Miracle (6 page)

They had the dress in a size three. Lauren put herself through the indignity of trying to get into it and then went to work. The
receptionist was watching Jimmy Stewart standing on the bridge in the snow and weeping into a Kleenex. She handed Lauren her messages.

There were two memos from the PMS Committee—they were having a sleigh ride after work, and she was supposed to bring cheese puffs to the office party. There wasn’t a message from Fred.

“Oh!” the receptionist wailed. “This part is so sad!”

“I hate
It’s a Wonderful Life,”
Lauren said, and went up to her desk. “I hate Christmas,” she said to Evie.

“It’s normal to hate Christmas,” Evie said, looking up from the book she was reading. “This book, it’s called
Let’s Forget Christmas
, says it’s because everyone has these unrealistic expectations. When they get presents, they—”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Lauren said. She rummaged in her bag and brought out Evie’s present, fingering it quickly to make sure it was still a stapler. It seemed to be. She held it out to Evie. “Merry Christmas.”

“I don’t have yours wrapped yet,” Evie said. “I don’t even have my wrapping paper bought yet. The book says I’m suffering from an avoidance complex.” She picked up the package. “Do I have to open it now? I know it will be something I love, and you won’t like what I got you half as well, and I’ll feel incredibly guilty and inadequate.”

“You don’t have to open it now,” Lauren said. “I just thought I’d better give it to you before—” She picked her messages up off her desk and started looking through them. “Before I forgot. There haven’t been any messages from Fred, have there?”

“Yeah. He was here about fifteen minutes ago looking for you. He said to tell you the Net hadn’t been any help, and he was going to try the library.” She looked sadly at the present. “It’s even wrapped great,” she said gloomily. “I went shopping for a dress for the office party last night, and do you think I could find anything off-the-shoulder or with sequins? I couldn’t even find anything I’d be caught dead in. Did you know the rate of stress-related illnesses at Christmas is seven times higher than the rest of the year?”

“I can relate to that,” Lauren said.

“No, you can’t. You didn’t end up buying some awful gray thing with gold chains hanging all over it. At least Scott will notice me. He’ll say, ‘Hi, Evie, are you dressed as Marley’s ghost?’ And there you’ll be, looking fabulous in black sequins—”

“No, I won’t,” Lauren said.

“Why? Didn’t they hold it for you?”

“It was … defective. Did Fred want to talk to me?”

“I don’t know. He was on his way out. He had to go pick up his Santa Claus suit. Oh, my God.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s Scott Buckley.”

“Hi,” Scott said to Lauren. “I was wondering if you could go shopping with me tonight.”

Lauren stared at him, so taken aback she couldn’t speak.

“When you couldn’t go last night, I decided to cancel my date.”

“Uh … I …” she said.

“I thought we could buy the presents and then have some dinner.”

She nodded.

“Great,” Scott said. “I’ll come over to your apartment around six-thirty.”

“No!” Lauren said. “I mean, why don’t we go straight from work?”

“Good idea. I’ll come up here and get you.” He smiled meltingly and left.

“I think I’ll kill myself,” Evie said. “Did you know the rate of suicides at Christmas is four times higher than the rest of the year? He is so cute,” she said, looking longingly down the hall after him. “There’s Fred.”

Lauren looked up. Fred was coming toward her desk with a Santa Claus costume and a stack of books. Lauren hurried across to him.

“This is everything the library had on exorcisms and the occult,” Fred said, transferring half of the books to her arms. “I thought we could both go through them today, and then get together tonight and compare notes.”

“Oh, I can’t,” Lauren said. “I promised Scott I’d help him pick out the presents for the office party tonight. I’m sorry. I could tell him I can’t.”

“Your heart’s desire? Are you kidding?” He started awkwardly piling the books back on his load. “You go shopping. I’ll go through the books and let you know if I come up with anything.”

“Are you sure?” she said guiltily. “I mean, you shouldn’t have to do all the work.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said. He started to walk away and then stopped. “You didn’t tell the spirit Scott was your heart’s desire, did you?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“I was just wondering … nothing. Never mind.” He walked off down the hall. Lauren went back to her desk.

“Did you know the rate of depression at Christmas is sixteen times higher than the rest of the year?” Evie said. She handed Lauren a package.

“What’s this?”

“It’s from your Secret Santa.”

Lauren opened it. It was a large book entitled
It’s a Wonderful Life: The Photo Album.
On the cover, Jimmy Stewart was looking depressed.

“I figure it’ll take a half hour or so to pick out the presents,” Scott said, leading her past two inflatable palm trees into The Upscale Oasis. “And then we can have some supper and get acquainted.” He lay down on a massage couch. “What do you think about this?”

“How many presents do we have to buy?” Lauren asked, looking around the store. There were a lot of inflatable palm trees, and a jukebox, and several life-size cardboard cutouts of Malcolm Forbes and Leona Helmsley. Against the far wall were two high-rise aquariums and a bank of televisions with neon-outlined screens.

“Seventy-two.” He got up off the massage couch, handed her the list of employees and went over to a display of brown
boxes tied with twine. “What about these? They’re handmade Yanomamo Christmas ornaments.”

“No,” Lauren said. “How much money do we have to spend?”

“The PMS Committee budgeted six thousand, and there was five hundred left in the Sunshine fund. We can spend …” He picked up a pocket calculator in the shape of Donald Trump and punched several buttons. “Ninety dollars per person, including tax. How about this?” He held up an automatic cat feeder.

“We got those last year,” Lauren said. She picked up a digital umbrella and put it back down.

“How about a car fax?” Scott said. “No, wait. This, this is it!”

Lauren turned around. Scott was holding up what looked like a gold cordless phone. “It’s an investment pager,” he said, punching keys. “See, it gives you the Dow Jones, treasury bonds, interest rates. Isn’t it perfect?”

“Well,” Lauren said.

“See, this is the hostile takeover alarm, and every time the Federal Reserve adjusts the interest rate it beeps.”

Lauren read the tag. “‘Portable Plutocrat. $74.99.’”

“Great,” Scott said. “We’ll have money left over.”

“To invest,” Lauren said.

He went off to see if they had seventy-two of them, and Lauren wandered over to the bank of televisions.

There was a videotape of
Miracle on 34th Street
lying on top of the VCR/shower massage. Lauren looked around to see if anyone was watching and then popped the
Wonderful Life
tape out and stuck in
Miracle.

A dozen Edmund Gwenns dressed as Macy’s Santa Claus appeared on the screens, listening to twelve store managers tell them which overstocked toys to push.

Scott came over, lugging four shopping bags. “They come giftwrapped,” he said happily, showing her a Portable Plutocrat wrapped in green paper with gold dollar signs. “Which gives us a free evening.”

“That’s what I’ve been fighting against for years,” a dozen
Edmund Gwenns said, tearing a dozen lists to bits, “the way they commercialize Christmas.”

“What I thought,” Scott said when they got in the car, “was that instead of going out for supper, we’d take these over to your apartment and order in.”

“Order in?” Lauren said, clutching the bag of Portable Plutocrats on her lap to her.

“I know a great Italian place that delivers. Angel-hair pasta, wine, everything. Or, if you’d rather, we could run by a grocery store and pick up some stuff to cook.”

“Actually, my kitchen’s kind of a mess,” she said. There is a Christmas tree in it, she thought, with organic by-products hanging on it.

He pulled up outside her apartment building. “Then Italian it is.” He got out of the car and began unloading shopping bags. “You like prosciutto? They have a great melon and prosciutto.”

“Actually, the whole apartment’s kind of a disaster,” Lauren said, following him up the stairs. “You know, wrapping presents and everything. There are ribbons and tags and paper all over the floor and—”

“Great,” he said, stopping in front of her door. “We have to put tags on the presents, anyway.”

“They don’t need tags, do they?” Lauren said desperately. “I mean, they’re all exactly alike.”

“It personalizes them,” he said, “it shows the gift was chosen especially for them.” He looked expectantly at the key in her hand and then at the door.

She couldn’t hear the TV, which was a good sign. And every time Fred had come over, the spirit had disappeared. So all I have to do is keep him out of the kitchen, she thought.

She opened the door and Scott pushed past her and dumped the shopping bags onto the coffee table. “Sorry,” he said. “Those were really heavy.” He straightened up and looked around the living room. There was no sign of the spirit, but there were three Evian water bottles on the coffee table.
“This doesn’t look too messy. You should see my apartment. I’ll bet your kitchen’s neater than mine, too.”

Lauren walked swiftly over to the kitchen and pulled the door shut. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Aren’t there still some more presents to bring up?”

“Yeah. I’ll go get them. Shall I call the Italian place first?”

“No,” Lauren said, standing with her back against the kitchen door. “Why don’t you bring the bags up first?”

“Okay,” he said, smiling meltingly, and went out.

Lauren leaped to the door, put the deadbolt and the chain on, and then ran back to the kitchen and opened the door. The tree was still there. She pulled the door hastily to and walked rapidly into the bedroom. He wasn’t there, or in the bathroom. “Thank you,” she breathed, looking heavenward, and went back in the living room.

The TV was on. Edmund Gwenn was shouting at the store psychologist.

“You know, you were right,” the spirit said. He was stretched out on the couch, wearing a “Save the Black-Footed Ferret” T-shirt and jeans. “It’s not a bad movie. Of course, it’s not as good as
It’s a Wonderful Life
, but I like the way everything works out at the end.”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, glancing anxiously at the door.

“Watching
Miracle on 34th Street,”
he said, pointing at the screen. Edmund Gwenn was brandishing his cane at the store psychiatrist. “I like the part where Edmund Gwenn asks Natalie Wood what she wants for Christmas, and she shows him the picture of the house.”

Lauren picked up Fred’s video and brandished it at him. “Fine. Then you can change Fred’s video back.”

“Okay,” he said, and did something. She looked at Fred’s video. It showed Edmund Gwenn hugging Natalie Wood in front of a yellow moon with Santa Claus’s sleigh and reindeer flying across it. Lauren put the video hastily down on the coffee table.

“Thank you,” she said. “And my dress.”

“Natalie Wood doesn’t really want a house, of course.
What she really wants is for Maureen O’Hara to marry John Payne. The house is just a symbol for what she really wants.”

On the TV Edmund Gwenn rapped the store psychologist smartly on the forehead with his cane.

There was a knock on the door. “It’s me,” Scott said.

“I also like the part where Edmund Gwenn yells at the store manager for pushing merchandise nobody wants. Christmas presents should be something the person wants. Aren’t you going to answer the door?”

“Aren’t you going to disappear?” she whispered.

“Disappear?” he said incredulously. “The movie isn’t over. And besides, I still haven’t gotten you what you want for Christmas.” He did something, and a bowl of trail mix appeared on his stomach.

Scott knocked again.

Lauren went over to the door and opened it two inches.

“It’s me,” Scott said. “Why do you have the chain on?”

“I …” She looked hopefully at Chris. He was eating trail mix and watching Maureen O’Hara bending over the store psychologist, trying to wake him up.

“Scott, I’m sorry, but I think I’d better take a rain check on supper.”

He looked bewildered. And cute. “But I thought …” he said.

So did I, she thought. But I have a spirit on my couch who’s perfectly capable of turning you into a Brazilian rain forest by-product.

“The Italian take-out sounds great,” she said, “but it’s kind of late, and we’ve both got to go to work tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Uh … I meant go to work on wrapping presents. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and I haven’t even started my wrapping. And I have to make cheese puffs for the office party and wash my hair and …”

“Okay, okay, I get the message,” he said. “I’ll just bring in the presents and then leave.”

She thought of telling him to leave them in the hall, and then closed the door a little and took the chain off the door.

Go
away!
she thought at the spirit, who was eating trail mix.

She opened the door far enough so she could slide out, and pulled it to behind her. “Thanks for a great evening,” she said, taking the shopping bags from Scott. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he said, still looking bewildered. He started down the hall. At the stairs he turned and smiled.

I’m going to kill him, Lauren thought, waving back, and took the shopping bags inside.

The spirit wasn’t there. The trail mix was still on the couch, and the TV was still on.

“Come back here!” she shouted. “You little rat! You have ruined my dress and my date, and you’re not going to ruin anything else! You’re going to change back my dress and my Christmas cards, and you’re going to get that tree out of my kitchen right
now!”

Her voice hung in the air. She sat down on the couch, still holding the shopping bags. On the TV, Edmund Gwenn was sitting in Bellevue, staring at the wall.