The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  “Last summer,” I say. “And it’s very cozy. Looking forward to it, though Randy and I can’t spend the whole week there. We’ll both be working until Christmas Eve.”

  “Isn’t it ironic that none of us is single this year? Our sad singles dinner has blossomed into a couples thing.”

  “Who are you calling ‘sad’ singles?” I say, patting her back. I always liked Ricki, but I came to adore her when she bolstered her sister during the thyroid crisis last year.

  “It’s going to be a great Christmas,” Ricki says. “We’ll figure out who’s bringing what. I’m a better cook than Jane, but I’m planning to use her apartment to do some baking. Did she tell you Ben and I are staying at the Waldorf?”

  “Nice?”

  A wicked grin crosses her face. “Decadent.”

  Randy summons me from across the room—I feel the electric current between us, his warm eyes loving me from a distance. How will I tell this man I’ve betrayed him?

  “Kerry was admiring your Christmas sky,” Randy tells me.

  “It’s fabulous.” Kerry glances up from an open book of photographs—pictures from the last production he worked on with Randy. He cocks one pierced eyebrow. “I’ve just got tacky red lights up at my place.”

  “Early bordello,” Sheryl tells him. “Fits with the theme of your decor.”

  “I’m looking for another place,” Kerry says defensively.

  “You should come to Brooklyn,” says Gil, also from the set design crew. “Park Slope is the new center of the universe.”

  As Randy slips one arm around my waist, I feel relieved to have my two bedroom co-op on the Upper West Side. The second bedroom with the computer and Randy’s easels will make a great nursery. I shiver slightly as he kisses my neck.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Just tired. The rush of preparty adrenaline has worn off.” And guilt is very tiring, I think. It’s exhausting.

  I am glad when the theater gang heads downstairs, planning to have dinner at Casa Mexicana, two doors down. They are the last guests to go, my bank friends having hurried off to be with family and friends for dinner, and Ricki and Jane having gone to burrow into warm pillows with their mates. Randy tells the crew that we might meet them in a bit, but I know it’s just a friendly send-off; better to leave the possibility of the night open.

  When the door closes, his eyes encompass me. “Have we paid our social dues for the season?”

  I pick up two pillaged platters and bring them into the kitchen. “Did you see Ricki’s gift?”

  “Why do people feel compelled to bring gifts?” he calls from the living room.

  “Tradition.” I go to the dining room table and unveil a potted evergreen decorated in tiny gold and blue stars.

  “Whoa.” He seems startled. “Nice.”

  “She’s a Christmas fiend.”

  “It shows.” He turns the tree, then tugs on my hand. “Saves me from having to go and cut one down in Central Park.”

  I laugh as he pulls me onto the sofa. “You can’t do that.”

  “But we need a tree. Got to have a tree. It’s tradition.” He nuzzles my cheek with his nose, then kisses me.

  It steals my breath away, and I remember the electric charge between us, so achingly familiar yet brand new. Our hands study the familiar maps of each other’s body as we begin to make love. I let my mind tumble into him wholeheartedly, then feel a lash from the whip of guilt.

  Is this right? Is it somehow wrong to make love with Randy now that I know I’m pregnant with another man’s child? Our relationship has always been honest, and I’m a terrible liar. Should I tell him about Jonathan?

  No. The truth would only hurt Randy. He probably wouldn’t leave me over it, but it would throw useless muck into our clear, sweet relationship. I won’t tell him . . . at least, not now.

  I let the dark feelings go as I kiss Randy and rake his hair back and gently hook my fingers into the pale peach shell of his ear, settling onto the fleshy lobe, a sensitive region. He has already found the muscle in the side of my neck, my hot spot, and his lips press a massage there that lifts me into a place beyond this sofa, beyond this planet.

  As our clothes drop to the floor and our bare skin melds I am reminded that we complete each other. Soul, skin, and spirit merge in a magical way, far surpassing the mechanical sexual exchange I’d experienced with Jonathan and every other previous boyfriend.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  I tell him I love him as I open myself to him and vow to guard and protect our sacred love. For now, I must protect him from the harsher truths.

  30

  On Monday morning I drag myself to work, still tired, slightly queasy, and annoyed that I let my MetroCard expire. I have to buy a pack of tic tacs from the deli to get enough change for the bus, then worry that the minty burning might not be good for the baby. My baby. I have to start rethinking my moves, unless I’m going to do something I never wanted to do . . .

  I scoot into a coveted single seat on the bus and look out the window, not wanting to think about the unthinkable. I’ve always identified myself as pro-choice, but it isn’t a decision I imagined myself making. I focus on the giant snowflake strung over Fifth Avenue, the buildings wrapped like packages in giant ribbons, the wreaths around the necks of the lion statues outside the public library. ’Tis the season to be jolly; save your maudlin thoughts for the January freeze.

  At the bank, the branch manager has the employees huddled like Christmas elves around a fake tree in the lobby. Astrid mugs and hangs a decoration from one of her baby dreads as if to say “Merry F-ing Christmas.”

  Thai plucks a red velvet bulb from a box and salutes me with it. “Oooh, Emma, whatsa matter with you? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, “but what’s all this?”

  “We’re decorating, of course,” replies Oliver Pluckett, the manager. He hands me an ornament shaped like a snowflake. “Come help us, Ms. Dombrowski. Show your Christmas spirit!”

  Oliver Pluckett is the only person in this entire branch who insists on calling me by my last name. “I love Christmas, Mr. Pluckett,” I say, weighing the merit of Oliver’s fine intentions against the fact that the people from corporate will have a cow when they see the tree. “But we have to be considerate of all our customers, and some of them don’t celebrate Christmas.”

  “I tell you dat, Ollie,” Thai says. “I tell you dat, but you don’t listen.”

  “Northshore Bank has a tree in the lobby,” Oliver argues.

  I shrug. “A different corporate policy,” I say, all the while thinking he should apply for a position at Northshore and make my life a hell of a lot easier. I duck into the break room thinking of hot tea but there’s no hot water, only brewing coffee, its odor hanging in the air like heat waves off fresh tar.

  “Why am I so nauseous?” I whisper to myself. The back of my neck is damp with perspiration and I no longer want tea or any breakfast at all.

  Of course—the pink cross. Thai enters with her big blue bank mug. “Maybe I should go home,” I say, looking at the wall calendar and trying to remember how many sick days I have left this year.

  “No, Emma,” Thai says quietly. “No home.” With a furtive glance at the door, she adds: “Big boss coming today. Coming to see you. Surprise review.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t worry, Emma! You good worker! You do fine. If Thai can do it, so can you.”

  “I’m not so sure anymore.” I sink down into a chair with the realization that banking and child-rearing are a horrible combination. I am approaching the end of my executive training, a probationary period, and if they find out I’m pregnant. . . ugh. I’ve heard horror stories of demotions, women passed over for promotions, career dead ends, all illegal but it transpires nonetheless in the Big Boy world of banking. There was a time when I actually enjoyed my job, finding satisfaction in the way numbers always made sense, always added up the same way no matter who tried to
finagle things. But the management training program took me far away from numbers, thrusting me into telemarketing and information technologies, corporate investment strategies and human resources. My last rotation, in sales and marketing, had not been a good one. I was off in Aruba with Randy when my boss, Gilbert Holcum, came to review me. Not my fault, I know, but he stuck me with inferior scores on that rotation, checking off “Needs Improvement,” right down the line.

  “Needs improvement?” I complained to Randy. “Where are they going to find a more dedicated, more honest employee than me?”

  “In Aruba?” he teased.

  “It’s so unfair, and it’s so far from what I want to be doing. I should just quit. Leave them high and dry.”

  “You can, you know,” he said. “You’re allowed to walk away from something that isn’t working for you.”

  But we both knew I couldn’t. Not Emma Dee. I wasn’t a quitter, couldn’t stand to walk away and admit defeat. I’d finish the training program and then quit the damned job. And now, in the break room, I moaned as a wave of NEEDS IMPROVEMENTS rolled through my thoughts.

  Here I am at the end of the road, finishing the program in the personal banking division, and the wolf is knocking at my door, ready to blow down my house of straw.

  “Do you think Ollie get in trouble today?” Thai says, interrupting my lamentations. “Over Christmas tree?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “And so will I.” I grab my coat. “I’ll be back soon. Cover for me.”

  “You golden,” Thai calls as my heels click over the marble floors. I look down at my black Manolo Blahnik power heels—the one thing in my favor today. At least I picked a pair of kick-butt shoes that cover toe cleavage.

  When I return with an electric menorah and a sign that says “Season’s Greetings,” my executioner awaits me. Gilbert Holcum watches me from his seat in Oliver’s cubicle. I don’t meet his eyes—not so difficult, since they’re hidden behind a shiny wall of spectacles. Instead, I plug in my “All-Purpose” decorations and hope that he finds my attempt at holiday equilibrium acceptable. As I set things up, I hear Thai talking cordially with a customer she calls “Tyler-Mommy.” The woman seems charmed, happy to chat about their children, who seem to be in the same day care, but I realize that Thai is not following bank policy and should be using the woman’s last name. That damned “You’ll Get a Ten-Dollar Deposit If I Don’t Smile and Call You by Name” policy tries my patience. I had to sign pay vouchers three times; three little old ladies who did not hear their names because they declined to wear their hearing aids. And since when is a smile a prerequisite in the work place? Now management is telling us how to emote?

  I glance at Holcum, wishing I had ten bucks for every time he didn’t smile at me. Like now.

  “You’re late, Ms. Dombrowski.” Holcum’s glasses show my reflection—flushed face, red hair wild with static electricity.

  “I was here earlier,” I say, then decide not to take this one on the chin. “Mr. Pluckett insisted on putting up a tree, and I knew we needed to balance it with more culturally diverse decorations.”

  Oliver’s head bobs up from his stance at the greeting desk. Well, what do I care? The man refuses to use my first name.

  “Is that true, Ollie?” Holcum asks him, holding a finger in the air as if to stop time.

  Oliver excuses himself from a customer and joins us, whispers: “It was the first stage of many things I’d planned.” Good old Benedict Ollie.

  Holcum’s sneering facade is unaltered. “Proceed,” he dismisses me, as if I am blocking his view of the show.

  In fact, I am, as Thai is now passing out candy canes to customers waiting in line. One elderly customer declines, saying he’s diabetic, and Thai touches his arm with a look of understanding.

  “Ooh, I know—no sugar. That tough, but you better off. Better to give up yum-yums than nookie-nookie.” The customer smiles, but I turn away and head for the break room before Holcum asks for a translation.

  With my executioner watching my every move and scratching notes, the day is painfully long. I keep busy waiting on customers, mostly elderly women who insist on visiting the branch to cash in their Christmas Club accounts in the presence of human tellers—two things that most other banks are trying to phase out. I see the vestiges of old banks all over the city—corner streetfront spaces that are now 24/7 pharmacies or Starbucks or Japanese restaurants. The banks themselves have been reduced to tiny closets with a handful of ATMs inside, often with ragged-looking people waiting in the doors for handouts. I hope our bank isn’t going in that direction, then kick myself for caring so much as I smile wider at Mr. Apostolides, whose name I butcher.

  He points to the guaranteed name-and-smile sign. “So, you say my name all wrong . . . Do I get, maybe, five dollars, then?”

  “I think you just get extra smiles,” I say pleasantly, feeling Holcum’s eyes on me.

  At the end of banking hours, when the tellers count out their drawers, I ease into a chair behind the counter, pretending to keep a watchful eye but mostly trying to get away from Holcum. Thai counts her drawer quickly, her fingers tapping the calculator and spitting off bills and receipts like a machine. She finishes and notices Manuel struggling.

  “Manuel, honey, is this your first time closing?” Thai hands me her drawer for verification, then joins him.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of it,” he says. “I’ve got the deposits and withdrawals totaled separately.”

  “Good, good!” Thai chimes. “Then you stack your bills and put receipts on top—always blue deposit slip on top, then pink withdrawal ticket next.”

  He nods, quickly adjusts the paperwork.

  “No, no . . . Yes! That’s it. And here’s how you remember blue on top, pink on bottom: Blue go on top because blue is boy, and boy always go on top,” Thai says with a wink.

  I feel my throat go dry and suddenly notice Holcum listening intently. Manuel chuckles and thanks Thai for her help, but I imagine red flags pinging up in Holcum’s brain. EEOC charges! Sexual harassment complaints! Inappropriate innuendo in the workplace!

  “That’s a great way to remember,” Manuel says, slightly red.

  “Ms. Dombrowski?” Holcum hisses like a snake as he holds one finger in the air. “Have you something to say?”

  I know he wants me to correct Thai, make an example of her, remind her of appropriate images in the workplace, but I cannot bear to harm the person who breathes life and humor and humanity into this bank. Thai does a damned good job; she would probably be branch manager if it weren’t for the language barrier. I refuse to take her down.

  I stand and face the glass wall of Holcum. “Yes, sir,” I say, “if I don’t see you before the holidays, have a good one.” And I turn my back on him and bow my head over the cashiers’ drawers and lose myself in the calculations until I don’t care whether or not Holcum is there anymore. I just want to cash out and know that everything adds up correctly in the world of numbers. The rest of life never adds up properly, but numbers do not fail you.

  31

  That night on the way home I realize there is no delaying the difficult conversation I need to have with myself. I exit the bus before my stop and walk for a while, wondering when the white sky will let loose with snow. I pass a tree stand with evergreens stacked on the sidewalk like tired soldiers, their scent a visit to dark woods and neighbors’ berms and Christmas mornings of my childhood.

  Bundled in my scarf against the cold, I walk on and imagine terminating the pregnancy. It seems like the simplest solution—a trip to a clinic and then a chance to start over the right way. If I’d had my wits about me, if I’d realized just how close I was to ovulation the night Jonathan and I had sex, I would have gone to a clinic for those morning-after pills.

  I turn down a side street, a quaint block of brownstones, where two toddlers are climbing down the stairs from the cheerful red door of a little day care center, a flag covered with apples flapping in the wind over their heads. D
ad follows, but the children are far ahead, running into the arms of their mother who greets them with hugs and kisses beside a double stroller. As Mom lifts a child into the stroller I feel a swell of maternal instinct; I have always wanted a baby. Why not this baby? Would I resent the little thing because its seed came from Jonathan? I can’t imagine resenting a baby. Somehow, I think I would love my baby, no matter who the father is; but how would I know for sure?

  As the first flakes of snow begin to fall, I realize I cannot reason this out on my own. I call Jane on her cell, and she says she will meet me at Bellini’s.

  “The demon seed of Jonathan Thompson?” Jane pauses, holds her martini midair. “Thank God for Roe v. Wade.”

  “I don’t know.” I flounder, taking a chunk of cheese from the complimentary appetizers to look purposeful. Jane brings clients here all the time, and the waiters can’t do enough for her. Richard seemed disappointed that I wouldn’t accept a glass of champagne, but I stuck to my cranberry juice. “I’m thinking of keeping it.”

  “And why would you do that?” Jane asks.

  I roll my shoulders back, searching for the answer. “Because it needs me?” Another question. “Okay, it probably sounds insane since I’m just a few weeks pregnant, but I think I can feel this baby begging for help inside me. Subtle changes in the past few weeks, like being tired all the time? The baby wants me to sleep more. It doesn’t like oatmeal for breakfast. It made me switch from coffee to tea in the morning.”

  Jane tucks a strand of black hair behind one ear, her eyes intent on me. “When it tells you to start drinking formula, I’ll start to worry.”

  “Seriously, I want this baby. It may not be the right choice for my life or for Randy, but that’s how I feel.”

  “So keep the little drooler,” Jane says casually, as if helping me decide which Pradas to purchase. She sips her martini, mulls it over, then breaks into a smile. “Shit, Emma! Are you really going to do this?”