Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  He swiped off his glasses, a slow grin dawning. “Liv . . . You found me in my mouse hole.”

  Impulsively I grabbed his coat from the chair and tossed it at him. “Come outside. The snow is beautiful.”

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “Christmas morning. Come out to the square.” I turned and fled out the door, knowing he would follow. Everything was covered in white, a quick-falling powder, hard to pack into a snowball, which I discovered when I bent down in the square and tried to bunch it together.

  Behind me, Woody whistled through his teeth. “It is gorgeous. Notice how it puts a hush over everything? Footsteps, street traffic.”

  I straightened and lobbed my snowball at him.

  “Hey!” He shifted at the last minute, dodging it. Then he dropped to the ground and pressed a handful of snow together. “What’s that about?”

  “I’m not leaving. I’m staying in Baltimore. I want to take a do-over, Woody.”

  He tossed it at me, hitting me softly on the shoulder. “Well, it’s not as easy as that, not like buying a vowel on Wheel of Fortune.”

  “So it’s not easy. The thing to remember is that it’s possible. Remember what you said? About letting events shape our lives? Well, I’m not going to live someone else’s life so I can escape Bobby and the madness he’s created. Besides, who ever said that anything worthwhile is easy?”

  Brushing his hands together, he moved toward me, close enough that I could see his breath in the air. “Are you sure about this? You’re not going to wake up in a sweat and jump on the next train to New York?”

  “No regrets. I’m done with Olivia’s lament. Right here, at this moment, I know this is exactly what I want to do. This is where I want to be.” I reached up and placed one hand on the sleeve of his leather jacket. “I guess my question is, would you like to help a prodigal daughter see her hometown in a brand-new way? Sort of a visionary do-over?”

  He laughed. “I think I’d like that.” Clumps of snow gathered on his dark hair, making him look a little silly but festive.

  Stepping back, I spun around in the still, cold air, snowflakes flying as the hem of my coat lifted. I felt a sense of history, a sense of timelessness here on this canvas of snow by the harbor. Like a black-and-white Latrobe etching in one of Mom’s architecture books, we were two dark figures in the center of the square, two people surrounded by the white that was quickly blanketing Fells Point in the dark hours before Christmas morning.

  Christmas Mouse

  Cassie

  San Francisco, 2004

  1

  “You know this is a special treat. It’s almost bedtime.” I pulled the lopsided fleece hat down so that it covered both of his rosebud ears.

  My son tipped his chin up to me and pushed the cap back again. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  With a deep breath I straightened and clasped his hand, and we rounded the back corner of Rossman’s and entered Union Square, where one rival store had hung giant red balls from their awnings last week, a display some locals called “Eclipse of Mars.” Rossman’s other big competitor had unfurled the giant blue bow that wrapped the four-story building from roof to ground, and at the moment “Jingle Bell Rock” rolled from the store’s speakers.

  Coming up on the main facade of Rossman’s, its garland-draped entrance flanked by ten square luminescent shapes aglow against the darkness, I looked down at Tyler, who marched by my side like a dutiful soldier. “Christmas is really coming, T.” I launched into the jazz tune from my beloved Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown: “Christmastime is here . . .”

  Tyler’s hat tipped up, revealing a scowl that ended my singing. “But not for a long time. Thirty-eight days.” He’d been counting the days, x-ing off the squares on the Shrek calendar taped to our fridge.

  “It’ll be here before you know it.”

  We could have gone out the front entrance and just stepped right over, but I had wanted to take in the whole effect, to come upon them slowly like casual shoppers from another era instead of just sucking them up in a passing glance. Maybe I’m just a window designer who talks like an artist, but this was my first real design job out of art school, my key opportunity to make a name for myself as a Bay Area designer. This was the big one—the Christmas display at Rossman’s Department Store at Union Square—and I’d been squeezing my friends dry, sucking up all the moral support they could spare, dragging Tyler here after day care so that I could feverishly work toward this deadline while he read in Santa’s sled or built Legos on the carpet or napped in his sleeping bag a few feet from his frantically crafting mother. Although this was among my dream jobs, I’d had no idea the budget would be so low, the deadline so tight. I had envisioned leisurely trips to fabric stores where I would twirl swathes of gold and blue ribbon, sample bolts of purple and red velvet, inspect glittering bell and star ornaments, all to be patterned and cut and sewn into the trappings of Christmas by a capable team of seamstresses.

  The reality was a team of one—moi—scrounging through the storeroom in an attempt to salvage old decorations and transform them into something clever and fresh and full of Christmas spirit. Apparently, this branch of Rossman’s had been underperforming, and the punishment for low profits was a very low operating budget.

  As the windows came into view I squeezed my son’s hand tighter. “Ooh, I’m so excited. My first Christmas windows.”

  He squeezed back, but I sensed that he was indulging me, my five-year-old son who probably should have been in bed an hour ago. Maybe I was expecting too much, expecting him to care about something so far off in the adult world. Hard to sell department-store windows in the cold when the cool excitement of a Japanese cartoon and the comfort of a warm bed waited at home, but this was the unofficial debut. I had just removed the panels from the windows thirty minutes ago, unveiling the Christmas displays, and although the store’s bigwigs would swagger by to see them in the morning, I wanted the preview to be the advent of Tyler’s Christmas. Maybe this would become a new tradition for us? Maybe next year his dad would join us.

  This year was the first time Tyler comprehended the rituals of Christmas—the coming of Santa, the birth of a Savior, the exchange of gifts—and I felt responsible for creating traditions that would define his Christmases for the rest of his life.

  No pressure.

  “Hark the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king . . .” My breath formed puffs in the cool night air as I swung his hand merrily.

  “Stop it, Mom,” he said firmly. Just like his father, he resisted when I overplayed the cheer card. “Can we just see the windows?”

  “Sure.” As we moved closer, the tiny white lights of the garland framing the square window danced before my eyes. The garland was a new purchase I’d acquired from a discount wholesaler, as the greenery in storage was pressed flat and shedding. But I’d enjoyed working with the fake pine boughs, twining clear lights through it and shaping a few yards into spiral topiaries.

  The first window was a scene from Santa’s workshop, with Santa checking a long scroll of a list, elves hammering and sizing toys, Mrs. Claus delivering a plate of cookies. The figures were somewhat abstract, made from Styrofoam forms that had been used for Christmas trees, which suited the flared skirts of Mrs. Claus and the female elves well. The others I’d had to carve off and shape, then cover with felt.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Cool.” Tyler pressed his fingers to the glass, measuring, calculating.

  “Do you get it? Can you tell what it’s supposed to be?”

  “Sure, I do. It’s Santa’s toyshop. Where’d you get those hammers?”

  “I made the top half out of clay. The bottom part is an icecream stick.”

  “My clay? Did you use mine?”

  “No, sweetie,” I said, moving him to the next window, where merry elves strung lights and ribbons through a grove of topiaries. Next three elves perfected a fat red bow on a gift, their tiny wrap room strewn with scraps of gl
immering holiday paper. Tyler began calling out each scene, then running on to the next window.

  “Elves loading Santa’s sleigh,” he gasped, racing on. “Mrs. Claus sewing Santa’s red suit. Elves painting stripes on candy canes. Santa trimming his beard. Where did you get all that white hair?”

  “It’s actually pasta. Long rice noodles.”

  “Can we eat them after Christmas?”

  I laughed. “I think the glue might stick in our teeth.”

  I followed him at a slower pace, pleased that he’d warmed to this late-night activity.

  In the last window, my favorite, a dozen Mrs. Clauses performed extraordinary tasks, checking reindeer tonsils, repairing a runner on the sleigh, trimming the topiaries, sweeping a chimney, and decking the Golden Gate Bridge with lights. I’d loved the notion that Mrs. Claus could do it all, and my friend Jaimie, a longtime employee of Rossman’s, thought the window would play here in San Francisco.

  Tyler scratched his forehead under the cap, knocking it off. “How come you made all those Mrs. Clauses? Everybody knows there’s only one.”

  “Artistic license.” He frowned, so I added, “I was just having some fun with it.” I cupped my fingers over one eye, forming a scope. “If you focus on one, you can imagine that it’s one person doing all these jobs at different times.”

  He made his own curled-finger scope. “Oh. Can we go home now?”

  Home is the third-floor studio apartment in the turret of a Victorian apartment house in Noe Valley, a quiet neighborhood near the Mission District, just eight blocks’ walk from the streetcar or BART station. I was saving up for a car, but that was part of the long-term plan, so for the time being Tyler and I covered San Francisco by mass transit.

  “Let’s go inside and get our stuff. Did you like the windows?”

  “Sure. Can we make one of those hammers for me?”

  “Ha! You liked the hammers?” Leave it to my son to find the one tool in the panorama of Santa Claus lore. I tugged open a door of the main entrance. “We’ll see.”

  2

  “Oh, thank God you’re still here.” Jaimie Mayhews reached toward us as if she were extending a lifeline to save us from drowning in the employee locker room.

  “We’re on our way out.” I was zipping up Tyler’s bag of Legos and books and emergency snacks, and Tyler was swaying against the painted concrete wall by the door, dusting it with the back of his coat as he munched cheese crackers.

  “No, you can’t go!” Jaimie tucked the thick, wavy tendrils of her hair behind both ears. We’re both brunettes, but her hair springs forth in lush Victorian curls while mine is the straight-as-a-flat-ribbon variety. Jaimie is petite and sweet looking, but that wiry frame is solid and strong as a bull, which fits Taurus, her birth sign. We’ve been friends since junior high when she felt sorry for me sitting alone in the lunchroom with my plantain chips and carrot juice. She offered me a seat at her table and half of her Hostess Ding Dong; we’ve been friends ever since.

  “There’s a meeting in the buyer’s conference room and you have to be there,” she said urgently. “Chicago has sent us a new manager, a hatchet man, I think, and he came here straight from the airport and I think he’s going to fire anyone who didn’t work a full shift tonight.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “Probably illegal, too.”

  “He’s the kind of guy who’ll fire first, worry about lawsuits after the smoke clears.”

  Tyler’s chin lifted. “Does he have a gun?”

  “No, honey, it’s a figure of speech.” Jaimie kneeled beside him. “But your mom needs to talk with him. Do you want to come up to my office?” Jaimie is a buyer at Rossman’s, which is a godlike position that requires a phone and an office—an oasis of calm. When she was pregnant with Scout we all worried that she’d be kicked out the door through some loophole, but in fact Rossman’s wanted her back, even on her terms: job sharing with another experienced mother of three. “We can set up your sleeping bag, and you can watch my portable TV,” she told Tyler. “How about that?”

  “We need to get home,” I said. “And I’m an hourly employee. I don’t have to work full shift.”

  “Just come.” Jaimie took the bag in one hand, Tyler’s hand in the other. “If you’re good, you can read the new Captain Underpants book that someone gave Scout.”

  “Scout is three months old,” I called after her. “Who’d give a book like that to a baby?” Ever since Jaimie and her husband Matt had their first child, she’d been showered with gifts from coworkers and family, many items, like batting helmets and footballs, a tad inappropriate for a teething blob o’ baby.

  “Just come on,” Jaimie insisted.

  It was an exercise in euphemism to call the cold tiled room with vinyl chairs and a Formica table a conference room; the drab, windowless space was a sad indicator of the run-down inner workings of this branch of Rossman’s, but tonight the room was brimming with employees churning with suspicion and discontent. The seats were filling up fast, so Jaimie and I squeezed into two chairs between a heavyset man with thick black eyeglasses and a young woman with exotic dark eyes and an impressive row of gemmed piercings along her right ear.

  “This is ridiculous. I don’t have time for this. Will we be paid for attending this meeting?” The young woman cocked her head, catlike, as she spoke.

  “Lucy, I honestly don’t know,” Sherry Hayden answered from the head of the table. The chief of personnel tried to restore calm with her quick smile and her amazing retention of every single employee name, probably because she’d hired all of us. Sherry had one of those ageless faces, smooth chocolate skin and barely a crease. In the two months that I’d worked here Jaimie and I had played a guessing game about Sherry’s age. If this new manager was truly going to downsize, I figured Sherry’s job was safe; she had seniority over all of us. “You can save your questions for Mr. Buchman, who should be here momentarily.”

  One of the men I recognized from the security team asked what the meeting was about.

  “Right now, I don’t have any more information than you have yourself, Tadashi,” Sherry was telling him as the air seemed to thin.

  “Good evening,” came a brisk voice with a British accent.

  I looked up. Chicago had sent us a Brit? It was so unlike the Rossmans to outsource, but apparently the character of the company had begun to shift with the tragic death of the famous Rossman couple last December. As he entered he worked the room, making contact with all of us briefly. I liked those eyes, round and blue, like the eyes of a waif pasted on the face of a prince in a rumpled suit. “Thank you all for staying. I would be the dreaded, sure-to-be-maligned Samuel Buchman. But please, feel free to call me Mr. Buchman.”

  A few people snickered.

  “I’m afraid I’m serious. Well, then, Ms. Hayden, thank you for holding the rank and file for me. Given the lateness of the hour, let’s dispense with formality and get to the point. If you are in this room tonight, you are designated to be trained and deployed as overtime staff during this holiday season. Of course, you will be paid double rate for the overtime hours you work. This measure is designed to A, maximize our use of personnel, since all of you will have the training to serve in more than one department, and B, eliminate the excessive expense of hiring an additional Christmas crew who will need training, training, and more training, then will leave us in January.” He loosened his necktie. “Well, then, that’s all for now.”

  “Hold on a second,” Fred chimed in. “Fred Chalmers from the maintenance crew. Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you telling me you expect me to work in another department, too?”

  Mr. Buchman pointed at him. “Precisely, sir. If you know maintenance, we will teach you how to operate a terminal on the sales floor or how to size a foot in the shoe department.”

  Everyone started talking at once, voices of dissension.

  Fred shook his head. “That is crazy.”

  “It’s also textbook management theory,” Jaimie m
uttered under her breath as she sized up Buchman. “This one’s a climber.”

  “This has got to be a bad joke,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

  Buchman swung around to face me, clapping his hands like a magician.

  The room fell silent as he scowled at me. “Your name, please?”

  “Cassie . . . Cassandra Derringer.”

  “No, Ms. Derringer, it most certainly is not a joke. If you haven’t heard the advance rumblings, I am your worst nightmare—the no-man from headquarters here to trim off excesses, fire the slackers, consolidate departments, push the staff until they give 150 percent, and if all that fails, ultimately, I am the one who will recommend closing this branch of Rossman’s. Yes, the stakes are high. Your store is in jeopardy of being wiped from the streets of San Francisco, Ms. Derringer. Do you think that’s a joking matter?”

  “Well . . .” I wanted to reply that it wasn’t my store, that I was an hourly employee hired just two months ago, but two dozen employees with vested pension plans in this store were staring at me, and I had a strong feeling Mr. Buchman’s question was rhetorical, anyway. “As you can see, Mr. Buchman, I’m not laughing.”

  He nodded and turned, as if to dismiss me.

  “But I’m also not completely on board with your plan.”

  He turned. He glared.

  “And your department is . . .”

  “Design. Window displays, floor displays. Christmas decorations.”

  “Design?” He pressed two knuckles to his chin, right under a cleft that would have been attractive if he weren’t so obnoxious. “I look forward to reviewing the necessity of your department, Ms. Derringer.”

  Translation? You and your silly jingle bells are history.

  Lucy the earring girl shot me a frown that said, You are busted. And though I didn’t cower under Mr. Buchman’s glare, I had a feeling she was right.

  Although I felt possessed by an overwhelming desire to jump up and shout “Fire me now!” I managed to restrain myself until the meeting wound down. Mr. Buchman assigned Sherry Hayden the task of handing out our dual assignments in the morning, which had to mean she was going to be up all night trying to make appropriate matches, but sleep deprivation seemed to be a minor factor in Mr. Buchman’s diabolical plan to ruin Christmas for all of us.