The Chameleon (7 page)

Wren had just lost a sale to a young executive who decided right on the spot to take his wife to Bermuda for the holidays instead of giving her a diamond and ruby eternity ring when a tall, matronly woman coughed in front of her. It was an attention-getting kind of cough.

Wren sneezed for real. Her sniffles were turning into a whopper of a cold. She sized up the customer to see if she was worth catching pneumonia for. After years of counter experience, Wren identified her as a woman who was probably pre-Depression grand but was now just a “window-shopper.” She sighed and parted her red nose, which, despite its congestion, was still able to sniff out the musky odor of mothballs. It was as if the clothes in the woman's wardrobe had been in the family forever, like heirlooms.

Looker, not buyer, Wren thought. By then, only the threat of a Christmas without any gifts at all was making her fight her cold and stay on the job. She eyed one of the hot toddies, shivered, and pulled her sweater closer to her clavicle.

“Can you help me with a very special Christmas selection, please.” The dowdy matron's tone was clipped and condescending. It was evident she was from the aristocracy, monied or nonmonied. It was also obvious that she wasn't from Chicago.

Miss Wren was appropriately obsequious.

“How may I serve you best? Is the gift for a lady or gentleman, madam?” Wren cooed.

“It is for my husband. Let's move this right along. I haven't got all day.” A small frown appeared between the eyes and a quick smile across the lips. “He's quite fastidious about his attire and grooming habits. He travels out of a trunk for months on end, back and forth to Europe. Just took a Roosevelt appointment. A voracious reader. Books might be the ticket. No dear, put that away. He picks out all his own ties. He's mad for his horses and dogs, though. Do you have saddles or leashes? I'm in a bit of a rush.” The woman's quick eyes darted from left to right and then she turned her back entirely and was gone. Wren shut her order book and pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve.

“I'd like to see that.” Mrs. Matron returned a minute later and pointed her stubby tan finger to something gold and gleaming in the locked display counter. “It” was an eighteen-karat-gold dressing table set that came in its own crocodile traveling case.

“Oh, it's very grand. Made by Morabito in Rome.” Miss Wren unlocked the case, removing the octagonal beveled mirror, the hairbrush, cloth brush, and traveling clock one by one after donning a pair of jeweler's gloves so as not to leave any smudges on the smartly styled toilet set. The tortoiseshell comb set in gold with raised gold beading was sleekly masculine, like all the other pieces shimmering yellow gold in the bright store lighting.

“The only other set like this in the world was sold to Miss Barbara Hutton as an engagement present for her husband, Prince Alexis Mdivani,” Miss Wren boasted. Salesladies were expected to know the shopping tastes and marital status of international celebrities. The Woolworth heiress's comings and goings held the attention of every shop girl and society matron in the nation.

“Poor Babs. Hope it lasts.” The woman inhaled her words. “This is really quite handsome. May I?” The customer turned the gold toothbrush holder over in her hand, then examined the sophisticated scrollwork on the pillbox. Both carried the names of the craftsman engraved on the back.

“The entire set is solid gold so it will never need polishing,” Wren added. “Quite practical.”

“It is nearly identical to the one my Mr. Harrison admired so in the Royal Scottish Museum in Edinburgh last summer,” she mumbled like a ventriloquist. “Especially made for the third duke of Richmond in the sixteen seventies and given to him by
his
wife after he accepted a royal commission.” Mrs. Harrison was smug.

“Well, perhaps it might be just the ticket for your husband and his commission,” Miss Wren piped in, chipper as a magpie. “So appropriate.”

“Why, how clever of you. I'll have it then. My husband's appointment from the president is like a royal commission, and he's quite the collector, too. This is a work of art. Four thousand five hundred, is that with tax or without?” The woman read the price tag without the benefit of glasses. “May I have it holiday wrapped and boxed? I don't have a shred of Christmas paper in the house.”

“Will you take it or shall we have it delivered?” Miss Wren had to keep herself from jumping up and down.

“If it can be in Tuxedo Park by December twenty-fourth, then you can ship it. Otherwise … oh, and I'll need a little something for the Roosevelts.” As she 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 friends and their collective child born in the store eleven years ago.

“Wren says Mrs. Harrison looked quite understated — plain almost—but her voice, it just reeked money.” Claire loved rehearsing the story of Mrs. Harrison.

“You can always tell by the voice. Money and breeding just tumble out of their mouths.” Slim pursed her lips as if she were going to pull out a cherry pit.

“Thank goodness we're having Christmas.” Violet sighed happily.

Field's had rewarded Wren by reinstating her permanent position at the store and giving her a bonus and the best table in the house for their Christmas supper. A triumphant Wren had told the others to gussy up and meet her there but to start without her as she had a lot of last-minute shopping to do. When she reached the table, the small-boned lady with the puffed-up chest dropped her heavy load of presents and wiped the perspiration beads from her temples.

“Oh, Auntie Wren. We thought you'd never get here! Hooray for you, darling Auntie Wren.” Claire threw her arms around Wren's birdlike neck and kissed her rosy cheeks.

“Sit down, Wren. You deserve it.” Violet pulled out her I chair, letting her have the one with arms. “You've truly saved the day. You did a smashing job. And just in time.”

Wren beamed. It felt so good to be helpful and even better to be necessary.

Tomorrow morning the ladies would open their presents following a lazy breakfast of Wren's special
apfelp-fannkuchen
—apple pancakes laced with a touch of calvados to bring out the fruity taste and topped by Violet's homemade plum jam and fresh peach preserves. Wren, however, had insisted on “bending” the ritual this year so that her gifts to the others would be opened in Field's dining room.

She shooed away a white-gloved waiter who appeared with the giant tasseled menu, eager to press directly ahead with her bags of boxes. She plucked a glossy green-and-red-coated box off the top and pushed it across the table. “Violet, you're first.” Wren tilted her face, looking girlishly expectant. It was such a thrill for her to be able actually to give something other than a hug and advice.

Violet was thrilled with her gift of a delicate wristwatch. She hadn't had one since Wren had accidentally sat on hers over a year ago. She held it up for the others to admire.

“You were such a game girl when I smashed yours.” Wren blushed and blinked her tears away. The difficulties of the past year had stimulated her tear ducts so that her handkerchief was working overtime.

“You're next, Auntie Slim. Go on.”

Claire's soft curls fell over her porcelain-fine china skin as nearby diners turned to stare at the three happily chirping ladies and the pretty child taking such pleasure in their Christmas. Their happiness was contagious as it spread around the room.

“Oh, what beautiful leather.” Slim looked puzzled as she ran a polished red finger over a long, narrow wallet. She'd never had much cash to carry around with her and wondered about the practicality of a fancy holder for her decidedly loose change.

“It's a passport case,” Wren explained.

“Is there a ticket to Paris inside?” asked Claire, leaning over the table for a look.

“Claire!” Violet raised a feathery eyebrow.

“Heavens no, dear!” Wren laughed. “I'm only newly reemployed, not Daddy Warbucks. But there
is
something that goes along with it.” Wren smiled puckishly as she handed Slim another box. “It's a sort of theme present. Paris, Paris.”

Slim loved her second gift, the French perfume Paris Nights, and lightly touched the stopper behind both of her ears as well as Claire's. The wide childish eyes were fixed on the perfume's packaging of a man and woman in silhouetted embrace. It made her reflect that the only thing missing from the table and their lives was a man with a good steady job.

This long year had in fact taught Claire that good times and good moods came with financial security. The sting of her mother and aunties’ anger at her for charging the Amelia Earhart case was still with her; having to return it had crushed her. All these months later, she still wasn't over it. So Claire was gleeful as she pulled back the white and gold tissue paper to reveal an Amelia Earhart traveling case, one that bore Amelia Earhart's autograph and the personal message inscribed especially for Claire. Wren had rescued the luggage tag and put it aside for her until the bad times eased up.

“Oh Auntie Wren! You remembered! I think you are the loveliest person in the world!” She hugged the dear lady and smiled triumphantly at her mother over her aunties’ shoulders.

Claire suddenly knew exactly what she was going to do to make sure they'd never have hard times again.

“Here's to Wren for giving us a wonderful Christmas after all.” The Aunties raised their sherry glasses in a single three-armed salute.

“Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Jesus and all the powers above, for looking out for us.” Wren bowed her head solemnly. They all lowered their eyes in prayer.

“Yeah, and let's hear it for the Harrisons of Tuxedo Park!” Slim lifted her glass high again.

“To the Harrisons!”

Claire was perched on the enormous elk-horned hat rack in the Men's Shop like an owl. Her feet were demurely crossed at the ankles, her lace-scalloped socks turned down in a neat fold as she sat hidden in the branches of the elk horns hung with homburgs, two riding derbies, a trilby, several tweed caps, and a straw boater. The man she had been studying for three-quarters of an hour was directly beneath her. He was perfect, in her estimation. She wondered if she should ambush him or just seduce him. She had seen ambushes in the Hopalong Cassidy films and had heard all about romantic seductions from Auntie Slim. She sighed.

What would Shirley Temple do? Claire pondered. The pint-sized actress who was four years younger than she had been in the store only last week. At seven, America's darling was well on her way to becoming the nation's top box-office star. Even though Shirley Temple had an officious phalanx around her, which included her mother, bodyguard, fan-mail secretary, personal hair curler, and store executives, she and Claire had managed to escape the adults long enough to slip their feet into the fluorescent X-ray machine in the Children's Shoe Shop on Four. There they had giggled and joked as they each took turns sticking their feet into the large wooden machine for determining shoe size and shape, and stared down at their skeletal bones as they wiggled their toes and watched their bones dance. It reminded her, Shirley told Claire, of her staircase number with Bill “Bojangles” Robinson in
The Little Colonel.
The girls wiggled and jiggled their toes until they were discovered by the anxious grown-ups and marched on toward the Doll Department, where even the little star was overwhelmed by the selection of dolls from all over the world.