Page 52 of Meet Me in the Garden

One day, Adele’s frowning when I get home from work. “The social worker was insistent today. I didn’t know what to do, so I told him you’re expecting a Christmas proposal. He’s traveling for the holiday but says he expects to move quickly after the new year. I’m sorry. I felt like I had no choice.”

I let my sisters take me to Les Dames Amis’ Winter Soirée. The eligible bachelors from their brother club, the Conquistadors, descendupon me. So many of them. Brush of fabric from their jackets against my neck. Arms and hands reaching out, squeezing tight. Glint of teeth, damp palms. Later, when Claire asks me if anyone stood out, I tell her to set up some dates for me, to choose whoever would be best.

I go to dinner with a widower. He’s looking for a stay-at-home wife, someone who’ll be happy caring for his three children. I tell him I intend to keep working after I’m remarried. Neither of us orders dessert. A dentist from Carver Manor takes me out for drinks. He wears a shiny purple tie, talks about the importance of colored people serving their own communities. I respect him, but I can’t imagine sharing his bed. A grocery store manager makes me laugh on our drive to the pictures, but once the curtain parts, he puts his hand on my leg, tries to kiss my neck. I swat him away, but he keeps trying and I excuse myself, say I’m going to the ladies’, and I call Lionel from the lobby to pick me up. On our drive back to Compton I say, “If I don’t find someone soon, I’m going to have to marry you,” and he laughs and laughs.

And then, one evening, the doorbell rings. I answer it.

Felix. A winter bouquet this time, white flowers and red berries and pine. “Hello, beautiful,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, my heart calms.

While he and Bernard and Al are in the den, I fix my hair, apply lipstick and rouge, dab perfume behind my ears. Adele and Claire notice, close themselves into the bathroom with me. “He’s away so much,” Adele whispers. “But maybe, to you, that’s a good thing?”

“Okay,” Claire says. “Yes. Felix is a good Creole man. Handsome.”

“Stably employed,” Adele says. “And we know him well.”

“He’s also kind and quick and a pleasure to talk to,” I say. “And he’s so good with the children. The way he comes here so much… It seems like he wants to be a family man, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Adele says.

Claire nods. “Or maybe he’s had his eye on you this whole time. Here, let’s blend this rouge a little better.”

I try to stave off my guilt as the night goes on, as I refill his drink, as I stay by his side. I tell myself I wouldn’t mind it if he kissed me. His lipswould be soft; he’s easy to wrap my arms around. I could be a good wife to him. We’d talk and we’d laugh and we’d enjoy each other. And then he would leave, for weeks at a time, and it would be me and Clément and Nathalie, doing whatever pleased us.

“Listen,” he says after dinner. “I’ve been waiting until I got you alone to ask you something.” I go hot. He leans in close. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I promise.”

“One of my friends, another porter, dresses up as Santa for his kids and their cousins every Christmas. Ever since he told me about it, it’s been on my mind. How fun that would be, to burst through the door as Old Nick and surprise them.”

I’m incredulous, delighted. “You want to be Santa for the children?”

“Would you help me arrange it?”

“I would love to.”

“Okay, then. It’s a secret between you and me.”

It’s the Saturday before Christmas, and we’ve turned the house into a wonderland. A pink Christmas tree dripping in glass ornaments, silver and gold tinsel in all the doorways, mistletoe here and there, arranged figurines of Santa and the reindeer, snowmen and snowflakes. We’ll have all the usual favorites—burgers on the grill and Adele’s cold potato salad, the tables set up in the yard so the men can play cards—but everything will be more festive. Adele’s dressed in red, Claire in green, me in white. We’ve pulled out the Christmas records and arranged them in the order we’ll play them: Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Les Brown, Pearl Bailey, Dinah Shore, Bing Crosby.

At seven o’clock, when the party’s in full swing, Felix arrives just as we planned. We slip into the garage together and he lays out his Santa suit and hat and white beard. I’ve taken a pillow from the closet, and I help him step into the oversize pants, stuff his shirt, fasten the suspenders. I take my time, my skin close to his. I’m wearing my favorite goldearrings, new orange spice perfume. When he’s dressed, I give him a pat on the chest, rest my hand there. “Good luck, Santa,” I say.

I go back inside, turn the music down in time for him to pound on the front door and shout, “Ho-ho-ho!” The children startle, wide-eyed, listening. “Ho-ho-ho!” he booms again, and they shriek and run to let him in. He picks them up, spins them round. “Merry Christmas, kids! Hello, Rudy. Hello, Nathalie. Hello, Clément. Hello, Titter. Hello, Bobby.”

Titter’s quivering with joy. “He knows myname!” she shouts.

“Why, of course I do,” Felix says. He hands out candy canes, boxes of Cracker Jack, individually wrapped gifts. The children are beside themselves. Even Rudy is convinced.

Everyone is having so much fun that when Lionel arrives, hours late, no one puts up a fuss. Bing Crosby’s singing “You’re All I Want for Christmas” and we’re sipping warm eggnog from Adele’s Christmas mugs. Santa came and went, and now Felix is back in his own trousers and his pine-green sweater, playing cards with the other men out back. Nathalie’s perched on his knee, learning how the game is played. A fire burns in the pit outside.

“I had to drive out to Escondido and back to deliver a bird,” Lionel tells me. He’s mellow, almost blissful.

I hug him, smell perfume on his collar. “You sold a bird to a woman?”

He grins. “Sadly my client had to be out of town. However, his wife was there to complete the transaction.”

“Lionel.”

He grins wider. “Not my fault that she couldn’t resist me. The kids still awake?”