Stories From Westlake Village

We could be sure of it snowing on Christmas Eve. Like clockwork, the first flakes would fall in the middle of the afternoon. We would be on our way home by then, because old man Langley would send us home at lunchtime.

He would appear at the far end of the drafting room bundled up and ready to leave. "Merry Christmas, everybody!" It was the signal for the rest of us to leave as well. Out of the building and hard on his heels, some would have a drink or two at Hurley's before leaving for home. Some office romances would linger a bit longer, and there was always one or two who had nowhere to go.

The railroad ran extra locals in the early afternoon. The schedules were ignored, and there would be people on the east-bound trains you had never seen before. Many of them tipsy, it was a fair bet they would ride past their stop to the end of the line. They would find the return trip long and arduous.

Looking out the dirty windows of the home-bound train, we would see the first flakes falling. We would count off on our fingers what had been done and what was yet to do. It was time to call a halt -- if it hadn't been done by now, it would have to stay undone.

The train would pull into Westlake Village, and some of us would make for the two wall phones that hung in the dark brown station. Others would strike off on their own, knowing that their harried wives were busy in their kitchens and not to be disturbed. By this time there would be an inch or so of snow to soften the dark and dingy parts of town.

Some of us would stop for a Christmas drink at the Hollow Leg Saloon. Drinks were on the house at Christmas Eve, with Clancy, the bartender, wearing his red and green suspenders and Irish music playing on the phonograph. Home would be only a quarter mile up Breakneck Hill, a bitter cold quarter mile, and when we'd get to the top, the north wind would be waiting. But the sight of our houses, the smell of wood smoke and cooking, and the warming bite of Clancy's bourbon insulated us from the chill of December. We would become ourselves -- no longer a group of homeward-bound husbands. I would be me and you would be you.

In the kitchen, the pies were being made -- apple and mince for us, squash for the old folks. The girls were stringing popcorn and cranberries -- the youngest stuck herself and quickly blamed the oldest for pushing her.

"Don't take your coat off -- get the tree before it's covered with snow." The debate would begin as to where the heavy iron stand had last been seen. It's under this or behind that -- or perhaps it's in the garage back of the lawn mower. Wherever it might be, it would have to be found before the tree could be brought in. Like opening an umbrella indoors, it's bad luck to lay a tree on the floor. At last it would stand in its corner and once more conceal the picture of Uncle Fred for the duration.

I would always ask, "Anybody want to take a final look at Uncle Fred?" With never an answer, I would get the lights and the decorations and the kitchen stepladder. My youngest daughter would abandon her tiny string of popcorn and cranberries and plunge into the business of ornamenting the tree. It would be my job to hang the lights and climb the ladder to the topmost star and my wife's job to tell me that the tree leaned a little this way or that -- "and turn it so the bare spot is against the wall."

The old dog, a stickler for the status quo, would view the proceedings with mixed feelings. He had been through enough Christmases to know that the quiet placidity of the next week or two would be interrupted. He would stare at the tree from his warm spot by the sofa, accepting the fact that this tree was sacrosanct -- unlike other trees that could be peed upon, this one was for looking at only. He was prepared for a late night filled with hushed whisperings and thumpings from the attic to the basement. He knew he must ignore these noises tonight -- but only tonight, for they are the same noises a dog is bred and born to defend his family from. He would only hope that he would be walked and fed at regular intervals.

Christmas Eve supper would be casual and might be better forgotten -- leftovers, to clear the refrigerator for the coming onslaught of uneaten turkey wings, cranberry relish, creamed onions, turnips, brussel sprouts, and mashed potatoes. My wife would look worn and faraway, with her mind on the night to come, the dinner tomorrow, and what she should pray for at the morning Mass. I would look haggard and wonder if I would be able to get the car out of the driveway now that the snow was six inches deep. The younger daughter would ask if we'd be able to see the footprints of Santa and his reindeer on the roof, now that the snow was six inches deep. The older daughter would eat and run to go caroling with the junior class of Westlake High.

The younger daughter "believed." The older daughter did not. We were torn between the two. We had to promise the younger that the fire in the hearth would not hamper the arrival of Santa, and that he would be favorably impressed if he found cookies and milk by the Christmas tree -- he might even leave an extra present or two. Reluctant to relinquish the enchantment of Christmas Eve, and yet knowing, with a woman's wile, that until she took to her bed, the magic of Christmas morning would never come, she would unwillingly say good night.

But she would have to be read to first . . . something seasonal to keep the juices flowing. In the midst of the "Grinch" (or was it "The Little Drummer Boy"), the carolers would arrive and fill the house with song. We would go down to see them.

The girls' voices were pure as temple chimes, but the boys sounded gritty and unmusical -- like elderly men singing barely remembered school songs at a class reunion. The older daughter would not be with them but with a group on the posh side of Westlake Village where the take would be considerably greater. With the last strains of "Deck the Halls" ringing in our ears, a bright-eyed soprano would display a basket already primed with dollar bills. "For music books," she would explain, "we need new music books." It is Christmas, after all -- only a Grinch could resist a request for new music books.

We'd be on our own then, with younger daughter asleep and the older one back from caroling, on the phone, and smelling slightly of cigarettes. "Where did we hide the Easy-Bake oven?" "Where is the new tricycle?" "What did you do with the wrapping paper?" "I told you we needed Scotch tape!"

The round-up would begin amid urgent whisperings and burning accusations. We would alternate between panic, frenzy and dismay -- with long periods of reading obscure assembly instruction sheets written in translation. A large sherry to calm the storm, and at last we would peacefully to admire the tree and the box-filled living room – in a hush and a stillness so profound that it almost would convince me there had once been a night like this long ago. The mother, the father, and the dog, mesmerized by the lights, the smell, and the memory of Christmases past.

There would be no believers under this roof next year. The hoax would be discovered at last, and from that moment on, there would always be a touch of disbelief in our solemn word. Perhaps the Easter bunny does not leave colored eggs in the living room, and maybe the moon is not made of green cheese after all -- a tinge of skepticism will make a woman of a little girl.

"I suppose this will be the last year she believes," I ventured.

"In Santa Claus? You're funny."

"Why? What makes you say I'm funny?"

"She didn't believe last year -- I thought you knew everything," she said. "You remember the record player we got her last year?"

"Yes, the damn thing wouldn't work"

"You had to go back next day and get a replacement, didn't you?" She smiled at me tolerantly. "You took her with you, didn't you?"