by New Yorker
New York’s engulfed in Christmas week.
A city, in short, drenched in Christmas, which is the way I think of New York in December, and the way it exists—rejoice!—in these pages.
MORE OF A SURPRISE
SALLY BENSON
Just after Thanksgiving Day every year, Jim and Rhoda Huston made out their Christmas lists. The lists were for each other and were nicely balanced, combining a feeling for the practical with Yuletide abandon. For instance, one of the items on Mrs. Huston’s list might be “Pigskin gloves—size 6½,” a good, sensible suggestion, but it would be followed by a bit of frivolity, such as “Bath salts—something spicy.”
Some years ago, Mr. Huston had made the grave mistake of picking out things from Rhoda’s list that he thought she really needed and he had lived to regret it. It was the Christmas she had dutifully supplied the three pairs of pajamas, no buttons, that he had asked for but had also added six boxes of tobacco from Dunhill’s so that he could blend his own pipe mixture. Since then she had hammered away at the idea that while it was lovely to get the presents one needed, it was even lovelier to be surprised with some foolish little thing. Jim Huston tried to explain that if Christmas presents were to be surprises, there wasn’t much use in their making out lists, but he couldn’t get Rhoda to understand. “I’d rather be surprised than anything,” she told him. “And it’s a perfectly simple thing to be able to do to anybody. Just let yourself go.”
This year, the advertising firm Jim Huston worked for gave all its employees a bonus, and when his bonus check was sent in to him early in December and he saw that it was for six hundred dollars, he was going to telephone Rhoda right away about it when a thought struck him, and he decided that he would spend the whole amount on one staggering Christmas present for her. He took the list she had made for him out of his pocket and read it. She had written, “Set of dishes—service for four—Altman’s—$5.95—plenty good enough. Barbizon slips—peach—size 36. Lipstick—your choice. Bath towels—like the ones we have. A scarf—something gay. 6 small glasses—the kind for tomato juice. Heart-shaped sachet—smallest size. Bath soap—luxurious. Bridge-table cover—maroon. Breakfast tray, if not too much—I long for one. Sweater—pullover—better get size 38, as apt to run small.”
He looked at the bonus check and, taking Rhoda’s list he tore it into fine pieces. Then he rang for Miss Thompson, his secretary, told her that he would not be back at the office until three, and, putting on his hat and coat, started out. For a while he wandered up Fifth Avenue, stopping to stare at the displays in the store windows. It was the sight of a fur coat in Gunther’s window that made him realize that he had heard Rhoda complain about her nutria coat, which she had worn every winter for the last ten years, and he walked bravely in. An hour later, somewhat staggered at the price of furs, he paid most of his bonus check for a soft, pretty squirrel coat.
“I’ll pick it up the Saturday before Christmas,” he told the salesgirl. “I don’t want it delivered. It’s a surprise.”
“And a wonderful one,” she said.
His face lit up and he began to smile. “I just had an idea,” he said. “You haven’t an old fur of some sort around here, have you? I mean, it would be pretty funny if I got an old piece of fur, something like an old neckpiece, and had that wrapped up, wouldn’t it? Then she’d think that’s what she was getting and then I’d spring the coat on her later. I mean, fool her, sort of.”
“I see,” the girl said. “I’m afraid we haven’t anything. You might try a thrift shop. They have second-hand furs.”
When Jim went back to his office, he carried with him a slightly worn white rabbit-fur square, for which he had paid fifteen dollars. He showed it to Miss Thompson, explaining the joke to her and laughing uproariously. “And I want you,” he said, “to wrap it up. Do a job on it. Make it look like something. You know, something I’d taken pains about.”
He smiled every time he thought about it the rest of the afternoon, and when he went home that night, he was ready for the buildup. He assumed a gloomy air, and, during dinner, he mentioned the fact that the bonus he’d sort of counted on hadn’t materialized. “We’re not getting one,” he said.
“Isn’t that mean!” Rhoda said.
He sighed. “Worse than that,” he said. “I was counting on it for your Christmas. I’ve bought a lot more War Bonds than I could afford. You’ll have a pretty slim Christmas, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Rhoda said. “Of course, I always sort of save ahead for your Christmas. I always know what I have to spend ahead of time.”
“That’s what I should have done,” he said contritely.
“The things on my list won’t amount to much,” Rhoda said.
“I was going to surprise you this year, though,” he said.
“And I’m sure you will,” she said brightly.
In the days that followed, Rhoda was more than helpful with small, extra suggestions. She told Jim that nothing made her feel as gay as a pretty plant on Christmas Day—a colorful one. She mentioned the fact that small, Shocking-pink makeup cases could be had for as little as one dollar. She had seen, she said, some enchanting ashtrays, trimmed with gold dots, that were seventy-four cents. “I don’t know when I’ve run across so many darling little things, things I’d never think of buying for myself, and for practically nothing, if a person takes the time to shop for them,” she said.
“Come in, come in, whoever you are.”
(photo credit 1.1)
Every time she mentioned Christmas, Jim let himself appear to be sunk in gloom. As the holiday approached, she began to watch him to see if he brought in any packages when he came home at night, and she made a great point of telling him to keep out of the hall closet, where she had hidden the few things she had bought for him. On the Saturday before Christmas, he brought the fur coat home and left it with the superintendent of the building, who promised to keep it in a safe place. Jim then went happily up to his apartment, carrying the white rabbitfur square, which was wrapped magnificently.
Overheard on Fifth Avenue, a cheerful soprano voice: “It’s nice to see the Christmas decorations going up. Thanksgiving will soon be here.”
—MRS. JOHN SWINTON ANDST. CLAIR McKELWAY, 1962
He set the package down on the hall table and kissed Rhoda, who pretended that she hadn’t even noticed that he had a package. And later in the evening, she said, “Do you know, darling, that I was just sitting here wishing that I hadn’t bought you just a lot of stuff. I was wishing I’d just put all my efforts on one thing. Something you really wanted. I think we’ve always made a mistake in getting too many small things and never anything really important.”
Jim thought he could never keep his face straight.
Christmas Eve, Rhoda carried six packages from the hall closet and arranged them under the tree with the presents from his family and hers. Jim took the elegant parcel that Miss Thompson had wrapped and, sighing, laid it with the others. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?” he asked.
“Darling,” she answered, “I’m sure it’s lovely.”
That night Rhoda couldn’t go to sleep. She lay awake in the dark trying to imagine what Jim had bought her. It was not jewelry, she decided, because it was too big. She found it hard to convince herself that if Jim had bought her only one thing, it must be something really handsome. For one thing, he didn’t act as though he were satisfied with it himself, and, thinking about him, she reached over and touched him protectively on the shoulder.
Rhoda was embarrassed for Jim Christmas morning. Usually they came out about even on their gifts, and it had been their custom to take turns opening their presents, starting off with the inconsequential ones and saving the best ones until the last. This day, as she handed him package after package, she had to sit there, falsely gay, while he unwrapped the things she had bought him. She tried to make it less obvious by opening some of the things she had received from her family, but she was glad when they got to
the last presents—the monogrammed briefcase she had bought him and the gift he handed her. She waited until he had admired the briefcase, and then she sat, his present to her in her lap.
“I never saw anything so beautifully wrapped,” she said.
“Go on and open it,” Jim said.
She turned it over, patting at the large red satin bow. “Really, darling,” she said, “I just like to sit here and look at the outside of it. It’s so pretty.”
“I hope you’ll like it,” Jim said. “But I’m afraid …”
“Of course I’ll like it,” she said.
“Well, open it,” he repeated.
Reluctantly, she untied the bow and, taking the ribbon off, she smoothed it, wound it into a ball, and laid it carefully on the table. “I’m going to save that lovely ribbon,” she said. “And I’m going to save the lovely paper, too.”
She folded the paper and set it on the table with the ribbon. She read the card, “Merry Christmas to my best girl.”
Then she opened the box. For a moment she had no idea what it was, and she held the fur square in her hands, torn with emotion. “I must be brave,” she thought, and she remembered all sorts of things like the women of Russia and England and that there was a war on and that Jim had not got his bonus. She glanced quickly at Jim and saw that his face looked red, as though it were burning, and, so that he need never feel a sense of shame, she gave a cry of delight.
“Jim!” she said. She got up and threw her arms around him, kissing him again and again. “Jim! It’s enchanting!”
“It’s to wear around your neck,” he said.
“Of course it’s to wear around my neck!” She ran toward the mirror that hung over the fireplace and tucked the bit of fur around her throat. It was bulky and had a gray look.
“There!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Did you ever see anything so sweet? I can wear it in the evening under my evening wrap, and I can wear it, well, just with anything!”
Jim stared at her. Her face glowed with excitement and happiness. She gave the fur a little pull and it somehow settled into place. He spoke slowly. “Do you like it?”
“Like it!” she repeated. “I adore it. It’s so smart! There’s nothing smarter than a touch of white. You couldn’t have given me anything I loved as much. Not if you’d thought a million years!”
“Look,” he said. “You don’t really like it, do you?”
“Darling,” she cried, “I love it! Summer ermine! And in a square! Not one of those dull stoles! Just a darling little square, and not too little but with the most utter elegance!”
“I didn’t think you’d like it,” he said. “I thought you’d be disappointed.”
She turned away from the mirror and almost danced toward him. “Jim,” she said, “how could you think that? Do you want to know what I think, what I truly think? Well, I think it’s the nicest and most personal thing you ever thought of giving me. Wait until I telephone Mother!”
“She won’t think it’s so hot,” Jim said.
“Oh, she won’t, won’t she?” Rhoda asked. “Just wait!”
Holding the fur around her neck lovingly, she picked up the telephone and dialled her mother’s number. Jim sat staring at her. Rhoda, he thought, wasn’t putting on any act. Remembering how childish she had been about hinting for inexpensive presents, he was sure she wasn’t just putting on an act. He sat listening, appalled, as she talked to her mother.
“And you know how most men get big, gobby things,” he heard her say. “Well, darling, you should see this charming little thing. It’s without doubt the smartest idea I ever heard of. I never would have thought of it, but Jim did.”
She talked a long time to her mother and her adjectives were all superlatives. Jim wanted to get up from the chair, he wanted to go down and get her fur coat, her really wonderful present, from the superintendent, but he couldn’t move.
When she finished talking to her mother, she came over and sat on the arm of his chair and put her arm around his shoulders. “Darling,” she said. “My clever darling.”
“Why, Rhoda,” he said, “that thing’s just rabbit.”
“Rabbit!” she said. “Summer ermine! Darling, that isn’t the point. The point is that I love it. It’s so—well, it’s not vulgar or anything. It’s just right.”
Jim got up suddenly and went out, while she looked after him uncomprehendingly. He came back in a few minutes, carrying a large package, and laid it on her lap. He took the fur square from her neck and threw it on the table with a savage gesture.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” he said angrily. “Just open it, that’s all I ask.”
He cut the string from the parcel with his pocketknife and helped her take the paper off. She opened the box and stared at the coat.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think of it?”
“A fur coat,” she said. “A fur coat.”
He stood back uneasily and looked down at her. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of it? Can’t you say something.”
“A fur coat,” she said. “It’s nice.”
1944
“I’ve been thinking. This year, instead of giving everything away, why don’t we charge a little something?”
(photo credit 1.2)
(photo credit 1.3)
SCHOOLBOY
SALLY BENSON
By eight o’clock in the morning, the boys in Room 1-B had almost finished trimming the Christmas tree they had bought for Mr. Parsons. Every master in St. Benedict’s School, in the East Eighties, had his own tree, and although it was an established custom and not a surprise at all, the boys made a practice of hiding the trees on the roof and getting to school as early as six in the morning on the last day before the holidays, so as to have the trees set up and trimmed before the masters arrived. This year, Cecil Warren had been in charge of the Tree Fund and the Decoration Fund for 1-B, not because he was popular but because it was generally agreed that he was very good at getting money out of people. He was ruthless about it. He didn’t even mind mentioning money, although the other boys at St. Benedict’s understood that money was something to be mentioned carelessly, if at all. He came right out and called it money, or cash, or dough, and the way he said it made the other boys feel uncomfortable. It was like calling a boy by his first name. St. Benedict’s boys were never called by their first names.
Warren had set about collecting the money in a businesslike manner. He had made an alphabetical list of the boys’ names and, by dunning them, had collected a dollar from every boy in the class, a total of fifteen dollars. His method had been painful, but it was generally agreed that the result was nothing short of magnificent, as the 1-B tree was the largest and most expensive one to be carried down from the roof that morning. In fact, it was so much handsomer than the other trees that Lockwood and Brewster even wondered if it wasn’t too fine. Lockwood and Brewster were the committee in charge of buying the tree and the decorations. Lockwood had flawless taste, and Brewster was strong enough to carry the tree up the four flights to the roof, carry it down again to the classroom, and set it up on the stand in the corner by the blackboard. Its branches sagging under the weight of ornaments, tinsel, and lights, the tree seemed—to Lockwood, at least—a trifle ostentatious. He stepped back and looked at it. “Well, there it is,” he said. “You don’t think it’s too …”
“I know what you mean,” Brewster said quickly. “I was sort of thinking the same thing myself.”
“Precisely,” Lockwood said. “It doesn’t seem quite—well, you know—to have Mr. Parsons have a larger tree than Captain Foster.” Captain Foster was the headmaster.
“Of course, it’s Mr. Parsons’ first Christmas here, and that might sort of explain it away,” Brewster said.
Lockwood looked pained. “The very reason,” he said, “not to make anything special of it. I mean to say it must be rather grim for him anyway.”
Warren, who had not helped w
ith the decorating, laughed. “It’s his first Christmas all right,” he said. “Maybe it’ll be his last. Could be.”
Lockwood and Brewster turned and stared at him coldly. “All right, Warren,” Lockwood said quietly. “You did a good job and we’re duly grateful, but you’ve said enough.”
“Could be,” Warren repeated stubbornly. “Could be that he’d go back to jolly old England.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a small black book, which he opened. “And by the way, Lockwood, you owe me fifty cents for comic sheets.”
Earlier in the year, Warren had cornered the comic-sheet market at St. Benedict’s. He bought the Sunday papers every week and then rented the comic sheets from them to the boys to read, at five cents each.
Lockwood took two quarters from his pocket and tossed them on Mr. Parsons’ desk. Warren picked them up deliberately, checked the amount off in his black book, and spoke. “Pope—” he began.
“If you have any more business to attend to,” Lockwood said, “will you mind putting it off until later?” His voice was finely sarcastic and Brewster glanced at him admiringly.
“And now,” Lockwood went on, “we’d better get on with the presents.”
The boys rushed toward the coatroom and came out again carrying packages, which they placed on Mr. Parsons’ desk. The room looked bright and cheerful, with the red, white, and green packages covering the brown desk blotter. There were wreaths at the three windows, and the blackboard was covered with sprays of holly and a Santa Claus drawn with colored chalk.
Warren walked to his desk and began arranging the stamps in his collection. He had a fine collection, with duplicates which he sold or traded. His desk was in the front of the room, and when a boy was sent to the blackboard to write, Warren would hold out his hand, palm up, with a stamp in it, to show it. He would hold his hand low, so that Mr. Parsons couldn’t see him. Now he pretended not to see that the other boys were getting ready to walk to chapel. He sat still as they filed out, and then he got up and went over to Mr. Parsons’ desk. He took his present for the master from his pocket and laid it on top of a large package wrapped in red-and-gold paper and tied with wide green ribbon. Then he ran out of the room.
