The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus by Carly Alexander Page B

this city would continue to close in around me, shrinking my life down to a claustrophobic sack once the tales of wicked Olivia aired on television. I’d once complained that I’d never felt embraced by this city, but now I was feeling its grip quite well, a firm grasp tightening to a stranglehold.
    “Don’t check out on me,” ZZ said softly, leaning close to my ear. He handed me a red stocking with “Mrs. Claus” embroidered over the fuzzy white cuff.
    “To be honest, I’m already gone.” My heart was back in New York, dancing on the line, having brunch with friends and not having to worry about eating waffles or pancakes or bacon because in three performances a day you burn it all off, rushing from my apartment to fit in Christmas shopping before the early performance…
    “Emotionally, that may be true,” he said. “But since your body is still with us for the next few weeks, it would be nice if the spirit could join in.”
    I gave him a curious look.
    “Metaphysically speaking.” He straightened, addressing the group once again. “You’ll find a small card inside your stocking. Take it out now and fill in your Christmas wish…”
    Maybe I’d misjudged ZZ. After all, he could have spent this entire day making us read the corporate policy on sexual harassment and chronic tardiness. I took the white card from my stocking and mulled over my secret desires. Not that I am superstitious or even a believer in quiet goal setting. I’m the sort of person who strikes out after what she wants, working through obstacles with single-minded determination. The approach usually worked for me—had landed me a position on the Rockettes. But lately, I was stuck waiting—for my ankle to heal, for my mother to swing back to normal, for Christmas to come and go so I could head back to New York.
    What to wish for? That my ankle was all healed and I was back in Manhattan, back in the Rockettes?
    That would have been my primary desire a few weeks ago but now, somehow, it was not enough. My future seemed tainted by Bobby’s impending show, a commercial franchise with the potential to exploit and malign my image and my name. And then there was Bobby. Blissfully self-absorbed Bobby. Despite his tendencies toward the asshole brigade, despite the fact that he was married now, I still felt that flush of warmth around him, the undying attraction that would have me tossing rose petals onto his grave when I was ninety. Fatalistic, I know, but if his bad behavior hadn’t killed the attraction by now, I had to resolve myself to living with it.
    I wanted it all—the love of my life, my anonymity, my dancing career.
    “Remember, you can only write down one wish,” ZZ said as he paced the room. “You need to focus, people.”
    Fine, I thought. I would wipe the slate clean.
    I wrote: I wish for a do-over . Thinking like a lawyer. I figured that left a lot of things open, but then a lot of things in my life needed fixing.
     
    That afternoon ZZ handed out our costumes and sent us off to the store dressing rooms to try them on. “Report back to Santaland as soon as you’re in costume,” he ordered. “We have a tailor coming this afternoon to mark alterations, and I want to get started with the Santaland protocol.”
    While the others received costumes sealed in plastic bags, mine came in a big, wide gift box made of silver cardboard. “I understand this costume is a Rossman’s family heirloom.” ZZ held the silver box before me, and I couldn’t help but run my hand over the large embossed R .
    “Why would the Rossmans send a family heirloom to the Baltimore store?”
    He shrugged. “The grand opening. Charley said they wanted to send us luck. Rumor has it that Evelyn Rossman wore this suit years ago when the chain was just starting up in Chicago.”
    I slid off the lid, and rich red jewel tones winked up at me, scarlet beads, burgundy shadings on ruby velvet. It was a fine garment, reminding me of the spectacular costumes I’d