by Billy Romp
Then I remembered: Ellie had gone into the camper to speak to Patti before she left. Probably she’d asked permission to spend the night with Emma, and Patti had failed to mention it to me. One of the ironies of this season is that Patti and I are both so busy, sometimes days will pass before we have any private time with each other. It was logical that since things had been so tense between us, Ellie would have turned to Patti instead of me.
So I did something unprecedented. I delayed counting the day’s sales total; I’d do it the next day. I stripped down to my long thermal underwear and climbed into bed. I reached over and touched my wife’s long brown hair, spread out like a fan above her head on the pillow. Sleeping soundly, Patti rolled over and opened one eye.
“Did Ellie ask to spend the night with Emma?” I asked. She didn’t hear me the first time, so I had to repeat myself.
“She didn’t say anything about it to me,” Patti said. Then both her eyes opened as she seemed to come fully awake: “Isn’t she here now? What time is it?”
I answered her questions and speculated that she must have gone to Emma’s.
Patti thought for a moment. “I’m sure you’re right. Ellie’s got to be at Emma’s. Maybe they got in so late that they didn’t want to disturb us—or maybe they aren’t back yet.” Patti turned back on her side and mumbled something about hoping Ellie had had a great time. With that, she shut her eyes and slipped back to sleep.
I had brought with me into our bed the cordless phone, which I laid alongside the pillow. I held it to my ear and pushed the “on” button, just to be sure it was working.
I slept fitfully that night. I kept waking to check my pocket watch and my daughter’s bunk, as if she might have magically reappeared. But all I saw was Zippy, looking forlorn with his monkey arm dangling off the side of Ellie’s bed. By the wee hours, it should have been obvious that she wasn’t coming home that night, but that didn’t stop me from looking. More than once, I considered calling the Abbott home despite the lateness of the hour, but my better judgment prevailed.
I woke up for good just after five that morning—early for me. Since Patti and the boys were trying to sleep, I made an effort to dress quietly. But the camper is so small that it’s hard for anyone to do anything without everyone sharing in the experience. I wanted hot tea, but the kettle would start whistling louder than the most persistent alarm clock. Instead, I twisted the cap off a bottle of water and sat on the bench seat below Ellie’s bunk, thinking. Zippy’s arm, dangling down from above, touched my head.
As I sipped, I could hear New York City waking up. Though the early-morning traffic hadn’t yet started its rumble, the garbage men had already come and gone, and the delivery trucks were going strong, unloading the many goods needed to keep the city running. Diesel-fueled trucks were throwing off bundles of New York Times and Daily News newspapers, which dropped with loud thuds onto the sidewalks in front of three delis within hearing distance. Delivery men off-loading newspapers, soft drinks, bread, and canned goods paid no attention to the hour of day, and their halting exchanges were shouted in decibels exceeding their noisy engines. With our camper right on the street, the sounds of the city were amplified for us.
As I tallied up the totals from the previous day, I could feel my left eye pulsing its nervous twitch. The totals were good, but the twitch was a sign that I was getting tight and tense and needed to get out and stretch. I stepped outside into the pitch-black world around me, slipping the phone into my jacket pocket.
As I walked, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ellie. Perhaps I’d been wrong in assuming that if we lived our lives with integrity and made friends with as many of our neighbors as possible, we would live in a kind of safe bubble on Jane Street. I’ve always said that you don’t build security through locks and barriers but rather through treating everyone decently, with dignity and respect. As I found myself strolling in the direction of Emma’s apartment building, the voices of my Vermont friends asking me if I was worried about bringing my family to the city came back to me. At the time I brushed them off, but if something had happened to Ellie, I’d have only myself to blame for being so casual—and cavalier—about her safety.
I looked up at the apartment, scrutinizing Emma’s bedroom window for some sort of an answer. I punched the “on” button on my portable phone and was about to dial the number I knew by heart. Realizing that it was not yet half past five, I restrained myself. I would have to wait. But the dark windows didn’t offer me a clue.
I had returned to the stand and stayed busy plumping the branches on the trees. I was keeping my eye on the time. At seven sharp, I dialed their number. The phone was answered after two rings by Anne, who sounded groggy.
“I was calling about Ellie,” I started. “Is she there?” I didn’t want to let her know how worried I was, so I consciously tried to tamp down my anxiety.
“Oh, sure,” she answered breezily. But, she told me, Ellie was still asleep, “recovering” from her big night on the town. Something in Anne’s tone carried a whiff of disapproval, as if she thought I had been riding Ellie too hard. She didn’t offer to wake Ellie, but said she’d send her “along home” after breakfast.
I clicked off the phone, overcome by relief. I wanted to dance a jig. Ellie was safe! Ellie would be back!
I returned to my trees. Though I initially felt grateful and relieved that Ellie was very much alive, something began bothering me. I recognized it as irritation. No, the feeling was stronger than that; it was anger. I had spent one whole night agonizing when one simple phone call from her would have put my mind to rest. It wasn’t like Ellie not to call. The Ellie I knew was conscientious and considerate. For her to spend the night out and not call, or go out and not think of calling, didn’t fit her character. Was she changing so rapidly that I didn’t know her anymore?
This much was clear: Ellie and I needed to have a serious talk.
I had just finished picking up a scattering of trash that had blown onto the stand from points unknown during the windy night before—you know, things like advertising circulars, empty Styrofoam cups and boxes, and plastic grocery bags—when I spotted her. I watched Ellie step down from the stoop at Emma’s building. Although it was a fairly short distance from Emma’s to the stand, she was taking her time, peering into shop windows and even bending down to read a newspaper in a box. Dressed in her denim jumper and work boots, she looked as plain today as she had elegant the night before—Cinderella after the ball.
When she finally arrived at the stand at half past nine, I had known for more than two hours that she was safe and sound. But I was steaming. Even though I already knew, and she knew that I knew, I had to ask. “Where have you been?”
She rolled her eyes. “You know. I spent the night at Emma’s. Anne told me you called this morning. At seven.” The way she emphasized the word made it clear that she viewed it as an unreasonable hour.
I looked at my daughter. “And who gave you permission to spend the night out?”
“Well, no one, but I figured you’d know where I was.”
“How could I know where you were? I was worried sick about you all night.”
She didn’t say anything, but one of those looks crossed her face like she wasn’t really there. So, to get my point across, I continued. “I am amazed you would think it was okay to just not come home at night without calling to let your mother and me know where you were. And since when do you spend the night at someone else’s place without first asking permission?”
“Well, I could hardly ask your permission because you weren’t even speaking to me yesterday.”
“I wasn’t speaking to you?” I heard myself say. It was happening again—I heard myself shouting. “It seems to me that you weren’t speaking to me. I don’t know where or how it’s come into your mind, but it appears that you think you’re running the show right now.”
“Daddy, you are a—” she started, as if she were going to come up with some insulting epithet but thought the be
tter of it.
“So you had it all worked out—before you went to The Nutcracker—that you were going to spend the night at Emma’s. Do I have this right?”
“No, I hadn’t decided before. It’s just that we got in late. The show was late and dinner was late and it just seemed like the thing to do. I didn’t really think it through.”
The way she said—”it just seemed like the thing to do”—got to me. It sounded so casual, like someone else talking. It sounded like her responsibility to us was insignificant, a bother almost. I had no other choice: I was simply going to have to exercise my parental power. This was one of those moments when a father needed to come on strong.
“Ellie,” I said in a stern tone that set the stage for what was to come. “You’ve spent more time at Emma’s this season than you have here. But you’ve spent all the time that you’re going to over there. I need a little help at the stand.” Although it might sound harsh, I wasn’t about to reward her after she had been so irresponsible. Ellie needed to learn a lesson. “You’re not going to go to Anne Abbott’s party tonight.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief, and then the red flush of anger spread across her face. “Daddy,” she said, “I promised them I was going. I promised them I would help them get ready.”
“You promised me you were going to help and you haven’t much this year.”
Her shoulders drooped and the spark in her eyes went flat. Looking defeated, she just stared at me, saying nothing.
“Look, Ellie,” I said. “This stand is not just for fun; this is our livelihood.” But she wouldn’t understand, and the sullen look hardened on her face. “Not only are you not going to the party. You’re not going anywhere from this stand without my permission.”
Then she raised her hand, like some sarcastic school kid. Her voice was strangely pitched when she asked: “May I go into the camper?”
I nodded my head yes, and she marched into the camper and closed the door behind her.
I got busy with customers. Henry was with me and even sold a few candles for his absentee sister. When I had a break in business and ducked my head inside the camper, I was expecting to see her at the table, reading or writing or making last-minute Christmas cards. This time, I was prepared for her pouty behavior and one-word answers. But to my surprise, Ellie wasn’t there. Neither were Patti and Timmy.
When Patti and Timmy returned a while later, I asked Patti where Ellie was.
“I thought she was with you,” came her reply. Patti looked distracted, and I could sense she was impatient with my ongoing conflict with Ellie. “Maybe she’s at Emma’s.”
“She couldn’t be,” I said. “I grounded her.”
“Grounded her—Billy, what is going on? You’ve never grounded Ellie in your life. I’ve never even heard you use that word—grounded. This doesn’t happen in our family. Billy, what is going on?” She unclipped her barrette and gathered her hair back into one hand, rearranging it nervously. It was easy to see that she wasn’t upset with Ellie but had somehow transferred all the blame to me.
I had the feeling then that I’d had as a kid when my sisters ganged up on me. I knew I was in the right, and that I had no choice but to hold my ground. But for the rest of the day, I was haunted by a strange sense of loss.
6
A Stranger in the Family
When I returned from walking Santos early that evening, I saw that a man had taken my place at the stand. He was handing a tree to a customer and pocketing the cash. I didn’t recognize him, so my heart started beating fast.
But when I got close, I realized it was Mark, one of our Jane Street friends of long standing, a gold trader on Wall Street. Every year, I heard the same refrain from him. “You’ve got it made, Billy. Great family! Three great kids! Beautiful wife! I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
And he did, every year—for a night.
Mark was walking up and down my sidewalks, proprietarily fluffing up the branches of the open trees, rearranging the wreaths decked out along the fence, humming “Jingle Bells.” When he saw me, he challenged: “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Go get ready,” he commanded, handing me the keys to his apartment. “Go take a shower.”
“Ready for what?” I asked.
“The party,” he said. When he could see I was clueless, he explained. “Patti asked me to fill in tonight for the party. What—she didn’t tell you?”
“Oh, Anne Abbott’s Christmas party,” I said. “I forgot.”
A wicker picnic basket overflowing with candy canes, Christmas cookies, and fruitcake sat on Ellie’s abandoned candle stand. Two shiny thermoses bracketed the basket like bookends. “Something to keep me going,” he explained. “Something to keep my customers happy.” He winked when he used the word my. “Like a cup?” It was clear that for Mark, retailing was a kind of pleasure sport.
I declined. He poured himself a cup of hot coffee, took a sip, and slapped me on the back. “You know, Billy, you’ve got it made. Every year, it just gets better for you. What you have lasts a lifetime.”
Mark couldn’t have known all I’d been through these past few weeks with Ellie, but he told me exactly what I needed to hear. He looked at my life the way I liked to see it myself—the way I hoped it would become once again. “I appreciate your offering to help out tonight,” I said, “but I’m really not up for going to this party. So take it easy tonight, or if you want to sell trees, work with me.”
“I don’t care if you’re in the mood or not,” Mark responded. “You’re going to that party. What are you—crazy? Patti works like a dog all month and all she asks of you is to go to one party. You go. You don’t ask, you don’t consider how you feel, you just go.”
It may have been Mark’s glowing perception of my life that sent me off to shower, shave, and spiff up for the party like an obedient, young boy. Or maybe it was his bluster. In my heart, though, I was doing it for Patti. Mark just told me what I already knew and needed to hear. She had been great this year, as usual. Working long hours without complaining. Cooking in a kitchen that even a saint would have to describe as modest. Remaining steady and sensible no matter what storms raged around her. Patti never raised her voice. Don’t get me wrong. Patti was no pushover, and once she staked out her position, she held her ground. So when she asked for something in a certain tone—when she said, “humor me”—I took notice. Patti used that tone on me when she saw me talking to Mark and came rushing out of the camper.
“April has taken the boys to the party with Heidi and Anya,” Patti said, referring to Mark’s wife and kids. “You and I are leaving in twenty minutes.”
If my heart’s not in a thing, I’ve always had a hard time just going along with the program. Even though I’d agreed to go for Patti’s sake and had spiffed up as she requested, my feet were dragging. Patti and I were walking along Eighth Avenue to the party when we got into it.
I was taking my time, staring through a plate-glass window into an antique store all decked out in Christmas finery. Bolts of red and green velvet fabric draped Victorian chairs, tables, and rockers, with vintage Christmas cards propped all around. A merry family of porcelain dolls dressed in satin coats and fur muffs sat by a simulated fireplace, as if they’d just come in from the cold. The entire scene was meant to convey a feeling of gaiety, holiday cheer, and to carry you back in time.
But rather than bolstering my spirits, the tableau had the opposite effect on me. What I really felt was empty and hollow, like I’d been left behind by the season, left behind by my own family. Sure, Christmas tree sales were meeting—even exceeding—expectations, but it was hard for me to think of anything but Ellie and how sad I felt. She seemed more interested in a world that I knew nothing about—a world in which I didn’t live—than in our life together as a family. I wondered if, in hindsight, we should have come to New York at all. I hadn’t broached the subject with Patti but I was considering whether to mak
e this our last season on Jane Street.
Patti tapped my shoulder. “Billy, pick up your feet. We’re already late. Let’s get going.”
I looked at her, knowing I had to level with her. Even if she didn’t accept my reasoning, at least she had to know what was on my mind. “I don’t really want to go to this,” I said, wrinkling my forehead. “You know that. I’m dog tired. It’s been a long, hard season and I haven’t had much help.” I felt railroaded, the way that I did when I was a kid and had to offer grace at the dinner table because I was the only boy among five children. When Dad called on me, as he did for Christmas dinner, it always made me feel self-conscious. I felt the same way in these clothes—a red shirt, wool pants, and suspenders—my own version of fancy. There was little I hated more in life than being forced into a role I didn’t feel, forced to make pleasant conversation and be gracious when I was down. All I really wanted was to get back to the stand and sell more trees. Clean out the stock. My Christmas wish was for things to return to normal in our family, and I didn’t see how going to this party was going to accomplish that.
