Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Street

It’s George. George the Santa Claus.

Ava opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She feels Scott standing right behind her, and she watches George take in the sight of Scott in his Santa suit. Ava feels an apology forming in her mind; then she thinks, No! She does not owe George an apology.

“What…” she says, “can I do for you?”

“Is your father at home?” George asks. “I’d like to speak to him, man-to-man.”

“Uh…,” she says. Ava is thrown by the phrase “man-to-man.” Is there another way they would speak to each other? She hates herself for floundering. But really, it’s unfair that she alone has been left to navigate the emotional land mines this family has created for itself.

Suddenly, Isabelle appears out of nowhere. “ Bon soir, George,” she says. “Come in, please? I will get monsieur.”

Ava can’t decide if she should feel angered or relieved by Isabelle’s intervening. She chooses relieved. She and Scott/Santa step aside so that George can enter.

George says to Scott, “You look good in the suit.”

Scott says, “I’m a big guy, but I have to say, I’m glad this came with a belt.”

Ava bites her tongue to keep from laughing. Scott is her hero.

Isabelle vanishes into the owners’ quarters, and Ava notices an awkward silence between George the Old Santa Claus and Scott the New Santa Claus.

George says, “Place looks great.” He eyes the mantel. “There are the nutcrackers. I have to say, I always enjoyed looking at them. I’m fond of the bagpiper.”

“Scuba diver,” Ava says.

Scott says, “Hmm… I’m partial to the pirate.”

George scans the rest of the room. “So, you must be getting ready.”

There is genuine rue and longing in his voice, and Ava realizes that George is going to miss being at the party. He is going to miss being Santa. He is, probably, very jealous of Scott right now. He is, probably, assuaging his jealousy by thinking that, being a portly man, he is a much more natural-looking Santa.

After a long, long moment, during which Ava takes only six metered breaths, Kevin bursts in from the back, holding an Igloo boat cooler full of ice.

He says, “The iceman cometh!” with a hilarious grin. He takes in the sight of George and Ava and Scott dressed as Santa with his usual equanimity. “Hey, George.”

“Kevin,” George says.

Kevin takes the cooler to the back corner of the room, where he starts to set up the bar, whistling. Oh, to be Kevin, Ava thinks. Happy and oblivious.

Isabelle emerges from the owners’ quarters. “Monsieur says you can go back.”

Everyone seems shocked by this pronouncement. Ava’s roommate at Berklee College of Music was an opera singer, and when she became, in her words, verklempt , she would sing the highest note in her range. Ava hears the note now, in her head; it’s shrill enough to break glass or summon every dog in the neighborhood.

George clears his throat. “Back…?”

“To sa chambre, ” Isabelle says. “His room? You do know where it is, n’est-ce pas? ”

Despite the fact that English is her second language, there is unmistakable innuendo in Isabelle’s voice, and Ava feels a surge of admiration. Isabelle has just proven herself to be on their side, even though it was Mitzi who brought her into the fold.

“Yes,” George says, “I think so.” He tugs at the bottom of his flannel shirt and heads down the hallway. Ava, Scott, Isabelle, and Kevin watch him go.

“Tequila shot, anyone?” Kevin asks.

He’s not entirely sober, and the room still reeks of smoke when George knocks, but this does not derail Kelley from his mission. As soon as the door opens, Kelley punches George in the mouth as hard as he can. The punch lands squarely, with the solid, satisfying noise of flesh on flesh.

When was the last time Kelley hit someone? He comes up with a party at the Alpha Chi Rho house at Gettysburg his junior year; a brawl broke out over the honor of someone’s date, who, it was later disclosed, wasn’t very honorable at all. Punching another man in the face, especially sucker punching someone who isn’t expecting it, isn’t exactly honorable either, but to Kelley it feels good, just, and right.

George’s head snaps back, and blood gushes everywhere. George moans and spits out a tooth. Kelley feels delighted, as if a stream of quarters were flying from his slot machine.

George makes no move to retaliate. “I guess I deserved that.”

“Oh God, yes,” Kelley says. “At least that.”

George pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes up the spittle and blood. His eyes are out of focus, which pleases Kelley further; he really walloped the guy.

Twelve years! Kelley thinks.

“Can I come in and talk to you, please?” George asks.

Kelley steps out of the way, ushering George in and closing the door behind him.

If it’s awkward to have this conversation in the bedroom that Kelley and Mitzi shared for so many years, neither man acknowledges it. Kelley sits on the edge of the bed while George stands before him. Kelley is dizzy and has the beginnings of a hangover; all he wants is a drink to take the edge off his drinking binge.

“Do you have a flask?” Kelley asks George.

“Actually,” George says, “I do.” He pulls a leather flask-monogrammed, no less-out of the pocket of his parka and hands it to Kelley.

Kelley accepts it with glee and something that feels like love. For a fleeting instant, he understands what Mitzi sees in George. He takes a swig-Johnnie Walker Black. Brilliant! Kelley hands the flask to George, who takes a slug, and then George hands it back to Kelley. George is a good and generous man.

“I came to say I’m sorry,” George says.

“Sorry doesn’t begin to address it,” Kelley says. He takes another drink, savoring the burn down his throat. “You’ve been sleeping with my wife for twelve years. Is that true? Is that true, George?”

“Saying ‘twelve years’ makes it sound worse than it is,” George says. He dabs his handkerchief at his swollen lip. “It was a few times every year at Christmas. It was a holiday thing.”

“It was a holiday thing? ” Kelley says. Did George really just say that sleeping with Kelley’s wife was a holiday thing -like caroling or baking gingerbread?

“It just happened,” George says. “Do you remember twelve years ago, when the snowstorm hit and Bart was at a friend’s house, and you and the olders and your ex-wife got stranded at the Bar all night? That was the year my marriage had started falling apart. Mitzi and I were here at the inn, alone, and it was late, and we started talking…” George trails off and gestures for the flask, and Kelley hands it to him. “You know how things like that sometimes happen, Kelley. Come on. That was the year you turned fifty. You were miserable, and so was Mitzi. You were at the Bar all night with your ex-wife, for God’s sake.”

“Wait,” Kelley says. “Wait a minute.” He vaguely remembers the year George is talking about, but it’s like an episode of a sitcom that has gone off the air.

The year he turned fifty… it was a bad year; he remembers that much. Bart would have been seven, in second grade, Mrs. Usbiff-the year Bart nearly got held back; she put his desk out in the hallway. Ava was seventeen, a senior in high school; she didn’t get in to Juilliard or Curtis. That had been a disaster, and Margaret blamed Kelley because he was the one who had taken Ava out of New York City and away from her piano teacher, Mr. Masahiro. Ava could have stayed in the city with Margaret, but she would have been dropped off and picked up from piano lessons by Raoul and fed her meals by Lotus. Kelley hadn’t thought that was any way to raise a child.