The Major

In mid-December I was helping the lovely Stephanie with her Christmas shopping. That "help" consisted of following her as she wandered through posh boutiques and carrying the packages containing her purchases. She dawdled in a jewelry store, spent a good deal of time telling me how much she liked a particular diamond brooch, and then left without buying it or looking at anything else. The very next day I cleverly bought the thing, had it wrapped in gold-colored paper and surprised her with it on Christmas Day. It was all part of my master plan designed to culminate in the early hours of the New Year. Then disaster struck.

The lovely Stephanie invited me to a very private, invitation-only, New Year's Eve party thrown by one of her Main Line friends. My unannounced plan for a small end-of-year celebration in Major Nathaniel Peabody's apartment followed by a post-midnight private celebration in my own apartment went up in smoke. I couldn't take advantage of that exclusive Main Line party invitation, and I was disconsolate. At the very moment when the New Year arrived, I could have been standing under the mistletoe in Peabody's apartment being covered with the lovely Stephanie's warm moist kisses. And later, what with the champagne and all, who knows... ?

Instead of my brilliant plan, however, at the stroke of midnight I would be in the Major's apartment delivering his monthly stipend in accordance with the terms of his Spendthrift Trust. I damned those terms. They had to be strictly followed, and they specifically denied early Trust distribution-in any amount and at any time. When the Major first had learned of that provision, he'd showed his displeasure by insisting the other terms of the Trust also be strictly observed-including the one requiring the Trustee (me) to deliver his remittance on the first day of each month. He also had come to demand that I present the remittance as close to midnight as possible on the given day.

I couldn't be in the Major's apartment and, at the same time, at the Main Line party. I panicked. I suggested that the ancient Druids celebrated the coming year one week after the winter solstice-which would make it the 29th or 30th of the month. The lovely Stephanie was not amused.

In desperation I reminded her that there would be a lot of drunks on the road and that it would be safer if we celebrated the New Year-privately, of course-on the evening of January 1. The lovely Stephanie's enthusiasm for that suggestion was limited to the point of being nonexistent. She had no intention of spending New Year's Eve at a time different from December 31 or at any place other than one of riotous festivity.

In a flash of inspiration, I suggested she wangle an invitation for Major Peabody. If he were present at the party, I could slip him his check while standing under the mistletoe next to her. I made the proposal. The lovely Stephanie accepted it, and I thought I had solved my problem, but 10 minutes later she called back to inform me of Peabody's inability to attend.

The net result of all this: Stephanie found another escort.
I
t was 7 in the evening on the 31st of December. I was alone in my apartment, convinced that the joy of the approaching New Year was not going to descend upon me. I wasn't in a cheerful mood when the phone rang. It was the lovely Stephanie. Her escort had become violently ill and was being hospitalized, thereby proving the existence of a Supreme Being. She informed me that she intended to go to the party without an escort and wondered if I might find a way to meet her there.

The Fates had thrown me a lifeline, and I meant to use it. I decided to disregard a cardinal provision of the Trust Agreement and deliver Peabody's remittance before 12:01 of January 1. If I got to his apartment by 8, I could give him his check and leave before 9. At 10 I'd be at the party, and at midnight I'd be under the mistletoe with the lovely Stephanie. I promised her I would be at the party by 10. All was right in the world.

I arrived at Peabody's apartment 10 minutes after 8. A note pinned to the door was addressed to me. It said, "Back in 15 minutes." About a half-hour later the Major opened the door from the inside. I looked at him and then at the sign. Peabody saw my confusion. "I put the sign up about an hour ago," he explained. "I went out for a bottle of champagne. Forgot to take it down when I returned. Sorry."

It was nearly 9. I could give the Major the check and still be on schedule.

Peabody went toward the kitchen. "It isn't chilled yet," he said, "but we have some time. We can wait until midnight and toast both the New Year and the reoccurrence of my financial stability."

"As a matter of fact," I interjected, "we can celebrate early. In view of the special occasion, I'll give you your check right now-but you have to promise not to tell a soul."

"No," Peabody answered. "I insist. We've finished a year together and should recognize our especially pleasant friendship with a toast. The champagne should be properly chilled in about five minutes."

I had to get out of there, but I didn't want to abruptly rush away. That would leave the Major with the wrong impression. It would take an hour to get to the party. If I spent a few more minutes with him and arrived a bit late, I always could blame it on traffic or road conditions.

For another hour Peabody blocked every effort I made to leave. Finally-a bit after 10-I explained that I had promised to meet the lovely Stephanie and was already an hour late. "Here is your remittance," I said, pressing the envelope toward him. The Major stepped back without touching it.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" he said. "I desperately needed an early payment but you refused, telling me the terms of the Trust could not be changed. I don't want to embarrass you by being a party to the violation of any of the Trust's provisions. If I were to accept this check, someone might use that violation as a cause to require the court to name a new Trustee. I couldn't bear to see that happen."

"You wouldn't do that?" I said. It was a question, not a statement. Peabody merely looked at me and smiled.

At midnight I was putting on my overcoat when Peabody took his parting shot.

"I believe you fibbed when you told Stephanie you had a case in North Carolina and couldn't go with her to her 10th college class reunion," he said. "You recommended I go in your place. Oh, how you must have chuckled when you thought of the agony I had to suffer-having to spend an entire afternoon associating with those stuffed shirts.

"Did I tell you Doc Carmichael's nephew was in town for the holidays? No? Well, he's from New York City. He's a Fifth Avenue psychiatrist and has a very successful practice. Stephanie was impressed by his credentials-she thanked me when I recommended him as her escort to that Main Line affair. I understand he was taken quite ill at the last moment and couldn't go.

"I suppose you might say I also told a fib. Doc Carmichael doesn't have a nephew. Welcome to payback time."

Galen Winter's favorite Major stories have been collected and anthologized in The Best of the Major, available for $25 (plus shipping) from 800-685-7962; www.shootingsportsman.com.