Christmastime 1940 Read online

  And she had her beloved sister, though she only saw her once or twice a year. Annette had stayed with her during those first terrible months, and had even considered making Brooklyn her home. But she had gone back to marry her childhood sweetheart, and was at her happiest helping him run the orchard. She kept Lillian and the boys well supplied in apple butter, bottled pears, and cherry and apricot preserves. And she now had three little ones of her own. At least Lillian always had that haven to return to in the summers.

  Lillian shut off the radio and looked out the window again at her boys. She almost raised the sash to call them inside, but decided she would go out instead. Dinner was ready and the boys had finished their homework. She could afford a few moments of play with them. That’s what Tom would have done, she thought. She shut off the stove, and put on her boots and coat.

  *

  When Drooms arrived home, he placed his bags on the kitchen counter, and went to the living room to put the Christmas card in the top desk drawer, along with the others from previous years. To be opened later, perhaps in the spring.

  He went back to the kitchen and put away the groceries. He then fixed himself a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and ate his dinner at the kitchen counter as he listened to the radio. Now and then he thumbed through the stacks of files on the kitchen table, which was used as a work space. When the news came on, he shook his head.

  “Nothing but trouble. Trouble everywhere.”

  It seemed like just yesterday he was positioned off Ireland, and later in the North Sea. The war to end war, indeed. Now here they were, at it again. He supposed he was too old to serve again, but if called upon, of course he would go. He didn’t like what he was hearing from Europe. He brushed the crumbs from his hands and turned off the radio.

  The package from The Red String Curio Store sat on the kitchen counter, still in its brown paper and red string. Drooms prolonged the opening of it, saving it to give shape to his evening, a little break before starting on the paperwork he always concluded the day with. He finished his sandwich, washed his plate, and set it in the dish rack. Only then did he take the package into the living room.

  Drooms set the parcel on the large oak desk and untied the string, speaking aloud as he did so, speaking in a kinder tone than he had used all day.

  “Now. Let’s take a look at you. See how you fit in with the others.”

  He slid off the red string, unwrapped the brown paper, and pulled out a stuffed squirrel. He set it on his desk, took a step back, and assessed it.

  “Not bad. Not bad.”

  He walked to the tall bookcase that held several other taxidermic animals – stiff little things with glittering eyes and sharp claws, arranged in action, so to speak: stuffed birds preened in their nests, small animals clung to branches, the larger owl and fox stalked from the top of the case. For the most part, the shelves were full of animals that nested or perched or stood ready for attack, in frozen animation.

  One by one, over the years, the animals had taken over the bookcase, squeezing out the history books and novels, the atlases and reference books. Russian novels and Roman history, in particular, had held Drooms’s attention as a young man. But his interest in those had dwindled at the same rate that his business had increased.

  Only the bottom shelf was still piled high with books, and a few thick tomes were positioned here and there on the shelves, to provide elevation for the smaller animals, or a better vantage point, in the case of the sparrow hawk. The rest of the books had long ago been boxed and stored in the room between his bedroom and living room, a sort of large closet where things from the past were packed away and forgotten.

  However, even when his schedule was the fullest and business was at its most demanding, Drooms still made time for the animals. Most of the pieces came from the scattered remnants of naturalists’ collections from the previous century, or were old trophies from hunters long gone.

  Drooms stood back now and admired the collection he had amassed. There they were – poised in perfection. Self-sufficient little things. He never had to worry about them; no harm could come to them now.

  “Make room,” he spoke to them all. “We have an addition. Another squirrel.” He moved aside a red squirrel. “Don’t worry, this one is a gray.”

  He placed the new squirrel near a mossy branch, stood back and tilted his head from one side, then to the other. Satisfied, he nodded.

  “Yes. Very life-like.”

  He picked up a small, stuffed brown rabbit and absent-mindedly caressed it.

  “Well, what do you think? Hmm? You’re the expert.”

  Just then he heard voices and laughter coming from the street below. He walked to the living room window, then backed up slightly so as not to be seen. The widow Hapsey was down there with her two sons, laughing and catching snowflakes with them. He couldn’t help but notice how attractive she was. Beautiful, really – so full of life. Not that it mattered. He watched her until she gathered up her boys and went inside.

  Drooms continued to gaze out the window, remembering a snowy afternoon from long ago, this same time of year: his mother, smiling in the doorway, calling him and his siblings in to dinner. Snow falling, the scent of her cooking wafting outside, the twins racing to the door. Those wonderful winter evenings on the farm. Nothing had ever really compared to them.

  As the night darkened, Drooms’s vision shifted from the soft-edged images of long ago to the sharpness of his angular reflection staring back at him in the window. He briefly looked into his shadowy eyes, and then with a brusque pull he closed the curtain – shutting out the night, the widow, and his memories.

  Chapter 3

  *

  The snow fell softly all through the night, muffling sounds from the street and deepening sleep. It swirled around the window panes and drifted along the steps and balustrades of the brownstones.

  By late morning, it was nearly a foot deep and still falling. Tommy and Gabriel had gone out early to play in the snow and had to be coaxed back inside for lunch. Now, a few hours later, Lillian and her boys emerged from the brownstone, all bundled up, on their way to the library.

  The smooth drifts and untrammeled snow of early morning now showed signs of children at play. The pure peaked snow on the railings was ribbed by gloved fingers, the sidewalks were patterned with footprints and long lines from sled runners.

  It seemed that all the neighborhood boys and girls were outside playing, thrilled that it was Saturday. There were a few attempts at snowmen and snow angels along the sidewalks. Across the street some of the older boys were having a snowball fight. Their laughter and shouting, whoops and cries filled the air. Their heads popped up between the parked cars as they dodged, and then threw, snowballs. Other kids darted behind trees or took shelter behind snowy barricades. Flashes of brightly striped stocking hats and colorful scarves enlivened the wintry day as the children crisscrossed from one side to the other, free from the worry of traffic. Today the street was all theirs.

  Lillian held Gabriel’s hand as they went down the steps, her other hand poised to reach for the balustrade should she slip.

  “I don’t want to go,” Gabriel cried out in excitement. “I want to play outside again.”

  “When we get back,” Lillian said. “We’re going to need our books if it continues to snow.”

  Tommy spotted Mickey from next door and ran over to him. Then Gabriel broke free from Lillian’s hand and ran over to Billy, one of Mickey’s little brothers, to check on the snowman he was making.

  Lillian looked in exasperation from one boy to the other. “Tommy! Gabriel! You can play when we get back.”

  She saw Mr. Drooms walking towards her and noticed that he was carrying his briefcase.

  “Oh, Mr. Drooms, you didn’t have to work today, did you – on Saturday?” She dodged a sled being pulled by some older kids.

  Drooms instinctively took her elbow in protection as she stepped back, then quickly released it. “Just the morning.”

>   Lillian couldn’t help but compare that tiny, chivalrous gesture with Rockwell’s presumptuous taking of her hand the other day. The arrogance behind that gesture still made her bristle. Drooms was definitely another kind of man, whatever his faults.

  Tommy begrudgingly came back. Gabriel ran up to Drooms and pointed to the snowman. It had a hunched over appearance and a coal mouth that turned down.

  “Hey, look, Mr. Drooms. Billy made a snowman of you!”

  Lillian tried to brush away his comment.

  “Gabriel, snowmen don’t look like people –”

  “Nuh uh, Billy said it was Old Man Drooms, that’s Mr. –”

  “Oh, hush!” She took Gabriel’s hand and turned to Drooms. “We’re off to the library.”

  “To get pirate books,” said Tommy. “I can tell you about any pirate. Just ask me.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Gabriel. “Just ask me.”

  Tommy scoffed. “You can’t read.”

  “I can too. Right, Mommy? I know how to read, Mr. Drooms.”

  “Picture books,” Tommy said, under his breath.

  Drooms looked down at Gabriel and spoke in a gentle tone that surprised Lillian. “Well, we all have to start at the beginning.”

  Gabriel smiled up at him.

  As Drooms started to climb the steps, Lillian called out to him. “Can we pick up anything for you, Mr. Drooms?”

  “No. Thank you,” he said without turning around.

  Tommy and Gabriel took Lillian by the hands and rushed her along in the snow. “C’mon, Mom!” She laughed with them as they made their way down the sidewalk.

  Drooms stopped on the steps to look back at them, again noticing how attractive she was. She moved with a light gracefulness, the contours of her coat not quite concealing her pretty curves. Her glossy brown curls caught the sunlight as they brushed against the deep blue of her collar. The two boys ran ahead of her, urging her on. She put one hand on her hat and called out for them to slow down.

  As Drooms watched them, the slightest of smiles began to form on his lips.

  Then, out of nowhere – whack! He was smacked in the back of his head by a snowball.

  He whipped around, scowling as he searched for the culprit. He caught a glimpse of an impish boy, around twelve or so, in a red scarf, laughing and ducking behind a car across the street.

  Drooms took a few steps down and scanned the street, but the rascal seemed to have vanished. Drooms was disturbed, even angered, by this. He stood a few moments, narrowing his eyes as if remembering something. Then he shook his head and went inside.

  He climbed the steps to his apartment, his briefcase suddenly feeling heavy. He tried to shake away the feeling of unease. Work. That always cleared his head.

  He made himself a strong cup of coffee and took it into the living room. He placed it on the large desk that dominated the room, opposite the couch and chair that he seldom used any more. The couch used to be his preferred place to read, with the lamp casting a soft light from behind.

  Though Drooms was largely indifferent to his surroundings, he had, many years ago, indulged in a few paintings. His favorite was the large landscape, a harvest scene at sunset. Though it had hung over the couch for years, he had stopped seeing it.

  He stood in front of it now, studying the partially cut field with sheaves of golden wheat; the dirt road deep with ruts, curving into an old farm; the leaves of the trees lining the road all reds and russet; a hazy orange sun sinking into the far-off hills. A few birds, crows he guessed, lifted from the field in the distance. The farmhouse windows shone with the yellow light of lamps, or perhaps they were reflecting the setting sun –

  Drooms turned away impatiently, and settled into his desk. He didn’t have time for sunsets and idle thoughts. His work demanded all his time.

  He sipped his coffee and it was almost with pleasure that he became immersed in his ledgers and accounts. Still, from time to time a nagging feeling caused him to look out the window at the children playing, but he didn’t see the boy in the red scarf. He finally dismissed it and continued with his work.

  *

  Just as the streetlights were coming on, Lillian and her boys returned from the library. Lillian was looking forward to losing herself in the novels she had chosen. A hot bath and some time in the English countryside, after she put the boys to bed, was her idea of a delightful weekend.

  As they climbed to the third floor, Tommy and Gabriel talked about their books.

  “Look, Gabe. This one is like the story on the radio – a ghost story.

  “Well, don’t read it at bedtime,” said Lillian.

  Tommy rolled his eyes and groaned, dragging his feet in exaggerated disbelief.

  “Come on, boys, inside. How about we light a fire tonight? Won’t that be cozy? I’ll make dinner and then we can read by the fire.”

  *

  Drooms heard Lillian and her boys arrive home and winced at all the noise they made chattering and stomping snow off their boots. He listened to their door close, vaguely wondering what kind of books she had chosen. He imagined her reading at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, or stretched out on the couch – or would she read in bed?

  He sat up in his chair and cleared his throat, restacked the papers he was working on. His mind was all over the place today. He couldn’t account for it. Not like him. He doubled the effort to focus on his work.

  After a few hours, he realized that he was hungry and he took a break for dinner, making a quick meal of soup and toast. He then re-immersed himself in the ledgers. The numbers were better than he had expected. This was good. Very good. At this rate –

  He heard a light knock at his door. He cocked his head to listen, but didn’t hear anything more. Then he paused for a moment as he tried to remember if anyone had actually ever knocked at his door. Now that he thought of it, it seemed odd. He went back to his numbers.

  But a few moments later, he again heard a soft knock. He put down his glasses and pencil, went to the door, and opened it.

  Before him stood the same imp of a boy from the street, the one who threw the snowball, smiling with his tongue in his cheek, as if he knew he shouldn’t be there. He twisted his red scarf and looked up, waiting for Drooms to make the next move.

  Drooms stood frozen. At first he was simply shocked. Then he flushed in anger and slammed the door. He held his head in his hands and looked back up at the closed door. He quickly opened it – but there was no one there.

  No one, except for Lillian. She stood in her doorway down the hall, wondering at the loud slam that shook her door, just as she was getting into her novel. She pulled her chenille robe close, holding the book in her hand.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Drooms?”

  He was startled to see her but quickly recovered his composure.

  “Yes. The wind just caught my door.”

  Lillian nodded at the explanation, and Drooms shut his door.

  Lillian closed her door, and then realized the absurdity of the explanation. There was no wind. She started to reopen her door, but decided against it.

  She made herself comfortable again on the couch, and gazed at the embers in the fireplace. The book lay face down on her lap. Something about him tugged at her. A kind of sadness, underneath the hardness, that she found difficult to ignore. She didn’t entirely believe in his crusty exterior. The same way he probably didn’t buy her ever-cheerful act, she guessed. The wounded always recognized each other.

  A wry smile formed on her lips as she thought of what she had seen that morning. She had looked out the window to check on the boys, and saw Gabriel alone, trying his hardest to make a snowman, but the ball of snow kept crumbling. Then she saw Mr. Drooms walk down the steps, look around, and set his briefcase in the snow. That alone surprised her, but then he carefully packed a ball, showing Gabriel how to do it, and then began to roll it, shaping it as it grew. Then Gabriel rolled the ball and shrieked in delight as it grew rounder and fatter. She couldn’t believ
e it. When a neighbor approached, Mr. Drooms picked up his briefcase, gave one of his curt nods, and continued on his way. His façade was full of all sorts of cracks and gaps.

  She heard Gabriel scream and all thoughts of her neighbor vanished. She hurried to the boys’ room and found Tommy laughing at Gabriel, who was peeking out from under his pillow.

  Tommy held up an illustration in his pirate book. “Don’t be so silly. It’s just a story.”

  Lillian snatched the book from Tommy and looked at the picture of a skeleton pirate holding a sword to the throat of a frightened boy. The pirate’s eye sockets glowed a dull red, and strands of dripping seaweed hung from his sword, his black hat, even his gold earring. She briefly admired the use of color and the delicate crosshatching before saying, “I told you, no ghost stories at bedtime. Now Gabriel will have nightmares.”

  “But Mom, it’s not even scary,” protested Tommy.

  Gabriel sat up in bed with the pillow on his lap. “Can we sleep with the light on?”

  “When I tell you to do something you have to mind me,” said Lillian. “Now, did you both brush your teeth?”

  Gabriel nodded and bared his teeth. Tommy whipped back the blanket, jumped up, and headed for the bathroom. “Whoops. I forgot.”

  “Thomas, you’re old enough to remember to brush your teeth.”

  Lillian took a towel and oil cloth from the top dresser drawer. “Scoot over, Gabe.”

  Gabriel rolled to the side as she placed the cloth and towel in the middle of the mattress, and then covered him up. She sat down on the edge of his bed.

  “I won’t Mommy. I didn’t drink anything late.”

  “Well, just in case. It won’t hurt to have it there.”

  “How come I’m doing it? I’m not trying to.”

  “It’s just a phase – the new place, all the new changes. Nothing to worry about.”

  Gabriel threw off the blanket and climbed onto her lap. She lightly rocked him.