Charming Christmas (17 page)

I frowned at the door.

“Every day is a do-over, Red. Every new morning holds infinite possibilities. Whether you choose to take a train to New York or join a circus in Kalamazoo, you are in control. You are seizing the moment. We only go through once, Red, far as anyone can guarantee, and already you've accomplished some pretty cool things. Keep at it, but don't think you have to follow any certain track.”

The old church door loomed before me, beckoning, intimidating.

“Go on,” he said. “Go for it.”

Did he think I was going out there in the cold, right now? “You mean out in the snow?”

“A little snow never hurt anyone.” He stepped back from the doorway, giving me full access. “Don't worry, I'll see that Claire gets home.”

“Okay, then . . .” I put my hands against the door and shoved, and a hundred tiny crystal flakes skittered around me. Feeling a little silly, I stepped out, let the door close behind me, and descended the church steps, the first steps in my symbolic do-over.

One car passed by, then another. A man walked his dog down the side street, moving slowly, the dog trying to sniff footprints in the snow.

I wondered what it would be like to live here again, to stake my future in this city, set down roots and start a business. The money I'd gotten from Mario's wouldn't go too far in New York, but here it could be a down payment for a house or condo, seed money for a business.

What had ZZ said? Infinite possibilities.

I took a few steps away from the church, glancing at the Christmas trees in the windows of homes I passed. Heading west, toward the hub of Fells Point as if I actually had somewhere to go this dark Christmas morning.

I turned down Wolfe, passing the house Woody had pointed out, 927 Wolfe, which was once occupied by an ice company. In old Baltimore the company sent crews to the Susquehanna River each winter to cut ice and haul it into storage. It was shipped to Baltimore by boat each spring, used in iceboxes to preserve food.

I had always been surrounded by this city's history, but somehow, I'd never felt as if I were a part of it until Bobby's show had pushed my name into infamy. Here was my chance to reverse that, my chance to make my own mark, do something positive, make some waves instead of just dodging the ones that came my way.

And suddenly I was running down the street, my boots skidding slightly in the slush, snowflakes battering my eyes. I ignored it all, forging ahead as if I were running straight into the frame of a Frank Capra film. A right on Thames Street, past the water, another right on East Broadway.

The storm door of Jimmy's rattled slightly as I tugged it open and burst inside, my nose frozen and my eyelashes wet with snow. The waitress looked up from the counter, unfazed as I swiped at my eyes and looked in the corner . . . And there he was, at his table under the clock, reading glasses balanced on his nose as he sketched in a notebook. His shoes were kicked off under the table, his gray-socked feet rubbing against each other for warmth.

I pressed my eyes shut against the rush of emotion I felt at the sight of him—Woody, alone on Christmas Eve, drawing up plans. It was a beautiful sight, mostly because I could see my reflection in the glass of the clock over his head. In the reshaping of my life, this was a frame I could fit into.

Of course, there were dozens of other factors to take into consideration, so many things that would have to weave together, but I wasn't going to sweat the details now.

Instead, I shook the snow from my coat, wove between the tables, and met Woody's look of surprise head-on. “Merry Christmas,” I said.

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

 

 

1

“Y
ou 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 glimmering 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.”