Charming Christmas

by Carly Alexander

  “Right, Poppy.” Carlos, the youngest Santa, a short, dark-haired Latino man stretched out his legs, his untied construction boots dangling. “And you’re going to make our wish come true? I can save you some time if you just deliver a Porsche to me now.”

  “Ah ah ah! Don’t speak too soon.” ZZ held up a finger. “You ask for a car, but after the initial thrill, will a car make you happy? Will it change your daily life for the better? Would a Porsche help you attain personal fulfillment?”

  The elf shrugged. “I could handle it.”

  “Well, think bigger, Carlos. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t wish for a Porsche. But don’t rule out other wishes that might surpass a hot car. Maybe you want to be the top elf. Maybe you’d like to get a long-term job offer from Rossman’s after Christmas. Maybe you’d like to buy a dream home or create a patent that brings in millions of dollars before the end of the year.”

  Carlos laughed. “Yeah, sure, I’ll take one of each.”

  “Ah, but you only get to put one wish in the stocking, so don’t limit yourself. There are no limits.”

  Except to my patience.

  “Are we done yet?” I checked my watch, not wanting to keep Kate waiting. We were meeting for lunch at Phillips and I had a feeling that ZZ was one of those long talkers who ran all over everyone else’s time. “Woo, look at the time.”

  “Yes, you can go, but think about your wish!” he admonished us.

  I flew out of there faster than Santa’s sleigh, my hair flying wildly in the wind. Clicking into my New York pace, I rushed over a quaint walking bridge and paving stones, around ambling groups of tourists, to the Harbor Pavilions. Kate had already snagged a table, and we decided to do cafeteria style, two crab-cake sandwiches and Diet Cokes. I launched into complaints over the morning training session, tossing in a few jokes about ZZ and comparing the selection of elves to escapees from Munchkinland, but Kate wasn’t laughing.

  “Something wrong?” I asked.

  She blinked. “What? Oh . . . Sorry. Turtle and I had another argument this morning. That makes three in three days. Three more than we’ve ever had.” She balled up her sandwich wrapper. “At first I thought that there was something messed up between us, that he was looking for an out, but that’s not it. Yesterday he told me he also tossed in an application for a job at the Seattle Aquarium. It’s not just about moving to San Diego; he doesn’t seem to care where he lands. He’s just determined to leave here.”

  “I can understand that. Right now, Baltimore is just a stop along the road for me. Once my ankle checks out, I’m on the next Metroliner to New York.”

  “Because you want to dance, and New York is a cultural center for performing arts. But Turtle can be a biologist in lots of places.”

  “And you can’t?” I prodded. “Why aren’t you sending out applications, too? Go on-line and check out some different cities, see if anything strikes your sense of adventure. You’ve always lived here, Kate. Don’t you want to explore other options?”

  “Why would I? My family and friends are here. I’ve got a job I love, with a strong sense of commitment to the dolphins, especially the new calves. I’ve got a great apartment, peace with my neighbors, and I know all the best places to eat and shop and walk the dogs. Baltimore is my home; why would I want to leave?”

  “To try something different. Your dogs could run wild on an island in Seattle and you could take a ferry to work every day and sip lattes by the water. Or San Diego. With that weather, the dogs could be outside every day. Think of dolphin presentations in the sun, you swimming side by side in a sparkling lagoon. I’m kind of with Turtle on this one. Your life could be so much better—”

  “Different isn’t always better,” she interrupted. “Why don’t you get that? You and Turtle . . . As if everything I’ve always loved suddenly isn’t good enough anymore. You know, the grass isn’t always greener in another city.”

  “Maybe it isn’t, but you won’t know what’s out there until you take a look. And you know me, I spent most of high school just waiting to get out of Crab Town.”

  “That nickname . . .” She shook her head. “It nearly killed Sister Mary Agnes.” Our freshman year at Spaulding, Lanessa had stuck a bumper sticker onto her binder that read, “I got crabs at CRAB TOWN,” and the nun who taught us science freaked out. Lanessa kept explaining that Crab Town was a restaurant, but Sister Mary Agnes made her write an essay on the dangers of double entendres.

  Kate’s eyes went wide. “Don’t look now, but somebody you don’t want to see is here.”

  “Sister Mary Agnes?”

  Her head shook faster, like a broken bobblehead. “No. Worse. Duck under the table.”

  “But everyone will see me.” I was dying to turn around. “That’ll attract too much attention. Who is it?”

  “Go hide behind the relish and pickles—quick!” she whispered, motioning me aside frantically.

  I wasn’t going to slink behind the ketchup and tartar sauce, and I couldn’t stand the suspense; I had to turn around.

  Three feet behind our table, Bobby Tharp balanced a tray of salad as he scanned our area for a free table. He didn’t seem to find one, but he did catch sight of me.

  I turned back to Kate and mouthed, “Oh, no!”

  Kate folded her arms in sanguine resignation. “Should have gone for the condiment table when you had the chance,” she said as his tray slid onto the table between us.

  “Livvy . . .” His low growl reminded me of intimate moments, playing under the covers, kissing on the beach at Ocean City, snuggling at the movies. “And Kate! Wow, what a blast from the past. Mind if I join you two?”

  My blood thrummed in my ears as I held my breath and reluctantly let myself soak up Bobby—all six feet of him—looking taller and leaner, as if he’d lost the freshman ten. His hair seemed golder—maybe touched up?—and he had the angular, loose demeanor of an athlete.

  No, maybe that was the red and white University of Maryland letter jacket. A letter jacket—as if he’d ever jogged a mile, let alone achieved varsity status in a sport. It’s all part of the image, part of the fake Bobby he wants everyone to buy into, I told myself. If only I could convince myself that he was a fraud, make my pulse slow down, squelch the urge to jump up, straddle him, and press my face into his chest like a koala.

  With Bobby so close, it was resoundingly clear that I was still buying into the whole package. And if I could just get my heartbeat to slow and my palms to stop sweating, I would have the good grace to feel embarrassed at my own vulnerability.

  Kate stood up. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’m on for the two o’clock dolphin show.”

  “I’ve got work, too,” I blathered, knowing I needed to get back but not so sure I wanted Bobby to know about my new job. Let’s see, hotshot TV producer or department-store Mrs. Claus—which was the more marketable career?

  “I keep hearing that you’re back in Baltimore. I figured if it was true, we’d run into each other.” Bobby set his food on the table and handed his tray to Kate. “Just shoot that over there, will you?”

  “Oh, sure.” She moved behind him and lifted the tray as if to slam him in the head with it.

  “I’ll call you later, Kate,” I said, resigned to my sorry fate, a few minutes spent opposite the man-boy of my once and future dreams.

  “Ciao, Kate!” he called, saluting her.

  “I kept meaning to call you, but with the show and everything. . .” He shoved a tomato wedge in his mouth as I considered how I would have reacted hearing his voice on the other end of the phone.

  I wish you’d called. No, I don’t. But I’m glad you were thinking of me.

  “You can imagine. Not a minute to myself. Thank God for hiatus.”

  I wish you didn’t look so good now. I wish you ate salads when we were together. How did you get your skin to clear up? How is it that you look so damned good when I know you’re so damned bad?

  “So, go on, Livvy. Let me have it. Rip me a new on
e. I know you’re pissed.”

  How could I ever be angry with you when I’m still crazy about you?

  His eyes flickered with amusement, eyes darker and greener than I’d remembered. “Oh, I get it. The silent treatment.”

  “Are those colored contacts?” I blurted out.

  He rolled his eyes. “She speaks.”

  “I probably shouldn’t,” I said. “I should just have my lawyer call you after the first episode airs.”

  “Ouch. You don’t have to draw blood.”

  “You started it. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that you were using my name? An actress who looks like me? Filming in the city I grew up in? Thought you’d just slide that one past me, huh?”

  He sighed. “Of course not, but you’d moved on. You were dancing in New York, on to another life. I didn’t think you’d recognize yourself, certainly didn’t expect you to land back here.”

  “What you did was wrong, Bobby.”

  “Probably. But I did change the name in the script. A dozen times. Global replacement. But every time I looked up and saw ‘Kelly’ or ‘Alicia’ or ‘Jennifer’ on the page, it just didn’t feel right. You were the inspiration for my stories, Liv. Without you, they don’t sing.”

  “Oh, whoop-dee-doo.” I stood up and turned away so he couldn’t see the conflicted emotions on my face, the war between flattery and betrayal. He had invaded my privacy by using me as a basis for his character, and yet, somehow, I was a little tickled that I’d left such an impression.

  “I mean that, Liv. You are the pulse of this show.”

  I pulled my coat on. “Great. I’m looking forward to getting my cut.”

  He leaned back slightly, cautious, shocked at my bitchiness.

  How could I be such a bitch? That sort of behavior would never make him love me.

  But then, deep down I knew it was too late for all that, with Bobby married now. Funny that her name hadn’t come up in the conversation, but Bobby probably figured it would piss me off that much more. I decided to take “Destiny” into my own hands. “So where is your wife? I’ve read that you two are inseparable.”

  “She’s running a few errands. Manicure, hair appointment. Girl stuff.”

  “Really? And here I thought she was a busy working girl.”

  “The two of us are crazy busy when the show is filming. Destiny is my coproducer.”

  That would be my job, I thought. And that would be my man, if only a few things had played out differently. That queasy feeling rose inside me, another session of making myself sick over my mistakes. I wasn’t up for it. “I’ve got to get back to work,” I said.

  “Yeah, what’s that about? Did you really give up the Rockettes thing?”

  “I sort of had to take a hiatus when I broke my ankle. The Rockettes look down upon dancers who can’t walk. Sort of ruins the lineup.”

  “I knew about the accident,” he said, waving a hand. “By the way, did you sue? Hope you got a bundle out of them. Immigrants, right? Probably illegal.”

  My jaw dropped in revulsion. “Mario? Don’t you remember the pizza place we loved?”

  He shrugged. “Anyway, your ankle looks fine. What about the Rockettes thing?”

  Since the day of my audition at Radio City Music Hall, the “Rockettes thing” had been a problem for Bobby. Although he’d never been too concerned that I was the one paying our bills when we lived together in Baltimore, the fact that I’d pulled ahead to pursue a high-visibility showbiz job in New York was too much for his delicate ego to balance. He had helped me move into the apartment with the other two dancers, had spent a weekend at a nearby motel, had even stayed for my first performance and brought me a bouquet of flowers backstage, but inside I think he was beginning to disconnect. Despite the pledge to make this long-distance thing work with Metroliner trips and daily phone calls, Bobby was working up a Plan B, which involved jetting out to L.A. to pursue a separate career and audition stand-ins.

  “Are you done with New York?” he added.

  “I’m on hiatus,” I said, flinging back his insider lingo. “I’m going back to New York after Christmas.” That much was true. He didn’t have to know I’d need to audition for the Rockettes all over again. “So . . . I’ll let you know how much I really hate you after I see the first episode. Of my show.”

  Such a bitch!

  “You’re kidding . . . I know you are. Listen, we’re all getting together at Club 13 to watch the series debut—the cast and crew, lots of media people. Got to make a splash in Baltimore, of course, and it’s such a great angle, that homegrown thing. You know, they’ll probably want to talk with you, the inspiration for the show. Why don’t you come?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on,” he growled in that jovial way. “I mean it. The media people are going to want interviews with the real Olivia.”

  “I have plans,” I said firmly, though an invitation to the premiere party was enticing. When you’re in show business, you develop this instinct to go toward the cameras, grab the attention of reporters and media people whenever you have the chance. Still, there was no way I could watch at such a public place, not knowing what to expect from Bobby’s show. Talk about blindsided.

  “Let me know if plans change.” He saluted me with two fingers. “Ciao.”

  I was tempted to respond with a one-finger salute but restrained myself. After all, I was Mrs. Claus.

  6

  To my surprise, ZZ didn’t glower or grouse when I crept back into orientation ten minutes late. He was passing out stockings and lecturing once again on the importance of setting goals, on the amazing impact this Christmas wish could have on our lives.

  Blah blah, blah blah, blah blah.

  I tuned him out immediately and refocused on Bobby and the debut of the show and the fact that this city would continue to close in around me, shrinking my life down to a claustrophobic sack once the tales of wicked Olivia aired on television. I’d once complained that I’d never felt embraced by this city, but now I was feeling its grip quite well, a firm grasp tightening to a stranglehold.

  “Don’t check out on me,” ZZ said softly, leaning close to my ear. He handed me a red stocking with “Mrs. Claus” embroidered over the fuzzy white cuff.

  “To be honest, I’m already gone.” My heart was back in New York, dancing on the line, having brunch with friends and not having to worry about eating waffles or pancakes or bacon because in three performances a day you burn it all off, rushing from my apartment to fit in Christmas shopping before the early performance . . .

  “Emotionally, that may be true,” he said. “But since your body is still with us for the next few weeks, it would be nice if the spirit could join in.”

  I gave him a curious look.

  “Metaphysically speaking.” He straightened, addressing the group once again. “You’ll find a small card inside your stocking. Take it out now and fill in your Christmas wish . . .”

  Maybe I’d misjudged ZZ. After all, he could have spent this entire day making us read the corporate policy on sexual harassment and chronic tardiness. I took the white card from my stocking and mulled over my secret desires. Not that I am superstitious or even a believer in quiet goal setting. I’m the sort of person who strikes out after what she wants, working through obstacles with single-minded determination. The approach usually worked for me—had landed me a position on the Rockettes. But lately, I was stuck waiting—for my ankle to heal, for my mother to swing back to normal, for Christmas to come and go so I could head back to New York.

  What to wish for? That my ankle was all healed and I was back in Manhattan, back in the Rockettes?

  That would have been my primary desire a few weeks ago but now, somehow, it was not enough. My future seemed tainted by Bobby’s impending show, a commercial franchise with the potential to exploit and malign my image and my name. And then there was Bobby. Blissfully self-absorbed Bobby. Despite his tendencies toward the asshole brigade, despite the fact that he was ma
rried now, I still felt that flush of warmth around him, the undying attraction that would have me tossing rose petals onto his grave when I was ninety. Fatalistic, I know, but if his bad behavior hadn’t killed the attraction by now, I had to resolve myself to living with it.

  I wanted it all—the love of my life, my anonymity, my dancing career.

  “Remember, you can only write down one wish,” ZZ said as he paced the room. “You need to focus, people.”

  Fine, I thought. I would wipe the slate clean.

  I wrote: I wish for a do-over. Thinking like a lawyer. I figured that left a lot of things open, but then a lot of things in my life needed fixing.

  That afternoon ZZ handed out our costumes and sent us off to the store dressing rooms to try them on. “Report back to Santaland as soon as you’re in costume,” he ordered. “We have a tailor coming this afternoon to mark alterations, and I want to get started with the Santaland protocol.”

  While the others received costumes sealed in plastic bags, mine came in a big, wide gift box made of silver cardboard. “I understand this costume is a Rossman’s family heirloom.” ZZ held the silver box before me, and I couldn’t help but run my hand over the large embossed R.

  “Why would the Rossmans send a family heirloom to the Baltimore store?”

  He shrugged. “The grand opening. Charley said they wanted to send us luck. Rumor has it that Evelyn Rossman wore this suit years ago when the chain was just starting up in Chicago.”

  I slid off the lid, and rich red jewel tones winked up at me, scarlet beads, burgundy shadings on ruby velvet. It was a fine garment, reminding me of the spectacular costumes I’d worn onstage at Radio City. “Wow.”

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” ZZ’s eyes twinkled over his white beard as he grinned, reminding me of a real Santa Claus. “Go ahead, try it on.”

  Up in the spacious new dressing room I placed the box on a bench and worried about the vast alterations that would probably rob this costume of its shape. Department store maven Evelyn Rossman was a tall woman, broad shouldered and solid, while I was short for a dancer—having just made the Rockettes’ five-foot six-inch minimum. I dropped my black sweater onto an upholstered chair and worried about the color clash. With my orangey red hair, I avoided wearing the color red, which often made my skin look jaundiced, my hair shriek with flames.