Read Online The Chameleon by Sugar Rautbord - Free Book Online
Authors: Sugar Rautbord
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signed the sales ticket with a flourish, Miss Wren craned her neck to read Ophelia Harrison's finishing-school script.
The woman wasn't nearly as old as she looked, Wren decided. Weatherbeaten, yes; perhaps summers on the rugged coast of Maine, sailing, horse jumping, gardening, carelessly uncared for as if she were above all that kind of middle-class foolishness. Mrs. Harrison gave Wren her East Coast aristocrat's address through a clenched jaw, known as Locust Valley lockjaw among the salesgirls, that peculiar way of speaking that allows velvety mumblings to escape from a mouth that is moving only at one corner, moving barely, imperceptibly, if at all.
Uppercrust all the way, thought Miss Wren, beaming and taking a proprietary interest in her customer. Probably summered in Newport. Her chest cold had just up and left, flying south for the rest of the winter. Leaping lizards! She had made not only a sale but one of the biggest. Forty-five hundred dollars! Wren was jubilant. She had certainly caught her fish. The gifts could be delivered in three days. She would never forget Mr. and Mrs. William Henry Harrison IV of Charlotte Hall, Winding Way Road, Tuxedo Park, New York. No number necessary.
Claire inhaled the smells of walnut dressing, steaming sliced turkey, and cranberries from her plate. She smacked her lips as the butter pad melted into the hollow scoop of her piping hot potatoes. Claire couldn't imagine how Christmas in anybody's home could be nicer than Christmas at the Walnut Room. The food was more delicious, the tree was bigger and, of course, far more beautiful than any other in the city. This year, Field's tree was a balsam fir from the woods of Michigan. Seventy feet tall, it was festooned with fifteen hundred handmade angels, snowballs, icicles, and other ornaments, as well as with thousands of yards of strung cranberries. A beautiful wooden painted angel with wings shot with gold dangled directly over Claire's shoulder. She longed to reach up and touch her, but Claire had been taught by the Aunties that impetuous behavior was a breach of good manners. So instead she craned her neck toward the entrance and then broke into a radiant smile.
“Look, it's Auntie Wren now,” Claire said excitedly, waving her arms so Wren could find them in the dining room with its richly patterned carpets and ornately carved walnut walls.
Other guests in the dining room spun around to watch the tiny lady lugging big green Field's shopping bags in each hand and under her arms bustle into the room. An oversized pin in the shape of a holiday wreath was pinned to her ample bosom. The Christmas Eve supper was reserved for certain employees of the store, special friends, and out-of-town guests. The mood in the room was festive. This year Miss Wren was taking Claire to midnight mass at St. Peter's for a Catholic celebration. Last year, because Christmas and Hanukkah happened to coincide, they'd also attended services at Rodfei Zedek Temple, as Wren was determined that Claire's spiritual education be ecumenically correct. Claire and her mother were pretty much Protestants, Wren was a lapsed Catholic, and Slim a devout Pantheist. When they worshiped together, it was at the Unitarian church in Hyde Park. But as Auntie Wren said, “the Lord is everywhere,” and Auntie Slim always finished with “especially at Marshall Field's at Christmas,” where the devoted ladies celebrated Christ's birthday along with Claire's.
God had certainly been good to them this Christmas, and just in the nick of time. They were in a very gay mood. Claire laughed and clapped her hands together now, and Violet and Auntie Slim laughed along as they waited for Auntie Wren to join them. All this gaiety was due to the largesse of the Tuxedo Park Harrisons, Mr. and Mrs. William Henry Harrison IV to be exact, who had with one ring of a cash register closed out their debts, paid their rent, and were allowing Auntie Wren to play Mrs. Santa Claus to her loyal
The woman wasn't nearly as old as she looked, Wren decided. Weatherbeaten, yes; perhaps summers on the rugged coast of Maine, sailing, horse jumping, gardening, carelessly uncared for as if she were above all that kind of middle-class foolishness. Mrs. Harrison gave Wren her East Coast aristocrat's address through a clenched jaw, known as Locust Valley lockjaw among the salesgirls, that peculiar way of speaking that allows velvety mumblings to escape from a mouth that is moving only at one corner, moving barely, imperceptibly, if at all.
Uppercrust all the way, thought Miss Wren, beaming and taking a proprietary interest in her customer. Probably summered in Newport. Her chest cold had just up and left, flying south for the rest of the winter. Leaping lizards! She had made not only a sale but one of the biggest. Forty-five hundred dollars! Wren was jubilant. She had certainly caught her fish. The gifts could be delivered in three days. She would never forget Mr. and Mrs. William Henry Harrison IV of Charlotte Hall, Winding Way Road, Tuxedo Park, New York. No number necessary.
Claire inhaled the smells of walnut dressing, steaming sliced turkey, and cranberries from her plate. She smacked her lips as the butter pad melted into the hollow scoop of her piping hot potatoes. Claire couldn't imagine how Christmas in anybody's home could be nicer than Christmas at the Walnut Room. The food was more delicious, the tree was bigger and, of course, far more beautiful than any other in the city. This year, Field's tree was a balsam fir from the woods of Michigan. Seventy feet tall, it was festooned with fifteen hundred handmade angels, snowballs, icicles, and other ornaments, as well as with thousands of yards of strung cranberries. A beautiful wooden painted angel with wings shot with gold dangled directly over Claire's shoulder. She longed to reach up and touch her, but Claire had been taught by the Aunties that impetuous behavior was a breach of good manners. So instead she craned her neck toward the entrance and then broke into a radiant smile.
“Look, it's Auntie Wren now,” Claire said excitedly, waving her arms so Wren could find them in the dining room with its richly patterned carpets and ornately carved walnut walls.
Other guests in the dining room spun around to watch the tiny lady lugging big green Field's shopping bags in each hand and under her arms bustle into the room. An oversized pin in the shape of a holiday wreath was pinned to her ample bosom. The Christmas Eve supper was reserved for certain employees of the store, special friends, and out-of-town guests. The mood in the room was festive. This year Miss Wren was taking Claire to midnight mass at St. Peter's for a Catholic celebration. Last year, because Christmas and Hanukkah happened to coincide, they'd also attended services at Rodfei Zedek Temple, as Wren was determined that Claire's spiritual education be ecumenically correct. Claire and her mother were pretty much Protestants, Wren was a lapsed Catholic, and Slim a devout Pantheist. When they worshiped together, it was at the Unitarian church in Hyde Park. But as Auntie Wren said, “the Lord is everywhere,” and Auntie Slim always finished with “especially at Marshall Field's at Christmas,” where the devoted ladies celebrated Christ's birthday along with Claire's.
God had certainly been good to them this Christmas, and just in the nick of time. They were in a very gay mood. Claire laughed and clapped her hands together now, and Violet and Auntie Slim laughed along as they waited for Auntie Wren to join them. All this gaiety was due to the largesse of the Tuxedo Park Harrisons, Mr. and Mrs. William Henry Harrison IV to be exact, who had with one ring of a cash register closed out their debts, paid their rent, and were allowing Auntie Wren to play Mrs. Santa Claus to her loyal
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