by Sally Quinn
Des handed her a present that he had picked out from under the tree. The poor little tree, with only a few lights and bulbs and even fewer presents under its branches. It was certainly not a family Christmas tree, not a tree for children. It was a perfunctory tree. Perfect for a perfunctory holiday and a perfunctory relationship.
Before she opened it he told her what it was.
“It’s a new laptop,” he said. “I know yours is broken.”
That was true. Her traveling computer was on its last legs. But then, she was no longer a foreign correspondent. She had her own PC at home, which was hooked up to the office. She had absolutely no use for a new one, which of course was why she hadn’t bothered to get another one.
She looked up at him. Their eyes met briefly. In that instant she saw pain and remorse and guilt. And worry. He was obviously unsure of his present. But he had also, obviously, tried to give her the least personal present he could think of.
She glanced quickly away. She didn’t want him to see how disappointed she was.
“Oh Des, it’s great,” she said, knowing how halfhearted she sounded. “You’ve been paying attention.”
A compliment. Maybe he wouldn’t guess.
“Yeah, well, I thought you might need a new one.”
He sat back down on the sofa. She went over to the tree, picked up her present and brought it to him.
He unwrapped it slowly, with trepidation. As well he might have.
Inside was a beautiful box, handcrafted of smooth walnut. It was about a foot in length and a little under that in width. When he opened it he found a small gold plaque inside engraved with his name, Desmond Fitzmaurice Shaw. It was filled with small packages, each one wrapped. As he opened them one by one his eyes watered.
Allison had gone to his parents, and his brother, a priest. She had gone through his drawers and taken all the family treasures that he owned. His grandfather’s gold watch, which was chainless and had a cracked face, she had had repaired, polished, and fitted with a new chain. An old pair of cuff links with the backs off she had had mended. Pictures of his grandparents on both sides, she had had framed in a three-sided dark green leather frame with his parents in the center. A tiny music box that played the William Tell Overture, which he had listened to every night as a child; she had had repainted and refitted so that when he opened it the tinkling sound filled the silence.
She stood as he opened them, fascinated by his reaction, not prepared for the depth of his emotions.
Finally, he got up and grabbed her in his arms. He squeezed her until she thought the breath would leave her, burying his head in her shoulder.
“Oh Sonny, Sonny, I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through.”
“Why, Des? Why have you done this to me? I don’t understand.”
“I know. It’s something… I can’t…”
“Is it me? Have I done something?”
“Christ no! It has nothing to do with you. I only wish it were that simple.”
“Is it somebody else? If it is, just tell me, but don’t make me—”
“No. Lord no, it’s not somebody else….” He paused and looked away.
“At least, it’s not somebody else the way you might think.…”
“Well, what then, Des? Goddammit! Don’t put me through this anymore. I can’t stand it.”
“Sonny, it’s something I’m going to have to work out for myself. Just know this. I love you more than I’ve ever loved any woman in my life and I always will. I want to marry you. But it just may take some time. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Des.” She said his name quietly, evenly. “I gave up my job in London, which I adored, a wonderful life, many good friends, and a man I cared about to come back and marry you. I am in love with you. That love has sustained me through a lot of pain. But I’m really not sure how much more I can take. You should know this. I just may not have that time.”
With that, she turned and went upstairs to get dressed for the O’Grady Christmas goose dinner.
* * *
The O’Gradys had invited them for Christmas. Colin O’Grady, the bureau chief of the Boston Gazette, was Des’s oldest friend. They had grown up together on Boston’s south side in a rundown Irish Catholic neighborhood. O’Grady was a man’s man, one of the last of the old-time journalists around Washington. He was hard-working, hard-drinking, a great storyteller, and a colorful character. His wife, Patricia, used to be what Allison considered, though she had always liked her, a Washington wife. She had been one of the few women in their crowd who had stayed home to raise her children. But all that had changed. Pat O’Grady had gotten a job after her two kids started school. Now she was the environmental person on the staff of Malcolm Sohier, the Massachusetts senator who was a good friend of all of theirs. Pat had never looked or been better. She was full of confidence, loved her work, and was managing her life better than most. O’Grady, Allison suspected, was probably not all that unhappy to relax and bend a little. It was hard not to, since everyone adored Sohier.
* * *
It all seemed a blur to her, that dinner. O’Grady was already hitting the eggnog by the time they got there—he had the reddest nose of any Irishman she’d ever seen. He persuaded Des, which took no effort, to have a “wee taste,” and the two of them were off. There was a funny lopsided Christmas tree decorated with homemade ornaments, lots of popcorn strings, and flashing colored lights. Toys were strewn all over the floor and a great big fluffy dog named Muffin tussled with the children who ran excitedly from room to room playing hide-and-seek.
The O’Gradys had put together a group of strays, all journalists. It was normally the kind of crowd Allison would have loved. Instead, she was overcome with depression at seeing this happy, loving family and this ragtag assortment of merry people.
She was only beginning to allow herself to admit that this was what she wanted—a husband, children, a family. She wasn’t going to go so far as to want a dog. But who knew?
When Des had proposed to her she had started thinking about children for the first time in her life. It was scary how quickly her mind, her body, had responded. She had repressed any maternal desire for so long that she actually believed she didn’t want children. Now an overwhelming baby hunger engulfed her. She had never felt such a strong emotion in her life, not even sexual. She walked down the street and everyone was pregnant. Every belly was swollen, every woman pushed a carriage with a bouncing, rosy-cheeked baby. Sometimes she felt such an emptiness in her womb that she doubled over, cradling herself as though she were a baby. Still, if someone asked her, Des for instance, if she wanted a child, she wasn’t sure she was ready to say yes. Emotionally and physically she wanted, needed, craved a baby. Only psychologically was she unable to make the commitment.
She had just begun to acknowledge her longing, even to herself, when Des pulled back on her. Then it was too late. Once unleashed, that baby hunger, that insatiable need, was too strong to stave off, and she was left feeling vulnerable and exposed.
She looked around the room from where she was standing, alone, near the Christmas tree. Des was leaning against the mantel in his tweed jacket and turtleneck. She studied him for a while. He looked suddenly older. Funny, she hadn’t noticed it before. His hair was shot through with gray and there were deep furrows in his brow. He was beginning to get that craggy look that worked so well on men and so disastrously on women. Too much sun only became him. When he was young, he told her, they called him Boston Blackie because he tanned so dark in the summer. She noticed, too, that his eyebrows were bushier, a little unruly. It made him look intellectual. That would make him laugh. He did have the single sexiest mouth of any man alive, a very full lower lip that sort of curled downward in a humorous, mocking way. And those dancing black eyes. He was gesturing and laughing with O’Grady and a couple of men. She was certain they were talking sports. He really was a man’s man, which made him even more attractive. His energy, his enthusiasm for what he was doing were bo
undless. When all that was focused on her it was positively irresistible.
God, she wanted him. She wanted him to be her husband. She wanted him to be the father of her children.
She glanced at some of the other women there, the ones who were mothers, the ones whose kids were causing such jolly chaos. They had lines in their faces and pot bellies and spreading hips and thighs. Their clothes were rather dowdy and practical, their hair cut in short, easy-to-keep bobs, their faces unmade up except for a touch of lipstick. These women were the ones she used to scorn. Now she felt only envy.
Pat was calling everyone to the table. Allison came out of her reverie to be told she was seated between two Brits.
“To make you feel less homesick,” said Pat.
The dining room was jammed. There was one large table for sixteen, then a smaller table on the glassed-in porch for the children. There were candles and holly and toys on the table and two huge geese ready for carving.
Pat, now the working wife, had hired a waiter, so different from her earlier entertaining ventures when she had lurked, the martyr, in the kitchen, rarely emerging to join her guests.
As they sat down O’Grady asked them all to bow their heads. Allison was somewhat taken aback. Grace was not something most journalists did.
“Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts…” he said.
Allison raised her head and looked around the table. She noted with surprise that Des had his head bowed and his eyes tightly shut. He was praying. It shocked her. The idea that somebody she loved actually believed in God and prayed was unsettling. They never talked about religion. Once or twice he had told her about his growing up Catholic in Boston and how he had gotten sick of the Church and the priests, finally telling a priest in confession to “Fuck off, Padre.”
It had never been an issue with them. She had told him she was an atheist, he had accepted it, and that had been the end of it. Now, here he was, praying. It was so weird. And frightening. Whatever it was that was bothering him had driven him to this.
“… which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Des’s was the loudest amen.
He caught her looking at him and the look in his eyes was one of betrayal. What she didn’t know was whether he felt he was betraying her because of religion or because of something or somebody else.
The meal was lively and fun, with everyone shouting and arguing about politics and the new administration.
Blanche Osgood, or Blanche Baker as she liked to be called professionally, was the subject of nearly every Washington party. Practically everyone at the table had written something about her and nobody had the same opinion, which always made for great Washington conversations.
Allison, seated between Brits, began thinking about Julian. She wondered where he was this Christmas and whether he was happy. She wished at that very moment that she was with him and not Des. At least there wouldn’t be this terrible strain. She had always felt good and somewhat contented with Julian. It occurred to her that she might well have made a mistake, giving up her job in London, giving up Julian.
The two British journalists had written exactly the opposite kinds of pieces about Blanche, and immediately they began to berate each other in such a subtle yet lethal manner that there was a hush.
Augustine Wormley, on Allison’s right, had written a vicious piece describing the First Lady as a blowsy no-talent tart. Simon Lancaster, on her other side, rather liked Blanche. He insisted she was a true American primitive, an original who dared to be her own person in the face of ferocious criticism from the Washington establishment. Which, he added, included several people at this very party.
Within minutes the entire table had erupted into a mud-wrestling match, with everyone screaming and shouting and interrupting, disagreeing, insulting one another, and generally behaving in a manner unsuitable for polite conversation.
Allison was uncharacteristically quiet. She had her thoughts about Blanche, but she’d been away for so long she hadn’t really had a chance to focus on her.
Des, on the other hand, was adamantly agreeing with Lancaster that this was some broad and that given a chance she would take Washington by storm.
“The only reason,” Des contended, “that women don’t like her is that she has such huge knockers.” Des looked so pleased with himself for having made such an outrageous statement that it became funny and the women could only laugh and guffaw and beat the table in mock indignation.
“And the men who don’t like her are threatened and insecure about their own sexuality,” piped up Pat O’Grady.
“Bloody good point,” chimed in Lancaster.
“This woman is without redeeming qualities,” said Wormley, “and you all know it and you are all being perverse. It’s reverse snobbism of the worst kind. This is a disaster for Washington. She’s an embarrassment to the country.”
“Allison, your silence has not gone unnoticed,” said O’Grady. “I can’t believe you’re not going to weigh in here.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I feel as if I’m on a talk show,” she said, laughing. “Why doesn’t everyone start yelling at me instead of staring solemnly?”
“Maybe because we all respect what you have to say,” said O’Grady, with the slightest tinge of sarcasm.
“If it weren’t Christmas, O’Grady…” she said with a vicious smile.
“I know, I know you’d tell me to—”
“Enough, you two,” said Pat. “Let’s hear what Allison has to say.”
“I haven’t quite decided what I think about Blanche Baker. However, just knowing that Augustine thinks she is a worthless tart makes me want to love her.”
Everyone chuckled at that and Augustine swelled up with pride at having once again been the center of controversy.
“But if I may be serious for a moment.”
“Oh boo, Allison,” said Wormley, “this is supposed to be festive. If you go serious on us we’ll all have to start being pompous.”
“We can’t have that, now can we?” Allison feigned horror. “God, I’ve missed Washington. Do you know what you sound like, Wormley? You sound like Lorraine Hadley and all those Georgetown hostesses. They can’t stand it that somebody like Blanche would come into town and not pay attention to them. Unlike Sadie Grey, who won them over by turning to them for advice and counsel.”
She hadn’t meant to invoke Sadie’s name. It had come out before she realized what she was saying. She saw Des wince. She hadn’t mentioned Sadie once to Des since she had come back. Who needed it? It was over and done with. But now, the pain on his face almost made her lose her train of thought.
Was it over and done with? It hadn’t even occurred to her for a second that Des might still be seeing her or that she might be the issue. But his expression made her wonder.
She didn’t want Des to think she was being bitchy about Sadie. It would backfire. She hadn’t really meant it that way, anyway. “It seems like another century,” she said quickly. “Things have changed so much in Washington since the Greys arrived six years ago. Those hostesses were on the way out then and they just don’t matter anymore. The Washington salon is dead. But those ladies still can gossip. In fact, that’s all they do since they don’t have parties that anybody goes to anymore. What better person to gossip about than Blanche Baker? She’s, as they would say, N.Q.O.C.”
“Translation please,” shouted O’Grady. “I bet that’s some WASP expression that’s not flattering to the Harps.”
“ ‘Not quite our class,’ or ‘not quite our crowd,’ ” said Allison. “But just to fool you they sometimes will say N.O.C.D.”
“Okay, I give up.”
“ ‘Not our class, dear,’ or ‘not our crowd, dear.’ ”
“For five bucks what’s N.I.N.A.?” challenged O’Grady.
“No Irish need apply,” said Des.
“Forget it, Shaw, you don’t collect any five dollars from me. Harps aren’t
allowed to play.”
“Still stings, does it, me boy?” laughed Des.
Allison was glad to see O’Grady had eased him back into the land of the living.
“We were talking about Blanche,” said Lancaster.
“I think this could be a seminal moment for First Ladies,” said Allison. “For one thing, she’s the first First Lady to ever have a career. If she manages to keep it and work it into her job description without disrupting the presidency it would be fabulous. But from what I understand, the men in the West Wing are adamant that she give up her music while Freddy is in office. I think that would be a disaster.”
“We’re not talking about her career, darling Allison,” said Wormley. “We are talking about her mouth. She hasn’t said one thing in the nearly six months that Freddy’s been in office that doesn’t make her sound like a stupid bimbo. Whoever is advising her to take on the Washington establishment surely must have some sadistic plan to destroy her husband. As we have seen in several past administrations, it does not work. We now know that you can’t lick ‘em. You simply must join ‘em, as you Americans say.”
“I think you’re right, Augustine. She did start out with a chip on her shoulder. But there hasn’t been any of that in the last six weeks or so. Before that there was a bombshell coming out of the White House nearly every week. Somebody must have gotten to her. My feeling is, with a good press person, she could do very well. She seems to be well motivated and I think her instincts are essentially decent. I wouldn’t write her off. She does, however, have a long way to go. The backless mules and peroxide-blond wig are not going to take her very far.”
“Thus spake Allison.” Wormley sat back smugly and took a long gulp of red wine. “I think I’ll use that quote in my next piece on Washington.”
“Oh, fuck off, Wormley,” said Allison under her breath, mindful of the children at the next table. “Christmas is off the record.”