beeping sound told her a call had come in while she’d been on the phone with Colin. She keyed in the code to listen to the message.

“Moira?” Royce said. She could hear laughter and loud music and remembered that the firm’s Christmas party was tonight. It sounded warm and comforting and she felt a small stab of regret but quickly shook it off. She’d stopped going to the company party years ago. Why start missing it now? “There’s no way I can make it up there in this weather.” She had to press the receiver to her ear in order to hear his low voice over the din. “The forecast is for more snow and strong winds. They’ve already closed part of the 401.” She heard someone call his name. “Look. I’ve got to go. I’ll try to call again tomorrow.”

Moira rolled the cold glass back and forth against her forehead, trying to quell the angry thoughts, the thousand small resentments of a long and disappointing marriage. She took a long breath and dialed Justin’s number.

Emily answered in her little-girl voice. “Justin’s not here just now.”

“Well, dear, perhaps you could tell me what’s going on. Are you coming to the farm tomorrow or not?”

“Um. Hang on a minute.” The phone went quiet and Moira could hear footsteps on the hardwood floor. She waited and remembered the first time Justin had brought Emily over to meet them. The girl had reminded her of one of the strays he was forever bringing home for approvaclass="underline" starving dogs, feral cats, wild baby rabbits. And finally this pale little creature with a withered arm, some kind of reaction to a childhood vaccination, apparently. “A bird with a broken wing,” she remembered saying to Royce when Colin had left to take Emily home that evening. “He’s found the human stray of his dreams,” she’d said, but Royce had merely looked at her over the top of his glasses and she’d never said another word to him about the girl.

Emily came back on the line. “Um. I’d rather you call back when Justin’s here.”

But Moira had heard her son’s low, urgent voice in the background.

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

“Okay then.” Emily’s voice quavered over the line. “No. No, we’re not coming. I’m supposed to be resting up for my in vitro fertiliza—”

Moira punched the disconnect button. She refused to hear of their unnatural efforts to get pregnant. The thought of it repelled her.

So that was that. No one was coming. She’d driven all this way, risking life and limb, and not one single member of her family could be bothered to come. How could they do this to her? Christmas at the farm was a tradition going back to Moira’s childhood, when she and her parents would spend most of Christmas Eve driving up here from Toronto, long before superhighways had cut the trip to a mere four hours. Moira remembered feeling carsick in the airless backseat of a Buick sedan, her parents chain-smoking and arguing about her father’s driving. She remembered her father’s long silences, her mother’s theatrical sighs.