Christmastime 1941 Page 13

  Butch threw his glove down and shook his head at Spider, but most of his team shook hands with the Redbirds and were already talking about starting up again in the spring. Spider was a poor sport and sulked.

  “Cheer up, Spider! You have all winter to practice,” taunted Tommy.

  “I had something in my eye, ya sap!” said Spider. “Anyway, you’re no great shakes. Always hitting pop-ups.”

  Tommy waved his words away, and slapped Mickey on the back.

  “We’re number one!” the Redbirds began to chant.

  By now it was getting dark and Tommy and Gabriel quickly gathered their things. “So long!” they cried out to the band of boys.

  “Did you see the double I hit in the fifth?” asked Tommy. “And the fly ball I caught?”

  Gabriel smiled, happy that Tommy’s team won the game.

  “And I only struck out twice.”

  “Wow! You’re going to be the best player on the whole team.”

  “Nah,” said Tommy. “Mickey’s the best. Did you see that ball he slammed? Right down the middle.”

  Lillian had been waiting for Tommy and Gabriel to return, but when it started to get dark she decided to go to the park to check up on them.

  As Tommy and Gabriel were leaving the park, they saw her on the other side of the street, ready to cross over to the park.

  “Uh oh,” said Tommy. “I think we’re in trouble.”

  They ran over to her and Tommy started explaining quickly, not giving her a chance to scold him. “Sorry, Mom, but it was a tie game, and we couldn’t stop. We had to go into extra innings, and then Mickey slugged it, and Spider missed the ball, and we won! And you should have seen the double I hit.”

  Lillian put an arm around both boys as Tommy recounted the highlights of the game, re-enacting the heroics of his team.

  “Come on,” said Lillian. “We have to stop at Mancetti’s on our way home.” She looked down at Gabriel, who seemed unusually quiet.

  “Did you have fun, Gabriel?”

  He nodded. “Mommy, will you get me The Count of Monte Cristo from the library?”

  “The Count of Monte Cristo? Where did you hear about that? It’s a thick novel.”

  “That’s okay. Tommy will read it to me, won’t you, Tommy?”

  “Not if it’s long.”

  “Please? It’ll be fun.”

  “Read it yourself,” said Tommy.

  Lillian gave Tommy a look of disapproval. “We’ll go to the library next week and get some books to read over your Christmas break.”

  “Okay,” said Gabriel. “Mommy, if I have to be in the orphanage, will you still talk to me?”

  Lillian stopped and bent down next to him. “Gabriel! You won’t ever have to go to an orphanage. But no matter where I am, I will always talk to you.”

  Gabriel turned to Tommy. “Will you, Tommy?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Tommy!” cried Lillian. “Why have you grown so rude all of a sudden? I think you spend too much time with some of those boys. I don’t like the things you’ve been picking up from them.”

  “Mom, I’m getting tired of him always talking about imaginary people and orphanages. He didn’t learn that from the guys. He just makes things up in his head.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Gabriel.

  Lillian put an arm around Gabriel’s shoulder. “Maybe we can get a new coloring book at Mancetti’s. Would you like that, Gabriel?”

  He bobbed his head up and down.

  Inside Mancetti’s, she let Tommy pick out a new comic book and Gabriel a coloring book. Then they walked to the back meat counter and waited, while Mrs. Wilson finished up with her order.

  “Evening, Mrs. Hapsey. Hello, boys. Mr. Mancetti was just telling me that his store has been vandalized lately by a gang of boys. Graffiti – and he caught them throwing an egg earlier.”

  Lillian saw that Mancetti was frowning at Tommy from under his brows as he wrapped up the order for Mrs. Wilson. She turned to Tommy. “Do you know anything about that, Tommy?”

  “No.” When he saw that his mom and Mancetti and Mrs. Wilson were all looking at him, he threw his hands up. “Mom, I was playing ball. You saw me.”

  “He was at the park all afternoon. I don’t think he knows anything,” she said to Mancetti.

  Mrs. Wilson took her packages of lunch meat and tossed them into her basket. “I’m sure it’s those boys from the other side of Broadway who’ve been hanging about.” She patted Tommy on his head as she passed.

  Lillian took the list from her handbag. “I’ll have a quarter pound of bologna and ten slices of cheddar.” As Mancetti sliced and wrapped her order, she read over her list. Then she suddenly remembered what Gabriel had said. “Mr. Mancetti, is there a little boy who does errands for you?”

  Tommy groaned and looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head.

  “We’ve never needed any help,” said Mancetti. “We’ve always managed ourselves.”

  Lillian wondered why he was so annoyed by her question. He was always grumpy, but he had grown even more so lately. She assumed that some customers had either stopped coming to the store, or were giving him a hard time, now that Italy was an enemy.

  When they walked to the checkout counter, Tommy rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Mom, you’re starting to sound like Gabriel.”

  “I just wanted to make sure. You never know.”

  “Mom,” said Tommy, “it’s like Taffy, the talking teddy bear. When Gabriel was five – don’t you remember?

  “Tiny’s not a teddy bear,” said Gabriel. “He’s a real person.”

  “Whatever you say, Gabriel,” said Tommy.

  On the way home, Lillian looked down at her boys. Sometimes they were the best of friends. Other times, Tommy pushed Gabriel away, wanting his independence. Tommy was growing up, and rebelling in little ways. But Gabriel. His comment about being an orphan concerned her.

  They passed Mickey and some of the Redbirds sitting on Mickey’s stoop. “We’re the champs!” they hollered to Tommy.

  Lillian smiled to see both Tommy and Gabriel raise their hands in triumph and cheer back. Gabriel was often a puzzle to her. Sometimes she worried that he was overly sensitive; and yet he always surprised her by his unshakable resilience.

  Chapter 12

  *

  Lillian stayed up late on Sunday, finishing another watch cap. Earlier in the week she had bought some black yarn, and had already knitted several caps. She now thought she would try to knit a sweater. As she cast on the stitches, she became aware of a sense of unease, some discontent that hadn’t quite risen to the surface.

  Was it concern about Gabriel? She thought of the matinee she and Charles had taken the boys to that afternoon. Gabriel had enjoyed Dumbo. In the beginning of the movie, Gabriel threw her a worried look when Dumbo’s mother was taken away and locked inside a cage, reminding her of his comments about the orphanage. But other than that, Gabriel had loved the movie, and he clapped his hands when Dumbo discovered that his big ears were a good thing, enabling him to fly. Gabriel had leaned over to her and whispered, “He’s like Rudolph, Mommy. Nobody liked him at first, either.”

  No, she thought. It wasn’t Gabriel that was bothering her. He was a happy little boy. And Tommy was fine. It was something else.

  Charles? She put her knitting down, and looked into the empty fireplace. She had come to accept his decision. And would wait. Wait for him to change his mind, wait for the war to be over. Wait.

  Izzy. It was Izzy. Her words had swelled inside like festering barbs. Because every word was true, Lillian had to admit. She did need to toughen up. About everything. She couldn’t control Charles or his actions, but she could control her own. If she didn’t like her job at the switchboard, it was up to her to do something about it. If she wanted to move ahead with her work as an artist, it was in her own hands.

  She would start again. And again and again. However long it took. She would take her portfolio with her to work, and use her lun
ch hour to take it around. The worst anyone could say was no. She would use all those rejections to toughen herself up. At least she would get something out of it that way.

  As she worked on the sweater, she had the idea that a drawing related to the war would be her strongest calling card. Different themes and images ran through her mind: a soldier kissing his girl goodbye at a train station; Uncle Sam with bushy eyebrows and a tri-color top hat; a simple poster encouraging people to buy War Bonds; young men lined up outside a recruiting station. Then an image appeared in her mind, in full color and detail: A Victory Garden. She would draw a Victory Garden. The newspapers were already suggesting them, and everyone was sure to plant one in the spring. It would be a way of offsetting the dreadfulness of war – growing your own vegetables, connecting with the earth, taking care of something, and then harvesting the produce for the colder months ahead.

  She put her knitting away, and took out her sketch pad. Using her colored pencils, she began a drawing based on her childhood home: a large garden was planted at the back of a two-story house, along with a strawberry patch and a grape arbor. She sketched a broad-shouldered father picking tomatoes and cucumbers that his two sons then collected into pails; the mother wore a floral apron and held a basket of bright green beans and red peppers. Lillian studied the drawing and sighed; she had drawn an idealized version of herself, the boys, and Charles. As a family.

  It was well past midnight when she finished the drawing, but she felt energized, hopeful, determined. She had one more day at work before the holiday began. She would use her lunch hour to take her portfolio to a few design firms.

  *

  The next morning Lillian dressed in her best gray suit and pearls. When she arrived at work, she almost bumped against Mr. Weeble with her portfolio. She had hoped to get to her desk without being noticed by him. For a moment, she thought he was going to say something, but rather than give him a chance to chastise her, she simply ignored him and went directly to the switchboard room.

  The morning flew by as she sat at the switchboard and answered the lights, planning where she would go on her lunch hour, what she would say.

  She dashed out at noon and managed to stop by three design offices over her break. She asserted herself when they told her to wait, saying that she only had fifteen minutes to present her work, before her next appointment. The simple truth had worked, and each place had agreed to take a brief look at her portfolio. The first one was not interested, the next told her to check back in a month, but the last one loved the Victory Garden and wanted to see more war-related drawings.

  All in all, she was pleased with the results. In less than twenty-four hours, she had taken her career in a forward direction, and had made some progress. She wished she could share the news with Izzy. But every time she tried to approach her, Izzy turned her head, busy with something. Lillian worried that Izzy appeared strained, as if she hadn’t slept, and had tried to cover the evidence with a thick layer of powder.

  When Lillian gathered her things at the end of day, she realized that her portfolio was missing. She searched again and again, but it was nowhere in the switchboard room. In a panic, she feared that she had left it at the last design firm, or possibly on the bus. Her heart sank. It would be impossible to recreate all the drawings. She was ready to burst into tears of frustration.

  But then she remembered that she had accidentally bumped someone in the elevator with her portfolio on her return to the office. It must be here, she thought. Perhaps someone moved it when she went to the ladies’ room.

  She suddenly stood up with her hands on her hips. Weeble! In a flash, Lillian knew he was behind it. She marched to his desk, ready to have it out with him. He was probably trying to get her fired, convince Rockwell that she was sketching on their time.

  A few employees were still busy at their desks, but most had already left for the day. Lillian stepped up to the platform where Weeble’s desk stood – and gasped. There was her open portfolio on his desk – empty! She feared the worst. She briefly imagined a demonic Mr. Weeble feeding the drawings into a fire, or cutting them up with a pair of scissors as he chuckled to himself.

  She glanced at Rockwell’s office, and through the partially closed door she saw the back of Weeble, talking to Mr. Rockwell who was sitting at his desk, cigar in hand.

  She walked up to Rockwell’s office and pushed the door open. Weeble froze, with his mouth open, alarmed at having been caught. Rockwell lightly chuckled.

  “Mrs. Hapsey,” began Weeble. “Forgive me for taking your portfolio, but –”

  “You’re no better than a common thief!” Lillian began to gather up her drawings, relieved that they hadn’t been hurt, though she was still throbbing with indignation. “Always snooping, spying on my every move! First my sketchbook. Now this?! Really, Mr. Weeble!”

  “Mrs. Hapsey –” began Rockwell, leaning back in his chair.

  “And you!” she said, turning on Rockwell, still angry at him on behalf of poor Red. “Making passes at the girls whose soldiers are off fighting. You should be ashamed of yourself! Both of you!” She took her drawings and strode out of the room.

  Lillian was still shaking when she went to the open portfolio on Weeble’s desk and began placing her drawings inside. Slowly, she began to calm down as she stacked them one by one, and then closed her portfolio. Only now did she wonder if she had perhaps overreacted. No harm was done, after all. Her drawings were intact.

  She heard a raucous laugh coming from Rockwell. “Are you sure you can handle such a firecat in your department, Weeble?” He laughed again. “Get her back in here.”

  Weeble walked up to his desk as Lillian was tying up her portfolio. She faced him, waiting for an explanation. His spectacles glinted as he looked everywhere but directly at her. “Mrs. Hapsey, I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your permission, but I was afraid you would –”

  He looked up and, on seeing her still furious, he lost his nerve. “Mr. Rockwell wishes to see you,” he said, reverting to his usual stiff manner. He pivoted on his heel, and returned to Rockwell’s office, planting himself just outside.

  “I’m sure he does!” She mustered up what courage and dignity she could find, and with her portfolio under her arm, she walked back into Mr. Rockwell’s office.

  “Have a seat,” said Rockwell. “Weeble! Get in here and finish what you started!”

  Lillian remained standing and continued to glare at Weeble when he came in. Rockwell folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, as if about to enjoy a bit of entertainment.

  “These drawings mean a great deal to me,” said Lillian. “It took me years to put this collection together, and I don’t appreciate anyone taking liberties with them, treating them as if they –”

  Rockwell held up a hand for her to stop, and then cocked his head to the side. “It’s clear, Mrs. Hapsey, that you’re wasting your talent at the switchboard.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that, I only meant –”

  “Weeble here has been singing your praises for months. Said you’d be more valuable in the Art Department.”

  Lillian opened her mouth and stared hard at Rockwell, not understanding what he was getting at. What exactly was he saying? Was she being fired?

  “And after seeing your portfolio, I’m inclined to agree with him. So, if you can step off your high horse for a moment, I’d like to offer you a position as an illustrator.”

  Lillian still didn’t speak. She looked from Rockwell, to Weeble, and back to Rockwell.

  “Don’t let it go to your head. Many of the men will be leaving soon. If you’re ambitious, I suggest you take the job. Those getting in on the ground floor will have the greater chance for advancement.” He waited for her to say something. “Well, are you interested or not? Speak up!”

  “Yes.” Lillian swallowed. “Yes, I am. Of course! That’s exactly what – Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Rockwell. I’m sorry I –”

  Rockwell put his hand up again. “No
apologies needed. We need talent and you got it.” He thumped his thick finger on the drawing of the Victory Garden. “Get this ready for February production, Weeble.” He turned to Lillian, pointing to the wife in the drawing. “Make her a blonde, and make the husband younger. Make one of the kids a girl, with pigtails.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lillian.

  “Get her set up, starting Monday,” he said to Weeble. His phone began to ring and he answered it, and then waved them away, ending the conversation. “And find another girl for the switchboard!” he hollered, as Weeble and Lillian left the office.

  Weeble closed the door after him and stood with his hands behind his back, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Lillian realized that she had never seen him smile before. “Mr. Weeble. I don’t know what to say. I thought you were working against me all this time. I thought you disliked my drawings.”

  “Only my likeness as a lizard – and even that was very good,” he joked, rocking on his heels and straightening his spectacles. “I know what it’s like to have a passion for something other than all this,” he said, waving his hand over the office.

  Lillian waited for him to explain himself. “You – you have another interest?”

  “Radio,” he beamed. “I’ve been tinkering with radios since they first came out – have built several. The Navy is looking for men like myself. I’d say my days here will soon be over.”

  Maybe it was pride at having a skill that was valued, or the fact that he had done her a good turn, or that he would soon be leaving his office job. But he looked like a different man. Taller. Confident.

  “Well,” he said, suddenly self-conscious. “See you on Monday.” He spun around, grabbed his hat and coat from his desk, and left.

  “Thank you, Mr. Weeble!” Lillian called out after him.