Which left me feeling a little jealous that all my friends had lives while I, apparently, needed to wait until Tuesday at nine to see mine on TV.
As we rolled east on Pratt Street, I tried to analyze why Bobby’s new show bugged me so much. Was it the betrayal anyone would feel when an ex-lover writes a tell-all? Was it because he’d pulled one of his “in your face!” moves and brought a crew to my backyard in Baltimore? Or was it that, beneath my newly acquired “like I care!” New York facade, I still felt a little pang in the gut when I thought of him, still had the letters he’d written to me, still had a little heart icon next to the “Bobby” files on my computer?
A big dummy-head, I know I am, but I can’t help how I feel.
Sometimes I can forget about the feelings for a while when I get distracted. Other times I tamp them down beneath the surface and try to go on, but like dirty underwear that keeps rising to the top of your luggage no matter how many times you bury it under your jeans, those feelings keep popping up now and again.
Over the past few months my friends had bolstered me with all the appropriate responses.
“Don’t think he’s the last guy you’ll ever love,” Bonnie had told me. “Not by a long shot. You’re so cute and fun and talented. You’ll find someone, someone a bazillion times better than Bobby Tharp.” That advice was followed by a laugh. “Look at me. I’ve been married and divorced three times, and do I give up? Ha! I figure the more practice I get, the better I’m getting at this partnership thing.”
Kate usually came across more earth mothery, saying things like, “Ooh, I know it hurts!” and “It’s okay to go through a grieving period for a relationship,” and “Liv, have you tried curling up with a cup of Sleepytime tea?”
And then there were Lanessa’s no-nonsense tips, such as “Get a grip, girl.” And “Aren’t you over him yet?” Lanessa may lose points in the area of sensitivity, but sometimes a stiff, honest kick in the butt is just what a girl needs.
So get a grip, I told myself as the bus pulled up to my stop in front of the building that would soon open as Baltimore’s only downtown department store. Rossman’s was taking over a building at the edge of the Inner Harbor formerly occupied by the McCormick Spice Factory, and though I vaguely remembered the squarish box of a building, it had cleaned up quite nicely in the renovation. The cumbersome gray stone and ironwork facade of the old factory had been transformed to a pristine finish, and a newly constructed wing rose gracefully from the side like a castle tower, in keeping with the old Gothic style. From the street, the place looked majestic, impressive, a renovation Mom would appreciate if she could just drag herself down here to take a look. My mother is a professor of architecture at University of Baltimore, with a fierce passion for building design and history. I think I was playing with blocks in preschool when she began explaining the differences between Ionic and Doric columns. While other kids were learning their times tables, I was grilled on whether a building was Georgian Revival, Federalist, or Jeffersonian architecture. We spent summer vacations touring the East Coast in pursuit of buildings designed by Benjamin Latrobe, and Mom spent every other weekend conducting tours of his Mulberry Street Cathedral and Mount Vernon Place, along with the Peabody Library and once-infamous Bromo-Seltzer Tower. Much to her dismay, I was always on the verge of flunking history in school. Someone told her that it’s a way children rebel against their parents, subconsciously shutting down in areas their parents excelled in. All I know is, I wasn’t interested in what a bunch of dead people did, and although I could memorize a dance sequence or repeat a step until I learned it, there was no memorizing explorers, inventors, and dates for me. I barely scraped through high school with Cs and took only the core history requirements in college. Sorry, Mom.
At the moment, Mom was on a self-inflicted sabbatical, but that was another story.
Although the revolving door at the front of the store was locked tight, a guard motioned me in through a side entrance, where I ran into a queue that led to a folding table.
I circled the line, trying to see who or what was at the front.
A heavyset man in black leathers turned and barked at me through his stringy, belly-length beard. “Line forms back that way, hon.”
I lifted my hands. “Do you know what it’s for? This can’t be the right line. I’m here for an audition.”
“So’s everybody else. Back of the line, Red.”
My heels clicked over the marble floor as I stepped back, steaming at the ZZ Top wannabe. And he was auditioning to be an elf? Good luck with that.
We were cordoned off in a little side salon, but as the line moved up I got a peek through the doors at the rest of the cavernous space—the main selling floor—which was totally empty except for some elegant crystal chandeliers.
“Well, that doesn’t instill much confidence,” I muttered. “They’re opening next week and there’s no merchandise in the store.”
Most of the people in the line ignored me, but ZZ turned back and squinted toward the sales floor. “I wouldn’t worry.”
“They don’t have a single piece of furniture. How’s it all going to happen in time?” I thought about that. Were we all wasting our time here? “Have you heard anything about them delaying the opening?” I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
ZZ leaned close and whispered, “No.”
An annoying little man, that biker dude. I folded my arms and tuned him out, tuned out the entire line of elf applicants and imagined myself in a far more desirable line, arm in arm with women my height, our heads turning and legs kicking precisely, in perfect unison.
I’d been a part of that line just last Christmas, dancing at Radio City Music Hall. Back then my life had seemed so rich and full, so organized and smooth, moving from the hectic rehearsals to the challenging pace of the daily matinees and evening shows, the sparkling costumes, the lights, the delighted applause of the audience, the fluttery thrill that never failed me each time the curtain rose . . .
“Would you be available to work overtime? Long hours?”
For last year’s Christmas show we’d done between two and four performances a day . . .
“Miss? We’re hiring only one person for this role.”
I stared blankly at the polite young man from Personnel. “One elf? Santa’s downsizing this year?”
“Actually, all the elf positions have been cast at this time.”
My heart sank. With my experience in New York, I’d figured this job would be a lock for me.
Wrong again, dummy-head. It was time to find the line for the Christmas hires. Maybe I could spray colognes in the air or wrap gifts.
“I’m sorry,” the young man said, his deep voice belying his wiry frame. He had smooth, chocolate brown skin and a slightly goofy smile that made me want to adopt him as a kid brother. “I thought you were applying for Mrs. C.”
“Mrs. C?” I blinked again, wondering what I’d missed.
Mr. Personnel cocked his head to the side, his pat smile hinting that he’d repeated this spiel dozens of times this morning. “As Mrs. Claus, you’d be working in Santaland with the help of a team of elves, managing queuing and diverting groups of children with activities, train rides, and whatnot.”
“I can work long hours—I can. I have mucho stamina. Did you see my résumé? I’m a dancer.” Realizing I hadn’t shown him my credentials, I slid a copy out of my portfolio bag. “I’ve even played Mrs. Claus before onstage.” I didn’t mention that every woman onstage had been dressed as Mrs. Claus, but really, did he have to know every detail?
His face was stern as he read, but suddenly a smile lit his face. “You were a Rockette? Really?”
I beamed. ZZ was glancing over at me curiously, and I winked at him. “Yup. I mean, yes, I was. I was in the Christmas show last year.”
“That’s amazing.” Mr. Personnel grinned up at me with such admiration, I thought he’d ask me to autograph his necktie. He stood up, stumbling over his chair as he excused himself
and went off to show my résumé to his supervisor.
The day took a turn for the better at that point, as the interview turned into a real audition. Behind a sliding curtain, a group of store employees were assessing performers and making final cuts with all the glamour of a tap-dance recital.
A selection committee sat at another makeshift table, eyeing me with all the levity of the Olympic figure skating judges. I smiled, figuring I had an edge here. How many former Rockettes auditioned to be Mrs. Claus at Rossman’s Department Store?
The committee wanted to see me try on a Santa cap. They wanted me to sing a few Christmas carols (not my strong point; there was a reason I chose dance, but I can carry a tune). They wanted to see one of the Rockettes’ signature eye-high kicks.
I was happy to oblige, relieved that my leg had healed to the point where I could land a few graceful kicks. They seemed to be impressed when I threw in a few anecdotes about sharing a Manhattan apartment with two other Rockettes and winging it when the airline lost my luggage during last year’s North American tour.
Within half an hour the audition was over, the verdict still undetermined “though I have a really great feeling they’ll choose you,” said Charley, the personnel clerk who had first processed my application.
“I hope so,” I said, thinking of my dwindling bank account, my rent payment, my copays for physical therapy, my credit-card debt that was going to make Christmas shopping treacherous, all that bobbing and weaving to avoid clanging into the credit limit.
Charley assured me the committee would make its decisions by tomorrow and all Christmas players would be called in the following day to begin training. They would have to, with these ambitious plans for Santaland, including musical productions, skaters, sleigh rides for children. He spoke so fast some of the details flew by me, but it was clear that Rossman’s was planning a festive debut in the Christmas shopping arena.
“Can we see the space that will be used for Toyland?” ZZ asked as we were both getting ready to leave at the same time.
“I wish.” Charley rolled his eyes. “We can’t even get into our offices until tomorrow, something about building inspections, but that’ll all be settled by the time you report in.”
“Okay, then. Till Wednesday.” ZZ stood tall, saluted Charley, then headed out.
I walked a few paces behind him, not really eager to catch up and strike up a conversation. But when he paused at the door to hold it for me, I hurried ahead.
“You seem confident about getting this job,” I said.
“If it’s not here, it’s somewhere else. I’ve played Santa for the past twelve years, five of those years at Rossman’s Miami. ’Tis the season, Red. Or maybe I should call you Rocky, huh? For the next two months, I’m a hot commodity.” He looked me up and down as we stepped out into the winter sun. “You ever played Mrs. Claus before?”
“Onstage.”
He nodded knowingly.
“Why? Do you think I’ll be good at it?”
“Do you like kids?”
I hadn’t really thought about that. The truth was, I didn’t really know any kids, had no reason to like or dislike them, though when I spotted families with screamers in airport lounges I always crossed my fingers in hopes that I’d be far, far away from them on the plane. The closest I’d come in the past few years was giving autographs to children who waited outside the stage door at Radio City. And I always helped Bobby pick out gifts for his nieces and nephews.
ZZ snorted. “I take that as a no.”
“It’s not me, it’s them,” I said. “Kids don’t like me for some reason. I don’t know why.”
“I’d think about that one,” he said, heading over to the curb where a shiny, decked-out Harley was parked. ZZ reached over the bike and unclipped a helmet.
“You’re kidding me. That’s yours?”
“Need a lift?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Yeah, but I’d like to make it home alive.”
“Alive, but not really living.” He swung onto the bike and lifted the kickstand. “Think about it, Rocky.”
“Would you stop calling me that?” I yelled over the grumble of the engine, but ZZ was already balancing the bike, then roaring off, his beard blowing back over one shoulder as the Harley cruised off toward Fells Point.
Enough with the sage Santa. Like I needed advice from a dude on a Harley. I don’t know why I even talked to him, anyway, something about the neighborliness of Baltimoreans. In New York people sat shoulder to shoulder with total strangers for a forty-minute subway ride and never made eye contact, but here, if someone made a comment and you didn’t answer, they would keep on you until you acknowledged them. I wasn’t sure which social code was preferable.
As the sun had melted the chill in the air and warmed the brick paving stones underfoot, I stood in front of the new Rossman’s building and decided to check my messages. If one of my friends was available for lunch, it wasn’t worth the bus trip home right now. The pitfalls of not having a car in Baltimore, a city where most residents owned a car, sometimes two.
There was one message—my mother, telling me she had some library books due this week. Due Friday. Hoped she wasn’t inconveniencing me by asking for a favor, but those late fees did add up. In fact, she received a late notice on the Janet Evanovich novel I was supposed to return for her two weeks ago.
With a pang of frustration I turned away from the building and focused on a figure in a dark coat striding purposefully toward the entrance. Something struck a familiar chord. Was it the broad shoulders that seemed so heavy on his small frame, or the way he moved, hesitantly, as if considering each step? This was someone I knew, but as I took in his face, the pinched nose and dark eyes, I couldn’t make the connection. Was he a former neighbor, a classmate, a waiter at a favorite restaurant?
He was starting up the tiered marble steps—my chance. “Hey,” I called, “how’s it going?”
He turned to me and paused, as if nothing were so important as the message passing between us. Then I knew him, my seventh-grade sweetie. That halting look was the tip-off for me.
“Woody? Wood Man Cruise!”
“Livvy . . .” He threw out his arms and I joined in the hug, feeling stiff in my winter coat.
“Great to see you, Woody.”
“Actually, I go by Sherwood now.”
“Really? Sounds very . . . nerdy.”
He sucked in a breath. “You wound me.”
“Or artistic . . . That’s what I meant.”
“Sorry, but I can’t let that one go. You haven’t changed, have you? Still hurting me after all these years.”
“Don’t say that,” I said, focusing on his eyes, familiar eyes, the brown of brandy. I will never forget the bursts of emotion I have witnessed in those eyes. The first time I’d ever seen the dreamy, tortured facets of romantic love, I was allowing myself a glimpse into his dark eyes before a kiss in a game of spin the bottle. Such a small moment, really, but important in my adolescent mind in that it revealed the consequences and depth of an adult relationship—the simple fact that boys had feelings, too.
There had been other snapshots, too: the competitive shot sent to other boys on the playground during a tackle game of football; the monastic respect he paid the nuns in our school; and the pained, sorrowful disappointment I’d caused him when I’d been suddenly hit by the notion that seventh-grade girls were too mature to date seventh-grade guys.
“So tell me . . .” His eyes softened as if he was relieved to see me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Home for a while,” I lied. “How about you?”
“I’m crazed today. Chasing down a building inspector who should have signed off weeks ago.”
“Really? What are you working on?”
He glanced up the steps, wincing as if a monster crouched over his shoulders. “Another stab through my heart. Tell me you’ve heard?”
I slid my hands into my coat pocket and shrugged. “Sorry?”
He growled. “Come on! Your mother must have mentioned it.”
Let’s see . . . In the past two weeks she had mentioned seeing the police poking around the Gilberts’ house, she’d reminded me to buy baguettes from Santoni’s and Dorchester cheddar from the Broadway Market, to pick up her prescription at Rite Aid, but no . . . not a word about Woody. Or Sherwood.
He rolled his eyes and pointed at Rossman’s. “This is my building. My designs were chosen over all the other bidders.”
“You’re the architect of the renovation?” I glanced at Rossman’s, its stone facade twinkling back at me in the afternoon sun. “It’s a handsome building.”
“Thanks for that, but the truth is, it’s got plenty of competition.”
He was right. The majestic new Rossman’s sat in a neighborhood that had undergone a true renaissance in the past few decades, from the airy Harborplace Pavilions to the towering World Trade Center and luxury hotels to the zany pyramids and geometric shapes of the National Aquarium. And those buildings were just the first of so many. The old power plant had been renovated to house an ESPN restaurant, a Hard Rock Café, a Barnes and Noble, among others. “The waterfront has its attractions,” I said, “but there’s always room for more. Brave of you to take on the old spice factory.”
“Down here the challenge is to fit into the neighborhood while standing out, to utilize an old structure, and old style, while combining it with something fresh and innovative. But then, you know that, you being the daughter of Baltimore’s grand dame of architecture.”
Not anymore, I thought, but I suspected Woody didn’t know about Mom’s meltdown. My sense of pride told me to keep mum on Mom. “I’ve been wondering, what’s in the tower? There are so few windows, and it’s such a vertical space.”
Woody smiled. “Not a pleasant spot for offices or showrooms, right? So the tower was designed to contain stairwells, just as old castle towers did, and dressing rooms.”
“Clever,” I said, feeling as if I were channeling my mother. “Appropriate use of space.”
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