“I thought so. That’s why I want you in toys, Meredith. You recognized that we took a loss on toys, yes, it’s true. But now, instead of just recommending that we slash the department, this is your chance to get in there and turn it around. Make it turn a profit. Here’s your challenge. Bring the toy sales up by 50 percent from last year, and I will see that you get a seat on the board.”
Suddenly my palms felt clammy. There is something alarming about having your dreams laid bare before you in a quick financial statement. It all sounded so easy.
“Fifty percent, hum?” Quickly I ran the numbers in my head, calculating whether Uncle Len’s proposal was feasible. “I think I can make that happen for Rossman’s. Yes, I accept.” I rubbed my damp palms together. “I might have to whomp a few fannies down in Santaland, but—”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he interrupted. “You’ve got to stop intimidating the staff. I’ve gotten a few complaints. You’re bossy and very forthright.”
“Complaints! From whom?”
“There’s some concern that you’re scaring the customers, especially the children in Santaland. So I have to insist that you wear the costume. Be Mrs. Claus and no one will worry about why you’re roaming around Santaland with a scowl on your face.”
“I don’t scowl,” I said sternly, “and I don’t want to be Mrs. Claus.”
“Be Mrs. Claus,” he answered, “and would it kill you to be a little nice for a change?”
“Nice! Dammit, I’m always nice!”
He folded his arms. “You always did have your mother’s temper, God rest her soul.” His face grew sad just before his eyes dropped down to the report. “I still miss them both, Mer-Mer. Especially at this time of year.” He sighed heavily. “What can be done? We move on. We forbear. I’ll finish reading your report, you go try on the Mrs. Claus suit. I had Grace put it in your office. Wear it in good health.”
Uncle Len had a way of graciously shaping a conversation to his satisfaction and still coming out as the nice guy. He was pretending to read when I headed down the hall feeling a mixture of joy and peevishness. Six years of college and for what? To portray the doting female accessory to some frosty old legend?
A frosty legend who was going to get the next seat on Rossman’s board of directors.
3
“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” that eggnog-smooth voice boasted throughout the store. Ahead of me, two elves swayed in time to the music as they meandered down the lane of gingerbread figures, approaching the short line of kids waiting to see Santa. It was late, a slow night, thank God, probably the best time to make my virgin patrol as Mrs. Claus.
I buffed my nails on the white fur trim on the Mrs. Claus suit my grandmother had sewn by hand, probably sometime in the Paleolithic age, and tried to look tough, tried to look like I knew what I was doing here in this ridiculous costume.
Why was I here?
My heart started yammering in my chest, all this Christmas regalia looming over me, making me lose sight of my true goal.
Increase sales by fifty percent. Fifty percent. Fifty percent.
A little boy waiting in line pointed at me, and his mother stared right through me as if I were part of the gingerbread landscape.
I ducked behind a gumball palm tree and took a deep breath. Perhaps Uncle Len didn’t realize how hard this would be for me, how this suit would dredge up memories, how I might lose my cool and wing a giant gumdrop at some annoying kid.
Just changing into the red suit had been a feat. Dealing with the contents of that silver foil box and unfolding this costume had required great courage and emotional control. I had closed my office door and waited in the silence as memories rushed in. That brisk Christmas morning when the three of us had leaned over the pastry board in the kitchen to make sticky buns. Gathering around the fire with spiced cider to exchange gifts, and then the leisurely afternoon curled up on the sofa, reading our new books. The exchange of books was a holiday tradition. Ever since the days when Santa left packages under the tree, one of them had always contained a book and one a Lanz of Salzburg nightgown for me, and every Christmas morning after we ate sticky buns I slipped on my new frilled flannel gown and cracked open my new book.
The Christmas engraved in my memory started as an ordinary Christmas two years ago. But after brunch my parents had cleaned up the kitchen, showered and packed, trying to make the seventy-mile trip to the Lake Geneva house by sundown. “We don’t spend enough time there,” my father had said as he carried a suitcase down the stairs. “Really, such a cozy lake home and we spend our lives here, working in the city. It’s wasteful.”
“We’re spending an entire week there,” my mother calmed him. “We’ll take the time to enjoy the gifts we have.” She turned to me with a smile. “That’s my New Year’s resolution. Are you going to join us, Mer-Mer?”
“I’ll probably drive out tomorrow,” I told her, well into The Da Vinci Code and not willing to stop reading until I finished the story.
When they left, I was engrossed in the story, worried about breaking the code to reveal a message on parchment. My mother had paused at the Christmas tree, admiring the Bavarian glass ornaments that had been in her family for years. She remarked on how they took her back to the Christmases of her childhood, as glass ornaments were the only frivolity her father indulged. I don’t remember whether I acknowledged her comment, having heard this bit about my grandfather a hundred times before. And then they were out the door, driving down Erie Street, and I didn’t even get up off the couch to kiss them good-bye.
After I got the phone call from the police, after I’d seen the SUV that had rolled over and split in half, after I’d weathered the funerals and the condolences and the awkwardly averted eyes and the stiff hugs of friends and relatives, it occurred to me that I could have been driving with my parents. And there were times, after the media got wind of the huge amount of money and power I was in line to inherit, it seemed that I should have been with them.
Survivor’s guilt.
One tabloid claimed my father was drunk at the wheel, a raging alcoholic. Two local radio personalities joked that my mother had grabbed the wheel and made the car swerve when my father admitted to having an affair with a diva from a rival department store. Another account charged that my parents were too cheap to hire drivers. Guilty! I wanted to shout. Guilty, though I didn’t realize that wealthy people were not allowed to drive their own vehicles in the state of Illinois.
Guilty…of not even getting off the couch to say good-bye. Of not really listening to my mother’s final words to me. Guilty of falling into a safe, steady niche with my parents, never realizing that the shell of my life was in jeopardy of cracking and shattering into sand.
Furthermore, I was guilty of being a Rossman. I was the poor little rich girl, barely into her twenties and already an orphaned millionairess. My media-hungry high-school peers recalled that I had been “the senior class nerd” and “the mouse of Oak Park.” Even worse, college classmates recalled me “coming and going quietly,” like vanilla pudding at a grand dessert buffet. Reading between the lines, I got it: the inference that I was not worthy, that I didn’t have the mettle to carry on the family business, that I was undeserving of the family fortunes, the extent of which I had not been aware of since my parents led a comfortable but frugal lifestyle.
That afternoon in my office when I opened the box, I tried to block out the disapproving noise of the media and listen for the tenor of my parents’ voices, not so much their words, but the current that had flowed among us the day we’d last seen this costume.
My mother’s delight at the rich, dark folds of velvet, the red reflecting pink on her skin as she reached into the box.
My father recalling how my mother had turned heads and won over customers, the first and only Mrs. Claus in Chicago retail history.
The hopeful voice of my mother asking me if I might want to be Mrs. Claus…
I had to cut off
the memory before my flat refusal, followed by my mother’s disappointment. That Christmas had started like so many others and had ended with a finality that marked it as the last Christmas I would celebrate. After the devastating chain of events that led to a single phone call on Christmas night, I couldn’t look at the garland strung over the mantel, couldn’t bear to go near the tree glistening with crystal decorations from my mother’s childhood. I put an end to Christmas, had the cleaning staff hire a bunch of people, I don’t even know who, to come in and pack everything up and take it away. Remove the evidence. Distance the pain.
I flopped the silver lid onto my desk, locked the door, and quickly shed my Louis Vuitton jacket for the red coat, trying not to recall the way my mother’s fingers had glided over the fabric, the way she had held the jacket under her chin in joyful reminiscence. I stepped into the skirt, zipped it at the waist, and moaned. It hugged my body as if Grandma had tailored it for me. Just my luck, the suit fit.
4
That first night in the red suit I accomplished nothing beyond proving to myself that the suit would not make me shrivel into a puddle of mulled cider. The next morning I suited up and climbed onto the snowscape of Santaland, feeling once again like an astronaut marooned on a distant planet without an umbilical cord. I was glad that it was too early for the dancing elves and Santas to be hanging around.
What was I supposed to be doing here?
Oh, right, Mrs. Claus. Toy sales up.
As I was admittedly weak on maternal instinct, I decided to focus my thoughts on my overriding goal, a 50 percent hike in toy sales. My new sales strategy, the “toys in Santaland” program that would begin as soon as we had working cash registers at the end of the line. Actually, this might be a good time to consider placement of the machines for cashing out. One of the latest trends in retail was the disappearing sales desk, the end of that stationary, looming counter that reminded customers of imperious schoolteachers and long, boring lines. I ventured along the snow path, looking for a suitable location near the exit. Maybe that gumdrop garden would work? And another terminal could be hidden behind that large gingerbread man as long as the electricians could wire it up there. I was peeking under the snow blanket for electrical outlets when an elf approached.
“Very cool outfit. I always say, when you want to get noticed, you gotta wear red.” She seemed to be barely twenty, with a short, solid body decked in a green spangled jacket, curl-toed shoes, green and white striped tights, and a flouncy white skirt. She wore it well, probably because the girl seemed more outlandish than the costume, with spiked black hair dipped in fluorescent green, glitter make-up covering her skin, and a nose ring the size of a teacup.
“I never wear red,” I said flatly, not sure what that said about me beyond confirming my college peers’ observation that I came and went quietly. Without nose ring.
“I’m on that. When Personnel was handing out costumes, I told them green or black, nothing else.” She tilted her head toward one shoulder, a cute gesture for such a gothed-out girl. “I’m Gia, and I don’t usually talk about clothes, but you looked a little lost and I don’t know, I thought, let’s see what she’s about. And what are you about, anyway? Are you a new Santa? The Feminist Claus?”
I told her that I was supposed to be Mrs. Claus, that I didn’t know what that meant. As we talked, I couldn’t take my eyes off that walloping nose ring. It reminded me of a hula hoop I had as a kid. I told her I’d never seen an elf with a nose ring.
She squeezed one eye shut. “You got a problem with that?”
“It doesn’t fit my image of elfin…” I paused. Back in business school they had discouraged leaving a button open on a shirt; shoes that revealed toe cleavage were out, and forget about jewelry and body piercings. The astute businesswoman was allowed one pair of small stud earrings. “Not to squash your style, but do you have anything more Christmasy?”
“My emerald stud!” She grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. “It’s perfect. I’ll wear it tomorrow.”
Which would save me from going cross-eyed staring at the hula hoop. I liked Gia’s attitude and told her that I was going to start a new toy campaign in Santaland. Did she want to be one of the elves on the toy team?
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms, her black-painted nails tapping on her elbows. “What does the toy team do?”
“The front line works the crowd, in this case, the kids in line. We’ll have samples of our most popular toys up here, and elves will demonstrate to kids and let them play with them while they’re waiting in line. We’ll let the kids familiarize themselves with the toys, let them choose what they want, give their parents a chance to observe all this. Then, while the child is finishing up with Santa, the parents have a chance to go to one of the small terminals we have at the Santaland exit and order the toy for pickup at another time.”
Gia shook her head, her eyes curious. “Who are you, and where did you come from?”
“My name is Meredith. I come from the land of management.”
I’d meant it as a joke, but Gia wasn’t laughing. “Okay. How do we get started?”
I quickly learned that Gia knew the names of every elf, every Santa, every hottie in Personnel, every Backstreet Boy. Over the next few days Gia Moscarella became my right-hand elf, and her assistance was invaluable. She had the cachet to sell the program to her elfin friends, the courage to make decisions, and the nerve to ask plenty of questions.
Through Gia I met the three Santas who worked in the chambers of our gingerbread house. She got me in with the elves, ten of them on two different shifts, and during lulls in the work she shared her unique perspective on college, fashion, and life in Santaland.
“We just have the best staff,” she said. “Well, maybe a few clunkers, but mostly good people. I mean, to have a Santa named Jesus…is that freaky, or what? I think Personnel hired him for kicks, but he’s so perfect for the job.”
Jesus Sanchez was a Mexican immigrant with twenty-seven grandchildren, many of whom stopped in to visit Santa during my first week in Santaland. “They love their poppy,” he always said. “They get a little riled, but they’re good kids.” Jesus seemed to think that every kid was good at heart, even when they were shrieking or trying to climb the snow mountain or spitting out green lollipops because they hated lime flavoring. Watching him draw out a shy child or reel in a wildcat, I sometimes wondered if he was destined for sainthood.
There was one married couple who’d been hired to play Santa and elf—Dmitri and Irina Litowinsky. According to Gia, they also worked as a team painting and plastering homes, and Dmitri was said to have the hands of an artist when it came to smoothing concave plaster walls. “He’s doing some work for my aunt on the South Side,” Gia said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.” They seemed like a lovely couple but neither of them spoke much, which I assumed was due to a language barrier. However, the kids didn’t seem to notice, as long as Santa was willing to listen to their long lists of motorized cars and doll accessories.
Right off the bat my favorite Santa was a silver-haired man named Nick, who seemed to be the counselor and heartbeat of Santaland with his low-key, calming demeanor, his ability to get people to open up and share their concerns, and his campaign for staff and customers to relax and give the magic of Christmas a chance to transform their lives.
“He is so full of crap,” I muttered one day as Nick talked with two young parents who were concerned that they couldn’t give their child everything.
“No, he’s not!” Gia’s hoarse voice was defensive. “Nick is cool. He’s giving them good advice. Listen…”
“You won’t be able to give your child everything he wants,” Nick said. “But you can give him what he needs, and that’s your love and protection.”
Gia swooned. “Just makes you want to up and marry him, doesn’t it?”
“Hardly.” I winced. “Really, what does he know about raising kids?”
She shot a look at Nick, her brows wiggling.
“And really, what do we know about Nick? Did you ever catch his last name?” I shook my head no. “That’s because he doesn’t give it. I pressed him once and he was all, ‘It’s Nick. Like Nicholas. You know, St. Nick’?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Exactly.” Gia nodded. “I mean, everybody knows I grew up on a farm and ran away to the city right after high school. We’ve met Jesus’s grandkids and we know you’re the Rossman princess, but Nick? I find him highly suspect. Like, maybe he’s just out of prison, or maybe he’s one of those guys who’s been relocated in the Witness Protection Program.”
“You have a fertile imagination. First of all, he wouldn’t have made it through our HR department if he has a criminal record. All of our Santas have to be fingerprinted, with background checks.”
She was still nodding. “That may be so, but you can bet there are some skeletons in his closet. Some dark secret beating in the heart of Mr. Nick.”
I glanced over at Nick. His dark brown eyes were intent on the couple, his arms folded over his red jacket, that shiny silver hair a striking contrast to his youthful face. “I’m sure you’re right.” Dark secrets didn’t surprise me. But I realized that Gia, at the ripe age of twenty-two, probably didn’t have any skeletons in her closet yet. Lucky girl.
“Nick is the bad boy we all think we want,” Gia said.
“That’s not how he strikes me. He seems so in control, so reassuring. I think he’s the daddy we seek. The protector. The soothing voice that comforts us when we wake up after a nightmare…” It had been a while since I’d articulated some of the things I missed about my own father, and it didn’t feel so bad. Somehow, in the context of this conversation, the shadows didn’t loom so large.
The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Page 27
