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“I knew in a moment… it must be Saint Nick!”
Margaret clutched the book to her chest and gasped in mock-surprise, even though she— and her children— nearly knew the story by heart. But she paused to show the beautiful illustrations on each page. The book had been printed again to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” and the colorful images were new to all three.
It was even newer to their fourth.
Emily, Teddy, and Margaret were nestled together on the couch. Arnold sat at the table, wearing an amused smirk as he listened with rapt attention. It was Margaret’s insistence that no one should be alone for Christmas, regardless of whether or not they celebrated it.
She laughed and turned the book around, holding it out to him. He leaned forward and squinted. “Ah yes, I see.” They exchanged a grin.
Margaret read on, “more rapid than eagles his courses they came, and whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!”
She paused, however, because the next part had always been up to Emily and Teddy. It was their favorite. They knew their cue in an instant, reciting merrily, with some semblance of synchronism— but mostly, it was two children larking happily over top of one another, eager to see who could shout the names the loudest and the fastest.
“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!”
They fell into a fit of breathless giggles, bickering over who had reached the end first, and who knew the names of the reindeer better. Arnold hadn’t caught a word of the entire paragraph, but he was smiling all the same. Margaret watched the three of them fondly, before quieting down the children to proceed with the story.
“We’ll be late for the service tonight,” she chastised. “Now… where were we? As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly…”
“I’m not goin’ to my fuckin’ parents’ house!”
Charlie wrenched the tie from around his neck and threw it across the room. It fluttered to the floor with an anticlimactic shiver. Charlie’s shoes were soon to follow, and they made a much more satisfactory thud.
“What’s going on?” Meyer asked, poking his head into the bedroom. He was already dressed in his best suit, with a bottle of wine— whose origin they would not discuss around the table— clutched in his hand. “Are we leaving, or are you getting naked?”
He was answered by a frustrated half-shout, and the clinking of Charlie’s cufflinks dropping to the floor.
“So, naked it is, then?” Meyer prompted.
He began pacing the room, gesticulating wildly, a well-known frenzy to his every breath and action. “I don’t wanna spend Christmas with a buncha bastards who can’t even get my name right, who look at me like they wish I never been born, ‘cause I ain’t in some shit ‘legitimate’ job like my brother— when all I’m tryin’ to do is take care of myself— and the things my father says about you, and—”
“Charlie, Charlie—” When he would not listen, Meyer quickly crossed the room, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing him still. “Charlie, listen to me. We don’t have to go anywhere. Whatever you want to do.”
Charlie whined like a wounded animal and dropped back onto the bed. “But it’s Christmas, Meyer. We gotta do somethin’…”
Meyer set the bottle of wine down on their nightstand and sat beside Charlie, shrugging emphatically. “What the hell do I care? I’m a Jew, remember?” He took Charlie’s hand in his, to stop his anxious fidgeting before it escalated into wall-punching, and stroked his thumb across his knuckles. “What’s brought this on, anyway? I thought you wanted to go?”
But then Meyer noticed the telephone was on the floor, beside Charlie’s jacket, and he put two-and-two together. He knew Charlie’s father wasn’t keen to have his son around; he must have said something, despite the fonder feelings harbored by Charlie’s other family members.
“I don’t want to go,” Charlie grumbled again. Meyer interpreted that to mean that Charlie very much wanted to go— but under circumstances where he would go and be welcomed, and not spend his entire evening answering to “Salvatore” and stiff remarks about his vocational choices.
Meyer gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. And then he reached for the bottle of wine.
“Cheers,” he said with a smile.
“You gotta name to go with that pretty smile of yours?”
Mickey giggled as he swirled the contents of his glass, taking a willful gulp as he eyed the dark-haired woman beside him.
“Ida,” she answered with a pretty smile, showing white teeth framed behind careful lipstick.
He laughed again. “Ida like a piece of you tonight,” he said, wiggling his brows suggestively. To his good fortune and slight surprise, Ida laughed. And didn’t hit him. Or throw her drink in his face. Already, this Christmas was better than the last.
“Well, tough.” She smirked as she took a drag from her cigarette, looking him up and down. “‘Cause when it comes to men, I’m rather picky—” she hip-checked him— “Mickey.”
Surprised, he caught his balance against the bar, and straightened up with a large grin. He wagged a finger at her, as she coolly blew smoke from between her lips. “Not bad, not bad.”
“I’ll let you see that for yourself,” she teased. He hoped she meant “later on, in bed, with all kinds of nudity” but he couldn’t be sure. Ida put out her cigarette and returned to her drink, peering up at Mickey over the rim of her glass, eyes bright with some kind of holiday cheer. “So what’re you doing at a Speak on Christmas Eve?”
Mickey shrugged, trying to keep it all nonchalant-like. “Got nowhere else to be, so I figured, why not? Meet an interesting crowd, at least,” he said, nodding to her in recognition.
“More like a pathetic crowd of lonely people,” she amended. Her brow furrowed in a moment of self-deprecation; it vanished soon as she took another sip.
With a twang of sympathy, Mickey scooted subtly closer to her. “Well thank the baby Jesus they got us Wise Crackers here to cheer ‘em up. Shame I didn’t bring none of them frankincense… But I do got a couple shepherds.”
Ida gave a full, round laugh and clinked her glass to Mickey’s in a toast. “Here’s to nowhere to go and no room at the Inn!”
“I’ll just have to take my Missus and stay in a barn, huh?” he teased, boldly slipping a hand around her waist, hope clouding his judgment.
She returned his devious grin and leaned into his ear, whispering with a chuckle, “You bring your staff, shepherd boy?”
“I love you, too, Patrick. Now pass the telephone to Edith— it’s her turn.”
Eli waited through the shifting around and the muffled din of children bickering over who got to talk next. In the meanwhile, he yanked the cord and stretched out his arm, until he could prod the logs in the fireplace of the otherwise empty apartment. They shifted and crackled, and he hoped it would add a little more warmth to the empty space. Chicago in winter was a bitch.
“Merry Christmas!” Edith greeted brightly on the other end of the line.
He smiled against the receiver at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Muffin! Merry Christmas! You helpin’ your mother with dinner this year?”
“Of course. We’ve got everything under control,” she soothed. “Even Michael is helping. Did you know he’s got a good sense for cooking?”
“You’re kidding!” Eli remarked in a falsely cheerful tone. “How about that? Isn’t that somethin’?” He reminded himself to ask Michael about this new hobby when his turn came around. It had only been a few months, and already, he felt he was missing everything. Or maybe he’d already missed it all; only now, it was final.
Edith continued, “How’s Chicago? I hear it’s cold up there.”
“Nah!” Eli brushed it off even as he shivered. “Nothing your old man can’t handle!”
“Will you be done business up there soon? We all miss you.”
“Yeah… Yeah, sure, I will.” He found it harder to push past the lump in his throat, as he lied to his daughter. “Of course. I’ll be home before you know it.”
She sounded so pleased at the prospect, and rambled on to talking about her birthday— February— and the girls at school, and how good her grades were, and she and June had been looking at colleges, now that Willie was working and they didn’t have to pay his tuition. Uncle Nucky, she said, was even willing to help her get a proper education.
“That’s great, Muffin. Would you do me a favor and put your mother on the telephone? I gotta ask her about somethin’.”
Edith agreed and wished him Merry Christmas again. Eli returned the sentiment, and reminded her that he loved her very much.
“June?” he asked desperately, the second he heard new breath on the telephone. “How is it?”
She sighed. He could hear the kids in the background; he knew she was putting on the same act, for them. How could they tell the truth about Eli’s departure? Especially on Christmas?
“Well, it’s not the same without you. It never is,” she said softly. He could hear the sadness beneath her even tone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, for probably the thousandth time. Again, June assured him that it was fine. It wasn’t his fault. He was just being a good father— just like he’d always been. Eli sniffed.
Before she could ask, he cut across, blurting, “I’m fine. Just a runny nose. It’s fuckin’ cold up here, you know that?”
June laughed lightly on the other end, and Eli pulled the receiver away to sniffle again. “I wish I could be there. I wish I could be there with you, with the kids,” he pleaded into the phone, as though wanting it hard enough could make it so.
“I know, darling. I know.” June paused. There was murmuring, an indignant whine, and then June returned. “Brian wants to say hello.”
“Okay. Put him on. But June…” Eli swallowed and clutched the receiver desperately. “I miss you.”
“Last Christmas, we are doing things your American way. This Christmas, my way,” Sigrid explained simply, as she rolled dough beneath her hands.
Nelson leaned against the counter watching her form rings of dough with playful determination set into her face. “But I still don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Kransekake, hoosband!”
“God bless you,” he answered.
Sigrid thwacked him on the arm with a rolling pin. He pouted and wiped egg from his skin, while she tutted with triumph and continued. “It is the kransekake. It is important for all the occasions— Christmas, weddings, births of little childrens…”
“Are we having a wedding or little children?” he asked dryly, as though it weren’t the twenty-fourth already, as though the sky outside wasn’t growing dark with starlight, snowflakes, and the slight glow of an impending holiday.
She sighed as she pounded the dough, noticeably harder than she had been a moment before. “Are you helping me or are you standing and being useless? We are making Christmas nice for the little childrens— if hoosband will help and not be the grumpy.”
He placed his hands over hers, and together they pressed down on the dough. Sigrid looked up at him with a smile; he returned a small one all his own. “When have I ever been ‘the grumpy?’”
Leaning against his chest, Sigrid continued prodding and shaping the soft mush, guiding Nelson’s hands with hers. But his hands were large and clumsy, and her perfect rings of dough were looking more like flat tires. He apologized; she patted his cheek with dough-covered fingers.
“You can be breaking this in bowl and mixing up. You are good at the breaking, I think?” Sigrid teased, shoving a carton of eggs and a whisk into his hands. Petulantly, Nelson gripped the egg above the bowl and squeezed. It cracked and splattered— yolk shooting in all directions and oozing down his arm— while splintered shell fragments toppled into the mess beneath.
“Hoosband!”
But Sigrid was laughing, and Nelson was laughing, and egg yolk was dripping down both of them. Poor Sigrid— who was shorter— had gotten it in her hair, while Nelson’s shirtfront had taken most of the damage.
“Too much breaking, hoosband. Too much breaking!” She hurriedly removed her apron, using it to dab at her face. Playfully, she rolled the fabric around her hand and smacked him with it, before gently wiping away the egg splatters from his shirt. As she tidied up, Nelson stared down into the bowl, watching the shells drift in the yoke that hadn’t gone everywhere. He prodded at them with the tip of his finger, but Sigrid shoved his hand away.
“We are starting again,” she said definitively. She set the bowl in the sink and grabbed another. She placed one egg— gently— into his hand, and held one herself. Carefully, she demonstrated the proper way to crack an egg, to pull it apart over the bowl, to not make a mess. Nelson followed her instructions; this time, he was successful.
“Better?” he asked. Sigrid kissed his cheek.
“I am not wearing the egg. So, I say it is better.”
Nelson chuckled, pleased with himself for the small victory. He cracked another to perfection and Sigrid applauded. But Nelson, empty shell still clutched in his hand, found he rather enjoyed the mess-making, as much as he enjoyed Sigrid’s indignant tutting. There was something about the holiday that called for frivolity.
“I got you something,” he announced. Before she could ask, he placed the eggshell halves squarely atop her head. “It is a hat. So you can always wear the egg.”
Sigrid squealed and swatted at him with a wooden spoon. He threw up his hands in self-defense as she laughed wildly and berated him, the egg having long since fallen to the floor with all her commotion. She didn’t stop until Nelson was backed against the wall, repeating a string of apologies. They both quieted; Sigrid leaned into his chest, and Nelson draped his arms across her shoulders.
After a pause, Sigrid chuckled and asked, “Next you are helping whip the cream for the multekrem?”
“That sounds dangerous.”
Mickey’s hands roved the full curves of her hips; her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled his mouth down onto hers with increasing vigor. He kissed eagerly, until their teeth clunked and sent a wave of pain vibrating through Mickey’s skull.
“Talk about celebrating Christmas with a bang, huh?” he grumbled, rubbing his head. She laughed into his neck as she kissed it, biting and nipping. Mickey squeaked. “Say! Watch you don’t draw blood or nothin’!”
Ida stared up at him through her lids, biting instead on her own lip; it was truly inviting. “You sure you’d mind?” she teased breathlessly, trailing her fingers down the budding bruises and red marks she’d left earlier. They crowded his collar and spread across the tops of his shoulders; Mickey blushed as he looked at them fondly.
“Guess I didn’t,” he admitted.
“Don’t tell me you’re already worn out by Round Two?” Ida said as she pecked his cheek with a pop of her lips.
He gave a low growl, which shortly devolved into his usual giggle, as Mickey traced her sides and buried his face into her chest. “Mm, hardly! With you, I could go till New Year’s!”
Ida giggled and squirmed beneath him. “I’ll bet you can!”
“And I gotta plenty of ideas, too,” he boasted and kissed down her stomach. She sat up on her elbows, looking at him with a brow quirked. Mickey smiled fondly, noting the flush of her cheeks and that bright grin on her face. He didn’t care what happened ever again; this was the best Christmas he’d had in years, and it was all because of that smile.
“How’s about I give you a little Christmas present?” He couldn’t keep the dopey grin from his face as Ida giggled and asked what he meant. Mickey kissed the inside of each thigh, laughed, and told her to relax and enjoy, before he traced his tongue between her legs.
Charlie was humming. He had been humming the same tune for half an hour; Meyer could feel the reverberations, as he lay with his head atop Charlie’s chest.
“Are you having a good Christmas?” Meyer asked quietly. It didn’t matter to him one way or the other whether they stayed in or went out, whether they did something special or wether it was the same as every night. All he wanted was for Charlie to be happy— especially after Charlie’s comical attempts to give Meyer an “authentic Hannukah,” whether Meyer wanted one or not.
“We could go out tomorrow, eat someplace nice, or go to the pictures… I don’t know if the pictures are open on Christmas Day, but maybe the day after. Whatever you like,” Meyer offered when Charlie’s only answer was more serene humming.
“Tu scendi dalle stelle…”
Meyer furrowed his brow. “Come again?”
“O Re del Cielo, e vieni in una grotta, al freddo al gelo.” Charlie was singing to himself— or to Meyer, maybe— as he absently stroked his fingers through Meyer’s hair, occasionally missing and sliding down his neck. Meyer smiled and nestled closer, closing his eyes and listening to Charlie sing. Once, on a bet, he had sang for Charlie— but never, in all of their partnership, had Charlie ever returned the favor. He always said he couldn’t sing.
And he was right. His voice was a little scratchy, the notes not quite smooth as they rose and fell in pitch. Meyer couldn’t tell if this was the alcohol or just Charlie’s singing voice. All the same, he appreciated it and listened, trying to translate the words in his head. He closed his eyes, sighing contentedly, enjoying Charlie’s warm breath and the smell of wine that came with it…
“That’s my mother’s favorite Christmas song.”
Meyer was surprised to hear Charlie speak; he had been quite lulled by his singing, almost forgetting that Charlie was more than a particularly comfortable victrola. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Always makes me think of her,” Charlie confessed. He yawned and buried his face into the top of Meyer’s head, inhaling his hair.
Meyer’s mood sunk back down. He hugged Charlie’s middle tight and mumbled into the fabric of his undershirt, “I’m sorry you can’t be with your family on Christmas…”
But Charlie only laughed— a low rumble that rolled across his chest and through Meyer, who stared up with confusion. Charlie was shaking his head, biting his lip to suppress a grin that broke across his face anyway. He was practically glowing.
“Meyer! Come on!” he teased, as though the other had said something obvious and stupid. His features changed, turning soft, and Charlie raised his broad, calloused hand to cup Meyer’s cheek. “I am with my family on Christmas.”
Meyer stared until the meaning registered, and he hid his face in Charlie’s palm, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “Charlie, that was— do you really—” he stammered. “Oh, fuck you! Fuck you, Charlie, that was sweet!” Meyer punched Charlie in the stomach, in protest of the sweeping warmth filling his entire body.
Charlie laughed and seized him around the shoulders in a firm hug. “You blushin’, Little Man?” he accused, smiling with utter triumph when Meyer could not hide the evidence.
“You are being far too endearing. Stop it.”
Charlie only smiled as he pulled Meyer close; he was still smiling while he kissed him deeply.
Emily had fallen asleep in the car on the ride back from church. She hardly stirred as her mother carried her up to bed and tucked the covers around her. Teddy, thankfully, was equally worn out; he was snoring moments after clamoring beneath his own sheets. Margaret joined Arnold in the living room, where he still wore his hat and coat. “Sleeping soundly,” she announced.
“Nestled all snug in their beds?” he inquired with a raised brow.
“My, you’ve a good memory!”
He grinned and clasped his gloved hands together, inclining his head towards her. “I’ve found that to be so. Ah, but wait—” he said as she began to unbutton her coat. Margaret paused and looked at him questioningly. “I thought— Well, the children are asleep, and it’s a nice night, and—”
Margaret fastened up the buttons in reply.
Outside the apartment, Arnold offered his arm. Margaret grasped it delicately, leaning into his side, as they wandered without destination. Flurries fell all around them, accumulating atop the mounds of snow from the previous weekend’s frost.
“Thank you,” Margaret said suddenly, “for coming to Mass with me. I appreciate the company.”
He chuckled and assured her that he didn’t mind in the slightest; it had been rather an interesting experience. “And certainly, I was the only ‘Stein’ of any sort in the whole place.”
Margaret grinned. He had been rather innocently charming, with his amusement as he thumbed through the hymnal. Or the expressions of confusion and his half-second delay, as the rest of the congregation sat and rose in unison. “It was sweet of you,” she concluded, and he seemed pleased with her appraisal.
They walked in contented silence. Snow settled on their hats and shoulders, dusting their coat fronts with white. From a few blocks away, there came the unmistakable sound of church bells. Arnold stopped, reaching for his pocket watch.
“Midnight,” he read.
Margaret closed her eyes and listened to the ringing; she tilted her chin up, to feel the flakes fall on her face. Somehow, she wasn't the least bit cold. Warm leather caressed the side of her face. Slowly, Margaret opened her eyes; Arnold was watching her with rapt attention, her cheek cupped in the palm of his hand. She smiled in reassurance, as his eyes flit to and from hers, too nervous to linger long.
“Merry Christmas,” he offered in a quiet voice.
Gently, he pulled her forwards into a tender kiss.
“Merry Christmas,” Margaret replied, still feeling the heat on her lips. She dusted snowflakes from his shoulders, letting her fingers linger by his collar and brush across his neck. His cheeks were pink with cold, his hands delicately resting against her waist. In the dim light of the near-empty street, winter all around them, they kissed once more.
“And to all a good night,” he recited with a chuckle, a youthful glimmer in his eyes. Margaret shared in his laugh and repeated the sentiment.
She slipped her hand into his, and together, they continued through the snow.