Charming Christmas (13 page)

14

J
ust as it seems to go with every new television show I loathe,
Nutcracker
found its humongous audience immediately. Bobby's luck, my curse.

So in our own unique form of boycott, Bonnie, Lanessa, Kate, and I made Tuesday night our girls' night out. While the rest of the world was watching
The Nutcracker
, my friends and I had our run of Baltimore city, and we took advantage of every freebie we could find. Lanessa got us passes to a party at the Museum of Industry, where she pointed out her great-grandaddy in a photo of the Platt Oyster Cannery. We attended Bonnie's company Christmas party at the Walters Art Gallery, where we ended up on our backs in a small room that was part of the illuminated manuscript exhibit. When a docent showed us the illuminated ceiling panels, each one depicting a different fable, Bonnie insisted we all play the game. We lay there with our heads together like girls at a slumber party, calling out as we identified scenes: “A bird in the hand beats two in the bush!” “The grass is greener on the other side!”

One Tuesday when the later Christmas hours had kicked in, I finagled some late-night ice time at the new Rossman's rink, and afterward we did a quick sweep through the store, searching for presents to buy with my employee discount.

Lanessa found a fabulous dress with a short plaid jacket with fake fur lapels—perfect for her family Christmas celebration. The Jones sisters had a tradition of dressing up for the holidays, trying to best each other and scolding anyone who dared show up with chipped nail polish or reinforced-toe stockings in open-toed shoes.

“Do you think this makes my ass look fat?” Lanessa asked us, backing toward the mirror. “Daria just lost ten pounds and she's a twig. Making us all look like elephants.”

“Your ass fits with the rest of your body,” Bonnie said.

Lanessa's brows shot up. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“We love the dress,” Kate insisted, “and we love you in it. Just buy it, will ya? I have six nieces and nephews to shop for, and the store closes at midnight.”

Down in the toy department I helped Kate find some awesome kits—chemistry experiments and rocket building, robot assembly and stained-glass baking. “Very cool,” Kate said, stacking them on the counter. “Can I blame you when my sister-in-law's eyes bug out?”

“They encourage creativity!”

“Creativity comes with a price. Like the carpet cleaner's bill.” Kate winced, but she managed to hand over her credit card and buy the inventor's kits.

Next stop, the main sales floor, where a group of carolers dressed in turn-of-the-century clothing got us into the spirit. I found two possible gifts for my mother—a Hermès scarf and a white cashmere sweater set.

“Ooh!” Lanessa touched a finger to one cheek. “A little pricey, aren't they?”

“There's my employee discount,” I said. “Besides, I'd like to do something special for Mom this year.”

“Admit it,” Lanessa prodded, “you just don't want to make a decision. Olivia's lament.”

Bonnie sampled the texture of the cashmere. “Nice. I'm sure it's been a relief for Claire to have you here, with everything she's been going through.”

“Thank God you were here and able to get her into therapy,” Kate said.

“And do I sense a little romance brewing between your mother and that biker Santa?” Lanessa asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said, “but they're definitely friends. From the start he backed away from being her therapist. I guess that means something.” ZZ had removed himself from Claire Todd's “case” the first time he met her, explaining that he thought another therapist would serve her better. “Besides,” he'd told me, “it's really not ethical for me to treat her if I'm a friend.” Which made sense to me. I folded the scarf and took it to the counter, adding, “ZZ has become a good friend to Mom, and to me. But the other thing I've realized is that she still has lots of friends. Oh, she may call me to pick up shiitake mushrooms or crabmeat from Lexington Market, but that's just because she's accustomed to asking. She's got at least a dozen neighborhood friends who would be happy to do her favors and run errands. Besides that, it's not as if her social life has ended, it's simply moved inside her house.”

“So, basically, you're off the hook?” Kate cocked her head to the side, that special way she lets you know she's listening. “After your ankle checks out and you pack your bags for New York, will you feel guilty leaving her stuck in that house?”

I shook my head. “She doesn't expect me to stay and take care of her. My mother has never been one to be dependent, and this new therapist has been coming to the house. She doesn't need me.”

“Oh, Livvy!” Bonnie blinked rapidly, her eyes shiny with tears. “I can't believe you're leaving again. Just when we were all getting into such a great groove again.” She puckered her mouth, trying to keep from crying.

“I'm not out of here yet. There's still a few weeks. I'm committed to work through Christmas Eve.”

Bonnie hugged me close. “I know, but it's coming, sooner than later.”

“Jesus H.” Lanessa rolled her eyes. “Can we save the tears for the bon voyage party?”

Bonnie shook her head. “It's just that this Christmas reminds me so much of that last year of college, the last year that we were really together.” She turned to Kate. “And don't even get me started on you, because if I really believed you were going to hightail it across the damned country, I'd be bawling like a baby.”

Kate shrugged and glanced away, as if trying to avoid her own future. “I'll know for sure in January.”

“You'd just better not leave us like this New York girl!” Bonnie pointed an accusing finger at Kate. “No pressure, though.”

“Oh, please.” Lanessa pressed her fingers to her temples. “Can we skip the blood oath and go straight to a round of beers at the Cat's Eye before I blow it and start shouting out secrets of the divine yahoo sisterhood?”

15

“G
ot some exciting news, everyone,” Charley said. He opened his hands to the group assembled at his feet, reminding me of a preacher blessing the Rossman's congregation.

He'd asked us to assemble in front of the big stone fireplace, its flames dancing warmly on this frosty morning less than two weeks before Christmas, and although Charley's request pushed us to be in costume and out on the sales floor ten minutes earlier than usual, a cheerful mood prevailed. Skinny Stu had brought in a cinnamon coffee cake baked by his wife that very morning to be shared by all and had made charming glitter pinecone ornaments for Santa Squad members to take home. Although we were quickly moving toward the week before Christmas, our yuletide workforce had pulled together, a sprightly, festive family.

“Rossman's is going to have a special visitor on Wednesday,” Charley went on. “A television show is set to film here next week, and they want to set their cameras right here in Santaland.”

“I love it!” cried Debbie, one of the elves on winter break from University of Maryland. She waved her hand in the air, as if waiting to be called on. “Is it
AM Baltimore
? Or someone from the
Today Show
?”

“No, no, it's not interviews.” Charley pointed his pen in the air, ready to burst the rumor bubble before it spread. “No, we're going to be part of a dramatic comedy on BigTime Cable. It's called
Nutcracker
. . .”

I nearly snorted a cinnamon crumb out my nose. Had he said . . . ? No, I had to be dreaming. A feverish nightmare.

“The
Nutcracker
production team handpicked us for a location shot,” Charley went on. “They want to pretend their characters are actually shopping here, going to Santaland, all that great stuff. Of course, the Rossmans are thrilled.”

“Oh. My. God.” I backed up and felt something probing my ass—a branch from the artificial tree. I moved right to catch my balance and stepped on the edge of a foil package. ZZ and Regis reached out and held me up from either side before I went down, taking the tree display with me.

“Easy there, Red,” ZZ muttered.

I gaped at him. “Tell me they're bringing in the Nutcracker ballet company.”

He winced, his eyes small slits in his crinkled, weathered skin. “Nnnno. That would be wrong.”

“You're telling me it's Bobby?” I asked. “He's really coming here with a camera crew?”

“And his wife and all the producers' kids and the entire cast of the show.”

“Fu—” In that millisecond I caught four pairs of Santa eyes slant my way. I was one consonant away from having my name slashed from the “Nice” list.

“—dge. Fudge!” I finished. “Can't eat it,” I told Carlos and Archie. “I'm totally allergic.”

The Santas lost interest in my outburst and turned back to their conversation of TV appearances, big breaks, and looking chubby on camera.

“Sorry, Olivia,” Regis said, his lyrical Australian accent such a delight to hear. “People seem to have forgotten what an ass the bloody producer is. Shall I fill Charley in on it all?”

“No.” I sank down a few inches, bone weary. Charley had a job to do, just like the rest of us. Even if he cared enough to try, he would be powerless to stop this freight train from roaring through another aspect of my life.

ZZ clapped a reassuring hand on my left shoulder. “Tough break, kid.”

“Give me the day off.” I turned away from Charley and the others, zeroing in on ZZ as if my eyes held hypnotic powers. “I can't be here when Bobby and his wife and his crew come blazing through. I need next Wednesday off.”

“No can do. You heard Charley. They want the whole Christmas enchilada—Santaland, Mrs. Claus, elves and all.”

“Mr. Claus . . .” I looked ZZ right in the eye. “Do you have any idea how uncomfortable this is going to be for me?”

He patted my shoulder again. “What can I say? Adversity builds character.”

“Oh, please, if that were true we'd all be superheroes.”

ZZ crossed his arms over his belly, his feet planted wide apart in a bounding stance. “And who says we're not?”

16

A
s Christmas week began, the pieces of my life were coming together quite neatly. On Monday I was early for my ten o'clock appointment with Dr. Riddle, the orthopedic surgeon, who examined my ankle and my X-rays and uttered those words I had been longing for: “Looks like you're good to go.”

“You really mean it?” Why did I sound like a contender on
American Idol
? I knew doctors were not in practice to give a false prognosis.

Dr. Riddle scratched the thin hair on his forehead. “You must have gone wild with physical therapy. There's no sign of muscle atrophy at all.”

I gasped. “I can dance . . . on Broadway?”

He frowned and flipped through my file. “That I can't say. I'm a surgeon, not a producer.”

I squinted at him, and he cracked a grin. “Kidding! If you've got the talent, you've now got a healthy ankle to go with it.”

Before I'd even given Dr. Riddle's receptionist my copay, I was on the phone with Mrs. Atwater, making an appointment for January 2, figuring I'd need next week to work out with my dance coach to hit my mark again.

“This might develop into a situation mutually convenient for us both,” she said sternly, and I could imagine her penciling me in on her ever-present clipboard. “I've had three girls down with the flu all week, and you know how that goes. You can dance with a cold, but when it hits the lower G.I. tract, no good.”

“I'd love to be a stand-in,” I said emphatically.

“We'll see, dear. We'll see.”

 

 

When I returned to my apartment, I saw the place with new eyes. Suddenly the hole in the wall exposing insulation didn't bother me, nor did the clanging pipes that indicated heat was pumping into the already hot space. None of it mattered now; it was all temporary.

It's all temporary.
. . . Hadn't I told myself that a thousand times?

Now that I believed it, I realized the work ahead of me. I needed to pack, ship some clothes up to my friend's apartment, cart the rest of my stuff off to Mom's basement to store until I knew where I'd be living. If I was taking the train on the twenty-sixth and working through Christmas Eve, I would have to move most of my things on Christmas Day.

Crazy, but doable, especially with the fires of motivation burning my ass. I changed into sweats, collected some boxes from behind the Wawa on the corner, and started sorting sweaters and books, lingerie and CDs. I had taped off two full boxes when someone rapped on the door.

“It's me!” squealed Mrs. Scholinsky.

I opened the door, surprised to see her hair unfettered by curlers. It was artfully combed out, the gray covered with an attractive shade of gold that might have been called caramel corn.

“This letter came while you were gone, special delivery.” She held the envelope level under her chin. “I had to sign for it, but I told the postman I don't mind. I'm your landlady, for godsakes, I can sign.”

“Thanks,” I said, wondering who'd want to track me down. “You look nice today.”

“I've got a boyfriend,” she said proudly. “A Belair man. Alan down at the Stop and Shop introduced us. He works the deli counter.”

The information passed over me; I was focused on the return address—New York City.

Mrs. Scholinsky noticed the boxes. “You're packing? So you're really going to be out by the first of the month?”

“That's my plan.”

“Heading back to New York, hon?”

I nodded. “I'm trying to hook up with the Rockettes again.” If that didn't pan out for me, I had saved enough money to last a month in Manhattan, maybe two. With costs so high in that city, my share of the rent had been more than one thousand dollars. I had spent the afternoon working on budgets, a little more leery of the adventure this time around, now that I knew what it cost to live in New York. All afternoon my excitement was twisting inside me, a ball in my chest that was surprisingly similar to stress. The pain spiked whenever I thought of the logistics and the expense of moving back to New York. It was not a thrifty move, but a dancer needed to be in New York.

Not Pigtown.

Mrs. Scholinsky mentioned something about bringing in a construction crew to finish all the renovations—just my luck, fix up the place as soon as I leave!—but I only half heard, eager to close the door and open this odd letter.

Inside, one page was handwritten on notebook paper, as if torn from a school binder.

Inside the envelope was a cashier's check, payable to me in the amount of twenty thousand dollars.

 

 

Within fourteen minutes all my friends knew my fabulous two-part good news.

Virtuous Kate focused more on healing than the cash. “That's so wonderful about your ankle,” Kate said. “I knew this injury wouldn't derail you for long. See? It was just a temporary setback.”

When I called Lanessa, the lawyer emerged. “The twenty grand was a very smart move on their part. Saves everyone court expenses and spreads goodwill all around.”

“But I wasn't going to sue Mario,” I said for the bazil-lionth time.

“Whatever. Take the money and run, hon.”

Bonnie was more pragmatic. “I can't believe the pizza man sent you all that money,” she said. “What are you going to do with it? You need an investment strategy. Let me get you my advisor's number. And most important, did you really see Mrs. Scholinsky without her pinwheels and scarf?” My landlady was a Dippity-do legend in Pigtown.

“There is hair under those rollers,” I said. “And an even bigger scoop, she's got a boyfriend in Belair. She's considering shacking up with him, leaving Pigtown for good.”

Bonnie gasped. “No!”

“Uhm-hmm.” Maybe it was true; maybe our lives didn't have to be defined by outside events. If Mrs. Scholinsky could get the hairpins out and meet a beau, there was hope for the rest of us.