“I don’t hate her; I feel sorry for her, to tell the truth.”
“Want some more hot water in there?”
“No, this is fine.”
“It’s going to be all right, Ondine. She is coming in the kitchen to cook Christmas dinner. And you have to get out of the way. Maybe it’ll taste bad, but it’s only for one night. We can behave for one night, can’t we? Then it’ll be over and everything will be back to normal.”
“Everything but my feet.”
“Your feet too. Put ’em up here. Let me rub them for you.”
“They not going to last much longer, you know. I get the littlest cut on them now and it don’t seem to heal. I have to stand up to do the work I do, if I can’t stand then I can’t work.”
“When you can’t stand, girl, sit down. You don’t have to work. I can take care of you, you know that.”
“We don’t have a place of our own. And the little bit of savings went to Jadine. Not that I regret a penny of it; I don’t.”
“We got a few stocks and Social Security. Years of it. Remember how I tried to get Mr. Street not to take it out, back when we first started, and he wouldn’t listen to me? Now I appreciate the fact that he didn’t.”
“Such a smart little girl, and so pretty. I never minded not having children after we started taking care of her. I would have stood on my feet all day all night to put her through that school. And when my feet were gone, I would have cooked on my knees.”
“I know, baby, I know.”
“She crowned me, that girl did. No matter what went wrong or how tired I was, she was my crown.”
“He helped too, you know. We never could have done it without him.”
“And I’m grateful. You know I am. I’ve never had no problem with him. He’s a nuisance, but he stood by us when we needed him to.”
“And she never objected to it, Ondine. A lot of wives would have.”
“I suppose.”
“Lay back. Put your legs up on this pillow. Rest yourself and don’t worry about nothing. Nothing’s going to change. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“She wouldn’t up and marry some no-count Negro, would she? I don’t care how good-looking and sweet-talking he is. You didn’t say nothing about stuffin. Is she going to stuff that bird or just roast him empty?”
“Rest, girl.”
“And what the devil is lemon whip?”
NOBODY CAME. At least none of the invited. The emperor butterflies flew in the window, but they were not invited, nor were the bees. They were roused by the six-part singing of the tin-tin birds sitting in formation at the top of the bougainvillea. But the maiden aunts weren’t there, thank God, with their wispy maiden aunt hair. Still nobody came. Uninvited and emergency guests shared dinner on Christmas Day. First the telephone operator read off the cable from B. J. Bridges: “Boston weather cannot fly okay postpone New Year.” Then Dr. Michelin called with regrets saying the crossing would be too rough. Finally customs controle reported there was no red trunk on the last flight arriving at nine in the morning from Miami, and there was no Houston flight at all that day. More telephone calls. Michael did not answer his telephone. Margaret would have caved in Christmas Eve except for the busy-ness of confirming the disaster: more placing of calls—forty-five-minute waits until they were connected; more cables with “confirm delivery” instructions; Michael’s neighbors were summoned, but the number had changed or the neighbors had; his old girlfriends were asked to go to his house and check. Had he left? When? But it was the day before Christmas and people had other things to do. Then there was the wrapping of gifts, the ollieballen to make, the turkey that was really a goose to prepare. Margaret was too tired to feel her sorrow at its deepest point until Christmas Day dawned bright and secular and nobody at all came to L’Arbe de la Croix, and nobody was in his proper place. Ondine was in the bathtub. Margaret was in the kitchen. Sydney was in the greenhouse cutting flowers for the table. Jadine was in the washhouse waiting for a dryer load to conclude. And Valerian was by the telephone placing incomplete calls. Son, who had no place of his own, got in everybody’s way. The exchange of gifts, scheduled for Michael’s arrival, took place anywhere, furtively and without fanfare or enthusiasm. When it was certain that no one was coming and the day looked as if it belonged to the tin-tin birds and not to family and friends, Valerian, to raise Margaret’s spirits probably or simply to get through the day, said, “Let’s all sit down and have the dinner among ourselves. Everybody. Jade, Willie, Ondine, Sydney.” They would all have a good time, he said. Margaret nodded, and left the kitchen, where the uses of things now eluded her completely. She was in control the night before—enough to wash the fowl whose legs would not stand up as they ought to. But the ollieballen recipe slipped out of reach entirely. Sydney rescued it and now when Valerian called her away from the kitchen she seemed not to care one way or another. It was just another meal now and the dinner she had planned to cook Ondine had to finish, including the lemon whip. Ondine was persuaded to dress up and join Sydney and the others in the dining room partly because she’d had the foresight to bake a ham and a coconut cake and would not be required to eat Margaret’s menu and partly because she’d have to eat alone otherwise, but she was deeply unhappy about being thrown out of her kitchen in the first place and then pushed back in when Margaret abandoned the whole thing halfway through because the guests were different. She was also unhappy because she thought Jadine had secret plans to leave right after Christmas. A few days ago she had the humiliation of Alma Estee handing her a pair of recently worn pajamas that she found in the gardenia bushes underneath Jadine’s bedroom. Ondine took them and did not mention the find to anyone, but it worried her. Jadine’s scurrilous remarks about Son seemed too pointed, too loud. Sydney took the invitation in stride. The suggestion of a special and intimate relationship with his employer pleased him more than it disconcerted him. And what was unthinkable and undesirable in Philadelphia was not so on that island. In addition, it leveled, in a way, the invitation Mr. Street had extended to Son when everybody thought he was a burglar. More than leveled—this invitation was formal and sober although it was an emergency solution to a rapidly deteriorating holiday.
Jadine was enchanted. Wanted everybody dressed up and gave Ondine and Sydney their presents right after breakfast when she heard the plans, exacting a promise from her aunt that she would wear hers to dinner. It was hard to tell what Son felt. Perhaps he did not know himself. For such a long time a Christmas spent on land for him was an extempore dinner or party with miscellaneous people he never expected to see again. This was another, except that the imminent exit of one of those persons alarmed him. She said “before I go” on the beach. Not “before you go.” And he had had a brief encounter with Margaret that confirmed it. He was still apologizing all around and saw Margaret lying in a canvas-back chair, sunning herself in the shade and
