Gee-dog is right, Turk said.
Before them lay an eleven-foot-seven-inch Scots pine. A mystery conceived and solved in the same moment. The tree, not unfamiliar to either of them, was still wearing its ornaments and lights, tinsel draping sweetly from its brittle branches. It was on its side; specifically, it was canted at about thirty degrees as a result of the crown’s contact with the far wall, bending up now like a creepy curled finger, in any case positioned to indicate that it had been carelessly discarded and left to disintegrate all over boxes and chairs and the rolltop desk Turk had set out for in the first place. The stump had oozed a little resin onto Turk’s sewing machine.
There was disappointment in her voice, her first genuine expression of that emotion in the six months Hiwatt had lived with her.
I truly thought it had gone over the balcony, Hiwatt said, affecting the Commonwealth tone he employed when he required authority in the face of authority. He pondered the tree, stroking his chin. How on earth? he said. He kept stroking his chin because it felt wonderful.
It didn’t climb back in the window, now, did it? Turk said.
Most definitely not, Hiwatt answered, still stroking his chin.
It was February 6. At the end of December, Turk had taken her annual trip to St. John, leaving Hiwatt alone in the apartment through New Year’s. Having no children of her own and lending no credence to anecdotal evidence about the expansive sense of social charity that overcomes a young person left home unsupervised for longer than a day, she hadn’t issued ground rules. She was no fool, but she wasn’t the enemy of fun, either, and when she returned on the evening of January 1, tan, hungover, bearing a bruise or two from her own revels, she set up a pot of coffee and asked Hiwatt to join her at the kitchen table.
Get up to anything fun? she said.
I did! he replied with a lush gargle of a laugh. Hiwatt was doing his straight-backed, good-breeding routine that could sometimes cross the line into fawning maître d’, which actually relaxed Turk a hair, as he only put on the college interview voice when he was nervous. Plus, he was stoned out of his gourd. He went on: I hosted a splendid party, what I can remember of it. I was told an African prince attended, but I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have had more attractive options.
I’m always sweeping them out of the corners after my parties, Turk said.
Hiwatt nodded as if chewing on a piece of particularly interesting information.
I’m sure you were a charming host, Turk said.
I am. It’s a well-known fact.
So, everything seems to be in place, Turk said.
Yes.
So where’s all the carnage? Surely all the furniture’s been replaced, or something.
There was one minor incident.
Yes. Where’s the tree?
Of course you know! You did fail to mention the ceremony before you left, though, Hiwatt said.
Which, now?
The—the what do you call it?—the ritual.
Did I?
We counted down the final minute of the year, as is customary, yes? And then my guests gathered at the windows overlooking the courtyard, as there was a commotion outside.
They called us over. I was very drunk, but I made it in time to see a few of the trees. I had not been told about this practice, though it was, in its way, elegant.
Everyone was throwing their trees off their balconies, Turk said.
Yes, the trees, raining down into the courtyard and all the men in their tuxedos and the women in their evening gloves—quite elegant, you know, throwing their champagne flutes after the trees, Hiwatt said.
It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.
A building tradition, I assumed? We felt compelled—my guests felt compelled—I was, as they say, plowed by then, ha ha—to join in. I was apparently unable to contribute in a meaningful way and my classmates carried me to the sofa, where I awoke only this very afternoon. Shoeless and wearing a feather boa!
So your friends tossed the tree out the window, Turk said.
I can only assume that is the case. The Christmas tree is gone, ergo … I’m truly sorry, Miss Turk. I should have waited for your return?
No, no, Turk said. It’s just strange. No one’s done that for years.
We acted properly, I believe, in the spirit of the season? Perhaps next year you can stay in the city for New Year’s?
Perhaps, Turk said.
Oh, and there was something else, but … It’s strange—it’s the alcohol. I’m not used to it. Give me a bowl of hash any day …
Turk waited for a couple of beats, then said, Something happened?
Oh yes. I can’t say exactly. I believe something happened. There was a Russian student here, and I believe my classmates—no, some friends of theirs, perhaps—it was very crowded, a smash hit of a party … Hiwatt, smiling faintly, drifted off into a recollection of the night’s grandeur.
What about the Russian? Turk said.
Oh yes! He arrived wearing a tuxedo! Isn’t that funny? And his hair was black, and like an explosion, an atomic bomb. I don’t know who invited him, but he was very demanding, ordering everyone around. He repeatedly called me boy, even after I made clear that I was the host. Strange fellow. There were so many people here I didn’t know.
Turk looked around the kitchen, out through the door into the dining room. Not a picture askew, not a bowl out of place.
Then, later, I was on my back, on the sofa, perhaps even then shoeless, and the Russian fellow was being held aloft, like this, you see, on everyone’s hands? He was kicking and twisting, and everyone was laughing at his predicament. They were
