Santa Wears Italian Leather

Christmas Eve, Manhattan NY, 1989

I believed myself a romantic as my brain twinged with the rumblings of a delightful buzz. Mother had forced us into crisp blazers, quaffed our hair, and hurried us to a candlelight sermon at the Presbyterian church on Madison Ave. I was in trouble. Alec and I felt riotous after lunch in midtown. He and I pillaged the kitchen for airplane bottles and swigs of cooking sherry we stuffed in our pockets before nudging each other out the door and into stiff-backed church pews.

As we cracked the tops, Mother looked from her songbook in alarm to my father who picked the spine of his and bit his lip to thwart a chuckle. He nodded towards Alec and I who were overcome ourselves with a case of the church mouse jitters and hid our faces behind our own hymnals as we downed shots and bellowed a much more enthusiastic “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”

“They’ll be struck dead,” Mother moaned and turned my little brother’s head away.

“You two are greedy as they come…Where’s mine?” Dad whispered.

I now occupied the windowsill of the second story living room as my parent’s Christmas Eve gathering accelerated. The snow began to writhe above East 76th Street like the plight of the sugar plums without direction. The room was an inferno as flames in the grate leapt in time to “Rockin Around The Christmas Tree.” I unthreaded my bowtie from a fresh tuxedo and tossed it onto the windowsill as Alec returned with two fresh and sweating Manhattans in his palm.

“We’ve got to educate your Mother on mistletoe protocol. I could've really used a sprig or two hanging above the bar. Stacey Whitby in that dress…unbelievable, man. But here we are...I’m bringing you a damn drink like I’m your old lady. Can’t complain though. My god are you a looker." Alec shoved the drink to my chest and kissed me hard on the cheek with a brutish laugh. “Be my Christmas Valentine?”

“Till the world splits open, my friend.” I replied.

“You two have that look about you that you’ve done something unscrupulous.” Alec fell onto the sill with a cackle as Cecile Cutler appeared, arms folded and a pretty smirk twisted her pink lips. She carried an envelope between manicured nails, and her golden hair caught the reflection of the lights that glittered in every corner of the room.

“Cecile, Cecile, come sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas,” Alec said assuredly.

“Alec, you’re heinous…I will not.” She shoved his head against the window frame as she nudged her way between us. She turned from him completely and he chuckled.

“Should I leave you two alone?”

“If we could be so lucky.” A gust of wind blew down East 76th, and you could almost hear the windows crackle as they froze over. The chill of it ran over Cecile who inched further towards me. “Merry Christmas, you. I’ve heard you’ve been a miserable drunk all day.” She shot a look over her shoulder at Alec who toasted her.

“Bosom friends don’t begrudge bosom friends when they fall off the wagon, Cece,” I chided.

“Plus, you’ve broken all our hearts. Why did you go and get a boyfriend when our Garland is right here?” Alec muttered into his glass. Cece’s sapphire eyes met mine and fell at the corners. I offered a wink that told her there were no hard feelings.

“They don’t understand us, Cece. I’m happy for you,” I said earnestly. She smiled, blinked feverishly, and passed me the envelope. It was sealed with two strange girls on a bench that read "Friendship is A Special Gift.” Inside was a postcard, our tradition. It boasted a pig on a table singing into a microphone while another slumped onto the table in front of a pint. Sodden Hog Pub, London.

“Isn’t it awful this was the most interesting place I’ve been all year. I pray for better views in 1990. The sleepy drunk one reminded me of you.” I laughed and embraced her with a kiss to her cheek, admittedly with a pang of longing. That spark that craved romanticism. I passed my Manhattan to her while I pulled mine from an inner breast pocket. A postcard from a sock shop in Venice where they would embroider your initials on the toe. I took off my shoe and showed her.

“You’re always more well-traveled!” Cece sighed and took a swallow of my cocktail before passing it back. “Everett seems to still find the grandeur of FAO Schwarz more fantastic than anything in the old world.” My brother had given her the same postcard three years in a row. He felt left out of this little inside exchange and Cece couldn’t deny him anything.

“You’re sure you two won’t kiss and make me the happiest man alive?” Alec asked behind us, and Cece punched him in the chest.

“Soldier down!” My father suddenly cried from the doors to the gallery. He hoisted my little brother onto his back who stifled a yawn. “You all keep it down. Everett, you’ve been a good boy, haven’t you?” Dad asked. Everett smiled cheekily and nodded. “As good as any Hamilton can be, anyways.” Our guests trilled in laughter. “We’ll give Santa a warm welcome for him, won’t we folks?” The response was a joyous, resounding yes. “A bourbon, neat and some remarkable cookies Everett made…I mean look.” Dad held up a messily decorated gingerbread man. “Tell them goodnight, Everett.” My brother blew a kiss and winked to the crowd with a, “Merry Christmas!” that garnered another raucous response. Dad waited until he was tucked away upstairs before our head of house brought out a sifter full of flour.

“Clear the way!” Dad yelled, blurred by cigar smoke, rosy cheeked.

“Oh, I love it when he does this!” Cece squealed and rushed from the windowsill.

“Who knew Ole Saint Nick wore Italian leather?” Dad bellowed. He put one foot front in front of the other and dusted flour over his loafers as he made a path from the hearth to the tree. As he lifted his foot, a dusty white print was left behind. Santa’s footprint. I stood behind Cecile and watched as he dusted the gifts. Dad caught my glance as he straightened and winked a deep blue eye as he passed the sifter off.

———

Christmas Eve, East Hampton NY, 1998

Cigar smoke watered my eyes as I knelt before the grate that crackled and popped against the fresh log. I puffed a cloud of blue smoke and planted my riding boot against the hearth, taking the sifter from the mantle. Click, Click, Click. Flour fell around the boot in a dusty haze. I lifted my foot and there was a perfect footprint. One foot after the other I walked from the hearth to the tree, dusting my boots as I went. It was burdened with lights, giant ornaments, ribbons, and dehydrated fruit. I stood and puffed another cyclone of smoke into the room and sighed.

“You look just like him in the dark,” a gruff voice said sleepily from the arched door frame. I chuckled as my little brother leaned against it in a matching pajama set. His robe hung loosely from his shoulder.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said softly, though the thought of our father twisted my chest beneath my sweater. “Wanna drink?” Everett smirked and looked over his shoulder.

“Am I allowed?”

“As if you haven’t been sucking down dredges of wine from everyone’s glass all evening.” I dusted a little flour over the immaculately wrapped gifts and placed the sifter on the coffee table. “Make me one too, if you will.”

Everett sauntered over the groaning wood floors to a buffet table that boasted the damage of the festivity hours before. He made two neat bourbons and joined me in front of the hearth. He looked up at the haunting oil portrait of our family years prior. His nose twitched and he tossed the liquor down as tears welled in his eyes. “It’s nice that you do this,” Everett said. “Those little bits of him you keep alive.” He looked at the dusty prints on the rug and sighed. “They loved this time of year.” I nodded and placed a fatherly hand in the crook of his neck and gave it a gentle squeeze. My own wife now tucked our children into their beds. Sugar plums would dance in their head as I dusted the floor. My brother and I stood at the doors to the terrace and watched the sea churn an icy tide onto the shore. “Merry Christmas, Garland.” Everett said softly as he wound his arm with mine. “Merry Christmas, Dad,” he whispered to the stars.