Christmastime 1940 Page 6

  “Now, stay in your pen, Alphonse,” said Sam.

  “And don’t run away,” added Sarah, shaking her finger at the tiny rabbit.

  “Alphonse! Is that what you named him?” he had laughed.

  “Cause he’s so smart, Charlie,” Sarah said, taking a bit of bread from her coat pocket and sticking it through the chicken wire.

  Sam knelt down to check the latch on the makeshift pen. “He keeps getting away. We almost couldn’t find him last time, Charlie.”

  “Well, we’ll make a stronger pen when we get back. Come on you two. Let’s go find our tree.”

  As they walked through the woods, he listened to the twins’ plans to make a snow house, but he soon got distracted when he saw Rachel and her brother Caleb coming towards them on the path.

  Sarah and Sam began singing, “Charlie loves Rachel, Charlie loves Rachel.”

  “Hush up!” said Charlie under his breath, as he ran a hand through his hair. He smiled when he saw Rachel’s face light up like it always did when they met. Rachel, with her long dark hair, her sweet smile with the ever so slightly crooked front tooth, her blue eyes crinkling with merriment when she laughed –

  The tea kettle’s shrill whistle reached an ear-piercing shriek.

  Drooms hurried to the kitchen and, with his hand shaking, he lifted the frantic kettle from the burner. His heart was pounding. He felt his pulse slow back down as the frenzy of the whistle lessened, lowered, and then vanished.

  He poured the hot water over the tea, and took a deep breath. No point in remembering. The past is past. He lifted and lowered the strainer to steep his tea, up and down, watching the tea darken. He put the strainer in the sink and stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cup. No point in remembering.

  He took his tea into the living room and placed it on his desk. Although a little ahead of schedule, he would study the monthly numbers. He always enjoyed comparing the books with his forecast, and then determining his next steps. It cleared, focused his thoughts. Once he began working, there was no room in his head for anything else.

  Yet as Drooms settled into his desk, he realized that tonight his mind was fighting him. All those faded images were becoming sharp again, gaining in color and precision, against his will. It took more and more effort to suppress them, but slowly the numbers and columns and calculations took over.

  Drooms was deep in his work, surrounded by stacks of papers and ledgers on his desk. Yet he kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Something. What was it? He inclined his head and frowned in concentration, listening.

  He swiveled around and glanced over the living room, then to the inner room between his bedroom and living room. Just a closet, full of books, shelves filled with files of long-dead accounts, dusty old boxes full of junk. Nothing. Nothing there.

  He returned to his accounts and tried to concentrate. But after a few moments, he again heard a tiny noise and looked behind him.

  The doorknob to the inner room was turning.

  He scowled, determined to ignore it. He took up his papers and stacked them loudly, repeatedly, and picked up his pencil.

  Then he heard the door open. His shoulders slumped. Why? Why, now? He twisted around in resignation.

  There he was – the boy with the red scarf. The boy pushed open the door and sauntered around the living room, examining the pictures on the wall, pulling the lamp chain on and off, glancing out the window.

  Drooms shifted in his chair to keep his back to the boy, willing himself to focus on his work.

  The boy moved about with a jaunty air, and then stood in front of the animal collection with his fists on his hips. His eyes opened wide when he spotted the new squirrel.

  “A new one!” He petted it, and then examined it closely, comparing it to the other squirrel. “Hey, this one has gray eyes.” He held up the other squirrel. “And you have brown eyes.”

  Drooms hadn’t noticed this and scooted his chair back to see for himself. He lifted his reading glasses and compared the two.

  Then he abruptly turned back to his papers, annoyed that he had paid attention to the boy. Drooms resumed his work, keeping his back to the intruder. He spoke softly but firmly.

  “Put those down.”

  “I won’t hurt them.” The boy picked up the snake and flew it through the air, causing it to swoop around at the squirrels and the other animals. “And there’s Alphonse!” he said, reaching for the rabbit.

  Drooms snapped, and snatched the animals away from the boy.

  “Leave them alone! And – go away! I don’t want you here.”

  He put the animals back in their places and whipped around. Except for the animals, he was alone.

  Chapter 5

  *

  A few evenings later, just after dinner, Tommy and Gabriel decided to write their letters to Santa, and they wanted to make a celebration of it with a fire, and hot chocolate with marshmallows. But Lillian realized that they were out of all the ingredients, and had no more firewood; she would make a quick trip to the corner store before it closed.

  Tonight she felt the fatigue in her legs from her years of working as a sales clerk. But as she put on her old blue coat, she thought that at least her job in the department store had yielded a few special items, like her blue coat and matching hat that had seemed such an indulgence at the time, a few pretty dresses, and some furniture she would never have purchased if it hadn’t been for the discount.

  As she walked to the corner store, she wondered if she would still have the endurance for department store work, for standing all day. The pointed attentions from Mr. Rockwell were beginning to worry her. She couldn’t afford to lose her job. Not now. She had so wanted to make this a special Christmas, that she had allowed herself to place a few toys and clothes for the boys on layaway. Perhaps she could take in sewing again. She could ask Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Kuntzman if they knew of anyone who might need some mending done. There was always some way to make a little extra money.

  Lillian entered Mancetti’s and purchased a few items, along with the milk, cocoa, marshmallows, and fire wood, deciding that after the holiday season she would have to find some places to cut back. As she left the store, she ran into Mrs. Wilson, who was just entering.

  “Evening, Mrs. Hapsey. Having a fire tonight?”

  “Yes. The boys are going to write their letters to Santa. Mrs. Wilson, I meant to ask you – I was wondering if you know anyone who might need some sewing done. It’s something I used to do to make a little extra.”

  “Ah yes, with the Christmas season and all. I guess that pension doesn’t get you very far, does it? Listen,” she said, taking Lillian’s arm conspiratorially. “Just you hold tight. There’s talk about jobs opening up for women. Once this war starts, the men will be gone – and they’ll need us to fill their jobs. And you can forget about ever doing sewing again. Mark my words.”

  Lillian sighed at the grim prediction. “The way things are going, it seems unavoidable. How terrible.”

  “It’s the way of the world. Ah well, enough of us will survive the war to ensure that we may have many more. And on that cheerful note, I better get moving – Harry is waiting for his Epsom salts. Goodnight, dear.”

  The grocery bag seemed to grow heavier with each step. The threat of war. Fatigue. Worry. Fight it as she might, the world was often a lonely, unfriendly place.

  Lillian frowned at the indulgence of such a thought. What were her problems compared to what the people of England were suffering? Over fifty consecutive nights of air raids on London in the fall – she couldn’t begin to imagine the horror. And on Coventry last month. Who knew what was up ahead?

  At least she had a warm home to go to. At least she could safely walk to the store and buy food, and her boys were happy and well-fed. No bombs were falling from the sky. She gazed up at the starry night. I must never take it for granted, she thought. No one knows what the future will bring.

  She reached her brownstone and climbed the steps. At the front door,
she fumbled with the bag of groceries and the bundle of wood as she tried to get a better hold on the doorknob.

  Drooms had gone to the diner straight from work and was now returning home. As he approached, he saw Lillian struggling at the door. He hesitated for a moment, and then hurried to assist her.

  “Here, let me help you, Mrs. Hapsey.”

  “Oh, no. I can manage.” But the bag slipped from her grasp.

  Drooms caught it and held it as she opened the door.

  Lillian felt too tired to insist, and allowed him to help her. “Well, thank you.” She never knew what to expect from him, but it took too much energy to hold a grudge.

  “I’m going up anyway,” said Drooms.

  She wondered if he said that to make her feel better about accepting his help, or to diminish any meaning in his gesture. No matter. But as they entered the vestibule, Lillian became aware that this was the first time they had ever been alone together. She wanted to fill the space between them with words.

  “The boys are going to write their letters to Santa tonight, so I thought we’d have a fire.”

  Silence.

  They climbed the first flight of stairs. She tried again.

  “There’s nothing like a crackling fire on these cold winter nights.” She looked over her shoulder for a response. “Don’t you agree?”

  More silence. Lillian waited a moment, and then gave a little laugh. “You’re not one for small talk, are you Mr. Drooms?”

  When they arrived at the third floor, Lillian heard a ruckus within her apartment and quickly unlocked the door. When she opened it, she saw that Tommy had Gabriel pinned down with his knee, and Gabriel was squirming and kicking back with all his might, shouting, “I do too!”

  “You do not!” Tommy’s face was flushed from his exertion to prove his point.

  “Yes, I do!!” Gabriel rolled over and broke free.

  Tommy made a grab at Gabriel’s leg but missed.

  Gabriel ran to the couch, with Tommy right behind him. Tommy was just about to jump on the couch when Lillian grabbed him by the collar.

  “What’s going on?!” she said, placing herself between the boys. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes!”

  Then she saw that Gabriel had blood on his shirt and under his nose. “Oh, dear. Here, lie down. Put your head back.” She hurried to the kitchen to get a damp dish towel.

  She shook her head at Tommy. “Thomas Hapsey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. You were supposed to be in charge.”

  Tommy crossed his arms. “He started it.”

  Gabriel sat up, ready to go at it again. “He did! He said I can’t remember Daddy so I pushed him. But I can. How come he gets to be the only one who remembers everything? I remember the Christmas tree falling.”

  Tommy was ready to burst from exasperation. “But it’s impossible! You weren’t even born yet. That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

  Lillian sat next to Gabriel and placed the towel under his nose. “That’s enough. You’re both going to behave. Now!”

  That last emphatic word ended the argument.

  Lillian inwardly berated herself for fabricating memories that didn’t include both boys. The falling Christmas tree story was the result of a desperate moment when Tommy was five or six and she couldn’t get him to stop crying. The dramatic tale was just the thing to capture his attention and quiet him. Tommy still recounted the way the ornaments rolled all over the place and how he – though only three years old – was the one to find them all, even the one under the couch, and how he and his father had hung them all back up.

  Lillian saw that Gabriel’s nose had stopped bleeding. She went to Drooms, embarrassed that he had witnessed the family drama. She took the bundle of wood from him, laughing a little, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “Goodness, what will Mr. Drooms think?” She placed the wood by the fireplace, and then took a deep breath. “Now, how about I make some hot chocolate? Doesn’t that sound cozy? You’ll stay for that won’t you, Mr. Drooms?”

  One of Lillian’s strategies after breaking up a fight between the boys was to keep talking, in order to ease the tension and get their minds on something else. But with part of her mind worrying what Mr. Drooms would think, she realized that she sounded scattered, nervous.

  She tweaked Tommy’s chin, and then unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the hall tree. “You know better, Tommy. Older brothers are supposed to take care of their siblings, not hurt them. Isn’t that right, Mr. Drooms?”

  Lillian reached for the bag of groceries from him. “Isn’t that right?”

  But when she looked at him for an answer, she saw that he had gone pale. He stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Gabriel lying on the couch.

  His voice was barely audible. “Yes.”

  “Come in, come in, Mr. Drooms,” she said, placing the bag of groceries on the table. She wondered at his response – surely he had seen children fighting before. Surely he wasn’t so far removed from family life.

  Gabriel was too wound up to lie still for long. He got up and brought the dish towel to the kitchen. “It already stopped a long time ago, Mommy.”

  “Boys, tell Mr. Drooms to come in.”

  Gabriel ran and took Drooms by the hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you our pirate fort.”

  “Pirates don’t have forts,” said Tommy. “They have ships.”

  “Yeah, I mean our ship.”

  Drooms gently released his hand from Gabriel’s. “I’m sorry. I have something to do.”

  “Mr. Drooms?” Lillian called after him as he walked to his apartment. His door shut behind him.

  “Doesn’t he want to see our ship?” asked Gabriel.

  “Not now, Honey.” She closed the door and put an arm around each boy. “Come on, let’s make the hot chocolate.”

  The boys ran to the kitchen. Tommy pushed a chair up to the cupboards. “I’ll get the mugs out.”

  “I’ll open the marshmallows.” Gabriel reached into the grocery bag, opened the box, and plopped a fluffy white marshmallow into his mouth.

  Tommy opened a cabinet and pulled out some sheets of paper and a tin of crayons and set them on the table. He chose a few crayons and lined them up, organizing them by color. “I don’t like Mr. Drooms.”

  Lillian turned to look at Tommy, surprised at his comment. “Why do you say that?”

  Tommy shrugged. “He’s crabby.”

  Gabriel rummaged around the tin and pulled out some crayons. “Well, I like him,” he said, with a hint of antagonism in his voice. He held up two green crayons, trying to decide between them. “Besides, he’s nice when no one’s looking.”

  “Let’s have some music,” Lillian said, turning on the radio. She poured milk into the pan and stirred in the cocoa and sugar. She didn’t like that she so acutely felt Mr. Drooms’s pain, whatever it was. She had her own worries. But she couldn’t forget the expression on his face as he looked at Gabriel lying on the couch. So vulnerable. So sad. She hadn’t thought such emotion was possible in him. She couldn’t help feeling protective of him, of anyone who looked like that.

  Gabriel sat with his knees under him, leaning forward on the table in anticipation. But it was taking too long. “Can we start, Mommy?”

  She continued to stir the hot chocolate, not hearing him.

  “Mommy! Can we start our letters? I want to color on mine.”

  “Hmm? Yes, that’s a good idea. Maybe you can draw a Christmas picture.”

  Tommy had already started to draw on his paper. “I’m going to make a treasure map on mine.”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Gabriel. The boys sat across from each other, best of friends now, and drew pictures and wrote their letters.

  Tommy looked up after a few minutes. “Mommy, I didn’t give Gabriel the nosebleed.”

  “Yeah, Mommy, that just happened because,” Gabriel said.

  The tenderness in Tommy’s face, the unwillingness he always had to hurt anyone, almost made h
er cry. “I know that, Sweetheart.”

  She stirred the chocolate and thought of Mr. Drooms, of her own pain, of all the pain in the world. Sometimes she felt overwhelmed by it all, and feared the dark creature of despair that was always gnawing inside her.

  The boys didn’t know what to make of her silence. Gabriel looked at Tommy, then at Lillian, and back to Tommy.

  Tommy made his voice sound cheerful. “We’re having a cozy night, right Mom?”

  Lillian poured out the hot chocolate into three mugs and set them on the table. “We certainly are.”

  She sat at the table with her hands around the hot chocolate and watched the boys stir the marshmallows, waiting for them to melt. After a few moments, she got up and took out another mug and filled it with hot chocolate. She forced a smile for the boys. “I’ll be right back.”

  She took the mug down the hall and knocked on Drooms’s door.

  “Mr. Drooms, it’s me. Are you there?” She waited expectantly, but didn’t hear anything. “The boys wanted you to have some hot cocoa.” There was no answer. She lingered a moment, hoping that he would accept this tiny gesture, just one human to another.

  Inside his apartment, Drooms sat alone in the dark. He heard the knocking as if it came from far away. He knew that on the other side of the door was happiness and life, a foreign world to which he did not belong. He had long ago carved a hole in emptiness, his refuge that always awaited him, and he now sat there quietly. All was still.

  A narrow shaft of pale light from the street slanted through the parting in the curtains and softly illuminated the animals. There they rested, frozen in a past of their own, forever enjoying their final moment of life, before whatever final blow had come to them. There they were. Old, dusty, removed from their own kind. And utterly alone.

  Lillian returned to her apartment, the few steps down the hall seeming so far, as if she had left a long time ago. There were her boys, drawing made up worlds, chocolate moustaches above their lips, safely anchoring her to the day, the hour, the moment. Here was her life. No need to seek out anything else.

  They paused in their coloring and saw the mug in her hand. “Doesn’t he want it?” Tommy asked.