A Lot Like Christmas: Stories Page 6

  Lauren opened her eyes. Fred smiled at her. “Yeah. For excessive cupidity,” he said.

  Lauren grinned.

  “But there’s nothing to worry about,” Fred said. “We replaced them. We’re wrapping them right now. No, it was no trouble. I was happy to help. Yeah, I’ll tell her.” He hung up. “Scott will be here to take you to the office party at seven-thirty,” he said. “It looks like you’re going to get your heart’s desire after all.”

  “Yeah,” Lauren said, looking at the TV. On the screen, the building and loan was going under.

  They finished wrapping the last pair of scissors at six-thirty, and Fred went back to his apartment to change clothes and get his Santa Claus costume. Lauren packed the presents in three of the Upscale Oasis shopping bags, said sternly, “Don’t you dare touch these,” to the empty couch, and went to get ready.

  She showered and did her hair, and then went into the bedroom to see if the spirit had biodegraded her red dress, or, by some miracle, brought the black off-the-shoulder one back. He hadn’t.

  She put on her red dress and went back into the living room. It was only a little after seven. She turned on the TV and put Fred’s video into the VCR. She hit play. Edmund Gwenn was giving the doctor the X-ray machine he’d always wanted.

  Lauren picked up one of the shopping bags and felt the top pair of scissors to make sure they hadn’t been turned into bottles of Evian water. There was an envelope stuck between two of the packages. Inside was a check for $5895.36. It was made out to the Children’s Hospital fund.

  She shook her head, smiling, and put the check back into the envelope.

  On TV, Maureen O’Hara and John Payne were watching Natalie Wood run through an empty house and out the back door to look for her swing. They looked seriously at each other. Lauren held her breath. John Payne moved forward and kissed Maureen O’Hara.

  Someone knocked on the door. “That’s Scott,” Lauren said to John Payne, and waited till Maureen O’Hara had finished telling him she loved him before she went to open the door.

  It was Fred, carrying a foil-covered plate. He was wearing the same sweater and pants he’d worn to wrap the presents. “Cheese puffs,” he said. “I figured you couldn’t get to your stove.” He looked seriously at her. “I wouldn’t worry about not having your black dress to dazzle Scott with.”

  He went over and set the cheese puffs on the coffee table. “You need to take the foil off and heat them in a microwave for two minutes on high. Tell PMS to put the presents in Santa’s bag, and I’ll be there at eleven-thirty.”

  “Aren’t you going to the party?”

  “Office parties are your idea of fun, not mine,” he said. “Besides, Miracle on 34th Street’s on at eight. It may be the only chance I have to watch it.”

  “But I wanted you—”

  There was a knock on the door. “That’s Scott,” Lauren said.

  “Well,” Fred said, “if the spirit doesn’t do something in the next fifteen seconds, you’ll have your heart’s desire in spite of him.” He opened the door. “Come on in,” he said. “Lauren and the presents are all ready.” He handed two of the shopping bags to Scott.

  “I really appreciate your helping Lauren and me with all this,” Scott said.

  Fred handed the other shopping bag to Lauren. “It was my pleasure.”

  “I wish you were coming with us,” she said.

  “And give up a chance of seeing the real Santa Claus?” He held the door open. “You two had better get going before something happens.”

  “What do you mean?” Scott said, alarmed. “Do you think these presents might be recalled, too?”

  Lauren looked hopefully at the couch and then the TV. On the screen Jimmy Stewart was standing on a bridge in the snow, getting ready to kill himself.

  “Afraid not,” Fred said.

  It was snowing by the time they pulled into the parking lot at work. “It was really selfless of Fred to help you wrap all those presents,” Scott said, holding the lobby door open for Lauren. “He’s a nice guy.”

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “He is.”

  “Hey, look at that!” Scott said. He pointed at the security monitor. “It’s a Wonderful Life. My favorite movie!” On the monitor Jimmy Stewart was running through the snow, shouting, “Merry Christmas!”

  “Scott,” Lauren said, “I can’t go to the party with you.”

  “Just a minute, okay?” Scott said, staring at the screen. “This is my favorite part.” He set the shopping bags down on the receptionist’s desk and leaned his elbows on it. “This is the part where Jimmy Stewart finds out what a wonderful life he’s had.”

  “You have to take me home,” Lauren said.

  There was a gust of cold air and snow. Lauren turned around.

  “You forgot your cheese puffs,” Fred said, holding out the foil-covered plate to Lauren.

  “There’s such a thing as being too self-sacrificing, you know,” Lauren said.

  He held the plate out to her. “That’s what the spirit said.”

  “He came back?” She shot a glance at the shopping bags.

  “Yeah. Right after you left. Don’t worry about the presents. He said he thought the staplers were a great idea. He also said not to worry about getting a Christmas present for your sister.”

  “My sister!” Lauren said, clapping her hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot about her.”

  “He said since you didn’t like it, he sent her the Yanomamo dress.”

  “She’ll love it,” Lauren said.

  “He also said it was a wonder Jimmy Stewart ever got Donna Reed, he was so busy giving everybody else what they wanted,” he said, looking seriously at her.

  “He’s right,” Lauren said. “Did he also tell you Jimmy Stewart was incredibly stupid for wanting to go off to college when Donna Reed was right there in front of him?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “What a great movie!” Scott said, turning to Lauren. “Ready to go up?”

  “No,” Lauren said. “I’m going with Fred to see a movie.” She took the cheese puffs from Fred and handed them to Scott.

  “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Take the foil off,” Fred said, “and put them in a microwave for two minutes.”

  “But you’re my date,” Scott said. “Who am I supposed to go with?”

  There was a gust of cold air and snow. Everyone turned around.

  “How do I look?” Evie said, taking off her coat.

  “Wow!” Scott said. “You look terrific!”

  Evie spun around, her shoulders bare, the sequins glittering on her black dress. “Lauren gave it to me for Christmas,” she said happily. “I love Christmas, don’t you?”

  “I love that dress,” Scott said.

  “He also told me,” Fred said, “that his favorite thing in Miracle on 34th Street was Santa Claus’s being in disguise—”

  “He wasn’t in disguise,” Lauren said. “Edmund Gwenn told everybody he was Santa Claus.”

  Fred held up a correcting finger. “He told everyone his name was Kris Kringle.”

  “Chris,” Lauren said.

  “Oh, I love this part,” Evie said.

  Lauren looked at her. She was standing next to Scott, watching Jimmy Stewart standing next to Donna Reed and singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

  “He makes all sorts of trouble for everyone,” Fred said. “He turns Christmas upside down—”

  “Completely disrupts Maureen O’Hara’s life,” Lauren said.

  “But by the end, everything’s worked out, the doctor has his X-ray machine, Natalie Wood has her house—”

  “Maureen O’Hara has Fred—”

  “And no one’s quite sure how he did it, or if he did anything.”

  “Or if he had the whole thing planned from the beginning.” She looked seriously at Fred. “He told me I only thought I knew what I wanted for Christmas.”

  Fred moved toward her. “He told me just because something s
eems impossible doesn’t mean a miracle can’t happen.”

  “What a great ending!” Evie said, sniffling. “It’s a Wonderful Life is my favorite movie.”

  “Mine, too,” Scott said. “Do you know how to heat up cheese puffs?” He turned to Lauren and Fred. “Cut that out, you two, we’ll be late for the party.”

  “We’re not going,” Fred said, putting his arm around Lauren. They started for the door. “Miracle’s on at eight.”

  “But you can’t leave,” Scott said. “What about all these presents? Who’s going to pass them out?”

  There was a gust of cold air and snow. “Ho ho ho,” Santa Claus said.

  “Isn’t that your costume, Fred?” Lauren said.

  “Yes. It has to be back at the rental place by Monday morning,” he said to Santa Claus. “And no changing it into rain forest by-products.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Santa Claus said.

  “I like the way things worked out at the end,” Lauren said.

  “All we need is a cane standing in the corner,” Fred said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Santa Claus said. “Where are all these presents I’m supposed to pass out?”

  “Right here,” Scott said. He handed one of the shopping bags to Santa Claus.

  “Plastic shopping bags,” Santa Claus said, making a “tsk”-ing sound. “You should be using recycled paper.”

  “Sorry,” Scott said. He handed the cheese puffs to Evie and picked up the other two shopping bags. “Ready, Evie?”

  “We can’t go yet,” Evie said, gazing at the security monitor. “Look, It’s a Wonderful Life is just starting.” On the screen Jimmy Stewart’s brother was falling through the ice. “This is my favorite part,” she said.

  “Mine, too,” Scott said, and went over to stand next to her.

  Santa Claus squinted curiously at the monitor for a moment and then shook his head. “Miracle on 34th Street’s a much better movie, you know,” he said reprovingly. “More realistic.”

  All right, so you’re probably wondering how I, Claire Havilland—three-time Tony winner, Broadway legend, and star of Only Human—ended up here, standing outside Radio City Music Hall in a freezing rain two days before Christmas, soaked to the skin and on the verge of pneumonia, accosting harmless passersby.

  Well, it’s all my wretched manager Torrance’s fault. And Macy’s. And the movie All About Eve’s.

  You’ve never heard of All About Eve? Of course you haven’t. Neither has anyone else. Except Emily.

  It starred Anne Baxter and Bette Davis, and was the first movie Marilyn Monroe appeared in. She played Miss Caswell, a producer’s girlfriend, but the movie’s not about her. It’s about an aging Broadway actress, Margo Channing, and the young aspiring actress, Eve Harrington, who insinuates herself into Margo’s life and makes off with her starring role, her career, and, very nearly, her husband.

  All About Eve was made into a musical called Applause and then into a straight dramatic play which was then made into another musical. (Broadway has never been terribly creative.) The second musical, which was called Bumpy Night and starred Kristen Stewart as Eve and me as Margo, only ran for three months, but it won me my second Tony and got me the lead in Feathers, which won me my third.

  Macy’s is a New York department store, in case you don’t know that, either. Except for Emily, no one today seems to know anything that happened longer than five minutes ago. Macy’s sponsors a parade on Thanksgiving Day every year, featuring large balloons representing various cartoon characters, the stars of various Broadway shows waving frozenly from floats, and the Rockettes.

  And my manager Torrance is a lying, sneaky, conniving snake. As you shall see.

  The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving he knocked on my dressing room door during intermission and said, “Do you have a minute, dear one? I’ve got fabulous news!”

  I should have known right then he was up to something. Torrance only comes backstage when: one, he has bad news to deliver, or two, he wants something. And he never knocks.

  “The show’s closing,” I said.

  “Closing! Of course not. The house is sold out every night through Christmas. And it’s no wonder! You get more dazzling with every performance!” He clutched his chest dramatically. “When you sang that Act I finale, the audience was eating out of your hand!”

  “If you’re still trying to talk me into having lunch with Nusbaum, the answer is no,” I said, unzipping my garden party costume. “I am not doing the revival of Chicago.”

  “But you were the best Roxie Hart the show ever had—”

  “That was twelve years ago,” I said, shimmying out of it. “I have no intention of wearing a leotard at my age. I am too old—”

  “Don’t even say that word, dear one,” he said, looking anxiously out into the hall and pulling the door to behind him. “You don’t know who might hear you.”

  “They won’t have to hear me. One look at me in fishnet stockings, and the audience will be able to figure it out for themselves.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, looking appraisingly at me. “Your legs aren’t that bad.”

  Aren’t that bad. “Dance ten, looks three?” I said wryly.

  He stared blankly at me.

  “It’s a line from A Chorus Line, a show I was in which you apparently never bothered to see. It’s a line which proves my point about the fishnet stockings. I am not doing Chicago.”

  “All Nusbaum’s asking is that you meet him for lunch. What harm could that do? He didn’t even say what role he wanted you for. It may not be Roxie at all. He may want you for the part of—”

  “Who? The warden?” I said, scooping up my garden party costume into a wad. “I told you I was too old for fishnet stockings, not old enough to be playing Mama Morton.” I threw it at him. “Or Mama Rose. Or I Remember Mama.”

  “I only meant he might want you to play Velma,” he said, fighting his way out of the yards of crinoline.

  “No,” I said. “Absolutely not. I need a role where I keep my clothes on. I hear Austerman’s doing a musical version of Desk Set.”

  “Desk Set?” he asked. “What’s it about?”

  Apparently he never watched movies, either. “Computers replacing office workers,” I said. “It was a Julia Roberts–Richard Gere movie several years ago, and there are no fishnet stockings in it anywhere.” I wriggled into my ball gown. “Was that all you wanted?”

  I knew perfectly well it wasn’t. Torrance has been my manager for over fifteen years, and one thing I’ve learned during that time is that he never gets around to what he really wants till Act Two of a conversation, apparently in the belief that he can soften me up by asking for some other thing first. Or for two other things, if what he wants is particularly unpleasant, though how it could be worse than doing Chicago, I didn’t know.

  “What did you come in here for, Torrance?” I asked. “There are only five minutes to curtain.”

  “I’ve got a little publicity thing I need you to do. Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, and the Macy’s parade—”

  “No, I am not riding on the Only Human float, or standing out in a freezing rain again saying, ‘Look! Here comes the Wall-E balloon!’ ”

  There was a distinct pause, and then Torrance said, “How did you know there’s a Wall-E balloon in the parade? I thought you only read Variety.”

  “There was a picture of it on the home page of the Times yesterday.”

  “Did you click to the article?”

  “No. Why? As you say, I never read the news. You didn’t already tell them I’d do it, did you?” I said, my eyes narrowing.

  “No, of course not. You don’t have to go anywhere near the parade.”

  “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “Because the parade’s Grand Marshal is coming to the show Friday night, and I’d like you to let him come backstage after the performance to meet you.”

  “Who is it this year?” I asked. It was always a politician,
or whatever talentless tween idol was going to be starring on Broadway next. “If it’s any of Britney Spears’s offspring, the answer is no.”

  “It’s not,” Torrance said. “It’s Dr. Edwin Oakes.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Of physics. Nobel Prize for his work on artificial neurotransmitters. He founded AIS.”

  “Why on earth is a physicist the Grand Marshal of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?” I said. “Oh, wait, is he the robot scientist?”

  There was another pause. “I thought you said you didn’t read the article.”

  “I didn’t. My driver Jorge told me about him.”

  “Where’d he hear about Dr. Oakes?”

  “On the radio. He listens to it in the limo while he’s waiting.”

  “Oh. What did Jorge tell you about him?”

  “Just that he’d invented some new sort of robot that was supposed to replace ATMs and subway-ticket dispensers, and that I shouldn’t believe it, they were going to steal all our jobs—oh, my God, you’re bringing some great, clanking Robby the Robot backstage to meet me!”

  “No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Would I do that?”

  “Yes. And you didn’t answer my question. Is this the same Dr. Oakes? The robot scientist?”

  “Yes, only they’re not robots, they’re ‘artificials.’ ”

  “I don’t care what they’re called. I’m not granting a backstage interview to C-3PO.”

  “You’re dating yourself, dear one,” he said. “C-3PO was eons ago. The reason Dr. Oakes was asked to be the Grand Marshal is because this year’s parade theme is robots, in honor of—”

  “Don’t tell me—Forbidden Planet, right? I should have known.”

  Forbidden Planet. The second-worst show to ever have been on Broadway, but that hasn’t stopped it from packing them in down the street at the Majestic, thanks to Robby the Robot and a never-ending procession of tween idols (at this point it’s Shiloh Jolie-Pitt and Justin Bieber, Jr.) in the starring roles. “And I suppose that’s where this Dr. Oakes is tonight?”

  “No, they didn’t want to see Forbidden Planet—”

  “They?” I said suspiciously.