The play ran through Christmas Eve. As soon as the curtain came down, Jimmy and I hit North Avenue and headed back to Glen Ellyn.
“You mind stopping in the village before we go home?” I said. “I have some shopping to do.”
“Not your Christmas shopping—”
“Yes, my Christmas shopping. Don’t worry; it’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Gee, there’s nothing more heartwarming than the thought of you agonizing for a whole ‘few minutes’ over what to get me for Christmas, Morgan.”
“Jimmy, you’re not a method actor, you know. Didn’t you leave Scrooge back at Pheasant Run when the play closed?”
He looked at me. “Humbug,” he said.
It took us twenty minutes to find a parking place.
“I approve,” I said, as we got out of the car. “The snow falling, the decorations, even the crowds. I approve of them.”
“You’re a real romantic, aren’t you, Morgan?”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing. Feed the parking meter.”
I dragged him up and down Main Street. Into Rystrom’s, where I found a beautiful silver filigreed bracelet for my aunt; into Warner’s, where I bought a roll of my father’s favorite canvas for his oil paintings. At Dujardin’s I bought a Nevil Shute book for my mother—she’s one of those avid readers who’ll read soup-can labels if she doesn’t have a book around—and finally, while Jimmy trudged back to the car with my packages, I dashed into Horsley’s to buy his present: a light-blue Shetland wool sweater I’d seen in the window.
I looked at my watch when I got in the car. “See? That didn’t take too long. An hour and a half, that’s all.”
“Terrific. Too bad Christmas shopping isn’t an Olympic event, Hackett. You’d win a gold medal.”
“Just start the car, Ebenezer, okay?”
The Woolfs came over for brunch Christmas morning. For a while everyone was crowded into the kitchen: all of us. While my father was piling strips of bacon onto a platter, he broke into a sort of impromptu version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and the rest of us joined in. But no one could remember how many lords a-leaping there were, so the song ended up being “White Christmas.” My mother and Mrs. Woolf were trying to go for some weird type of harmony while my father and Mr. Woolf did their best to nail down the melody, but none of it was working out too well.
“This is like being trapped inside a Bing Crosby Christmas special,” I said to Jimmy. “Let’s get out of here.” We each took a cup of tea and a hunk of his mother’s traditional almond coffee cake into the living room, so we could sit on the floor and eat in front of the fire.
“You know something?” I said. “Now that it’s all over, I sort of miss being a theatrical slave. I really learned a lot while I was out there.”
Jimmy choked on his tea. “Am I hearing right? You miss being an apprentice? How can you say that after all the bitching you did about coffee making and errand running?”
“Yeah, Jimmy, but at least I got to hang around the theater. I’m really going to miss it, you know?”
“Ben told me he’s doing a new play after Christmas. He wants you to read for him.”
“Are you kidding? Really?”
“Looks like your coffee-making days are over, Morgan. Something we can all be thankful for.”
I gave him a little kick. “It’d be nice to get a part of my own,” I said. “I told my parents about going on for Robin, but I didn’t give them any of the gruesome details. I didn’t tell them about falling flat on my face in front of hundreds of people.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because I don’t care to advertise my own stupidity, that’s why not.”
“You put too much emphasis on what people are going to think about you, Morgan.”
“Everyone wants respect.”
“Not at the expense of their peace of mind.”
“You sound like my aunt,” I said. I stuffed the last bit of coffee cake into my mouth and brushed the crumbs off my hands. “Why don’t you go to medical school and become a psychiatrist? You could become the first tap-dancing shrink at Johns Hopkins.”
“I think I’ll stick with the theater,” he said. “I’m driving into the city tomorrow to talk to this guy at Actors Equity; you want to come with me? There’s a chance I might get to do some summer stock up in Wisconsin this year.”
“What time are you leaving?”
“Three.”
“Okay,” I said. “You can drop me off at Second City. I’ve got to start making up some of the workshops I missed while I was out at Pheasant Run.” I looked at him. “You really want to go away and do stock this summer?”
“Sure. It’ll be great experience.”
“But you can get great experience right here, doing local theater like you did last summer—”
“And the summer before that and the summer before that. This is a step up, Hackett.”
“Wisconsin isn’t exactly Mars, you know. Planes, trains, and busses go there—”
“Are you inviting me up to Wisconsin to visit you?”
“Yes, Morgan, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Well, I might try to make it,” I said. “If I’m not on Broadway by then. Where’s my Christmas present?”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little envelope and handed it to me. Inside were two theater tickets.
“Uncommon Women and Others,” Jimmy said. “By Wendy Wasserstein. It’s at the Goodman Theater.”
“Next week,” I said, reading the tickets.
“Oh, by the way: Dinner is included in the present.”
“Jimmy, thank you.” I reached under the Christmas tree and pulled out his present. “Hope it fits,” I said, handing it to him.
He tore off the paper, took the lid off the box. “Very classy,” he said, taking the sweater out of the box. He took off his jacket and pulled on the sweater. “I’ll wear it tomorrow and impress everyone at Equity.”
“Well, wait a second; let me take the tags off, will you?” I made him stand up so I could make sure it fit right, and undid the tags. “You really like it?”
“I really like it.”
“Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, Jimmy.”
“I want a Christmas kiss,” I said. “And I want it now.”
“There’s no mistletoe.”
“Since when do you need mistletoe? I didn’t see any mistletoe when you were kissing Robin-the-toothpick!”
“All right! You want a kiss?” He reached down, pulled me to my feet, put his arm around my waist, and suddenly there I was—staring at the ceiling—my head parallel to and nearly touching the floor.
“Didn’t I see this in a Fred Astaire movie?” I asked.
“Flying Down to Rio.”
“Jimmy Woolf, if you let go of me and drop me—”
“I know what I’m doing, Hackett.” He kissed me, a very nice kiss. Then he let go of me and dropped me on the floor.
“Good friends aren’t everything they’re cracked up to be,” I said.
“Morgan?” my mother called. “Your presence is requested in the kitchen, please.”
“Hey, get me another cup of tea while you’re out there,” Jimmy said.
“Get it yourself!”
“What was that you were saying about good friends?”
I shook my head and took his cup out to the kitchen. “Look,” I said, holding up the theater tickets. “From Jimmy. Next Tuesday.”
“Very nice,” my mother said. “Loey’s on the phone; she wants to talk to you.”
“Why isn’t she on her way?”
“She’s not coming.”
“What do you mean she’s not coming?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? She’s not coming. She’s at the hospital and she’s busy, so try to keep it short, okay?”
I took the phone from her. “Aunt Lo?”
“Hi, sweetie. Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, Merry Christmas. Mother says you’re not coming—”
“Honey, I’ve got a couple of crises going on here, and I don’t want to be too far away from the hospital today.”
“Well, don’t your patients care if you have a Christmas or not? Why don’t they give you the day off?”
“I’m afraid this is just one of those occupational hazards.”
“I know I’m being selfish, but I don’t care. What are you going to do tonight?”
“Well, Dan’s coming over tonight and we’re going to open a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving.”
“I’m glad you won’t be alone on Christmas.”
“Listen, I left your Christmas present with Fay and I want you to open it, okay?”
“Okay . . . but it’s just not going to seem like Christmas without you.”
“I’ll try to make it out there tomorrow—”
“Famous last words!”
She laughed. “You’ll see. . . . Honey, I’ve got to run.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
The present from my aunt turned out to be a pair of knee-high suede boots.
“Very sexy,” Jimmy said.
“Think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“That’s what I like about you, Jimmy.”
“What?”
“Everything,” I said.