Christmastime 1940 Page 3

  He opened the door to The Red String Curio Store, its little bell ringing as he entered. That silvery sound was the first signal that he was leaving behind him the outer workaday world; the musty old attic smell was the second, a scent only slightly masked by the baskets of orange peel and cloves set among the shelves.

  The store owner, a bald little man wearing a red bowtie and high-waisted trousers held up with red suspenders, his style since the turn of the century, stood at the counter helping an elderly lady to choose between two old birdcages. He held up a finger as a greeting to Drooms.

  The front of the store was full with displays of new toys and gifts for the holiday. But for the most part, the store was a dusty jumble of shelves and aisles crowded with old furniture, used books and magazines, cracked and mismatched dishes alongside near-complete sets, lamps and lanterns, boxes of odds and ends.

  The walls themselves could barely be seen, covered as they were by mirrors of all shapes and sizes, still-lifes and landscapes of various quality, and empty frames. A few sagging tapestries depicted once-vibrant stag hunts and pastoral courtships; their subjects had long since been lulled by time and now appeared too tired for action of any kind.

  On the back wall, hung worn posters advertising everything from travel to exotic Egypt and the Levant, to performances of The Pirates of Penzance and Carmen, to soap – a Palmolive-scented mother poised above her sleeping child; an elegant 1920’s couple dancing on their toes, almost floating above the words Erasmic Soaps & Perfumes.

  Scattered throughout the store were wall clocks and grandfather clocks set to different times, so that ticking and deep resonant chimes filled the air at all hours, punctuated now and then by an occasional cuckoo.

  Drooms wandered through the front aisles, his eyes leisurely scanning the shelves and counters and cases, the worn wooden floor creaking under his step. He almost tripped over a young man sitting in one of the faded overstuffed chairs, sorting through a box of old daguerreotypes and postcards.

  Along the wall, Drooms passed glass cabinets filled with buttons and shoe hooks, pocket watches and Victorian jewelry, musical instruments and sheet music, and items of unrecognizable use. An old man in a long, thread-bare coat leaned against a glass case and plucked the out-of-tune strings of a dusty violin, humming along as he did so.

  At the end of the glass cabinets, Drooms turned down the maze-like aisles with shelves that reached past his shoulders. His mind always moved more freely in the timeless hodgepodge of the store, the worries and distractions of the day diminished as he searched out an item, or stumbled upon an unexpected find. He sometimes found that several hours had passed while he wandered among the aisles.

  But today his mind was focused. He felt the need to add to his collection. He moved to the far back of the shop where he often found what he was looking for, and after browsing for a short while, he lifted an item from a low shelf and inspected it.

  A few minutes later, the little bell rang as he left the store carrying a parcel tied in red string.

  He was often seen coming home with such a package and his neighbors had long since given up wondering what it was that Old Man Drooms collected. They were sure the boxes and bundles were not gifts; his were not the kind of packages that brought happiness, or caused the giver to take two steps at a time in eagerness to give them. Rather, the parcels seemed a kind of burden to him. If anything, Drooms’s step was heavier as he walked home.

  At the corner of his block, Drooms stopped by the neighborhood grocery store to pick up a few items for the weekend. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mancetti, were busy at the counter but they lifted their heads in greeting and noticed the package under his arm. Drooms gave an almost imperceptible tip of his hat, and lifted a store hand basket.

  He chose a loaf of bread, some fresh ground coffee, a bottle of milk. Not caring much about what he ate, he tended to buy the same things over and over. He reached for a few cans of soup and a box of crackers, a tin of peaches and a box of noodles, and placed them in the basket.

  When Drooms approached the front counter, he realized that the owner had been gossiping about him to the two customers near the door, for they stood smiling, as if in anticipation of some fun. One of them jerked his head to Mancetti, coaxing him to go ahead and say something.

  “Evening, Mr. Drooms,” said Mancetti.

  Drooms took his things from the basket and set them on the counter.

  “So,” began Mancetti, as he began to ring up the items, “I understand the beautiful widow Hapsey has moved down the hall from you.”

  “That’s no concern of mine.” Drooms set the tin of peaches firmly on the counter. “Or yours,” he added.

  “No, no, of course not. Just making small talk.” He finished ringing up Drooms, and Mrs. Mancetti handed Drooms his bag of items, smiling kindly.

  Drooms nodded goodnight to her, but ignored her smirking husband and the other two customers.

  *

  The sky delivered on its promise of snow and by end of day a light accumulation covered the sidewalks. The temperature had dropped, turning some of the heavily trodden snow to ice.

  Lillian made her way home with care, trying to avoid the slick spots on the sidewalks, and wishing she had worn her boots. Her thoughts were on fixing dinner for Tommy and Gabriel, but as she rounded the corner to her block, she was struck by the beauty of the street. She had never seen it in the snow.

  She stopped and let her gaze linger up and down the street, taking it all in. The tree branches were delicately outlined in snow, as were the railings and balustrades of the brownstones. Dusk was deepening, and from the streetlights hung soft golden curtains of falling snow. She looked at the fading sky and wondered which paints she would mix for that shade, how to capture the nuances of that deepening blue-gray.

  She caught the scent of wood fire from one of the chimneys, and deeply inhaled the clear cold air, thinking that it smelled of snow and softness and dusk.

  Further down the street, some of the neighborhood children were out reveling in the first snowfall, laughing and shouting. Warm yellow light poured forth from the windows, holding the promise of the comforts of home.

  Lillian’s heart was lifted, grateful to be a part of such ordinary loveliness. Sometimes she was flooded with such a feeling, almost like euphoria, but tinged with sadness because it was so fleeting. She had long thought of these moments as the edge of desire – a desperate longing for something beyond her grasp, just at the periphery of knowing. Yet ever elusive. While it lasted, she felt as though she had stepped into some heightened state, absolutely connected to life.

  Just then, Mrs. Wilson, who lived in the same apartment building as the babysitter, called out from behind, pulling Lillian back down to the solidity of the sidewalk beneath her feet, the coldness of her fingers, the need to start dinner.

  “Evening, Mrs. Hapsey. You must be frozen just standing there. What you need is a good head scarf, far more practical for keeping out the wind and cold.” She tightened her brown plaid scarf, and with a flick of her hand, gestured to some imaginary group behind her. “Let the other women wear their fashionable hats.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wilson.”

  Mrs. Wilson took Lillian’s arm. “I was hoping to make it home before the snow and ice began. How’re you faring?”

  “Fine. Just on my way to pick up the boys.”

  They continued down the sidewalk together, careful of their step.

  “I heard that Mrs. Kuntzman is babysitting them.”

  “The boys love her,” said Lillian.

  “She’s a godsend. You know, she used to watch my kids. That was long years ago.” Mrs. Wilson’s tone slid into friendly sarcasm. “And how do you get on with that neighbor of yours down the hall?”

  “Oh, you mean Mr. Drooms? Well – he’s not very talkative.”

  “Talkative? He’s a perfect curmudgeon. Won’t give me the time of day. Or anyone.”

  Drooms had just rounded the corner and was walki
ng towards them.

  “Speak of the devil. There he is. With one of his packages.”

  Lillian saw Drooms approaching, holding a parcel under one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. She smiled as the large snowflakes fell on her upturned face, blinking as they caught on her eyelashes.

  “Good evening, Mr. Drooms,” she said. “Look! Our first snowfall. Isn’t it lovely?”

  Drooms stopped and looked around, as if noticing the snow for the first time. “So it is.”

  But as he glanced up he slipped on the snow, lost his balance, and grabbed at the railing, which caused him to drop his package.

  Lillian instinctively reached out to help him but also slipped on the same patch and had to steady herself on the railing. She laughed as she picked up his package and handed it to him. “I see you’ve begun your Christmas shopping.”

  Drooms snatched the package from her, scowled, and continued down the sidewalk.

  Lillian’s hand went to her cheek, her hat, taken aback by his abrupt, unexpected response. “Goodness! He is a bit cranky.”

  Mrs. Wilson gave a snort as if to say, I told you so. They walked up the brownstone steps and heard a knock at Mrs. Kuntzman’s window. Mrs. Wilson waved at Tommy and Gabriel. “There they are. How old?”

  “Nine and six,” Lillian said. The boys shouted something through the window, pointing to the papers in their hands.

  “My, but they’re cute. They remind me of mine when they were that age. Of course, back then I didn’t have to worry myself about Mrs. Kuntzman’s German accent. Everyone’s suspicious now, with Herr Hitler on the rampage. And now with this so-called peacetime conscription of ours.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that.” Lillian so dreaded the thought of war.

  “You don’t build up an army unless you plan to use it,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Mark my words.”

  They opened the door and stomped the snow off their shoes in the vestibule. Mrs. Wilson untied her scarf and shook out the wet snow. “Well, gotta run and get dinner started for Harry. I’ll see you around!”

  “So long!” Lillian had a sick feeling in her stomach about war developing and feared it was just a matter of time. But she hoped that people weren’t treating Mrs. Kuntzman unkindly. People didn’t come any better than her, whatever her accent.

  *

  Drooms, meanwhile, arrived home. He checked his mailbox and took out a lone envelope. Postmarked Illinois. A Christmas card. He held it a moment, and then tossed it into the grocery bag.

  He trudged up the stairs to the third floor, and opened the door to his apartment, still disconcerted by his clumsiness on the sidewalk. He never stumbled. Then just as he had that thought, he tripped on the threshold and dropped his keys. As he bent to pick them up, he glowered at Lillian’s apartment. “The last thing I need is an intrusive neighbor – with noisy kids!” He opened his door, went inside, and slammed the door behind him.

  *

  Lillian smiled as Mrs. Kuntzman opened her door. The babysitter was wearing one of her flowered aprons and was cheerful as usual.

  Gabriel and Tommy ran to the door, holding up paper snowflakes.

  “Look, Mommy!” said Gabriel. “Mrs. Kuntzman showed us how to make snowflakes!”

  “Look! Mrs. Kuntzman says to string them and hang them,” added Tommy.

  Lillian opened her eyes wide and bent over to admire the boys’ artwork. “Oh, how wonderful!” She turned the paper snowflakes over in her hands. “Now we have something for our windows.” She beamed at Mrs. Kuntzman, appreciative of her never-ending efforts with the boys. “Go get your coats on. I’ll hold your snowflakes.”

  Lillian looked closely at Mrs. Kuntzman, thinking that she must still have family in Germany. She must feel torn. Anyone would. “Any problems today?”

  “Ach, no! We had a fine time. Such good boys. They even finish their homework.”

  “Already?”

  “And,” said Mrs. Kuntzman, holding up a finger – she went to the kitchen and returned with a plate covered with a red and white checked napkin – “I have extra strudel for youse. Still warm. I always make too much.”

  Lillian recognized Mrs. Kuntzman’s modest way of being generous, and graciously accepted the plate. “Thank you.” She lifted the cloth and inhaled. “It smells delicious! We’ll have it for dessert tonight.” She made a mental note to add some ingredients for baking when she returned the plate. Some raisins and nuts, perhaps, or better yet, some cherry preserves.

  The boys were already at the door, fastening their boots and buttoning their coats. “Bye, Mrs. Kuntzman!” they hollered, eager to get out in the snow.

  “We’ll see you on Monday,” said Lillian.

  “Goodnight, Mrs. Hapsey. See youse all next week!”

  Once they were outside, the boys saw the neighborhood kids playing in the snow.

  “Can we play outside?” Tommy asked. “Mickey and Billy are there.”

  “Can we, Mommy? Please?” asked Gabriel.

  Lillian saw the growing number of children playing in the falling snow. “Well, for a few minutes, while I get dinner ready. Put your hats and gloves on. And stay on the sidewalk where I can see you. And don’t cross the street. Okay, Tommy? You’ll watch your brother?”

  Tommy rolled his eyes. “I always do, Mom. You don’t have to tell me every single time.”

  “I know.” She reached out to him but he dodged her and hurried off with Gabriel. She hoped the undercurrent of anger in him, at having to leave all his old friends, would lessen as he made new ones. She took it as a good sign that he was eager to play with the kids.

  When Lillian entered her apartment, she stepped out of her shoes, hung her coat and hat on the hall tree, and turned on the lamps, breathing a deep sigh of pleasure to be back in her haven. She looked around, thinking that the apartment had turned out well.

  She had used every spare minute of the last three weeks unpacking and trying to recreate the feel of home. The layout was a little different from their old place. The living room and kitchen were divided by a chest-high half wall, which gave the feel of one large open room.

  It was a cozy place – small, but big enough for them. New, yet familiar too, with things from their old home: the burgundy velvet couch and armchairs with the embroidered pillows her mother had made; the pale green Fiestaware vase from her sister, Annette; the carved mirror that the fellows from the firehouse had given as a wedding present.

  She smiled as she remembered the card: “From our House to Yours: To reflect Lillian’s beauty and Tom’s vanity.” Tom hadn’t been at all vain, but he did have a cowlick that never stayed down that the guys used to tease him about.

  And above the fireplace, Millet’s The Angelus that she had loved as a child, with its sunset mackerel sky, its furrowed field, the distant village – the painting that had first inspired her to want to draw, to mix colors, to capture the sky. A parting gift from her parents when she had joined Tom in New York City.

  How she missed her parents. Her childhood and youth in Rhinebeck, upstate, were full of happy memories of her parents and sister. Times had been lean, but their lives had always been full of daily riches: her mother’s beautifully set table and wonderful meals, lamplit evenings on the porch, long walks when the weather was fine.

  Lillian had been especially close to her mother and enjoyed many of the same pleasures. It was her mother who had encouraged her to read, and draw, to study history and literature. Annette had been more like her father – taking pleasure in running the drygoods store, and helping him with the large vegetable garden. But they had all been close. It was a real blow when first her mother, and then her father, died, just before Gabriel was born. Her parents had always been a romantic, inseparable couple, and could not live one without the other.

  Lillian turned on the radio and adjusted the knob to find a music station. She went to the kitchen window and looked down at the street. There was Tommy with his new best friend, Mickey, leading some kind of game, with
Gabriel and the younger kids running first in one direction, then in another.

  She hummed along with the radio as she moved about the kitchen preparing dinner, thinking that the fresh bread she picked up on her way home would go nicely with yesterday’s stew. When a swing band began to play “In the Mood,” she turned up the volume and took a few steps with an imaginary partner. She and Tom had spent many evenings in their early days twirling and stepping to the new rhythms.

  She lifted the lid to the stew and inhaled, and then sliced the bread, and began to set the table. It was a simple meal, but the boys never complained. Still, she was glad for Mrs. Kuntzman’s strudel.

  When the radio began to play “I’ll Never Smile Again,” she started to sing along. But then she abruptly stopped, and with the soup bowls still in her hands, she sat down at the table and stared out at nothing.

  Sometimes all it took was a strain of melody to remind her of how alone she really was. When the boys were around, she didn’t have time to think about it.

  Lillian leaned back in the chair and lightly shook her head, thinking how long ago it seemed that she and Tom had been young and in love. Sometimes she felt that they had never really had the chance to get to know each other, to grow together as adults, the way her parents had. She had gotten pregnant immediately, and when Tom lost his job, she had moved back home while he looked for work in the city. Six brief years together, and then his unexpected death.

  When she thought of Tom, it was as the young, boyish man she had married. So much had changed. She had changed. After his death, she had to shake off her girlhood and take on the responsibilities of both mother and father.

  She rose quickly and finished setting the table. She had done away with the “if only” habit that left her feeling empty and forlorn: if only Tom had not rushed into the burning building, if only her parents had lived and she could have gone back home.

  Tom was gone, and her life was here now. Over the years she had come to love the city, and the fellows at the firehouse and their wives still treated her like family and invited her to gatherings.