“Danke! Danke!” The piece was so perfect and beautiful, his playing so exquisite, even Snarly Muppet seated by the hearth clapped its Muppet hands, a Pinocchio come to life from the sound of such sweet trumpeting.
Since I couldn’t speak to Snarl myself and nd out how his Christmas was going, I decided to get dressed and take a walk in Tompkins Square Park. I know all the dogs there. Because of the prior gerbil and cat incidents, my parents long ago mandated that it was bet er for me not to have my own pets since I get too at ached. They compromised by allowing me to take on dog-walking jobs in the neighborhood, so long as they or Grandpa knew the owners. This compromise has worked out nicely over the last couple years, as I have got en to spend quality dog time with loads more dogs than I would have got en to know if I’d had my own, and I am also quite wealthy now.
The weather was weirdly warm and sunny for a Christmas Day. It felt more like June than December, yet another sign of the wrongness of this particular Christmas Day. I sat down on a bench while people walked by with their dogs, and I cooed, “Hi, puppy!” to all the dogs I didn’t know, and I cooed, “Hi, puppy!” to all the dogs I did know, but to those dogs, I pet them and fed them bone-shaped dog biscuits I’d baked the night before, using red and green food coloring so the biscuits would appear festive. I didn’t talk except as necessary to the humans, but I listened to them, and found out all the ways in which the Christmases of everyone else in the neighborhood were not sucking this year like mine was. I saw their new sweaters and hats, their new watches and rings, heard about their new TVs and laptops.
But all I could think about was Snarl. I imagined him surrounded by doting parents and the exact presents he wanted today. I pictured him opening up gifts of moody black turtle-necks, and angry novels by angry young men, and ski equipment just because I’d like to think there’s a possibility we might one day go ski ng together even though I don’t know how to ski, and not one single English-Catalan dictionary.
Had Snarl gone to Dyker Heights yet? Since I’d turned my phone o and left it at home, the only way to nd out would be to go see Great-aunt Ida, who was on my talk-to list for the day.
Great-aunt Ida lives in a town house on East Twenty-second Street near Gramercy Park. My family of four lives in a small, cramped East village apartment (with no pets, grrr …) that my academic parents can af ord only because Grandpa owns the building; our whole apartment is about the size of one oor of Great-aunt Ida’s house, which she occupies all by herself. She never married or had her own kids. She was a fabulously successful art gall ery owner in her day; she did so well for herself she could a ord to buy her own house in Manhat an. (Though Grandpa always points out that she bought that house when the city was in economic turmoil, and the prior occupants practically paid Great-aunt Ida to take it o their hands. Lucky lady!) Her fancy house in her fancy neighborhood doesn’t mean Great-aunt Ida’s gone all snobby, though. She’s so not snobby, in fact, that even though she has lots of money, she still works one day a week at Madame Tussauds. She said she needs something to do, and she likes hanging out with celebrities. Secretly I think she is writing a tell-all book about what happens between the wax people when no one’s looking.
Langston and I call Great-aunt Ida Mrs. Basil E. because of the book we loved when we were kids, From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E.
Frankweiler. That book’s Mrs. Basil E. is a rich old lady who sets the sister and brother in the book out on a treasure hunt in the Metropolitan Museum of Art of New York. When we were kids, our Mrs. Basil E. used to take Langston and me on museum adventures on school holidays when our parents had to work. The days always ended with a trip for giant ice cream sundaes. How great is a great-aunt who school holidays when our parents had to work. The days always ended with a trip for giant ice cream sundaes. How great is a great-aunt who lets her niece and nephew have ice cream for dinner? Truly great, in my opinion.
Great-aunt Ida/Mrs. Basil E. wrapped me in a giant Christmas hug when I arrived at her apartment. I loved how she always smells like lipstick and classy perfume. She always wears a proper ladies’ suit, too, even on Christmas Day, when she should be lounging around in her pj’s.
“hello, Lily bear,” Mrs. Basil E. said. “I see you found my old majoret e boots from my high school days at Washington Irving High.” I leaned into her for another hug. I love her hugs. “Yes.” I nodded into her shoulder, grateful for it. “I found them in our old dress-up-clothes trunk. At rst they were too big on me, but I put on a thick pair of socks over my tights, so they’re comfy now. They’re my new favorite boots.”
“I like the gold tinsel you added to the tassels,” she said. “Are you going to let me go anytime before New Year’s?” Reluctantly, I released my arms from around her.
“Now please take my boots of ,” she said. “I don’t want the taps on the soles scratching my wood floors.”
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
Mrs. Basil E.’s tradition is to have tons of people over for Christmas dinner, and enough food for a ton more.
“The usual,” she said.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Right this way,” she said, turning toward the kitchen.
But I didn’t follow her.
She turned around. “Yes, Lily?” she asked.
“Did he return the notebook?”
“Not yet, dear. But I’m sure he will.”