A Redbird Christmas Read Free Page A

or girl, the joy of picking beautiful flowers at Christmastime.
    RENT A LOVELY ROOM OR A DANDY
LITTLE BUNGALOW!
    We extend a hearty welcome for you to visit our fair county. We are just as large as Chicago, only we haven’t quite so many houses. Don’t say we are giving you only exaggerations. Come visit and see for yourself the sunshine, flowers, and orange blossoms in December.
    On the back page was a song complete with words and music.
    “Dreamy Alabama”
Words and music by Horace P. Dunlap
    Evening shadows falling
where the southland lies,
whip-poor-will is calling
’neath the starlit skies I love
    Dreamy Alabama where sweet folks are waiting,
there my heart is ever turning, all day long.
Dreamy Alabama, where songbirds are singing,
waiting to greet me with their song.
    Winding river flowing
through the whispering pines
like a stream of silver
when the moonlight shines above.
    Oswald put the brochure down. This had to be one of the dullest places in America, but he had to hand it to Horace P. Dunlap. He sure as hell was trying hard to get your business. He had thrown in everything but the kitchen sink. Tomorrow he would give old Horace a call and see how much it would cost to rent a lovely room or a dandy little bungalow, and find out where the nearest bar was.

Hello, Operator

    T HE NEXT MORNING after his usual thirty to forty-five minutes of coughing, Oswald lit his first cigarette, picked up the phone, and called the number on the brochure.
    “I’m sorry, sir, but that number is invalid. Are you sure you have the right number?”
    “I know it’s the right number. I’m looking at it right now.”
    “What area code are you trying to call?”
    “Well, I don’t know. It’s the Woodbound Hotel in Lost River in Baldwin County, Alabama.”
    “Let me connect you with information for that area.” In a moment another operator answered. “May I help you?”
    “I hope so. I’m trying to reach the Woodbound Hotel.”
    “Just a moment, sir, I’ll check that for you right away.” This operator had such a thick southern accent he thought she must be joking with him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have a listing for a Woodbound Hotel anywhere in Baldwin County.”
    “Oh. Well, where are you?”
    “I’m in Mobile.”
    “Is that in Alabama?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Have you ever heard of a place called Lost River?”
    “No, sir, I haven’t.”
    “Is there a listing for
anything
down there?”
    “Just a moment. Let me check that for you. . . . Sir, I have a listing for the Lost River community hall and one for the post office. Would you like me to connect you to either one of those numbers?”
    “Yes, let me try the first one. They might be able to help me.”
     
    Not five minutes earlier, Mrs. Frances Cleverdon, an attractive, slightly plump woman with white hair as soft as spun cotton candy, and her younger sister, Mildred, had just entered the back of the community hall through the kitchen. It was 72 degrees outside and the hall was hot and stuffy, so they opened all the windows and turned on the overhead fans. It was the first Saturday of the month. Tonight was the monthly meeting and potluck dinner of the Lost River Community Association. They were there early to deliver what they had made for the potluck dinner and to get the place ready for the evening. Frances had brought two covered dishes, one a green-bean casserole, the other a macaroni and cheese, and several desserts.
    Mildred, who had prepared fried chicken and a pork roast, heard the phone ringing first but ignored it. When Frances came back in from the car, Mildred said, “Don’t answer that. It’s probably Miss Alma, and we’ll never get her off the phone.”
    After another trip to the car for two cakes and three pecan pies, the phone was still ringing.
    Frances said, “You know she’s not going to give up,” and picked up the receiver one second before Oswald was going to hang up.
    “Hello?”
    “Hello!” he