Happy Birthday, Dear Jesus
IT WAS THE CRAZIEST Christmas I ever spent. Partly it was Heinemannвs faultчhe came up with a new wrinkle in gift-wrapping that looked good but like every other idea that comes out of the front office meant plenty of headaches for the rest of us. But what really messed up Christmas for me was the girl.
Personnel sent her downчafter Iвd gone up there myself three times and banged my fist on the table. It was the height of the season and when she told me that she had had her application in three weeks before they called her, I excused myself and got Personnel on the store phone from my private office. гMartin here,д I said. гWhat the devilвs the matter with you people? This girl is the Emporium type if I ever saw one, and youвve been letting her sit around nearly a month whileччд
Crawford, the Personnel head, interrupted me. гHave you talked to her very much?д he wanted to know.
г\Vell, no. Butчд
гCall me back when you do,д he advised, and clicked off.
I went back to the stockroom where she was standing patiently, and looked her over a little thoughtfully. But she looked all right to me. She was blond-haired and blue-eyed and not very big; she had a sweet, slow smile. She wasnвt exactly beautiful, but she looked like a girl youвd want to know. She wasnвt bold, and she wasnвt too shy; and thatвs a perfect description of what we call гThe Emporium Type.д
So what in the world was the matter with Personnel?
Her name was Lilymary Hargreave. I put her to work on the giftwrap spraying machine while I got busy with my paper work. I have a hundred forty-one persons in the department and at the height of the Christmas season I could use twice as many. But we do get the work done. For instance, Saul & Capell, the next biggest store in
town, has a hundred and sixty in their gift and counseling department, and their sales run easily twenty-five per cent less than ours. And in the four years that Iвve headed the department weвve yet to fail to get an order delivered when it was promised.
All through that morning I kept getting glimpses of the new girl. She was a quick learnerчsmart, too smart to be stuck with the sprayer for very long. I needed someone like her around, and right there on the spot I made up my mind that if she was as good as she looked Iвd put her in a counseling booth within a week, and the devil with what Personnel thought.
The store was packed with last-minute shoppers. I suppose Iвm sentimental, but I love to watch the thousands of people bustling in and out, with all the displays going at once, and the lights on the trees, and the loudspeakers playing White Christmas and The Eighth Candle and Jingle Bells and all the other traditional old favorites. Christmas is more than a mere seffing season of the year to me; it means something.
The girl called me over near closing time. She looked distressed and with some reason. There was a dolly ifiled with gift-wrapped packages, and a man from Shipping looking annoyed. She said, гIвm sorry, Mr. Martin, but I seem to have done something wrong.д
The Shipping man snorted. гLook for yourself, Mr. Martin,д he said, handing me one of the packages.
I looked. It was wrong, all right. Heinemannвs new wrinkle that year was a special attached gift cardчa simple Yule scene and the printed message:
The very Merriest of Seasonвs Greetings
From
To
$8.50
The price varied with the item, of course. Heinemannвs idea was for the customer to fill it out and mail it, ahead of time, to the person it was intended for. That way, the person who got it would know just about how much he ought to spend on a present for the first person. It was smart, I admit, and maybe the smartest thing about it was rounding the price off to the nearest fifty cents instead of giving it exactly. Heinemann said it was bad-mannered to be too preciseчand the way the customers were going for the idea, it had to be right.
But the trouble was that the gift-wrapping machines were geared
to only a plain card; it was necessary for the operator to put the price in by hand.
I said, гThatвs all right, Joe; Iвll take care of it.д As Joe went satisfled back to Shipping, I told the girl: гItвs my fault. I should have explained to you, but I guess Iвve just been a little too rushed.д
She looked downcast. гIвm sorry,д she said.
гNothing to be sorry about.д I showed her the routing slip attached to each one, which the Shipping Department kept for its records once the package was on its way. гAll we have to do is go through these; the price is on every one. Weвll just fill out the cards and get them out. I guessчд I looked at my watchчдI guess youвll be a little late tonight, but Iвll see that you get overtime and dinner money for it. It wasnвt your mistake, after all.д
She said hesitantly, гMr. Martin, couldnвt itчwell, can I let it go for tonight? It isnвt that I mind working, but I keep house for my f ather and if I donвt get there on time he just wonвt remember to eat dinner. Please?д
I suppose I frowned a little, because her expression was a little worried. But, after all, it was her first day. I said, гMiss Hargreave, donвt give it a thought. Iвll take care of it.д
The way I took care of it, it turned out, was to do it myself; it was late when I got through, and I ate quickly and went home to bed. But I didnвt mind, for oh! the sweetness of the smile she gave me as she left.
I looked forward to the next morning, because I was looking forward to seeing Lilymary Hargreave again. But my luck was outчfor she was.
My number-two man, Johnny Furness, reported that she hadnвt phoned either. I called Personnel to get her phone number, but they didnвt have it; I got the address, but the phone company had no phone listed under her name. So I stewed around until the coffee break, and then I put my hat on and headed out of the store. It wasnвt merely that I was interested in seeing her, I told myself; she was just too good a worker to get off on the wrong foot this way, and it was only simple justice for me to go to her home and set her straight.
Her house was in a nondescript neighborhoodчnot too good, not too bad. A gang of kids were playing under a fire hydrant at the cornerчbut, on the other hand, the houses were neat and nearly new. Middle-class, youвd have to say.
I found the address, and knocked on the door of a second-floor apartment.
It was opened by a tall, leathery man of fifty or soчLilymaryвs father, I judged. гGood morning,д I said. гIs Miss Hargreave at home?д
He smiled; his teeth were bright in a very sun-bronzed face. гWhich one?д
гBlond girl, medium height, blue eyes. Is there more than one?д
гThere are four. But you mean Lilymary; wonвt you come in?д
I followed him, and a six-year-old edition of Lilymary took my hat and gravely hung it on a rack made of bamboo pegs. The leathery man said, гIвm Morton Hargreave, Lilyвs father. Sheвs in the kitchen.д
гGeorge Martin,д I said. He nodded and left me, for the kitchen, I presumed. I sat down on an old-fashioned studio couch in the living room, and the six-year-old sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair across from me, making sure I didnвt pocket any of the souvenirs on the mantel. The room was full of curiositiesчwhat looked like a cloth of beaten bark hanging on one wall, with a throwing-spear slung over the cloth. Everything looked vaguely South-Seas, though I am no expert.
The six-year-old said seriously, гThis is the man, Lilymary,д and I got up.
гGood morning,д said Lilymary Hargreave, with a smudge of flour and an expression of concern on her face.
I said, floundering, гI, uh, noticed you hadnвt come in and, well, since you were new to the Emporium, I thoughtччд
