The Wolves of Midwinter (36 page)

“Better take the Benadryl anyway,” said Reuben.

“Well, you know, those are nice people, those people. Where do they live, exactly?”

“All through the forest, sort of,” said Reuben.

“No, but I mean where do they live?” asked Phil. “Where’s their home? They were the nicest. I’d like to invite them in for coffee. I’d love to have them as company.”

Lisa came rushing in.

Reuben already had a glass of water ready.

“You need to stay out of that area,” she said. “Those were African killer bees, and they’re very aggressive.”

Phil laughed. “Well, how on earth do you know where I was roaming, Lisa?”

“Because Elthram told me,” she said. “Good thing he was looking out for you.”

“I was just saying to Reuben that they are the nicest people, that family. He and that beautiful redheaded Mara.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met Mara,” said Reuben, struggling to say this in a normal believable voice.

“Well, she was at the fair in the town,” said Phil. “Don’t know that she came to the party. Beautiful red hair, and clear skin, like your mother.”

“Well, stay out of that part of the woods, Philip,” said Lisa sharply. “And take these pills now before you get a fever.”

On Saturday Reuben went into San Francisco to pick up his gifts for family and for friends. Everything had been purchased by phone or online through a rare-book dealer, and Reuben inspected each selection personally before having each wrapped with the appropriate card. For Grace, he’d found a nineteenth-century memoir by an
obscure doctor who described a long and heroic life in medicine on the frontier. For Laura, the
Duino Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus
of Rilke in a first edition. For Margon he had an early special edition of T. E. Lawrence’s autobiography, and for Felix, Thibault, and Stuart fine and early hardcovers of several English ghost-story writers—Amelia Edwards, Sheridan Le Fanu, and Algernon Blackwood—whom Reuben especially treasured. He had vintage travelers’ memoirs for Sergei and for Frank, and Lisa; and books of English and French poetry for Heddy and Jean Pierre. For Celeste, he had a special leather-bound copy of the autobiography of Clarence Darrow; and for Mort a vintage edition of Hawthorne’s
The House of the Seven Gables
, which he knew Mort loved.

For Jim, he had books on filmmakers Robert Bresson and Luis Buñuel and a first edition of Lord Acton’s essays. For Stuart, a couple of great books on J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and the Inklings, as well as a new verse translation of
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
.

Lastly for Phil, he had managed at last to score all the small individual hardcover volumes of Shakespeare’s plays edited by George Lyman Kittredge—the little Ginn and Company books which Phil had so loved in his student days. This was a crate of books, all clean of markings and in excellent condition, on good paper and with good print.

After that, he rounded up some newer books to be added to the mix—books by Teilhard de Chardin, Sam Keen, Brian Greene, and others—and then he shopped for some personal gifts for his beloved housekeeper Rosie—perfume, a purse, some pretty things. For Lisa he had found a particularly fine cameo in a San Francisco shop, and for Jean Pierre and Heddy cashmere scarves. And finally he called it quits.

The Russian Hill house was empty when he got there. After putting all the family gifts quietly under the tree, he headed for home.

Sunday, he spent the entire morning writing a long piece for Billie on the evolving concept of Christmas and New Year’s in America, since the ban on all Christmas celebrations in the early colonies to the condemnations today of the commercial nature of the feast. He realized how happy he was writing this kind of informal essay, and how much he preferred this to any kind of reporting. He had it in his
mind to do a history of Christmas customs. He kept thinking of those medieval mummers whom Felix had hired for the party and wondering how many people knew that such performers were once an integral part of Christmas.

Billie wasn’t asking him to take any assignments. (She said she understand about Susie Blakely too many times. These were nudges, reminders, which he came to ignore.) She was pleased with his essays and told him so at every opportunity. The essays gave the
Observer
heft, she said. And when he found old Victorian pen-and-ink sketches to go with his work, that also pleased her. But she wondered how he might feel about covering the arts in Northern California, maybe reviewing some little-theater productions in various towns, or musical events in the wine country. That sounded very good to Reuben. What about the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon? Yes, Reuben would love to cover that, he said. Immediately he thought of Phil. Would Phil like to go up there with him?

Two more “employees” had arrived from Europe on Friday, a young woman and a young man, both of whom were designated as secretaries and assistants for Felix—Henrietta and Peter—but by the next day, it was clear that both worked under Lisa at just about any task that was required. They were fair-haired, possibly a brother and sister, Swiss by birth, or so they said, and they said very little of anything, moving about the house without a sound, attending to the wants of everyone under the roof. Henrietta did spend hours in Marchent’s old kitchen office, working on household receipts. Stuart and Reuben exchanged secretive glances as they studied the movements of the pair and the way they seemed to be communicating with each other without speaking out loud.

Reuben received one brief e-mail written by Susie Blakely saying “I loved the party and will remember it all my life.” He imagined it had been a chore for her to write that much and spell it correctly. He wrote her back to say that he hoped she had the very best Christmas ever and he was here for her anytime that she wanted to write or call. Pastor George sent him a longer e-mail, explaining that Susie was now doing much better, and was willing to confide in her parents again though
they still did not believe Susie had been rescued by the famous Man Wolf. Pastor George was driving to San Francisco to have lunch with Father Jim and see his church in the Tenderloin.

Night after night, Reuben woke in the small hours. Night after night, he took a long slow walk around the upstairs hallways and the lower floor, quietly opening himself to a visit from Marchent. But never was there the slightest inkling of her presence.

Sunday afternoon, when the rain let up, Phil and Reuben took a long walk in the forest together. Reuben confessed he’d never covered the entire property. Felix had explained at lunch that he was having the entirety of it fenced, including the Drexel and Hamilton acreages. This was an immense undertaking, but Felix felt in this day and age it was something he wanted to do and of course Reuben was in agreement.

Felix promised that after Christmas, he would take Reuben and Phil to see the old Drexel and Hamilton houses, both big old Victorian country homes that could be remodeled and updated without losing their charm.

The fencing was chain link, and six feet in height. But there would be numerous gates; and Felix would make certain that ivy and other attractive vines covered every ugly inch of it. Of course people could still hike the woods, yes, definitely. But they would enter by the front gate, and Reuben and Felix would have some idea of who was out there. And, well, there would be times when he opened all the gates and people could roam freely. It was wrong to “own” this woods, but he wanted to preserve it and he wanted to get to know it again.

“Well, that won’t keep Elthram and his family out of the woods, will it?” Phil asked.

Felix was startled but quickly recovered. “Oh, no, they’re always welcome in the woods whenever and wherever. I would never dream of trying to keep them out of the woods. These woods are their woods.”

“That’s good to know,” said Phil.

That night, Reuben came upstairs to find a long dark green velvet robe on his bed, and a pair of heavy green velvet slippers. The robe had a hood and was full length.

Margon explained that this was for Christmas Eve, for him to wear
into the forest. The robe was very similar to a monk’s habit, long, loose fitting, with large sleeves, except that it was padded and lined in silk, and had no waist or belt, and closed down the front with loops and gold buttons. There was tiny fine gold embroidery along the hem and the edges of the sleeves in what seemed a curious pattern. It might have been writing, like the mysterious writing that the Distinguished Gentlemen shared, the writing that looked Eastern in origin. It conveyed an air of mystery and even sanctity.

The usefulness of this garment was obvious. The group would become wolves in the woods, and they would drop these robes easily at their feet and it would be a simple manner to put on these robes afterwards. Reuben was so eager for Christmas Eve that he could scarcely contain it. Stuart was already being a little cynical. Just what sort of “ceremony” were they going to have, he wanted to know. But Reuben knew this was going to be marvelous. Frankly he didn’t care what they did. He wasn’t worried about Hockan Crost or the mysterious women. Felix and Margon appeared completely calm and quietly eager for the all-important night.

And Reuben would see Laura. At last, Reuben would be with Laura. Christmas Eve had taken on the character and solemnity of their wedding night for him.

Felix had already explained to Phil about their celebrating some Old World customs in the forest, and asked for Phil’s indulgence. Phil had been more than fine with it. He’d spend Christmas Eve as he always did, listening to music, and reading, and probably be asleep well before eleven o’clock. The last thing Phil wanted was to be a nuisance. Phil was sleeping wonderfully out here with the windows open to the ocean air. He’d been falling asleep as early as 9:00 p.m.

At last it was Christmas Eve morning, a cold crisp day with a bright white sky that just might show some sunshine before twilight. The foaming sea was dark blue for the first time in days. And Reuben walked down the windy slope to the guesthouse with his box of gifts for his father.

At home in San Francisco, they’d always exchanged gifts before going to Midnight Mass, so Christmas Eve was the big day in Reuben’s
mind. Christmas Day had always been informal and a time for leisure, with Phil going off to watch films of Dickens’s
Christmas Carol
in his room, and Grace having an informal buffet for her hospital friends, especially the personnel who were far from home and family.

Phil was up and writing, and immediately poured a mug of Italian roast coffee for Reuben. The little guesthouse was the epitome of the word “cozy.” Sheer white ruffled curtains had been put over the windows, a remarkably feminine touch, Reuben thought, but they were pretty, and they softened the stark vision of the endless sea, which was something unsettling to Reuben.

They sat by the fire together, Phil presenting Reuben with one small book wrapped in foil, which Reuben opened first. Phil had made it himself, illustrating it with his own freehand drawings, “in the style of William Blake,” he said with a self-mocking laugh. And Reuben saw that it was a collection of the poems Phil had written over the years expressly for his sons, some of which had been published before, and most of which had never been read by anybody.

For My Sons
was the simple title.

Reuben was deeply touched. Phil’s spidery drawings surrounded each page, weaving images together rather like the illuminations in medieval manuscripts, and often amounted to frames of foliage with simple domestic objects embedded in them. Here and there in the dense, squiggly drawings was a coffee mug or a bicycle, or a little typewriter or a basketball. Sometimes there were impish faces, crude but kindly caricatures of Jim and Reuben and Grace and Phil himself. There was one primitive whole-page drawing of the Russian Hill house and all its many crowded little rooms filled with cherished furniture and objects.

Never had Phil put together anything like this before. Reuben loved it.

“Now your brother has his own copy coming to him by FedEx today. And I sent your mother one too,” said Phil. “You mustn’t read a word of it now. You take that up to the castle, and you read it when you want to read it. Poetry should be taken in small doses. Nobody needs poetry. Nobody needs to make himself read it.”

There were two other gifts, and Phil assured Reuben that Jim was receiving identical ones. The first was a book Phil had written called simply
Our Ancestors in San Francisco—Dedicated to My Sons
. Reuben couldn’t have been happier. For the first time in his life, he really wanted to know all about Phil’s family. He’d grown up under the gargantuan shadow of his Spangler grandfather, the real estate entrepreneur who had founded the Spangler fortune, but had heard little or nothing of the Goldings, and this was not typed, this book, it was written in Phil’s old-fashioned and beautifully readable cursive. There were old photographs reproduced here that Reuben had never seen before.

“You take your time with that, too,” said Phil. “You take the rest of your life, if you like, to read it. And you pass it on to your boy, of course, though I intend to tell that child some of the stories I never told you and your brother.”

The last gift was a soft tweed flat cap, or ivy cap, which had belonged to Grandfather O’Connell—just like the cap Phil had been wearing on his walks. “Your brother got the very same thing,” said Phil. “My grandfather never went out without one of these caps. And I have another couple in my trunk for that boy who’s coming.”

“Well, Dad, these are the best presents anyone’s ever given me,” said Reuben. “This is an extraordinary Christmas. It just keeps getting better and better.” He concealed the low burning pain he felt—that he’d had to lose his life to really understand the value of it, that he’d had to leave the realm of human family to want to know and embrace his antecedents.

Phil looked at him gravely. “You know, Reuben,” he said. “Your brother Jim is lost. He’d buried himself alive in the Catholic priesthood for all the wrong reasons. The world in which he struggles is shrunken and dark. There’s no magic in it, no wonder, no mysticism. But you have the universe waiting for you.”