Christmas on Jane Street

by Billy Romp

  “Ellie,” I started. She could tell from my tone what I was getting at—that as a family we’d decided not to open gifts until we were all together on Christmas Day. It was a decision that we had made several years before so that we could savor each gift. Lots of our Jane Street friends wanted us to open their gifts when they delivered them so they could watch. But when we explained our family ritual, people understood. What was it about this season that was affecting my daughter this way? It seemed like each time I turned around, Ellie was testing the limits.

  “But, Dad,” she started, “I didn’t open this one. I mean the Abbotts bought me a ticket for The Nutcracker as a Christmas present!” The way she said it was as if this were the most wonderful Christmas present she had ever received.

  Next thing I knew, Patti—still wearing her oven mitts—was hugging Ellie and the two were dancing around the camper as if she’d just achieved something of significance, like winning a ribbon at the horse show or coming in first in a bike race. “Ellie, this is wonderful!” Patti exclaimed. “Your dream come true for Christmas!”

  In their excitement, neither my wife nor my daughter was paying me the least bit of mind. I knew I couldn’t blame them for leaving me out of the loop. I’d actually removed myself by taking such a strong and vocal stance against The Nutcracker. It’s hard to celebrate a victory when you were on the other side of the battle to begin with.

  The best thing to do, I reminded myself, was not to make too big a deal out of this, to go on with the business at hand. Ellie and Patti stepped outside the camper, where I’d returned to sweeping.

  “When are you going, Ellie?” Patti asked.

  “Tonight! I’ve got to get ready.” The word ready fell out of her mouth with a loud thud, like something urgent and immediate.

  They started talking about what Ellie was going to wear. The discussion was short. It turned out there was just one candidate—her denim jumper. It was her only garment with a skirt; the only other things she’d brought with her from Vermont were pants and jeans. She’d wear the jumper with white panty hose, and her work boots.

  “Is it clean?” Patti asked, concerned.

  “I guess,” Ellie started, then her mind moved elsewhere. “Mom, I don’t have the right outfit.”

  “We don’t have time to go shopping for something else,” Patti said. “Not if you’re going tonight.”

  “I’ve got money.”

  “You know what, Ellie,” Patti said, taking Ellie’s long braid in her hand and rubbing it the way you would a cat to make her purr. “You’re going to look wonderful. Because it’s you—not your clothing—that’s going to The Nutcracker. “

  I’m glad no one asked my opinion. Because buying a new outfit for one evening was the kind of extravagance that really rankled me and cut to the heart of my objection to this whole enterprise.

  “So what do you think?” Ellie asked, facing me directly. I couldn’t tell if she was looking for my approval or wanting me to acknowledge her sudden good fortune.

  “About what?” I asked.

  She looked at me. “You know what. The Nutcracker.”

  “Haven’t we been over this?”

  “I mean Anne Abbott giving me a ticket as a Christmas present.”

  I think she wanted me to congratulate her for achieving her goal so effortlessly. The problem was that she was getting what she wanted without having to work for it. Something about this sudden turn of events bothered me. “To tell you the truth,” I started. “I’m not crazy about this, and I’ll tell you why. You make a commitment to start a business and sell candles to save up for something. And that’s fine. I can admire that—even if I don’t approve of your end goal. But then along comes some fairy godmother who falls out of the sky and waves a magic wand and gives you this thing you want. I just don’t want you to think you can get the things you wish for without having to earn them first; life just doesn’t work that way.”

  She looked at me wryly, summoning all the wisdom of someone three times her age to her face. “Sometimes it does.”

  “At this point, you need to learn important life lessons,” I told her. I knew what I was saying sounded like a lecture, but it was something she needed to hear. “You need to learn the value of hard work, of paying for what you want. If you work for two weeks and spend all your earnings on one night on the town, you may think twice about it next time around. But if something just drops in your lap, you don’t recognize its value. That is what I object to.”

  It was hard to read Ellie just then, to see how she was reacting to my speech. It was clear that she was listening intently, taking in every word. A customer examining the Balsam firs at the far end of the stand on Eighth Avenue caught my eye; as I turned to look, Elbe’s eyes followed. Breaking the cardinal rule of retailing, I decided not to greet the customer immediately but to stay with Ellie until I got through to her. “The point is it’s not a good thing for you to expect the things you want to drop into your lap. I want you to grow up to be self-sufficient, not dependent on others. You need to learn that only you can make your dreams come true. If you rely on others to do that for you, I’m afraid you’ll end up with disappointments.”

  “This ticket is costing you nothing,” she answered. “I don’t know why you’re being so mean.”

  “Mean—I’m not being mean. I’m trying to help you.” What I didn’t tell her was that I was also worried sick that my little girl was developing a taste for fancy things. Things I couldn’t provide. A world I didn’t travel in. Though I’d never personally developed such tastes, I knew that life’s luxuries could be a terrible trap.

  Ellie bent down and picked up a pinecone that had fallen loose from a wreath and laid it out of harm’s way on her candle stand. “You don’t seem happy for me,” she said. “Not one bit.” With that, Ellie turned and walked off to Emma’s apartment, her small canvas bag holding her modest clothing slung over her shoulder behind her.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Patti was right in front of me. Timmy was holding her hand. She had one of those ‘I’ve-got-a-score-to-settle” looks on her face. “I have one question for you, Billy. Why are you making a federal case out of this? Why can’t you let Ellie have her fun? Now you’ve sent her off with a dark cloud hanging over her—the cloud of your disapproval.”

  “That’s not one question—it’s two,” I said, trying to make light of it. But she didn’t laugh. She wasn’t about to be distracted.

  “Billy,” she said, exasperated.

  “You want to know why I’m having trouble with this? This whole Nutcracker thing came out of nowhere. Since when was Ellie interested in the ballet? She’s a tomboy. She likes horses and bikes and trees—not the ballet and fancy clothes and elegant evenings on the town.” Patti was looking at me incredulously, and I realized that my voice had gotten loud. I was practically shouting.

  Patti’s look told me she was about at the end of her rope. “Someone’s behavior only bothers you if there’s something in yourself you don’t like.”

  “Patti,” I said. “What are you talking about? I have no interest in the ballet.”

  “What is it about this situation that’s getting to you?” she asked. “Maybe you’re the one who wants riches; maybe that’s why you’re so obsessed with money this year.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You know why I’m worried about money. I’m trying to dig us out of a hole.”

  “Maybe we should have bought her something fancy to wear,” she said. “It’s her big night, and she’s not dressed right.”

  “Patti,” I said. “You’re starting to sound like Ellie now. Next thing I know, you’re going to want to go to The Nutcracker. “

  She looked at me fiercely. “My only concern is Ellie and giving her a good childhood. Happy memories to look back on.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice, as if to say that the two of us were working at cross purposes. Seeing that our discussion was going nowhere, she scooped up Timmy, crossed Jane Street, and went into Bonsigno
ur.

  Out there alone on the pavement with just my trees, I started mulling over the events of the day. I was beginning to wonder if Patti might be right about Ellie’s venture to Lincoln Center and even her outfit. I wondered if I’d spoiled the evening for her. And I couldn’t shake what Patti had said about me. That maybe I was the one who wanted riches and was protesting too much about Ellie. Could it be that I, too, was drawn to the trappings of city life? That I was enjoying the fine coffee and bread and foods from Bonsignour and gifts from our customers a bit too much? Was there something other than the good money to be made that kept luring me back to Manhattan year after year?

  More than once that season, I wished I’d never said a thing about The Nutcracker. Not that my being disappointed and hurt didn’t make perfect sense. I’d spent half the year making my daughter a gift that I thought she wanted most only to find out that she wanted something else more. But I also saw that I’d painted myself into a corner on this Nutcracker situation—a corner that would be hard to step out of. Then I remembered a resolution I’d made to myself when Ellie was born—that my relationship with her would be without judgment or conflict, flawless from beginning to end. And it made me sad to think that we’d already had our first major row.

  A striking, expensively dressed customer interrupted my thoughts. She’d been leaning into the Balsam fir stand, inhaling the sweet scent of the trees.

  “Happy winter solstice!” she called out. Most customers wished me a “Merry Christmas” or its politically correct cousin, “Happy Holidays.” But come to think of it, she was right; it was December 21—the winter solstice. It was a sign of how wrapped up in the commerce of the city I had become that it was after four o’clock and it had never once occurred to me that that day was the shortest one of the year.

  “Are you having a happy one?” I asked.

  “Hanging in there,” came her response. It never failed to surprise me how many people who’re considered successes in this life—well-dressed professionals with lots of money—who, if you ask them how they are, give you an answer that falls short of the ideal. They’ll say they’re “surviving,” “getting by,” or “hanging in there.” Few give you the impression that they’re like my trees at the moment of opening—bursting with energy and life.

  “Can I help you find a tree?” I asked, pegging her as a candidate for one of our first-class Fraser firs.

  “Just looking,” she said.

  She didn’t buy a tree but instead selected a plain Balsam wreath. She then cast her eyes to the small stand adjacent to the camper where Henry was sitting on a box crate, peddling his wares along with Ellie’s, for which, in her absence, he charged a commission. After carefully considering several of the candles, she selected one with a thick base.

  “Did you make these?” she asked Henry.

  “No, my sister did. I’m selling them for her. She’s going to see The Nutcracker.”

  “Well aren’t you the diligent worker!” she exclaimed. “What’s your name?”

  When he told her, her eyes brightened and a smile started to work on her mouth. “My grandfather was named Henry. You don’t hear it much in boys your age.”

  “My great-grandfather was named Henry, too,” he said. “That’s who I was named for and someday when I grow up, I’m going to get his watch.”

  She scooped up a handful of branches from Henry and paid him for them and the candle.

  “Come back and see us!” he said. The way he said it I could tell he really meant it.

  Sales had been brisk all that evening. I helped match several customers with their trees, including a young father who had come to select a tree with a little redheaded girl in tow. The girl, who told me her name was Erica, was a bit younger than Ellie. I soon learned that she was his stepdaughter. He told me: “This is our first Christmas together. Her mother and I were married on June twenty-sixth.” I handed Erica a Balsam bough for good luck.

  Just then, another little girl standing on the corner, right across the street, caught my eye. She looked like a beautiful little princess, all decked out in party clothes. She had long golden hair like Ellie’s. It took a moment—maybe more than a moment—for me to realize that it was Ellie.

  She was wearing a black velvet jumper, a frilly white blouse with puffy sleeves, and had a black cape flung over her shoulders—an outfit that seemed tailor-made for her. Every accessory was right. She had on white stockings and black patent-leather shoes; her hair was artfully piled on her head and fastened together under a black velvet hair bow. But as beautiful as she looked that night, the thing that would be etched forever into my memory was the look on her face. I’d never seen Ellie look quite that way. She was without question the prettiest little girl in the world—more beautiful than I’d ever realized. It was her radiance that overwhelmed me. Her face shone with poise, confidence, excitement, delight, and anticipation. Like Ellie, I got so caught up in the fairy tale that I temporarily lost all my bearings. At that moment, I didn’t even stop to consider where the clothes had come from. And my earlier disapproval was as remote as summertime.

  I wanted nothing more than to hug her and wish her well. But for an instant, I felt intimidated. Yes, intimidated by my own daughter. I wanted her to come my way so I could take a closer look. I wanted her to rush up and call me Daddy and ask me what I thought.

  Sure enough, she and Emma did head my way, and I felt my heartbeat surge. As I stood there, watching them approach, I thought back to when Ellie had left for the first time to spend the night with Emma. The girls were four then. I remembered how she clung to me, how she said she didn’t want to go anywhere if I couldn’t go, too. I told her then that I’d always be with her—no matter where she went. She told me how she could hardly wait to get back to tell me all about it. Back then, my approval meant the world to her. But that was long ago.

  This time, she walked regally across the street and down the sidewalk toward me, a self-possessed girl, no longer little. It was not hard to imagine the worldy, sophisticated woman she would someday become. At her side, Emma looked dazzling in a burgundy velvet dress with a white lacy collar and cuffs.

  I considered what to say. I wanted it to be something witty, something memorable, something to let her know I wasn’t mad anymore. Something to make light of the whole situation. I would tease her with a line like: “Found something to wear at the bottom of your suitcase, did you?”

  But Ellie and Emma breezed right by me, without so much as a hello, whispering in that conspiratorial, nose-in-the-air way that girls and women do around men who hold no interest for them. They stepped into the camper to say good-bye to Patti. Out there on the sidewalk with my trees, the pavement felt cold under my feet, and my arms felt as limp as sawed-off limbs.

  The next thing I saw was Ellie back on the street corner, throwing her arm up into the air, like a veteran New Yorker. A cab was curbside in an instant. She, Emma, and Anne scooted in and, just as quickly as it came, the cab vanished into a line of traffic.

  “Ellie,” I called out, wanting more than anything to say good-bye, but a honk from an impatient cabbie behind them drowned me out. As I stood there on the corner, it occurred to me that Patti was wrong about one thing: Ellie had not left under the dark cloud of my disapproval. She was off to have a big night on the town—the biggest night of her life.

  5

  The Long Night

  I pulled out my trusty pocket watch and checked the time. I’d wait up for her. Surely she’d be back by nine-thirty or ten at latest. I smiled to myself, thinking about how the sequence of events would play out. Ellie would come back from her adventure dying to tell me what had happened. She’d be so full of the experience that it would override any other emotion, namely, having felt hurt or slighted by me. She was still enough of a kid to want to tell all immediately. I’ve noticed in life that once someone tells you his or her story and you really listen, your differences fade away. It’s just like getting stone-faced customers to laugh.


  I resolved then and there to cast aside all my reservations and enter into the spirit of the occasion. Usually when Ellie told me about an adventure, her excitement would get me going, too. She’d start telling me what happened, and I’d interrupt with questions. Tonight, I’d ask: Where did you sit? What did you think of the show? Of Lincoln Center? And the outfit? Was it a loan? Did you go out and spend all your money on it?

  She’d generally answer my questions, then jump around from place to place, getting confused and backtracking to explain this and that. Finally, I’d suggest she start over and tell me what happened right from the beginning. Then I’d impose a rule on myself—no questions or interruptions until she had finished.

  This time, it would just be the two of us. With Patti and the boys in bed, I’d have Ellie’s undivided attention, and she’d have mine. Maybe if she were still going strong, I’d suggest we go to the all-night coffee shop around the corner and make it into an occasion. We’d order dessert or herbal tea and just be together. I might even say something self-deprecating about my behavior that would make her realize that I was sorry for not having signed on to the spirit of her adventure earlier on, that I was concerned I’d been too harsh.

  If I checked my pocket watch once that night, I checked it a thousand times. I pulled it out every five minutes, watching the slow creep of the dial. I did this even more frequently after ten o’clock, when our tree business died. It was cold and windy, and every so often I’d step into the camper and make myself some hot tea to warm up. But when the family turned in, I stayed outside longer than usual, sweeping needles and pacing up and down the sidewalks to keep moving.

  It was approaching midnight, and still there was no sign of Ellie. The cordless phone, which I’d slipped into my jacket pocket, hadn’t rung all evening. What if something had happened to her? My mind jumped to worst-case scenarios: Might she have been kidnapped? Since the Abbotts lived just one block above us on Eighth Avenue, which ran one-way uptown, the cabbie might have let them out on their corner. Could Ellie have told Anne Abbott that she’d just walk the block from Emma’s to our camper by herself? Could Anne have allowed that? Might something dreadful have happened to her en route or elsewhere? Ellie’s confident tone was so impressive that adults often forgot how young she still was. As I flashed on images of my daughter in trouble—a victim of a random shooting, in the clutches of some pervert, or hurt or wounded along the side of the road—sweat poured from my body. Not long before, I’d read about a child who was standing on a street corner and had been hit and killed by a city bus that ran up on the curve. I felt powerless, knowing that if she were in trouble, there was nothing I could do to help.