Seventeen
I brEAK THE NEWS TO Clément that we aren’t moving to the apartment after all, and he’s confused at first, but then relieved. “So we’re staying here?” he asks.
“For now,” I say. “For a little while.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know.”
Time pushes against me, physical and constant.
My sisters field calls from the social worker, tell him there’s a man in my life, that it’s serious, buy me time.
At work, I pay close attention to who’s newly broken up, who’s newly together.
Marcus is dating Abigail from the Art Department.
She’s pretty, with dark-brown hair that she pulls back with barrettes.
Her laugh rings out like a wind instrument, airy and light. I’m glad for him. I’m getting nowhere.
One day, Adele’s frowning when I get home from work. “The social worker was insistent today. I didn’t know what to do, so I told him you’re expecting a Christmas proposal. He’s traveling for the holiday but says he expects to move quickly after the new year. I’m sorry. I felt like I had no choice.”
I let my sisters take me to Les Dames Amis’ Winter Soirée.
The eligible bachelors from their brother club, the Conquistadors, descend upon me.
So many of them. Brush of fabric from their jackets against my neck.
Arms and hands reaching out, squeezing tight.
Glint of teeth, damp palms. Later, when Claire asks me if anyone stood out, I tell her to set up some dates for me, to choose whoever would be best.
I go to dinner with a widower. He’s looking for a stay-at-home wife, someone who’ll be happy caring for his three children.
I tell him I intend to keep working after I’m remarried.
Neither of us orders dessert. A dentist from Carver Manor takes me out for drinks.
He wears a shiny purple tie, talks about the importance of colored people serving their own communities.
I respect him, but I can’t imagine sharing his bed.
A grocery store manager makes me laugh on our drive to the pictures, but once the curtain parts, he puts his hand on my leg, tries to kiss my neck.
I swat him away, but he keeps trying and I excuse myself, say I’m going to the ladies’, and I call Lionel from the lobby to pick me up.
On our drive back to Compton I say, “If I don’t find someone soon, I’m going to have to marry you,” and he laughs and laughs.
And then, one evening, the doorbell rings. I answer it.
Felix. A winter bouquet this time, white flowers and red berries and pine. “Hello, beautiful,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, my heart calms.
While he and Bernard and Al are in the den, I fix my hair, apply lipstick and rouge, dab perfume behind my ears. Adele and Claire notice, close themselves into the bathroom with me. “He’s away so much,” Adele whispers. “But maybe, to you, that’s a good thing?”
“Okay,” Claire says. “Yes. Felix is a good Creole man. Handsome.”
“Stably employed,” Adele says. “And we know him well.”
“He’s also kind and quick and a pleasure to talk to,” I say. “And he’s so good with the children. The way he comes here so much … It seems like he wants to be a family man, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Adele says.
Claire nods. “Or maybe he’s had his eye on you this whole time. Here, let’s blend this rouge a little better.”
I try to stave off my guilt as the night goes on, as I refill his drink, as I stay by his side.
I tell myself I wouldn’t mind it if he kissed me.
His lips would be soft; he’s easy to wrap my arms around.
I could be a good wife to him. We’d talk and we’d laugh and we’d enjoy each other.
And then he would leave, for weeks at a time, and it would be me and Clément and Nathalie, doing whatever pleased us.
“Listen,” he says after dinner. “I’ve been waiting until I got you alone to ask you something.” I go hot. He leans in close. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I promise.”
“One of my friends, another porter, dresses up as Santa for his kids and their cousins every Christmas. Ever since he told me about it, it’s been on my mind. How fun that would be, to burst through the door as Old Nick and surprise them.”
I’m incredulous, delighted. “You want to be Santa for the children?”
“Would you help me arrange it?”
“I would love to.”
“Okay, then. It’s a secret between you and me.”
It’s the Saturday before Christmas, and we’ve turned the house into a wonderland.
A pink Christmas tree dripping in glass ornaments, silver and gold tinsel in all the doorways, mistletoe here and there, arranged figurines of Santa and the reindeer, snowmen and snowflakes.
We’ll have all the usual favorites—burgers on the grill and Adele’s cold potato salad, the tables set up in the yard so the men can play cards—but everything will be more festive.
Adele’s dressed in red, Claire in green, me in white.
We’ve pulled out the Christmas records and arranged them in the order we’ll play them: Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Les Brown, Pearl Bailey, Dinah Shore, Bing Crosby.
At seven o’clock, when the party’s in full swing, Felix arrives just as we planned.
We slip into the garage together and he lays out his Santa suit and hat and white beard.
I’ve taken a pillow from the closet, and I help him step into the oversize pants, stuff his shirt, fasten the suspenders.
I take my time, my skin close to his. I’m wearing my favorite gold earrings, new orange spice perfume.
When he’s dressed, I give him a pat on the chest, rest my hand there. “Good luck, Santa,” I say.
I go back inside, turn the music down in time for him to pound on the front door and shout, “Ho-ho-ho!” The children startle, wide-eyed, listening.
“Ho-ho-ho!” he booms again, and they shriek and run to let him in.
He picks them up, spins them round. “Merry Christmas, kids! Hello, Rudy. Hello, Nathalie. Hello, Clément. Hello, Titter. Hello, Bobby.”
Titter’s quivering with joy. “He knows my name!” she shouts.
“Why, of course I do,” Felix says. He hands out candy canes, boxes of Cracker Jack, individually wrapped gifts. The children are beside themselves. Even Rudy is convinced.
Everyone is having so much fun that when Lionel arrives, hours late, no one puts up a fuss.
Bing Crosby’s singing “You’re All I Want for Christmas” and we’re sipping warm eggnog from Adele’s Christmas mugs.
Santa came and went, and now Felix is back in his own trousers and his pine-green sweater, playing cards with the other men out back.
Nathalie’s perched on his knee, learning how the game is played. A fire burns in the pit outside.
“I had to drive out to Escondido and back to deliver a bird,” Lionel tells me. He’s mellow, almost blissful.
I hug him, smell perfume on his collar. “You sold a bird to a woman?”
He grins. “Sadly my client had to be out of town. However, his wife was there to complete the transaction.”
“Lionel.”
He grins wider. “Not my fault that she couldn’t resist me. The kids still awake?”
“Just for a bit longer.”
“I’ll go have a little time with them, then.”
Bobby and Titter spot him first, then Clément and Rudy tackle him to the ground. The twins join in crawling all over him. “Save me!” he cries. Only Nathalie, intent on the card game, can’t be bothered. Adele watches the spectacle with a hand on her hip.
“What perfect timing,” she says. “Get them all worked up right before bed.”
“Hush,” I say. “He’ll come around even less if you’re hard on him.”
Adele and I wash the children’s faces and inspect their teeth. We tuck them in and sing them lullabies, but they’re too riled up. An hour passes, we keep trying. Finally, I come up with the idea to separate them.
“Nathalie, Clément. Come with me.” I take a few books from the shelf, lead them to my room.
“You’ll sleep in here tonight.” Nathalie climbs up onto the bed.
Clément climbs in next to her. I tuck them in, side by side.
Kiss each of them on the forehead. “How about I read you one story, and then you both go right to sleep. Auntie Adele got some brand-new books yesterday. Should we pick one to read?”
They nod, eager.
“What’s this one called?” Clément asks.
“Little Fur Family.”
Nathalie holds up another. “What’s this one?”
“Goodnight Moon.”
There’s a flash of movement in the alley outside my window.
I go to see, lift the gauze curtain to peer through.
It’s only Al, bending over the pile of firewood, gathering a couple logs.
I drop the curtain but before it falls completely Felix is there, too, and through the translucent fabric I see Al rise and turn.
“Need help with that?” Felix asks. The window’s lifted a couple inches, his voice is clear as anything.
“I got it,” Al says. They both wait there, unmoving, and then Felix’s hand is at the back of Al’s head, pulling him close to kiss his mouth—unmistakable, this gesture, even though I can’t make sense of it.
Al jerks back, says something low. They stand together, silent, and tension thrums through my own body as though I’m standing between them.
Al turns to go and now it’s just Felix, leaning against the side of the house, closing his eyes, and I leave the window, step as quietly as I can to the bed.
My heart is wild, I cover my chest with my hand, breathe deep to calm it, and the children are declaring Goodnight Moon the winner, and I know that Felix can hear them, wonder if he’s struck with fear by the sound of us.
No movement through the window. He’s right there, still leaning against the wall.
I should be angry for my sister but all I feel is sorrow for him, and a recalibration, a new understanding of how we are with each other, how we can be comfortably alone together, how we’ve talked for hours with no misinterpretation.
“I’m ready for the story,” Nathalie says.