Love and Other Consolation Prizes(57)

Ernest was about to ask more when Mrs. Blackwell changed the subject. “Ernest, I wish you could have been there at the almshouse. The children gushed over Santa, the women cried, the volunteers blessed us…and then Mrs. Irvine showed up mid-carol and told them where we all work.”

“You’re joking.” Ernest almost spit out his cider.

“Mrs. Irvine had her own group of merrymakers, and they looked at us as though Mary Magdalene had stumbled into the manger and kicked her knickers off. As if the Three Wise Men had showed up drunk with a girl on each donkey,” Mrs. Blackwell prattled on. “As if the Christ child were born the color of our St. Nick!” It was obvious that she’d already downed a quick glass or two of her famous syllabub made with cream and a potent raspberry wine. “So…after we finished singing, we were politely asked to leave—through the back door, no less. And Miss Amber and Mrs. Irvine certainly exchanged a few choice words…”

Fahn cut in, laughing. “Miss Amber called her a hypocrite to her face. She said Mrs. Irvine was a bitter old coot who goes to the doctor for pelvic massages—that she’d rather faradize than fraternize!”

“But”—Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes—“I didn’t want to cause a ruckus or ruin Christmas for the little ones. So I separated the two of them and we left. I was just happy they didn’t make anyone give back the gifts.”

“Of course,” Ernest said. He remembered his own bleak Christmases at the boarding school.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Mrs. Blackwell said with a heavy sigh.

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Fahn added. “At least it’s a Christmas we’ll never forget. Should be an interesting new year.”

“Maisie May!” A few of the upstairs girls called out to her as they were almost done decorating the tall tree that smelled like Christmas. “It’s tradition, we need you to put the angel on top.” One of the girls held out a kiln-fired cherub painted with hints of sky blue and gold.

“I’m too old for that,” Maisie grumbled. “Besides, I don’t believe in angels anymore.” She turned and headed up the stairs.

Fahn nodded wearily as she handed her cup of warm cider to Ernest and followed Maisie, muttering something about rich devils.

After the party ended and the servants had cleaned up, Ernest lay awake in his bed, tossing and turning. Professor True had read everyone “The Night Before Christmas,” but as Ernest tried to sleep, he didn’t think about flying reindeer or sugarplum fairies. He thought about Maisie and how upset she’d been—Fahn too. Were they troubled by the scene at the almshouse, the mysterious gift from Louis Turnbull, or perhaps both? And Ernest wondered about Mr. Turnbull himself and what he might think if he caught a glimpse of his obsession in her current deranged state.

Ernest wasn’t sure what to do with his vague unease. Then he remembered the painted angels he’d wrapped as gifts.

With a worried sigh, he rolled out of bed and stepped to the window, scratching his head. There were no cars. No carriages. Even the saloons were closed. The entire city was asleep. The downy flakes had stopped falling, and all seemed solemn and still.

Ernest shivered at the thought of the cold and then got dressed. He bundled up in two pairs of pants and three shirts, and doubled his socks. Then he crept down the main staircase, which was carpeted and quieter. He tiptoed to the door, slipped on his boots, his overcoat, hat, and mittens. He wrapped a scarf around his face to keep his neck and cheeks warm.

Once outside, the air was so crisp, so cold it made his eyes water as he crunched through a thin eggshell crust of windborne powder, frozen atop the deep, wet snow. He walked around the building until he stood beneath Maisie’s darkened window. He looked across the wide street, which was now covered, with nary a footprint, then up at the window once again and watched his breath steam away into the night sky. Finally he sat down, lay back into that cold desert of fresh powder, spread out his arms, and made a snow angel. He stood up, regarded his work, then took a giant step toward Fahn’s side of the building, sat down, and did it all over again. He stepped again and again, up and down, occasionally feeling snow and ice go down his pants or the back of his shirt. He made snow angel after snow angel, covering the street, the sidewalk—anyplace that could be seen from the girls’ windows. He caught his breath as he counted three dozen, then four, then five, while his nose ran and his eyebrows froze.

Finally, he crept back inside, warmed himself in front of the fire, adding another piece of thick cordwood and watching it burn. Then he wearily climbed back into bed just before the grandfather clock downstairs sounded three in the morning.

Ernest was exhausted, but he smiled as he fell asleep, imagining the look on Maisie’s face at sunrise when she looked out her window, Fahn’s face too.

He wondered how many angels he’d made. He had no idea. He’d stopped counting after two hundred.





B SIDES


(1962)



Ernest stood on the sidewalk in front of Ruby Chow’s impatiently counting the minutes. He’d paid the bill and stepped outside while Juju and Gracie were still chatting with the waitresses—about nothing too revealing, Ernest hoped.

There had been an awkward silence after Gracie dropped her bomb about being a prostitute. Then Juju had deftly stepped in, saying something about having left too many copies of Whisper and Confidential magazines lying around the house for Gracie to read. Her mother must have misremembered a bit of Hollywood gossip about Veronica Lake or Helen Hayden. Since Gracie’s ailment had set in, she’d said plenty of things that didn’t make sense, and they’d laughed it off, albeit nervously. Meanwhile Gracie had turned her attention to a nice rock cod, roasted whole with shallots and fresh parsley. She’d put the tender cheek, the choicest part, on Hanny’s plate.