As a group of drunken carolers sang an off-tune, wine-soaked version of “Here We Come A-Wassailing,” men and women completed their last holiday errands all around him, hauling Christmas trees, carrying wreaths, toting presents. Icicles, which hung precariously from the lampposts, slowly began to melt as the gaslights flickered on for the evening. The lamps added a warm glow to the fairy lights that deckled the storefronts, the clothiers, and even the pubs and casinos. Ernest thought that the peaceful street scene was like something out of a painting, as though the clock had spun backward ten years, thanks to the absence of chattering automobiles, replaced by the pleasant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages, Bristol wagons, and the occasional snap of a buggy whip. He watched as another team of bridled horses snorted gusts of steam through flared nostrils as they trotted by, high-stepping in unison, proudly showing the impotent motorcars buried in the snowdrifts that they hadn’t yet surrendered their usefulness.
Ernest stomped his feet to try to warm his toes as he wondered what Christmas morning would be like. With Madam Flora’s erratic behavior, planning anything had become difficult. And besides, Miss Amber had been busy taking Flora about the city to new doctors all month. In their absence, Mrs. Blackwell and the servants had taken charge of putting up a tree and decorating the house. Ernest thought they’d done a yeoman’s job (without Miss Amber’s normal, stern input), so at least it looked like Christmas at the Tenderloin and smelled like a merry holiday. Ernest had learned from the other servants that certain occasions, especially birthdays, were not celebrated—the upstairs girls chose to keep their ages a secret. So he had wondered if the Advent season would be enjoyed beyond the basic trappings.
In anticipation, he’d bought small, hand-painted wooden angels for Fahn and Maisie, and wrapped layered boxes of chocolates and dried fruit, dusted in powdered sugar, to be shared by the maids and the upstairs girls. But would they really get up early and exchange presents? Or would Christmas involve another late night in the casual company of rich, lascivious customers who came and went, and everyone sleeping in past noon, just another day of canoodling, with or without mistletoe?
Ernest worried, because Madam Flora’s bouts of hysteria were getting worse. Her episodes had been draining them of the reserve of hope they’d all built up at the fair.
He closed his eyes and remembered how he’d eagerly returned to the fairgrounds with Maisie and Fahn three days after the closing ceremonies. They’d woken early and stolen away on the trolley to see what remained, yearning to savor one more moment.
But when they’d arrived, the lush greenbelts looked brown and trampled, except for tiny forests of dandelions. It had been sad to see the brick walkways strewn with tickets, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, old newspapers, wads of chewing gum and spitting tobacco. Flights of pigeons and gulls fought over the detritus; the remains of treats that had once seemed magical now sat rotting. And the busiest activity they found were hoboes picking their way through the mess—sad, haggard old men with potato sacks who collected brown bottles for their half-penny deposits.
Ernest recalled that dozens of other kids their age had come back as well. Together they gathered at Ezra Meeker’s place, the solitary vendor still open for the week, or until they ran out of beer, whichever came first. Ernest, Maisie, and Fahn ordered a cream soda to share and comforted each other like the living at a wake.
Since then, the only reminder of the fair had been the occasional visits by Mrs. Irvine and her well-meaning, riotous band of puritan do-gooders. Her words seemed like polite cannon shots fired across her widening gulf of disapproval. Each time, she asked Ernest to come back, and each time he declined.
As Ernest finished clearing the latest blanket of fresh snow, he did his best to focus on the bright memories of that last day at the AYP.
All these months, he still woke up each morning wondering if the emotions of that day—that night—had vanished with the fair. Had any of it been real enough to last? Maisie had been warmer to him ever since, in direct proportion to Fahn’s growing restlessness.
Ernest snapped out of his daydreaming when he spotted a figure walking down the center of the snow-covered street, leaving a single trail of footprints in the virgin powder. The fat man in a red suit, fringed with white, was unmistakable even amid the swirling snowflakes, as he laughed heartily and rang a brass bell. Ernest smiled as though childhood stories had come to life. People on the sidewalks waved and cheered, and some even opened their windows and shouted “In dulci jubilo!” in thick European accents. A few ornery teenagers threw snowballs that fortunately sailed clean of their mark.
When the man got closer, Ernest could see this was no ordinary stuffed-coat, department store St. Nicholas. Beneath his beard of white was a very dark face. Ernest recognized Professor True’s eyes behind his spectacles before the piano man shifted his bag of presents to his other shoulder and bellowed a hearty “Ho, ho, ho, Ernest. Christmas can officially begin, because Santa Claus has arrived!”
—
IN THE PARLOR, Mrs. Blackwell announced what the upstairs girls had hoped—that there would be no customers tonight, or tomorrow. The Tenderloin was officially on holiday through the weekend. Maisie whispered, “No one ever comes here on Christmas anyway. The desperate, brokenhearted codgers out tonight always hit up the cribs down the street.”
Miss Amber appeared in a silver wig and began to hold court.
She said, “Ladies, tonight is our Christmas. Tonight is a celebration of our family, together on this cold, snowy evening. And though I know some of you miss the homes and the places you once knew, we’re better off than so many others. And to remind us of that fact, and to honor Flora and all she’s done for us, we’re going to Georgetown to visit the King County Almshouse. We’ll sing carols and pass out gifts. Gloves and chocolate for all the moms, and stockings full of candy, peanuts, and oranges for the little ones.”
Professor True hoisted his gift bag.
“Then,” Mrs. Blackwell added, “we’ll return home for our own cup of good cheer.”
Ernest looked around, amused, as the upstairs girls clapped and the downstairs help worried about the weather. In a rush of excitement, everyone followed Miss Amber’s lead and donned coats and capes, caps and bonnets, mittens and scarves, and, last, their winter boots as they gathered in the foyer, preparing themselves to march fourteen blocks south through the falling, drifting snow.
“All but you, Ernest,” Miss Amber said as she grabbed him by the back of his collar. “I need someone to stay behind and tend to the fires.”
Crestfallen, Ernest nodded. He reluctantly removed his hat and coat.
“Ho-ho-home for the holiday,” Fahn teased.
“I’m sorry,” Maisie whispered, frowning.
“It’s okay,” Ernest said as he donned a pretend smile. “You’ll all be back home soon enough, I suppose. You’ll be frozen, but the fires will be roaring.”
Ernest stood outside the doorway, alone atop the stoop, as he watched everyone march away, singing “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.”
He closed the door and could still hear their voices in the distance. Professor True’s whiskey tenor rose above the choir of fallen angels as they sang and laughed and carried the spirit of celebration away with them. Dejected, Ernest trundled down to the basement to check on the boiler and make sure there was an ample supply of coal in the coal bin. Then he carried armloads of split firewood upstairs and restocked the hearths in the master suites. Finally, he sank into a plush chair in the parlor, stoking the main fire, but wondering what kind of merriment he was missing. As he watched bits of tar flare up and listened to the snapping and popping of still-green wood, he realized that the Tenderloin had never been this quiet.
He remembered something his mother had once said to him when he was a little boy. She’d said, “Everyone should spend one holiday alone. It’s good for the soul.” He wondered if this was just something a parent says when she has no presents to give, or if there was truth there. As he sat in the quiet of the parlor, he wasn’t sure how the emptiness he felt might make him a better person. Before he found an answer, he heard a rumble outside and the blaring of a car horn. He grabbed his coat and opened the door as a sleek, black Marmon roadster glided to the curb and a tall driver stepped out.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the evening.” Ernest glanced toward the back of the car. “The Tenderloin will be open again in a few days.”