“J.C. always had Digestives.”
Brigitte, the Santa Maria’s living memory and conscience, was anxious to impress upon Rosellen that she, the new janitor – Rosellen, a certified property manager, bristled silently – cleave to the high bar established by her predecessors in the custodial arts, of whom there had been but two, both men. At stake was the honour of not just the building but also her sex. Brigitte made it known, with force, that the Nina, and the Pinta, and the Santa Maria were famous in the neighbourhood for the quality and quantity of their seasonal decorations. The Nina laid claim to Halloween, the Pinta to Valentine’s Day. It fell to the Santa Maria to go all out at Christmas. There had never been a time when this order of high holy day precedence was not observed. Never. For a few years, a fellow named O’Rourke had tried, for obvious reasons, to whip up some froth around St. Patrick’s Day, but it never took. He grew bitter. He moved. Good riddance.
There was one storage unit, Brigitte explained, the largest of them, in which building supplies were located: cleaning equipment, fire-exit replacement bulbs, the Suite for Rent sign, etc. Also, there were several packing crates containing everything ornamental required to make the season bright. Rosellen would find grade-A plastic greenery, holly and cedar boughs and frosted pine cones, also foil garlands that blared out festive wishes: “GOOD WILL TO MEN!” “PEACE ON EARTH.!” There was an inflatable St. Nicholas that glowed with an inner light. There was a darling crèche cobbled together entirely out of sponges and pipe cleaners, handcrafted by Mr. Parker, who had lived in 301, who perished from snake bite while visiting the Grand Canyon. Travel was fraught; Brigitte herself preferred to be at home. There were elves with a workbench. There were reindeer made of woven branches and nutcracker dolls and felt stockings, appropriately appliquéd, to hang from the wrought-iron stair railings, twenty-nine of them, one for every suite in the Santa Maria. There were strings and strings of lights which, annoyingly, irrationally, wouldn’t work at all if one bulb was deficient, it was as if they belonged to a union. There was a piece of colourful gift wrap that had been cut to fit the door in such a way that the painted sign “Santa Maria” became “Santa” for the length of the season. That same pattern of wrap – a Boxing Day bulk buy from London Drugs – was applied to empty boxes of varying dimensions, all done up with paper and ribbon, props for placement under the Christmas tree, which was nice, very nice, even though artificial. Plus there were eight boxes of decorations to hang upon it: frosted balls, tear drops, snowmen, the Magi, elves, candy canes, tinsel. There were any number of Santas, a multitude of reindeer, but there was only one angel, the angel intended to perch atop the tree, from which vantage she surveyed the lobby through which there was very little room to pass by the time everything was in place. Brigitte had much to say about the angel, her harp, her halo, her wings made of real feathers, she wasn’t sure from what bird. She’d been purchased years ago by Brigitte’s late sister in Victoria, bought from a sweet little store that long ago went out of business. The angel was irreplaceable. The angel must be treated with care. It was only when she saw the angel that Brigitte felt all the weight, the warmth of Christmas settle upon her. Jean-Christophe, Brigitte stressed, underscoring the point with many jabs of rheumatic fingers, had been a genius, no, really, she meant it, a genius, at arranging all the festive miscellany into a more-than-palatable whole; of course, he’d been a window dresser back in Montréal, employed by some big fancy store, so he was at an advantage. Even so, Brigitte knew she spoke for the whole building in saying she hoped Rosellen would make an effort, would do her level best to match his exquisite hall-decking.
“The second Sunday in December. That’s when they go up.”
“That’s soon.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a week away.”
“That’s correct.”
Rosellen was half-hoping she’d self-destruct, or that Brigitte might, when she happened upon Bonnie at the lockers, the first of many unplanned meetings. Bonnie stood by while Rosellen disinterred the boxes of decorating supplies. They were in excellent order. About them was the aura of sanctity, of ceremony. Of expectation.
“I’m not sure how I’ll manage this,” said Rosellen, possessed by the creeping certainty that she was unequipped, constitutionally as much as experientially, to take the helm of the Santa Maria. What difference did her summa cum laude standing in the correspondence course make? It was as though she’d read every available book on mothering but had no idea what to do once the baby was hungry and howling and failing to latch.
Bonnie said, “Why not make it fun? Have a party.”
“A party?”
“A big get-together. Dainties. Punch. Get everyone involved, maybe a little tipsy. Whoop-dee-doo. Let the good times roll. You know. A party.”
When had Rosellen last been at a party? The annual trial by tedium in Ladysmith didn’t qualify. Who would have asked her to a party? Who would she have asked? How small her life had grown.
“I’ll give that some serious thought.”
“Leave the punch to me,” said Bonnie.
Rosellen found Brigitte waiting when she returned from the storage room to 101; waiting on what Rosellen, at least, considered the wrong side of the door. She was stretched out in the La-Z-Boy. It was among the supplied furnishings, wasn’t a chair for which Rosellen cared.
“I let myself in.”
“Ah.”
“I still have the key.”
“Oh.”
“Best I should hold onto it.”
“I see.”
“Just in case.”
Rosellen made a mental note to call the locksmith first thing in the morning.
Brigitte said, “Anything new?”
Rosellen explained the party plan. What did Brigitte think?
“Not a good idea. Jean-Christophe knew just where it all should go, everything in its place. If you ask everyone to help out, it’ll be a dog’s breakfast. Also, it would be a change. Change is hard. We’ve been through a lot of change. Jean-Christophe. What happened. All that. You know. Change.”
Rosellen murmured sympathetically, but her resolve was welling, stiffening. Directly Brigitte was out the door – a long goodbye – she set to work making a poster. Rosellen, no artist, could still manage a few red-berried holly leaves, a crude Santa. She added a scattering of cookies that might easily be mistaken for reindeer droppings, which was also true of the shortbreads she’d made year after year for the last two decades, never adequately, following the recipe passed on to her by Bryan’s sainted mother.
HOLIDAY DECORATING PARTY
DECMEMBER 9
MEET IN THE LOBBY
2
