Christmastime 1941 Read online

  “Hi, Mr. Drooms!” cried Tommy and Gabriel.

  He walked over to them, and his expression seemed to change on seeing Lillian. She wondered if she appeared as disheartened as she felt.

  “Do the boys have homework tonight?” asked Charles.

  “No! Why?” asked Tommy, sensing something fun about to be suggested.

  “Well,” said Charles, “I thought we could get our Christmas tree tonight.”

  A little spark flickered inside Lillian. He said our Christmas tree, she thought. One simple word shouldn’t have such power over me. And yet it does.

  The boys jumped at the possibility of an outing on a school night. “Can we Mom, please?” asked Tommy. “You said we should start on our Christmas decorations.”

  “You haven’t had dinner yet,” said Lillian, trying to think what she could quickly put together.

  Charles put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t I take them to the diner for a bite?” he suggested. “Then we’ll go to the Christmas tree lot. Give you a couple of hours to relax.”

  Did he somehow know that she needed some time to herself? She looked down at the boys.

  “Please, please, please?” said Gabriel, his hands folded in hope.

  “Can we, Mom?” asked Tommy.

  “All right,” she smiled.

  “I’ll just get my coat.” Charles quickly ducked into his apartment and came back out. “Can we bring anything back for you?”

  Lillian shook her head.

  “We’ll be back soon,” he called out, as the boys clamored down the stairs.

  Lillian took off her hat and coat and stepped out of her shoes, relieved that she didn’t have to worry about dinner. And she was glad that Charles was taking care of getting the tree; that was one thing off her list. She could use the evening to fill the boys’ stockings. Perhaps she could even have them hanging by the time they returned.

  She made a quick meal for herself, and then went to her bedroom and took a bag from the back of her closet. She sat on her bed and emptied out all the little gifts and goodies she had been collecting: games of jacks and bags of marbles, dominos for Tommy, pick-up sticks for Gabriel, and two comic books each: The Lone Ranger and Red Ryder for Gabriel, who loved Westerns, and for Tommy, two comic books featuring the new action hero he was so taken with, Captain America.

  She spread out the assorted candies, where their tastes also diverged, and separated them into two different piles. For Tommy: red hots, lemon drops, hard sour balls. And for Gabriel: taffy, lollipops, licorice. She smiled and thought how the candy reflected their temperaments. Tommy tended to make snap judgments, liked decisive action, quick results. Gabriel tended to ponder over matters, weigh things out. Was much more of a dreamer, like herself. Tommy was more like his father. She was sure Tommy would carve out his place in the world, and succeed at whatever he put his mind to. But she sometimes worried about Gabriel. Perhaps it was because he was still so young that he seemed so vulnerable.

  She made a strong cup of tea and sipped it as she wrapped the tiny presents. When she was all done, she felt somewhat revived. She hung the stockings on the mantel, and arranged the Christmas cards behind them. Who knows, she thought, things could be quite different this time next year. She would try her best to make this a good Christmas.

  While she waited for Charles and the boys to come home, Lillian took out the boxes of Christmas tree lights and ornaments. She found some Christmas music on the radio, and began to unpack the decorations. She was just untangling the lights and winding them in large coils, when Charles and the boys returned with the tree.

  Gabriel ran in first and held the door open, while Tommy and Charles maneuvered the tree through the door and set it in the living room. The boys immediately spotted the stuffed stockings hanging from the mantel.

  “Our stockings!” they cried, running to the fireplace.

  Lillian inhaled the pine scent and walked over to admire the tree. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” she said.

  Tommy and Gabriel felt the tiny gifts in their stockings and tried to determine what they might be. Their excitement filled the apartment, and Lillian found herself and Charles laughing at some of their guesses.

  While Charles and Tommy set up the tree and strung the lights, she fixed a plate of cookies and Christmas candy for them all, and turned up the volume on the radio. She carefully unpacked the ornaments, and they all began to hang them. Finally, she thought, the Christmas spirit had entered their home.

  Gabriel put a hook into a glass ornament, a red-uniformed nutcracker. “Mommy, do legs grow back?”

  Lillian stopped and looked from Gabriel to Charles.

  “There was a wounded soldier outside the Christmas tree lot,” Charles said softly.

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “He was sitting on a board with wheels and scooted himself around with his hands.”

  “Will his legs grow back?” asked Gabriel.

  Lillian took a deep breath. “No, Honey. But maybe he’ll learn to walk with artificial legs, or crutches.”

  “Oh.” Gabriel took another ornament, a tiny drum, and hung it next to the soldier.

  Lillian wanted to take their minds off any talk of the war. After hanging a few more ornaments, she clasped her hands. “Guess what I was thinking we could do this weekend?”

  Both boys snapped to attention and waited for her to finish. Gabriel already had his mouth open and his eyes wide in anticipation.

  “What?” asked Tommy.

  “How about we see a matinee? Dumbo!”

  “Yippee!” cried Gabriel. “Billy said it’s great!”

  “Dumbo?” said Tommy, disappointed.

  “Sure. How about we all go?” asked Charles. “Get some popcorn.”

  “And Milk Duds,” added Tommy, suddenly changing his mind about the outing.

  Lillian curled up on the couch and watched Charles, laughing as the boys instructed him on where to hang the ornaments. He always knew exactly what she wanted, was always there to help her out. On nights like this, with all of them together, Lillian liked to think that they were already a real family, enjoying each other’s company, and making plans for the future.

  Such a scene usually flooded her with happiness. But now she wondered if they were ever going to be a family, if Charles was ever going to be her husband. The war could last for years, with an uncertain outcome. She feared that if they didn’t marry soon, they might never have the chance again. The idea of almost having something so beautiful, and then seeing it drift away, filled her with a deep sense of loss. She hated the war for all the death and sorrow it had caused, and for filling everyone with fear. And she hated it for coming between her and Charles.

  Chapter 9

  *

  Lillian purposely didn’t pack her lunch the next day so that she could meet Izzy for lunch. She couldn’t stand having anything between them. She would speak to her about it, clear the air.

  She passed Izzy’s desk on her way in. “Morning, Izzy!” she said as brightly as she could muster. “How about lunch today?”

  “Not today, Lilly. I have plans. Sorry.” It was the tone that was unlike Izzy. Cold. Distant. And she barely looked up from the folders she was sorting on her desk.

  “Oh. Another time, then.” Lillian went back to the busy switchboard and felt like she was slowly being deserted. First by Charles. Now by Izzy. Was it something in herself? she began to wonder.

  All morning Lillian answered the non-stop lights of the calls, wondering how a job could be both stressful and boring at the same time. She had taken out her sketchbook to draw between calls, as she usually did, but the calls were unrelenting and didn’t allow for anything more than a few scribbles of chaotic lines and shapes.

  When the lunch hour came, Lillian decided to get a quick bite, and then go for a walk. It would help to clear her head. She left the switchboard room – and her mouth dropped open. There was Mr. Rockwell helping Izzy on with her coat. And then they left together.

  I don’t b
elieve it! thought Lillian. Surely Izzy was made of firmer stuff than that! It seemed she couldn’t be sure of anyone anymore. Everyone seemed fickle and unknowable.

  She didn’t want to bump into them, and so she waited a few moments before leaving. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions. It could be a simple lunch meeting, after all, to discuss the new changes in the office. But the way Rockwell had almost embraced Izzy as he helped her on with her coat told another story.

  Lillian walked to the elevator and pressed the button. What was Izzy thinking? And with poor Red lying wounded! And with Rockwell, of all people. Famous for making passes at the new girls, with no regard whether they had husbands or beaus fighting overseas.

  She suddenly remembered that she had left her sketchbook sitting out, where prying eyes might see it. She returned to the office and walked back to the switchboard to retrieve it. Then she stopped in her tracks: there was Mr. Weeble with her sketchbook in his hands, leafing through the pages!

  Weeble heard her gasp, and whipped around, guilt all over his face.

  “Mr. Weeble!” cried Lillian. She snatched the sketchbook from him. “That’s private property!” She gave him a one-second chance to explain himself, but he just blinked and never said a word. Lillian stuffed the sketchbook into her bag and left in a huff. Surely the war can’t be blamed for everything, she thought.

  Over lunch at the diner, Lillian browsed through her sketches to see if there was anything incriminating that Weeble could report to Mr. Rockwell. She soon realized that none of her drawings had anything to do with work, except for that one old drawing of Mr. Weeble as a lizard. Nothing at her job inspired or moved her. Rather, the sketches depicted street vendors, architectural details, sunlight shooting through clouds, fanciful landscapes.

  She ate quickly and used the remainder of her lunch break to try to walk off her growing bewilderment with everything. Charles was distancing himself from her. Izzy had brushed her aside. She took a deep breath. You’re on your own, she told herself; you’ve been through hard times before. Toughen up, as Izzy said, and deal with it. Well, she thought, part of toughening up would be to confront Izzy. That would be a good place to start.

  But Izzy purposely avoided her for the rest of the day. Every time Lillian passed her, Izzy pretended to be busy with something. Lillian’s temper was rising; she would not be put off. She was determined to speak with Izzy, whatever the result.

  Lillian caught up with her after work, had to practically run after Izzy as she was leaving the building.

  “Izzy! Wait up. I’ll walk with you to the bus stop.”

  Izzy waited for her to catch up, but didn’t say anything.

  “Izzy, what’s going on? I know something is bothering you. You haven’t –”

  “I’m fine.”

  Lillian felt a flush of anger at being brushed off; she quickened her pace to keep up.

  “Izzy, you had lunch with Mr. Rockwell? Do you really think that was a good idea?”

  “Yes, I had lunch with him, and I’m going to have dinner with him on Friday.”

  Lillian stopped. “You can’t be serious! You know what kind of man he is. This goes beyond business.”

  “Look, Lilly. He’s helped me, promoted me, given me a chance. That’s more than anyone else has done.” She continued walking, thrusting her hands into her pockets.

  Lillian caught up and took her arm, forcing Izzy to face her. “What about Red?! How can you do this while he lies wounded?”

  “Red can take care of himself.” Izzy kept walking, leaving Lillian stunned by her words.

  “Izzy! How can you talk like that?” Lillian cried, once again hurrying to catch up with her. “Is this simply because he postponed the wedding? Maybe he was right about that,” she said, hearing Charles’s argument come out of her mouth.

  Izzy spun around. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself? Let me tell you something. When a man says no to marriage, it means only one thing. He’s changed his mind about you. It’s as simple as that. See you around, Lilly.”

  The verbal punch caused Lillian to stand stuck to the ground. Those were cruel words. Directed at her. And Charles. Were they true? Could everyone see it but her? Maybe Charles didn’t want to hurt her. Maybe he was hoping she would read between the lines, so he wouldn’t have to spell it out for her. The fissure between her and Charles cracked wider; his distance suddenly made sense to her.

  She began to walk quickly, not heeding where she was going. You really are on your own, she thought again, this time fully believing it.

  The city swarmed around her, car horns blaring, sirens shrieking, street vendors shouting. Lillian walked down the busy avenue, the crowds jostling her in an abrasive, jarring manner. She wanted to be far away from the troubled and troublesome world. She glanced up at the sky – it was too late to go to the park, her usual refuge after a trying day.

  She crossed over to Fifth Avenue and walked a few blocks until she came to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. She often ducked into chapels and churches when she wanted to be alone, or was in need of an infusion of beauty and tranquility.

  As she neared the cathedral, she saw sandbags and barricades – air raid preparations. What was wrong with the world? she wondered, as she climbed the steps to the cathedral.

  She pulled open the heavy bronze door and stepped inside, entering into another world.

  All her senses shifted.

  There was an immediate hush. The traffic from outside became muffled and distant. She listened and heard only small sounds from inside: the clicking of heels along the aisles, a few muted murmurs and whispering. A lingering scent of incense filled the cool, still air, as if years and years of the perfumed smoke had permeated the stone.

  She stood a moment at the back of the cathedral, and raised her eyes to the stained glass windows, dark in the fading day, and to the pillars that rose up, their tops branching out into delicately ribbed supports that formed star patterns in the vaulted ceiling. Lantern-like chandeliers hung high above the pews, adding to the diffused light that filled the cathedral, except for where a sculpture, a painting, or an altar was illuminated. Down the nave, at the opposite end, the high altar and pulpit appeared tiny, almost doll-sized.

  It was an immense space, yet intimate, as if the cathedral itself formed protective hands finger-tipped together in prayer. Immense, but studded with human-scale details: the fonts of holy water, the candles flickering along the periphery in the various altars, the clusters of white poinsettias placed near the altar, the carved wooden doors of the confessionals. A space designed for two different scales, two different concepts: one small and human, the other vast and invisible; one measured in hours and days, the other existing beyond clock time, suggestive of infinity.

  Lillian walked up the side aisle, stopping before the small altars of the various saints who nestled in the alcoves and appeared comfortable with their aloneness, and with the people who kneeled before them, desirous of their blessing.

  She paused before the altar of Saint Louis, drawn by the interplay of colors in the tiles and mosaics – luminous white, green, gold. She lifted one of the wooden sticks into a candle flame, and with its fire, lit a votive candle set in ruby glass. The flame caught and grew, and another tiny light was added to the shrine. The corners of her lips lifted as she realized she had moved from observer to participant; some exchange had taken place. Her vague longing or dim asking had been answered, or perhaps countered, with a flickering flame.

  She walked down the opposite aisle, admiring the shrines with their delicate details: the purity of carved white marble; the mosaics depicting vines of green and rose, others forming a backdrop of glittering gold; the richness of the colored glass holding the votive candles – rich umber, deep forest green, ruby, midnight blue – all quickened by the tiny flames illuminating the glass. Such purity and beauty and infinity in a simple point of light – the deep hues of the glass not revealed until the candle was lit within. Like the stained glass windows, she t
hought, lifting her eyes to observe them. Now in the dusk, the windows consisted of dark shapes and black leaden lines, their meaning invisible – until the sun would again shine through them. Then the windows would burst into being, animated with figures, stories, symbols, colors – the etherealness of light made visible.

  Serenity surrounded Lillian and changed her inner landscape. The jagged worries and complaints lost their edges, and were smoothed into gentleness. Here was beauty. Solace. Meaning. Human longing and yearning, creating a space of intimate grandeur.

  She slid into a pew and looked around her. It seemed there were more people in the cathedral, no doubt because of the war. She observed the kneeling figures, the heads bent in prayer. A low murmur came from an old woman in front of her, words of prayer, her old gnarled hands working a black-beaded rosary. Such devotion, such belief, quietly expressed with eyes closed and hands folded.

  Lillian had come in feeling pulled in all directions by tension, fear, anger, in doubt of her place in the world. She brought herself back down to this hour, in this place, and tried to examine the source of her earlier inner turmoil. Calmer now, she rested her eyes on the back of the pew in front of her, and there lined up her jumble of concerns: a world at war and the effect it seemed to have on everyone; Izzy’s harshness; the petty frustration with her job and the feeling of wasting her time. And the overarching ache, that Charles had perhaps changed his mind about her.

  Izzy’s right, Lillian thought. If Charles doesn’t want to marry me, there’s nothing I can do, and I won’t press him. That’s not something that can be forced. All I can do is keep trying to live in a manner that is true and right for me. Protect my children, make their world as safe and loving as possible. Try to do some good. Try to be at peace with the world. Try to connect to – she looked around, trying to find a word to describe this space – this timeless beauty. There was something bigger than the day to day, more powerful and more beneficent than what she might find on the street, at work, in people. This connection is what has been missing, she thought. Her connection to old, beautiful things, to the expressions of the human heart at work, attempting to create something of meaning and beauty.