The Chameleon Read Free Page A

mannequin children, a boy and a girl, while the doggy mannequin and the starched-white-aproned, crisp-capped maid mannequin looked on approvingly as she held out a tray of cheese puffs. A stern-faced nanny mannequin rocked her miniature mannequin charge, snug and warm in its Italian hand-crafted cradle, available in Infants’ Goods on Four. All the holiday gawkers gathered outside oohed and aahed into the frosty air, creating ice balloons with their breath.
    The details in Field's windows were artfully impeccable, but that was why thousands of people poured into Chicago to see the spectacular displays. In the center of the window scene, a pyramid of presents encircled an elegant twelve-foot Christmas tree lit by flickering candles. But the real stars of the “Window Show,” decked out in red velvet with white satin trim and gold braiding, were the robust Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus who were sitting down with the Field's family to Christmas cider and yummy gourmet treats.
    “Uhhhh!” Another piercing pain shot through Violet, turning her into a skinny question mark. “I think I'm going to expire.” Violet started to fold.
    “Get her into the store!” Slim snapped.
    “Why?” Miss Wren asked but did as she was told.
    “Because nobody's ever died in Marshall Field's!”
    “Oh dear, I'd hate for Violet to be the first,” said Miss Wren.
    “Nonsense! Christmas is no time for tragedy.” And with that, the Misses Wren and Slim waltzed in the door of the employees’ entrance, the airborne Violet Organ between them, up the main aisles wreathed in holly, mistletoe, ribbons, and tinsel, to a lovely little creche with the baby Jesus and the barnyard animals gathered in the manger that greeted them as they clocked in for work.
    “Going up!” Homer Jackson, the impressively uniformed elevator operator, smiled broadly, courteously greeting the regular shop girls on their way to their posts.
    Violet clenched her teem to keep from screaming. The store smells of evergreens, fresh chocolates, brass polish, and rich perfumes accosted her nostrils, and she closed her eyes, ready to swoon in a dizzy vapor. The store was already full of anxious holiday shoppers. Somehow she thought if she could just get to her counter in Finer Dresses on Five, everything would be all right.
    “Second floor. Linens. The Elizzzzabethan Roooom,” Homer sang. He ran his elevator like a streetcar conductor, calling out the most interesting stops and sights along the way. His routine never varied. Whether he was running his Otis car for customers or employees, he let everyone know where the goods were.
    Homer pulled open the heavy iron door to reveal the Marshall Field's Choral Society hitting a crescendo in “Away in a Manger.”
    “Oh dear! Violet looks like she's been hit by a train.”
    “Let's get her to the first aid room.”
    “Or the waiting room.”
    “Homer, hurry! Can't you make this an express?” Slim was panicked.
    “Company rules.” Homer sighed. “Gotta stop at every floor.” Once again, he pulled the ornate iron door open. “Third floor. Booooks—Staaaamps!”
    “Ohhhhh.” A sharp stab in her lower back caused Violet to wince in pain.
    “Fourth floor. Tooooys, stuffed animals, Weeeedgwood china, and don't forget to visit the Young People's Theater.”
    Two surprised shoppers opted not to enter Homer's elevator. One of them pointed to a small rivulet puddling on the floor between Violet's ankle-strap pumps.
    “Fifth floor.”
    “Enough of the sight-seeing. We're getting out now!” Miss Wren announced. Violet's floor at last.
    The pocketbook had just performed a somersault in Violet's stomach. Homer stopped the elevator perfectly level with the Fine Dress Department and the two women hurried Violet Organ out. Just in time. Violet's stomach performed one more aerobic maneuver. She let out a shriek that rattled the fine china off the shelves on the third floor, announcing the arrival of a wailing baby.
    “It's a girl!”