Charming Christmas (3 page)

A strong-willed woman, that one, summoning a bus like that. I blinked in wonder as the frame of the Pratt Street bus lumbered toward us.

The three of us shuffled on the sidewalk, jockeying for position as the bus pulled up to the curb. I teetered carefully in my heels as the side of the bus cruised close, its colorful billboard rolling past.

What was all that red? A cartoon drawing of a wild-eyed redhead, a vixen glowering over the copy:

I reeled back, stumbling in my heels. Olivia?

This was Bobby's show?

The impact of seeing a caricature of myself along with my own name on the side of a bus was too much. I went down, my left shoe slipping off as my bottom landed on the cold pavement.

“You okay?” Mr. Watch Cap asked, pausing by the bus door.

I sat there staring at the poster, knowing that I wasn't okay at all. Not with Bobby stealing my name and making me into a caricature soon to be frequenting buses and print ads. “This is not okay,” I said sternly as I pressed my shoe to my chest in horror. Not okay for the lying ex to take my name and my red hair and exploit me as some villainous shrew.

“C'mon, hon. You'll be okay.” The watch-cap man extended a hand, and I let him help me up, my eyes fixed on the horror.

I wobbled to my feet and staked out the billboard as if it were my opponent in a wrestling match.

Did the boy have a creative bone in his body? Could he at least have taken some creative license and changed a few details of my life?

“Not o-kay.” With each syllable, I banged the heel of my shoe against the poster. Surely the stiletto would cut through the poster like a knife, then I could rip it up, shred it off with my fingernails.

“Hey, there. You don't want to be doing that.” The man stepped away from me, toward the safety of the bus steps. “You coming?”

With as much dignity as I could muster I put the ad behind me and waddled onto the bus. Click-thomp, click-thomp.

All the grace and finesse of a professional dancer.

With the demeanor of a man accustomed to the shoeless, the toothless, the homeless, the bus driver slanted his eyes at me in annoyance but didn't bother to turn his head. The watch-cap man scrambled into a seat near the driver, giving me a suspicious look as I passed.

“It's my ex-fiancé,” I said, trying to explain the unexplainable. “He's the producer of that show, and he's a total asshole.”

“That's not what I saw, hon.” He spoke like a chastising father. “You can't go pounding on a bus like that.”

Passengers' heads lifted, their curiosity piqued at the stylish woman clomping down the aisle like a matinee monster. I wanted to lift my hands and deliver a sermon on the evils of Bobby Tharp, the betrayal of a Judas who sucks your soul, then spins the details of your life into a prime-time TV show.

But they wouldn't get it. Of course they wouldn't.

I sat down alone, pondering the downward spiral. Just when I thought my life had sunk to rock bottom, my marker sent back ten spaces without passing go, Bobby had made it worse by twisting and exploiting it.

He had some nerve, calling me a nutcracker. He was the king of rats, a seven-headed creature deserving a sturdy, well-placed kick.

And I had the perfect pair of pointy-toed shoes . . .

2

H
ere's the great thing about cell phones: you can reach out to friends when you need them.

Here's the bad thing about cell phones: sometimes, when you're in the heat of a crisis, you call all your friends and no one has time to deal with you, which leaves you feeling small and extraneous, like a royal pain in the ass. That was the case as I rode the bus to Harborplace, having checked in with Lanessa on her cell, crazed with traffic in D.C., with Bonnie's voice mail, with Kate's associate at the aquarium who told me she was “with the dolphins.”

Which left me feeling a little jealous that all my friends had lives while I, apparently, needed to wait until Tuesday at nine to see mine on TV.

As we rolled east on Pratt Street, I tried to analyze why Bobby's new show bugged me so much. Was it the betrayal anyone would feel when an ex-lover writes a tell-all? Was it because he'd pulled one of his “in your face!” moves and brought a crew to my backyard in Baltimore? Or was it that, beneath my newly acquired “like I care!” New York facade, I still felt a little pang in the gut when I thought of him, still had the letters he'd written to me, still had a little heart icon next to the “Bobby” files on my computer?

A big dummy-head, I know I am, but I can't help how I feel.

Sometimes I can forget about the feelings for a while when I get distracted. Other times I tamp them down beneath the surface and try to go on, but like dirty underwear that keeps rising to the top of your luggage no matter how many times you bury it under your jeans, those feelings keep popping up now and again.

Over the past few months my friends had bolstered me with all the appropriate responses.

“Don't think he's the last guy you'll ever love,” Bonnie had told me. “Not by a long shot. You're so cute and fun and talented. You'll find someone, someone a bazillion times better than Bobby Tharp.” That advice was followed by a laugh. “Look at me. I've been married and divorced three times, and do I give up? Ha! I figure the more practice I get, the better I'm getting at this partnership thing.”

Kate usually came across more earth mothery, saying things like, “Ooh, I know it hurts!” and “It's okay to go through a grieving period for a relationship,” and “Liv, have you tried curling up with a cup of Sleepytime tea?”

And then there were Lanessa's no-nonsense tips, such as “Get a grip, girl.” And “Aren't you over him yet?” Lanessa may lose points in the area of sensitivity, but sometimes a stiff, honest kick in the butt is just what a girl needs.

So get a grip
, I told myself as the bus pulled up to my stop in front of the building that would soon open as Baltimore's only downtown department store. Rossman's was taking over a building at the edge of the Inner Harbor formerly occupied by the McCormick Spice Factory, and though I vaguely remembered the squarish box of a building, it had cleaned up quite nicely in the renovation. The cumbersome gray stone and ironwork facade of the old factory had been transformed to a pristine finish, and a newly constructed wing rose gracefully from the side like a castle tower, in keeping with the old Gothic style. From the street, the place looked majestic, impressive, a renovation Mom would appreciate if she could just drag herself down here to take a look. My mother is a professor of architecture at University of Baltimore, with a fierce passion for building design and history. I think I was playing with blocks in preschool when she began explaining the differences between Ionic and Doric columns. While other kids were learning their times tables, I was grilled on whether a building was Georgian Revival, Federalist, or Jeffersonian architecture. We spent summer vacations touring the East Coast in pursuit of buildings designed by Benjamin Latrobe, and Mom spent every other weekend conducting tours of his Mulberry Street Cathedral and Mount Vernon Place, along with the Peabody Library and once-infamous Bromo-Seltzer Tower. Much to her dismay, I was always on the verge of flunking history in school. Someone told her that it's a way children rebel against their parents, subconsciously shutting down in areas their parents excelled in. All I know is, I wasn't interested in what a bunch of dead people did, and although I could memorize a dance sequence or repeat a step until I learned it, there was no memorizing explorers, inventors, and dates for me. I barely scraped through high school with Cs and took only the core history requirements in college. Sorry, Mom.

At the moment, Mom was on a self-inflicted sabbatical, but that was another story.

Although the revolving door at the front of the store was locked tight, a guard motioned me in through a side entrance, where I ran into a queue that led to a folding table.

I circled the line, trying to see who or what was at the front.

A heavyset man in black leathers turned and barked at me through his stringy, belly-length beard. “Line forms back that way, hon.”

I lifted my hands. “Do you know what it's for? This can't be the right line. I'm here for an audition.”

“So's everybody else. Back of the line, Red.”

My heels clicked over the marble floor as I stepped back, steaming at the ZZ Top wannabe. And
he
was auditioning to be an elf? Good luck with that.

We were cordoned off in a little side salon, but as the line moved up I got a peek through the doors at the rest of the cavernous space—the main selling floor—which was totally empty except for some elegant crystal chandeliers.

“Well, that doesn't instill much confidence,” I muttered. “They're opening next week and there's no merchandise in the store.”

Most of the people in the line ignored me, but ZZ turned back and squinted toward the sales floor. “I wouldn't worry.”

“They don't have a single piece of furniture. How's it all going to happen in time?” I thought about that. Were we all wasting our time here? “Have you heard anything about them delaying the opening?” I said, lowering my voice conspiratorially.

ZZ leaned close and whispered, “No.”

An annoying little man, that biker dude. I folded my arms and tuned him out, tuned out the entire line of elf applicants and imagined myself in a far more desirable line, arm in arm with women my height, our heads turning and legs kicking precisely, in perfect unison.

I'd been a part of that line just last Christmas, dancing at Radio City Music Hall. Back then my life had seemed so rich and full, so organized and smooth, moving from the hectic rehearsals to the challenging pace of the daily matinees and evening shows, the sparkling costumes, the lights, the delighted applause of the audience, the fluttery thrill that never failed me each time the curtain rose . . .

“Would you be available to work overtime? Long hours?”

For last year's Christmas show we'd done between two and four performances a day . . .

“Miss? We're hiring only one person for this role.”

I stared blankly at the polite young man from Personnel. “One elf? Santa's downsizing this year?”

“Actually, all the elf positions have been cast at this time.”

My heart sank. With my experience in New York, I'd figured this job would be a lock for me.

Wrong again, dummy-head. It was time to find the line for the Christmas hires. Maybe I could spray colognes in the air or wrap gifts.

“I'm sorry,” the young man said, his deep voice belying his wiry frame. He had smooth, chocolate brown skin and a slightly goofy smile that made me want to adopt him as a kid brother. “I thought you were applying for Mrs. C.”

“Mrs. C?” I blinked again, wondering what I'd missed.

Mr. Personnel cocked his head to the side, his pat smile hinting that he'd repeated this spiel dozens of times this morning. “As Mrs. Claus, you'd be working in Santaland with the help of a team of elves, managing queuing and diverting groups of children with activities, train rides, and whatnot.”

“I can work long hours—I can. I have
mucho
stamina. Did you see my résumé? I'm a dancer.” Realizing I hadn't shown him my credentials, I slid a copy out of my portfolio bag. “I've even played Mrs. Claus before onstage.” I didn't mention that every woman onstage had been dressed as Mrs. Claus, but really, did he have to know every detail?

His face was stern as he read, but suddenly a smile lit his face. “You were a Rockette? Really?”

I beamed. ZZ was glancing over at me curiously, and I winked at him. “Yup. I mean, yes, I was. I was in the Christmas show last year.”

“That's amazing.” Mr. Personnel grinned up at me with such admiration, I thought he'd ask me to autograph his necktie. He stood up, stumbling over his chair as he excused himself and went off to show my résumé to his supervisor.

The day took a turn for the better at that point, as the interview turned into a real audition. Behind a sliding curtain, a group of store employees were assessing performers and making final cuts with all the glamour of a tap-dance recital.

A selection committee sat at another makeshift table, eyeing me with all the levity of the Olympic figure skating judges. I smiled, figuring I had an edge here. How many former Rockettes auditioned to be Mrs. Claus at Rossman's Department Store?

The committee wanted to see me try on a Santa cap. They wanted me to sing a few Christmas carols (not my strong point; there was a reason I chose dance, but I can carry a tune). They wanted to see one of the Rockettes' signature eye-high kicks.

I was happy to oblige, relieved that my leg had healed to the point where I could land a few graceful kicks. They seemed to be impressed when I threw in a few anecdotes about sharing a Manhattan apartment with two other Rockettes and winging it when the airline lost my luggage during last year's North American tour.

Within half an hour the audition was over, the verdict still undetermined “though I have a really great feeling they'll choose you,” said Charley, the personnel clerk who had first processed my application.

“I hope so,” I said, thinking of my dwindling bank account, my rent payment, my copays for physical therapy, my credit-card debt that was going to make Christmas shopping treacherous, all that bobbing and weaving to avoid clanging into the credit limit.

Charley assured me the committee would make its decisions by tomorrow and all Christmas players would be called in the following day to begin training. They would have to, with these ambitious plans for Santaland, including musical productions, skaters, sleigh rides for children. He spoke so fast some of the details flew by me, but it was clear that Rossman's was planning a festive debut in the Christmas shopping arena.

“Can we see the space that will be used for Toyland?” ZZ asked as we were both getting ready to leave at the same time.

“I wish.” Charley rolled his eyes. “We can't even get into our offices until tomorrow, something about building inspections, but that'll all be settled by the time you report in.”

“Okay, then. Till Wednesday.” ZZ stood tall, saluted Charley, then headed out.

I walked a few paces behind him, not really eager to catch up and strike up a conversation. But when he paused at the door to hold it for me, I hurried ahead.

“You seem confident about getting this job,” I said.

“If it's not here, it's somewhere else. I've played Santa for the past twelve years, five of those years at Rossman's Miami. 'Tis the season, Red. Or maybe I should call you Rocky, huh? For the next two months, I'm a hot commodity.” He looked me up and down as we stepped out into the winter sun. “You ever played Mrs. Claus before?”

“Onstage.”

He nodded knowingly.

“Why? Do you think I'll be good at it?”

“Do you like kids?”

I hadn't really thought about that. The truth was, I didn't really know any kids, had no reason to like or dislike them, though when I spotted families with screamers in airport lounges I always crossed my fingers in hopes that I'd be far, far away from them on the plane. The closest I'd come in the past few years was giving autographs to children who waited outside the stage door at Radio City. And I always helped Bobby pick out gifts for his nieces and nephews.

ZZ snorted. “I take that as a no.”

“It's not me, it's them,” I said. “Kids don't like me for some reason. I don't know why.”

“I'd think about that one,” he said, heading over to the curb where a shiny, decked-out Harley was parked. ZZ reached over the bike and unclipped a helmet.

“You're kidding me. That's yours?”

“Need a lift?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Yeah, but I'd like to make it home alive.”

“Alive, but not really living.” He swung onto the bike and lifted the kickstand. “Think about it, Rocky.”

“Would you stop calling me that?” I yelled over the grumble of the engine, but ZZ was already balancing the bike, then roaring off, his beard blowing back over one shoulder as the Harley cruised off toward Fells Point.

Enough with the sage Santa. Like I needed advice from a dude on a Harley. I don't know why I even talked to him, anyway, something about the neighborliness of Baltimoreans. In New York people sat shoulder to shoulder with total strangers for a forty-minute subway ride and never made eye contact, but here, if someone made a comment and you didn't answer, they would keep on you until you acknowledged them. I wasn't sure which social code was preferable.

As the sun had melted the chill in the air and warmed the brick paving stones underfoot, I stood in front of the new Rossman's building and decided to check my messages. If one of my friends was available for lunch, it wasn't worth the bus trip home right now. The pitfalls of not having a car in Baltimore, a city where most residents owned a car, sometimes two.