A Lot Like Christmas: Stories

by Connie Willis

  “That’s what’s here,” Fred said, counting the money. “He didn’t turn your Christmas cards into a Douglas fir after all. He took them back and got a refund.”

  “Then that means the tree isn’t in the kitchen!” she said, jumping up and running to look. “No, it doesn’t.”

  She came back and sat down on the couch.

  “But at least you got your money back,” Fred said. “And it fits in with what I learned on the Net last night. They think he’s a friendly presence, probably some sort of manifestation of the seasonal spirit. Apparently these are fairly common, variations of Santa Claus being the most familiar, but there are other ones, too. All benign. They think he’s probably telling the truth about wanting to give you your heart’s desire.”

  “Do they know how to get rid of him?” she asked, and took a bite.

  “No. Apparently no one’s ever wanted to exorcise one.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I got a list of exorcism books to try, though, and this one guy, Clarence, said the most important thing in an exorcism is to know exactly what kind of spirit it is.”

  “How do we do that?” Lauren asked with her mouth full.

  “By its actions,” Fred said. “He said appearance doesn’t mean anything because seasonal spirits are frequently in disguise. He said we need to write down everything the spirit’s said and done, so I want you to tell me exactly what he did.” He took a pen and a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Everything from the first time you saw him.”

  “Just a minute.” She finished the last bite of sandwich and took a drink of the orange juice. “Okay. He knocked on the door, and when I answered it, he told me he was here to give me a Christmas present, and I told him I wasn’t interested, and I shut the door and started into the bedroom to hang up my dress and—my dress!” she gasped, and went tearing into the bedroom.

  “What’s the matter?” Fred said, following her.

  She flung the closet door open and began pushing clothes madly along the bar. “If he’s transformed this—” She stopped pushing hangers. “I’ll kill him,” she said, and lifted out a brownish collection of feathers and dried leaves. “Benign??” she said. “Do you call that benign??”

  Fred gingerly touched a brown feather. “What was it?”

  “A dress,” she said. “My beautiful black, off-the-shoulder, drop-dead dress.”

  “Really?” he said doubtfully. He lifted up some of the brownish leaves. “I think it still is a dress,” he said. “Sort of.”

  She crumpled the leaves and feathers against her and sank down on the bed. “All I wanted was to go to the office party!”

  “Don’t you have anything else you can wear to the office party? What about that pretty red thing you wore last year?”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Scott didn’t even notice it!”

  “And that’s your heart’s desire?” Fred said after a moment. “To have Scott Buckley notice you at the office party?”

  “Yes, and he would have, too! It had sequins on it, and it fit perfectly!” She held out what might have been a sleeve. Greenish-brown lumps dangled from brownish strips of bamboo. “And now he’s ruined it!”

  She flung the dress on the floor and stood up. “I don’t care what this Clarence person says. He is not benign! And he is not trying to get me what I want for Christmas. He is trying to ruin my life!”

  She saw the expression on Fred’s face and stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said. “None of this is your fault. You’ve been trying to help me.”

  “And I’ve been doing about as well as your spirit,” he said. “Look, there has to be some way to get rid of him. Or at least get the dress back. Clarence said he knew some transformation spells. I’ll go on to work and see what I can find out.”

  He went out into the living room and over to the door. “Maybe you can go back to the store and see if they have another dress like it.” He opened the door.

  “Okay.” Lauren nodded. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. And you have been a lot of help.”

  “Right,” he said glumly, and went out.

  “Where’d you get that dress?” Jimmy Stewart said to Donna Reed.

  Lauren whirled around. The TV was on. Donna Reed was showing Jimmy Stewart her new dress.

  “Where are you?” Lauren demanded, looking at the couch. “I want you to change that dress back right now!”

  “Don’t you like it?” the spirit said from the bedroom. “It’s completely biodegradable.”

  She stomped into the bedroom. He was putting the dress on the hanger and making little “tsk”-ing noises. “You have to be careful with natural fibers,” he said reprovingly.

  “Change it back the way it was. This instant.”

  “It was handmade by the Yanomamo Indians,” he said, smoothing down what might be the skirt. “Do you realize that their natural habitat is being destroyed at the rate of 750 acres a day?”

  “I don’t care. I want my dress back.”

  He carried the dress on its hanger over to the chest. “It’s so interesting. Donna Reed knew right away she was in love with Jimmy Stewart, but he was so busy thinking about college and his new suitcase, he didn’t even know she existed.” He hung up the dress. “He practically had to be hit over the head.”

  “I’ll hit you over the head if you don’t change that dress back this instant, Spirit,” she said, looking around for something hard.

  “Call me Chris,” he said. “Did you know sequins are made from nonrenewable resources?” and disappeared as she swung the lamp.

  “And good riddance,” she shouted to the air.

  They had the dress in a size three. Lauren put herself through the indignity of trying to get into it and then went to work. The receptionist was watching Jimmy Stewart standing on the bridge in the snow and weeping into a Kleenex. She handed Lauren her messages.

  There were two memos from the PMS Committee—they were having a sleigh ride after work, and she was supposed to bring cheese puffs to the office party. There wasn’t a message from Fred.

  “Oh!” the receptionist wailed. “This part is so sad!”

  “I hate It’s a Wonderful Life,” Lauren said, and went up to her desk. “I hate Christmas,” she said to Evie.

  “It’s normal to hate Christmas,” Evie said, looking up from the book she was reading. “This book, it’s called Let’s Forget Christmas, says it’s because everyone has these unrealistic expectations. When they get presents, they—”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Lauren said. She rummaged in her bag and brought out Evie’s present, fingering it quickly to make sure it was still a stapler. It seemed to be. She held it out to Evie. “Merry Christmas.”

  “I don’t have yours wrapped yet,” Evie said. “I don’t even have my wrapping paper bought yet. The book says I’m suffering from an avoidance complex.” She picked up the package. “Do I have to open it now? I know it will be something I love, and you won’t like what I got you half as well, and I’ll feel incredibly guilty and inadequate.”

  “You don’t have to open it now,” Lauren said. “I just thought I’d better give it to you before—” She picked her messages up off her desk and started looking through them. “Before I forgot. There haven’t been any messages from Fred, have there?”

  “Yeah. He was here about fifteen minutes ago looking for you. He said to tell you the Net hadn’t been any help, and he was going to try the library.” She looked sadly at the present. “It’s even wrapped great,” she said gloomily. “I went shopping for a dress for the office party last night, and do you think I could find anything off-the-shoulder or with sequins? I couldn’t even find anything I’d be caught dead in. Did you know the rate of stress-related illnesses at Christmas is seven times higher than the rest of the year?”

  “I can relate to that,” Lauren said.

  “No, you can’t. You didn’t end up buying some awful gray thing with gold chains hanging all over it. At least Scott will notice me. He’ll say, ‘Hi, Evie
, are you dressed as Marley’s ghost?’ And there you’ll be, looking fabulous in black sequins—”

  “No, I won’t,” Lauren said.

  “Why? Didn’t they hold it for you?”

  “It was…defective. Did Fred want to talk to me?”

  “I don’t know. He was on his way out. He had to go pick up his Santa Claus suit. Oh, my God.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s Scott Buckley.”

  “Hi,” Scott said to Lauren. “I was wondering if you could go shopping with me tonight.”

  Lauren stared at him, so taken aback she couldn’t speak.

  “When you couldn’t go last night, I decided to cancel my date.”

  “Uh…I…” she said.

  “I thought we could buy the presents and then have some dinner.”

  She nodded.

  “Great,” Scott said. “I’ll come over to your apartment around six-thirty.”

  “No!” Lauren said. “I mean, why don’t we go straight from work?”

  “Good idea. I’ll come up here and get you.” He smiled meltingly and left.

  “I think I’ll kill myself,” Evie said. “Did you know the rate of suicides at Christmas is four times higher than the rest of the year? He is so cute,” she said, looking longingly down the hall after him. “There’s Fred.”

  Lauren looked up. Fred was coming toward her desk with a Santa Claus costume and a stack of books. Lauren hurried across to him.

  “This is everything the library had on exorcisms and the occult,” Fred said, transferring half of the books to her arms. “I thought we could both go through them today, and then get together tonight and compare notes.”

  “Oh, I can’t,” Lauren said. “I promised Scott I’d help him pick out the presents for the office party tonight. I’m sorry. I could tell him I can’t.”

  “Your heart’s desire? Are you kidding?” He started awkwardly piling the books back on his load. “You go shopping. I’ll go through the books and let you know if I come up with anything.”

  “Are you sure?” she said guiltily. “I mean, you shouldn’t have to do all the work.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said. He started to walk away and then stopped. “You didn’t tell the spirit Scott was your heart’s desire, did you?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “I was just wondering…nothing. Never mind.” He walked off down the hall. Lauren went back to her desk.

  “Did you know the rate of depression at Christmas is sixteen times higher than the rest of the year?” Evie said. She handed Lauren a package.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s from your Secret Santa.”

  Lauren opened it. It was a large book entitled It’s a Wonderful Life: The Photo Album. On the cover, Jimmy Stewart was looking depressed.

  “I figure it’ll take a half hour or so to pick out the presents,” Scott said, leading her past two inflatable palm trees into The Upscale Oasis. “And then we can have some supper and get acquainted.” He lay down on a massage couch. “What do you think about this?”

  “How many presents do we have to buy?” Lauren asked, looking around the store. There were a lot of inflatable palm trees, and a jukebox, and several life-size cardboard cutouts of Malcolm Forbes and Leona Helmsley. Against the far wall were two high-rise aquariums and a bank of televisions with neon-outlined screens.

  “Seventy-two.” He got up off the massage couch, handed her the list of employees, and went over to a display of brown boxes tied with twine. “What about these? They’re handmade Yanomamo Christmas ornaments.”

  “No,” Lauren said. “How much money do we have to spend?”

  “The PMS Committee budgeted six thousand, and there was five hundred left in the Sunshine fund. We can spend…” He picked up a pocket calculator in the shape of Donald Trump and punched several buttons. “Ninety dollars per person, including tax. How about this?” He held up an automatic cat feeder.

  “We got those last year,” Lauren said. She picked up a digital umbrella and put it back down.

  “How about a car fax?” Scott said. “No, wait. This, this is it!”

  Lauren turned around. Scott was holding up what looked like a gold cordless phone. “It’s an investment pager,” he said, punching keys. “See, it gives you the Dow Jones, treasury bonds, interest rates. Isn’t it perfect?”

  “Well,” Lauren said.

  “See, this is the hostile takeover alarm, and every time the Federal Reserve adjusts the interest rate it beeps.”

  Lauren read the tag. “ ‘Portable Plutocrat, $74.99.’ ”

  “Great,” Scott said. “We’ll have money left over.”

  “To invest,” Lauren said.

  He went off to see if they had seventy-two of them, and Lauren wandered over to the bank of televisions.

  There was a videotape of Miracle on 34th Street lying on top of the VCR/shower massage. Lauren looked around to see if anyone was watching and then popped the Wonderful Life tape out and stuck in Miracle.

  A dozen Edmund Gwenns dressed as Macy’s Santa Claus appeared on the screens, listening to twelve store managers tell them which overstocked toys to push.

  Scott came over, lugging four shopping bags. “They come gift wrapped,” he said happily, showing her a Portable Plutocrat wrapped in green paper with gold dollar signs. “Which gives us a free evening.”

  “That’s what I’ve been fighting against for years,” a dozen Edmund Gwenns said, tearing a dozen lists to bits, “the way they commercialize Christmas.”

  “What I thought,” Scott said when they got in the car, “was that instead of going out for supper, we’d take these over to your apartment and order in.”

  “Order in?” Lauren said, clutching a bag of Portable Plutocrats on her lap.

  “I know a great Italian place that delivers. Angel-hair pasta, wine, everything. Or, if you’d rather, we could run by a grocery store and pick up some stuff to cook.”

  “Actually, my kitchen’s kind of a mess,” she said. There is a Christmas tree in it, she thought, with organic by-products hanging on it.

  He pulled up outside her apartment building. “Then Italian it is.” He got out of the car and began unloading shopping bags. “You like prosciutto? They have a great melon and prosciutto.”

  “Actually, the whole apartment’s kind of a disaster,” Lauren said, following him up the stairs. “You know, wrapping presents and everything. There are ribbons and tags and paper all over the floor and—”

  “Great,” he said, stopping in front of her door. “We have to put tags on the presents, anyway.”

  “They don’t need tags, do they?” Lauren said desperately. “I mean, they’re all exactly alike.”

  “It personalizes them,” he said. “It shows the gift was chosen especially for them.” He looked expectantly at the key in her hand and then at the door.

  She couldn’t hear the TV, which was a good sign. And every time Fred had come over, the spirit had disappeared. So all I have to do is keep him out of the kitchen, she thought.

  She opened the door and Scott pushed past her and dumped the shopping bags onto the coffee table. “Sorry,” he said. “Those were really heavy.” He straightened up and looked around the living room. There was no sign of the spirit, but there were three Evian water bottles on the coffee table. “This doesn’t look too messy. You should see my apartment. I’ll bet your kitchen’s neater than mine, too.”

  Lauren walked swiftly over to the kitchen and pulled the door shut. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Aren’t there still some more presents to bring up?”

  “Yeah. I’ll go get them. Shall I call the Italian place first?”

  “No,” Lauren said, standing with her back against the kitchen door. “Why don’t you bring the bags up first?”

  “Okay,” he said, smiling meltingly, and went out.

  Lauren leaped to the door, put the deadbolt and the chain on, and then ran back to the kitchen and opened the door. The tree was still there. She p
ulled the door hastily to and walked rapidly into the bedroom. He wasn’t there, or in the bathroom. “Thank you,” she breathed, looking heavenward, and went back in the living room.

  The TV was on. Edmund Gwenn was shouting at the store psychologist.

  “You know, you were right,” the spirit said. He was stretched out on the couch, wearing a “Save the Black-Footed Ferret” T-shirt and jeans. “It’s not a bad movie. Of course, it’s not as good as It’s a Wonderful Life, but I like the way everything works out at the end.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, glancing anxiously at the door.

  “Watching Miracle on 34th Street,” he said, pointing at the screen. Edmund Gwenn was brandishing his cane at the store psychiatrist. “I like the part where Edmund Gwenn asks Natalie Wood what she wants for Christmas, and she shows him the picture of the house.”

  Lauren picked up Fred’s video and brandished it at him. “Fine. Then you can change Fred’s video back.”

  “Okay,” he said, and did something. She looked at Fred’s video. It showed Edmund Gwenn hugging Natalie Wood in front of a yellow moon with Santa Claus’s sleigh and reindeer flying across it. Lauren put the video hastily down on the coffee table.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And my dress.”

  “Natalie Wood doesn’t really want a house, of course. What she really wants is for Maureen O’Hara to marry John Payne. The house is just a symbol for what she really wants.”

  On the TV Edmund Gwenn rapped the store psychologist smartly on the forehead with his cane.

  There was a knock on the door. “It’s me,” Scott said.

  “I also like the part where Edmund Gwenn yells at the store manager for pushing merchandise nobody wants. Christmas presents should be something the person wants. Aren’t you going to answer the door?”

  “Aren’t you going to disappear?” she whispered.

  “Disappear?” he said incredulously. “The movie isn’t over. And besides, I still haven’t gotten you what you want for Christmas.” He did something, and a bowl of trail mix appeared on his stomach.