A Hamptons Christmas

by James Brady

  She was seated on a footstool in my father’s den over near the fire, with a magazine on her skinny knees — The New Yorker I believe — used as a drawing board, with a few sheets of borrowed stationery from the Admiral’s desk and one of his fountain pens with a Naval Academy crest. “You do know about fountain pens, don’t you?” he first ascertained, not wanting a fine pen to be treated as a mere ballpoint.

  “Mais oui, monsieur l’amiral, even though at school we use number two pencils and ballpoints mostly, but the nuns are very big on fountain pens themselves and teach us to wield them efficiently.”

  He grunted his pleasure. “Respect for good tools, there’s the difference between surgeons and butchers,” he murmured. Precisely what that meant, I wasn’t quite sure, being respectful of both, but Emma nodded vigorously in agreement.

  “I’ve often felt that way myself,” she said.

  Her task was the compilation of a Christmas list, punctuated by questions. How Inga spelled her name, what size waist did I think my father had, did Alix like the color green? And did we think if she bought Doc Whitmore a pair of red wool socks, would he wear them to match his biking earmuffs? When Jesse Maine dropped by, she grilled him:

  “On the reservation, do Shinnecocks exchange gifts?”

  “I should say we do. We’re civilized as anyone. These ain’t Pequots you’re dealing with.”

  “But do they prefer locally crafted gifts, of tribal significance, or is it considered okay to buy stuff in stores?”

  “That do depend largely on the state of the exchequer that particular season. I’ve seen Christmases when I was tanning away on pelts starting in mid-November and sewing up mocassins at a great rate, just ’cause the funds was short. Other years I’ve went all the way upIsland to Route 110 in Huntington or to Macy’s at Roosevelt Field and bought my fill, gift wrap ’n all.”

  She jotted a few notes. Then, more thoughtful, “Jesse, suppose there’s someone you love, but you’re not getting on with all that well. Does he or she go on your Christmas list? Or do you send a message by leaving them off?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Depends. Christmas’s supposed to be a time for making up, ain’t it? For ending grudges instead of starting them?”

  “But you wouldn’t send gifts to the Pequots?”

  “Not hardly. But that ain’t the question. You’re talking about folks you love but it temporarily went sour. I don’t love no Pequots and never did. Nor do many of them return me the favor.”

  Emma got Alix aside for considerable whispering.

  “Beecher, Jane and I are driving into the village. Chores and calls to make. Back shortly. Ta ta.”

  And when Emma (Jane) and Her Ladyship weren’t plotting, the kid and Jesse were in a corner someplace laying plans. Emma was something when it came to cabals and plots, conspiracies and coups d’etat. Or, in Jesse’s term, “in cahoots.” It was this quality in Emma that drew the Admiral, himself a born conspirator and coup-ist. Cassius and Brutus on the Ides of March would have appreciated them both.

  As Alix and Emma got into their coats, my father pulled me away. “Shouldn’t we give the child some pocket money. Surely she’s planning secretly to Christmas-shop.”

  “I’ve seen her purse, Father. She can buy and sell both of us.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding impressed.

  A more significant issue was the behavior of her parents, neither of them making the slightest move toward arranging Christmas with their only child. And, wealthy people, not even sending along a few gifts. You might have expected wicker baskets flowing with ribbons and wrapping paper. Instead, their private eyes, the bastards!

  While Sister Infanta de Castille visited the parishes, attended the sick at Southampton Hospital, spoke reverentially of Mother Teresa’s torch shortly to be passed (“to one far worthier than I, you can be sure”), and huddled with reverend clergy from as far away as Manhattan, Boston, and (in the Papal Nuncio’s case) Washington.

  Sister Infanta’s act was diverting. The Drivers’, unforgiveable. After Emma was tucked in the night following her shopping trip, Alix returned downstairs to the Admiral’s den, where he and I sat over scotch and a cigar.

  “Yes, I will have a drink,” she said, unasked. “I need one.”

  When I handed her a glass, she looked up and smiled. But it was a smile creased with fatigue, frustration. You don’t see much of that in Her Ladyship, I can assure you.

  “Oh, Beecher, that wonderful child. What are we to do?”

  When I chewed on it, not knowing just what to say, she turned to my father.

  “Admiral, your entire career has been spent solving puzzles. Can you suggest anything? I can’t face Emma again without having done something.”

  My father looked as unhappy as she felt about the whole business. But he had an answer. Whether it was the appropriate answer, who could yet say?

  “We can’t speak for her parents, Alix. Nor force their behavior. The thing for us to do, my dear, and we shall, is to celebrate Christmas in our own way in our own house and with young Emma Driver, at least for tomorrow, not here as a guest but as one of the family, yours and ours!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  There’ll be some happy little Shinnecocks this Christmas.

  In deference to Emma, we went to the Catholic church Christmas morning. Early mass. “I have errands, Beecher,” the girl informed me. “Got to be up and doing.”

  The mass was okay. Nothing more. Father Desmond’s sermon was fine. I liked him. Emma went up and took Holy Communion. We do that in the Episcopalian Church, too. But I didn’t think I ought to do it here, with all those Catholics watching. After all, they know who we are here in East Hampton. My father didn’t give a damn and he went up and took Communion. He takes the straightforward Annapolis line when it comes to dealing with God.

  The music was a letdown. Most Holy Trinity, the local Catholic church, didn’t have much of a choir. I don’t know why it is, but it seems to me Protestants sing better. “Episcopalians certainly do” was my father’s verdict on the matter. I don’t know what God thinks, of course, but that’s my view. The Admiral was especially critical. He likes a rollicking good hymn and sings along, putting in a pretty good bass, very loud. Whatever church he’s in. But the supporting cast here hadn’t been up to his standards.

  “‘Silent Night’ was fine. But if I’m going to attend Catholic mass, I want my ‘Adeste Fideles’ in Latin. Latin sounds better, has a weight and grandeur the translation lacks. And I enjoy a good, rousing chorus of ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ not a tinny little rendition.”

  We went to the Maidstone Arms for brunch. Eggs Benedict and steaming pots of coffee, lots of hot breads. The Admiral was cheerier now. Matt Lauer and his wife were there, attractive people. Everyone said hello. Calling out “Merry Christmas.” The waitresses were more focused than usual. You actually got most of what you ordered. When we got back to the house, Fed Ex had come by, a supplementary fee having guaranteed delivery on the holiday, leaving two packages, both of them for Emma Driver. “Wow!” was all she said, picking them up and hugging the boxes to herself. From her parents? Had Odets and the Infanta finally done something constructive, supplying her address? No one dared ask.

  Jesse Maine was also there, lounging by his pickup, and calling out “Noels” and “Season’s Greetings” and getting kissed by the ladies.

  “Okay, miss?” he asked Emma. “Our schemes and such all set?”

  “I think so, Jesse. I’m not terribly good at wrapping but I used lots of scarlet ribbon. I think it’ll be okay.”

  She and Jesse had their plots, so we all stepped back to let them play out. Alix gave me a kiss out there in the driveway, better than either hot breads or eggs Benedict. We’d agreed to exchange gifts here on Further Lane after Emma got back. But it was over my father’s objections.

  “I like to open the presents early. Damned foolishness waiting till afternoon. Show me a child doesn’t want to go downstairs early Christmas morning a
nd see what’s under the tree, I’ll show you a Prozac-popping adult in the making. It’s unnatural not to get at the gifts early.” He was like that: Lionel trains for girls, opening presents at dawn.

  “I’d cut Emma a little slack on that, father. When did this kid ever have a normal Christmas morning?”

  “Well, yes, yes. I see the point. Of course.” He barked at me for a bit more and then calmed down, looking slightly abashed. He knew he’d been unfair to Emma, and his anger was directed at himself. Alix, as she was so good at doing, soothed him with a non sequitur.

  “My old pa, the earl, once cut a chap dead for passing port to the left. Never spoke to him again. Not even in the lobbies of the House of Lords. Or at the club, both being members of Brats. Fought side by side with Templer’s chaps in Malaya. I dare say you know some of those fellows, Admiral.”

  “Indeed I do. Hard campaigning, that. You respect a man who fought with Templer.”

  “Right-o!” Alix said. “Meant that much. Pa was quite eloquent on the matter. Surprised all of us, he’s usually so taciturn. But not this time.

  “‘They’ve gone too far, now,’ he said. ‘Socialized medicine, losing India, now, the Channel Tunnel and passing port to the left. Don’t chaps realize why we fought two World Wars? Why Kitchener went up the Nile? Why Drake walked away from his game of bowls to go out and sink the Armada? Bloody Spaniards! You expect those fellows to pass port to the left, Napoleon, Hitler, Mao Tse-tung. But not Englishmen! Not decent chaps!’”

  “Gosh,” I said, having lived in London and understanding how strongly they felt about some things.

  My father gathered Alix into his arms, comforting her, attempting to convey his respect for her father the earl. A less subtle personage, but a man much like himself.

  Emma and Jesse Maine were back at the house on Further Lane by about two on a cold, sunny Christmas afternoon. “She is something,” Jesse told me, shaking his head and marveling. “A small toy, a good wool sweater for each of a dozen kids I told her about. I told her how old they were, about what size. And in each gift package, her idea, not mine, a twenty-dollar bill. And a corny Christmas card. There’ll be some happy little Shinnecocks this Christmas.”

  “A corny card.” She got that from Jake Marley. The rest? Well, there’s “rich” and there’s “rich.” Emma had the dough, but what she really had came from inside, didn’t it? From the marrow. Or maybe from Mother Superior at her convent, since Emma was forever quoting that good woman: “To whom much is given, girls, much is asked.”

  And amen to that, say I.

  We went into the Admiral’s den to exchange gifts. Emma had bought leather belts for everyone.

  “At the Coach factory outlet on Main Street. As their advertisement reads: ‘Excellent value at fair prices.’ Everyone needs a good belt. I hope they fit. I guessed at sizes. But the leather’s first-rate. I know it is. There are Italian girls from Milano at the convent. They know good leather.”

  Well, my belt fit. Barely. My father’s didn’t. Inga, I don’t know. Alix said hers was perfect. But you know how she lies. Jesse? He didn’t share his confidences.

  Emma opened the Fed Ex presents first, wanting us to know her parents hadn’t forgotten. “Look, look,” she enthused, holding up her gifts.

  Dick had sent a sterling-silver frame from Tiffany with a photo of himself; Nicole a very pretty party dress from Bonne Nuit that didn’t quite fit.

  “Well, she hasn’t measured me in some time,” Emma explained away her mother’s gaffe.

  But she loved her Lionel trains from the Admiral.

  “See, I told you!” he said in justifiable triumph. “Girls are just as good as boys. Better, even.”

  It was nice to see him on the floor of the den with Emma, setting up the tracks so they ran around and under cocktail tables, armchairs, and past the fireplace; wiring up the transformer; adjusting the crossing gate to go up and down properly. And only shocking himself once, and then not seriously, by touching a live third rail. Blame that awkwardness on his damaged fingers.

  Christmas is really nice when you’re with people you love.

  Alix thought so, too. “I do love you, Beecher Stowe.”

  We exchanged gifts, too. But that’s sort of private, what we gave each other. If you don’t mind.

  Inga’s turkey was an enormous success (she broke her own rule and joined us at table), and the Admiral, notably, dove into the creamed onions with a considerable gusto while I ladled out the giblet gravy and kept uncorking bottles of a particularly nuanced Château Haut-Brion.

  Christmas permits the minor bending of rules. So Alix convinced us to permit Emma a mere soupçon of a taste, dipping the tip of her tongue into Her Ladyship’s glass.

  “Mmm,” said Emma, licking her lips, “very nice. You always recognize a Grand Cru, don’t you? Even when, as in this case, it’s perhaps a trifle corky.”

  It would have spoiled the moment to wonder aloud why her parents, knowing where to send gifts, hadn’t bothered to come by.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “The count kept ordering wine. My mom had to speak sternly.”

  The sleek stretch limo in gleaming white rolled silently down Further Lane to enter our driveway just before nine next morning, Boxing Day, December 26.

  “Beecher, Beecher! Alix! Admiral, come see! Inga, I told you they wouldn’t forget me over Christmas! I told you! I guaranteed it, didn’t I?”

  “By God!” the Admiral said, appalled but yet impressed by the sheer length of the limo. “A day late but hardly a dollar short, eh?”

  Alix and Inga got Emma dressed in white kneesocks and Mary Janes and the navy blue velvet dress Her Ladyship had gotten her at Punch on Newtown Lane. By 9:30 she was ready, the liveried chauffeur bowing and scraping in the best tradition, referring to a written schedule of some sort, and, supposedly, assuring us:

  “The young lady’s to be back here by four, sir.”

  “Fine.”

  There was of course no one else in the car. Had we really expected there might be?

  My father, the professional, consulted with Emma, then with the chauffeur, on Dick Driver’s unlisted phone number and several other identification cross-references. Emma and he agreed that all checked out. So off she went. For a belated Christmas with her parents. As we all sent up a small but genuine huzzah!

  Happy for her.

  I guess we all, maybe even Emma, understood the significance of the hired limo. If either Dick or Nicole showed up with his or her own wheels, it would be a point scored against the other. That’s how it was in these long-running legal and emotional scrimmages. A rented car, on the other hand, was neutral turf. The demilitarized zone. That night, over dinner, and still red-cheeked and breathless from her adventures, Emma gave us her account of a delicious day spent with her mother and father.

  “It was a really neat limo, first of all, première classe sans doute, Admiral. With a TV in back and bottles of Evian and an ice bucket and fresh flowers in a vase. Cashew nuts, too. I love cashew nuts; Mother Superior lets us have them on feast days. And an intercom so the driver and I could talk. And room to lie down even. Stretched out, Alix. You would have loved it, even more room than your Hummer. And a sun roof. I stood on one of the seats and rode along for a while with my head out. Like the Queen in London, reviewing the troops. But it was too cold to stay out there long.”

  “The Trooping of the Colour,” Her Ladyship said, “one of those hoary old traditions people make sport of, but which I suspect they’d miss terribly if they were done away with. You know, rather like foxhunting and Guy Fawkes Day.”

  Emma resumed her report: “My father had me first. And (this triumphantly) he was all alone! No cover girls. Not even one! He even left Miss Lithuania home. I mean, I’ve nothing against cover girls but, you know, we had a chance to talk. He might run for President, he said. Millions of voters want him to. And we drove someplace for lunch. The best tunafish sandwiches ever—lots of mayonnaise, and nice soft whi
te bread. Not like European bread at all. He said that new photo he’d sent me was a portrait by Bachrach, is that the name? They only do pictures of famous people.”

  “Yes, very fine photographers,” the Admiral said.

  “And we drove around for a while past lots of big houses and estates and stuff and my father said if I really, really liked the Hamptons, he might buy a place out here one of these days. A big place, not like the house we rented here one summer. He’s got a new Ferrari, too. But he thought the limo was better for driving around with me, so I didn’t actually get to ride in the Ferrari. It’s bright red.

  “He used the cell phone a lot. Even the day after Christmas, big business is big business. That’s what he said. ‘If they publish the Wall Street Journal that day, it’s a workday.’ He let me call a girl I know from the convent. She lives in San Francisco. I had her number, but the maid said she wasn’t there. And we toured a very posh country club he said he was thinking of joining.

  “But it was mostly closed. For winter, I guess. The grass was all brown. I did tell you about lunch, didn’t I? Tunafish with lots of mayo?”

  Once she’d been kissed good-bye by her father (“He had to get back to Manhattan—a chopper was coming for him”), the limo whisked Emma off to Nicole and the Impaler.

  “I was hoping maybe he stayed behind in Transylvania, but I guess they wanted to be together for Christmas.”

  “You don’t like him?” Alix asked.

  “He’s okay. Sort of dopey. But real handsome. I think he’s younger than Mommie. But don’t tell anyone I said that, okay? I call him Count all the time and he likes that. He likes to be called Count and not Vlad.”

  “Or the Impaler?” I asked, not able to resist.

  Emma looked solemn and shook her head. “Pas du tout, Beecher. I’d never do that. Wouldn’t be polite making fun. Transylvanian people are sensitive, you know. Especially about Dracula and all those scary movies. Wolfbane and not looking into mirrors, and people with long canine teeth, and sprigs of garlic and stuff.”