The party is just getting started.
In the officers’ mess, logs blaze in the great stone fireplace. The crystal chandelier glitters, reflecting light from candles on the dining tables, where sterling gleams on white linen amid opulent flower arrangements. Next to each place setting is a complement of noisemakers and a sparkly cardboard fez with a tassel. The buffet is resplendent. Lobsters in top hats perch on their tails, ice sculptures depict the Old Year and the New, platters of elaborately carved tropical fruit alternate with steaming chafing dishes; cooks in white chefs’ uniforms and hats stand ready behind hips of beef and racks of lamb. Cocktails flow from the mirrored bar, waiters circulate with wine, there is punch from crystal bowls and, on the polished dance floor, a slow spin of silk butterflies and air force blue as couples swirl to the big band sounds of Gerry Tait and His Orchestra, all the way from Toronto. “‘Pennsylvania Six-Five Thousand’!” Above the bandstand arches a silver banner: Nineteen Sixty-Three.
“You smell nice,” says Jack. He can feel her smile, his chin touching the top of her hair.
It’s all worth it. The constriction of his starched collar, the slight cinch of his waistband, for which he has no one to blame but himself — this monkey suit was nice and roomy only last year. He is already formulating a New Year’s resolution to do with medicine balls and running shoes when Henry Froelich cuts in.
Mimi smiles and sweeps away with him. All the other civilians are dressed formally. But so is Hank, thinks Jack, admiring his neighbour’s old-world deportment on the dance floor. True formality comes from within, and Henry Froelich outclasses everyone with his patched elbows. Jack watches them disappear into the crowd, then moves to the bar, buys a drink for Blair McCarroll and asks Sharon to dance.
He guides her onto the floor and it’s like dancing with a pretty girl in high school to whom you are mercifully not attracted. She smiles shyly as Jack leads her in a samba, answering his questions with diffident charm and brevity; a light creature, pliable but not fragile, her laughter blithe when he spins her back to her husband. A sweet woman.
Jack raises his glass to Blair.
“Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Call me ‘Jack’ tonight, son.”
Jack tries to picture the look on McCarroll’s face when he finally tells him why he is here. Will he be offended not to have been briefed sooner? Jack places his empty glass on the bar and scans the dance floor. McCarroll will probably just nod and do his job.
The band heats up: “In the Mood.” Vic and Betty Boucher show what they can do and a space clears around them. Jack makes his way toward his wife as the number ends but Vic beats him to it. “She’s my prisoner for the next five minutes, Jack.”
He spots Steve Ridelle, looking just as relaxed in his mess kit as he would in a golf shirt and slacks. Elaine is glowing; her blonde hair is curled in a flip, and the pale blue folds of her satin gown do nothing to minimize her eight-month pregnancy. She looks like too much of a kid, even in that gown, to be pregnant. She is sipping a Bloody Mary, “Loaded with vitamins,” she says to Jack, patting her stomach, as he comes up to greet them. He swings her onto the dance floor, over Steve’s laughter and her protestations. “No! Jack! What’m I supposed to do? The Dance of the Baby Elephants?” He spins her and she is just as nimble as if she were in a pair of dungarees, minus the weight of the new world she’s carrying.
Steve intercepts Mimi for the next dance and Jack concedes defeat. “I’m never going to get near my wife with you fellas circling all night.”
“Take a number, Jack,” says Hal Woodley.
Jack extends his hand to Hal’s wife. To dance with Vimy Woodley is to dance with a real lady. She converses graciously but easily, and makes him feel special — an up-and-coming young man. He knows that her attitude is an extension of her husband’s, and he can’t help feeling gratified.
When Jack returns to his table, Karen Froelich is there nursing a Coke. Her lipstick has worn off. He has formulated a chivalrous invitation to the effect that he can’t sit this one out when there’s a beautiful woman right here in front of him, but says simply, “Would you like to dance, Karen?”
“Sure, Jack.”
He holds out his left hand for her and slips his right hand around her waist. She is thin. But strong. No Playtex armour — he almost wonders whether he ought to be touching her. Gerry Tait sets aside his trumpet and sings, “Fly Me to the Moon.”
They dance. She smells like soap. And something else … sandalwood? From this angle her mouth looks sad, the faint bracket at its corner, the trace of a smile. The beaded earrings are her only adornment. Along with the faint lines at the corners of her eyes. Nordic.
“Are you Icelandic?” he asks.
“Finnish. Somewhere back there.”
“I can see you on a sled. With reindeer.” Must be the Scotch talking.
She says, “You’ve got me confused with Santa Claus.”
He laughs.
She says, “Nice work if you can get it. Hip to kids, live forever, have lots of helpers.”
He laughs again.
He leads Karen back to the table just as Henry arrives with plates of food for the two of them. He watches Froelich bend and kiss his wife. Henry sits and raises his glass. “Jack, this is a wonderful party. Thank you.” Jack smiles and leaves them to eat, side by side, looking years younger in the candlelight.
Mimi looks at him over the rim of her martini glass and asks, “What were you and Karen Froelich talking about?”
He pulls her close, feels the crinkle of her dress against his stiff shirt front and whispers in her ear, “Santa Claus.” She pinches his earlobe between thumb and fingernail. He takes her glass, sets it aside and steers her onto the floor, his palm against the warm small of her back. The band plays the song Jack requested. She relaxes into him and they dance. “Unforgettable, that’s what you are….”
He whispers, “I love you.” Her scent, the softness of her hair, her dress, her breasts, even the chafing of his starched collar against his neck—“I want another baby,” he says in her ear.
She lifts her hand to stroke the back of his neck.
Just before midnight, Mimi bows to popular demand. It seems her reputation has followed her from 4 Wing. After a suitable display of resistance, she mounts the stage, confers with Gerry Tait, then takes the microphone and sings. “‘Bei mir bist du schön, please let me explain….’”
Applause, laughter. Henry Froelich sings along, dancing in skater-size strides with Karen in the centre of the floor.
“… ‘bei mir bist du schön means you’re grand….’”
Mimi gets into it, head moving, fingers snapping: “‘I could say bella, bella, even say wunderbar! Each language only serves to tell you, how grand you are! …’”
In the McCarthy living room, Elizabeth and Rex are sound asleep. Colleen, Madeleine and Mike are huddled cross-legged on the floor, a sleeping bag around their shoulders. Not once throughout the entire evening has anyone thought of turning on the TV. The Advent candles cast a magical glow as Ricky Froelich strums and sings softly, “‘So hoist up the John B. sail. See how the mainsail sets. Call for the captain ashore, let me go home….’”.