Christmastime 1941 Page 6

  “Well, hello Mrs. Murphy! Doing some shopping?”

  Mrs. Murphy blushed a deeper pink. “Good evening, Mr. Mason. Yes, a little Christmas shopping for the nieces and nephews. And you?”

  “My wife has a few things on layaway.” He sensed her discomfort and decided to move on. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said, tipping his hat to them, and then pushing on through the crowd.

  Brendan slapped his thigh. “Mrs. Murphy, is it? So you married a man with the same name as yours? Now, what are the odds of that?” he laughed, and held the door open for her.

  They walked to the little café, briefly discussing the news of the war and where they were when they heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor. Once inside the café, they found a table near the window. Mrs. Murphy folded her hands in front of her and glanced outside while Brendan hung up their coats. The city glittered with lights from the traffic, the shop windows, the street lamps, and a flow of sounds filled the air – brakes and horns, the merry clanging from a Salvation Army bell ringer, the “Extra, Extra” of the newsboys selling the evening papers. Shoppers and workers crowded the sidewalks, all rushing home to someone.

  For a moment, Mrs. Murphy felt that she was part of all that wonderful whirlwind; she felt young and hopeful, as if something wonderful were about to happen. She had forgotten that such a feeling existed, and tried to push it back down.

  “Shall we share a pot of tea, then?” asked Brendan, sitting down, and gesturing to the waiter.

  “That would be lovely!” she said. Even the act of ordering a pot of tea seemed momentous, something to be taken note of and stored away for future delight.

  They glanced at the menu and ordered sandwiches. Mrs. Murphy smiled up at the delightfully kind waiter who brought the tea. What’s wrong with me? she couldn’t help but wonder. This is just a casual meal with an old friend. This is just a pot of tea. No need to make more out of it than it is.

  She sat up straight, snatching glances at Brendan, trying to see what the years had done to him. He looked well. Happy. Just as she had always imagined him.

  “So, Mrs. Murphy!” Brendan said playfully. He cleared the space in front of him and leaned his elbows on the table, bringing him another inch or two closer to her. “What have you been doing these last forty years? Have you been living here in New York City all this time?”

  “Yes. Nearly forty years. I originally moved here to help my sister Maureen with her growing brood.”

  “Your second eldest sister, if memory serves me,” said Brendan.

  “That’s right.” Mrs. Murphy lifted the teapot and poured them each a cup. “She had two children at the time, and another on the way.”

  “Kathleen was the eldest in your family,” Brendan said, setting the sugar bowl in front of her. “Followed by Gavin. Then James. Jamesy, as you called him.”

  Mrs. Murphy smiled, and stirred some sugar into her tea, wondering if Brendan meant anything by his display of memory. She hoped he wouldn’t start asking questions about the past. Surely he would have the good grace to keep the conversation on the present.

  “I see you still take two spoons of sugar in your tea,” he said. “So, you moved in with your sister. And?”

  She tapped her spoon against her cup, and placed it on the saucer. “And after a few years I decided to attend secretary’s school at night. I completed the course and eventually found a job. Then I worked my way up in an accounting firm. I started as a typist. And I’m office manager now.” She bit into her sandwich, not wanting to talk any more about herself.

  “Well, well,” mused Brendan. “It sounds like life has been good to you.” He held up his sandwich, a hundred questions ready to leap off his tongue. “And is your –”

  Mrs. Murphy caught the waiter and asked for a bit of cream for her tea. “And you, Brendan? I heard you had moved, and gotten married, and had done well for yourself,” she said brightly.

  He stirred some sugar into his tea. “Eventually. Yes. I worked as a machinist in different places. After Boston, I moved to Baltimore.” He took a sip of tea. “Then Harrisburg, and eventually to Philadelphia. Couldn’t seem to settle down. Was on the move for years.”

  She looked away from his piercing eyes, and took the cream offered by the waiter and poured a splash into her tea. Then she took a small bite of her sandwich, and gave a brisk nod for Brendan to continue, as if they were merely discussing the weather.

  “Then I met Elizabeth, and stayed put in Philadelphia. Never had a reason to go back to Boston.”

  Mrs. Murphy brought the cup to her lips, and took a tiny sip. Was he throwing darts her way? Or was it just her own guilt pricking her at every possible opportunity?

  “We were married for twenty-five years,” Brendan continued. “Elizabeth passed away, oh, over ten years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, setting the cup down with a noisy clank as it hit the rim of the saucer.

  For a few moments, nothing was said. Mrs. Murphy was revising the history she had made for him; she suddenly felt vulnerable to know that he was no longer married.

  “And what about your hus–,” Brendan began to ask, but she cut him off.

  “Any children?” she asked, refilling their cups.

  He leaned back and feigned the same relaxed ease. “One daughter. Nancy. My pride and joy. And four grandchildren, to date.” He pulled out his wallet. “And if you don’t mind me playing the proud granddad, I’ll show you some photographs. That’s Angelo, eight – a good lad – wants to be a fireman. This here’s Maria, just turned six – the apple of my eye. Brian, five – a handful, that one. And the wee babe, Julia.”

  “My, my. Darling, all of them. How wonderful for you – and them. They have their own private Santa in you – year round.”

  “True, true,” he laughed. “I have to take care that they don’t see my costume. Brian caught me trying it on last year and I had to do a bit of impromptu acting, saying Mrs. Claus sent me early to check out the chimney to make sure I could still fit, blaming my girth on her cooking. Had to make a quick exit out the door, with Brian standing there, his mouth hanging open. Never said a word!” He slapped his thigh, almost slipping into his Santa personality, so heartily did he laugh.

  Mrs. Murphy noticed that his brogue was all but gone tonight. As if it had come out unbidden from the past when he had seen her unexpectedly, and was now safely shelved away, along with the long years since.

  She laughed at his stories, remembering the delight she had always felt in his company, the bit of magic he effortlessly sprinkled over everything. She remembered that life was always intensified around him, charged with the promise of excitement, adventure. A tiny feeling of jealousy washed over her briefly for the years the lucky woman Elizabeth had with him.

  Brendan finished his sandwich and washed it down with a swig of tea. Then he leaned aside, as the waiter cleared their plates. “And what about –”

  “This is your daughter? A lovely girl,” said Mrs. Murphy, examining the photograph.

  “That’s my Nancy. And her husband, Guido. I’d hoped she’d marry a fine Irishman, but I couldn’t have chosen better myself. He’s the best of husbands and fathers. My Nancy couldn’t be happier.”

  He slipped the wallet back into his pocket. “I took to visiting them here for the holidays, after Elizabeth died. Then when the children started coming, I found myself coming more often and staying longer.” He laughed and pulled on his beard. “This was all Nancy’s idea. I started playing Santa to her little ones, and she convinced me to try the department stores. Said they could use a realistic looking Santa. Said no one looked more like the old fool than me.”

  “Oh, come now, I’m sure she said no such thing,” laughed Mrs. Murphy.

  “No. My Nancy would never be cruel.”

  Mrs. Murphy inwardly flinched, wondering if he was trying to wound her.

  But he continued in a light, playful manner. “I had the costume. So I thought, why not? I’ve enjoyed it o
ver the years. Though by the looks some of the mothers throw at me, I’m afraid I give the little ones too much hope. And you?” he said quickly. “I suppose you have a dozen grandchildren by now?”

  Mrs. Murphy leaned back and crossed her hands in front of her. “Nieces and nephews, all with children of their own. Seven great-nieces and -nephews here in New York alone. They keep me quite busy.”

  “Seven. Well, well. Seven of them.” He waited for her to say something more.

  “And you’ve lived in New York for how long, Brendan?” She found herself wanting to say his name; it somehow closed the years between them.

  “Two years now. Nancy keeps pestering me to move in with them, or at least to get a place close by.” He shifted around in his chair, determined to have an answer to the question that was foremost in his mind. “And you and your husband, where do you live?”

  She lifted the teapot and poured, but the pot was empty. She pretended not to notice. “I live alone now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, scanning her face to see if he had caused her any pain.

  “Down in Grammercy. A lovely neighborhood, with a park nearby. Beautiful flowers. I often stroll by there when the weather is fine.”

  He watched her closely, trying to read her face. The conversation shifted briefly to the war, and then to their plans for Christmas. They finished their tea, and Brendan paid the bill.

  “Thank you, Brendan. I’ve enjoyed myself.”

  “How about a stroll? Do you have the time? We can take in the Christmas decorations. Let’s go watch the skaters! Then warm up with a cup of hot cocoa. What do you say? It’ll be like old times.”

  Mrs. Murphy smiled, remembering his contagious enthusiasm. It took her the smallest of moments to break her old habit of saying no to late evenings during the week. “That’d be grand!”

  Mrs. Murphy’s heart beat in girlish excitement as she took his arm. She hadn’t acted so impulsively, she laughed to herself, since – well, since her days with Brendan.

  Chapter 5

  *

  Lillian sat at the switchboard, tapping her pencil on the desk, her eyes on the clock. She was looking forward to having lunch with Izzy. Other than a quick hello in the morning, she hadn’t seen her friend for a week. Izzy’s liveliness and energy had a way of offsetting the more problematic areas of the job. Lillian couldn’t help thinking that she should be more like Izzy. More vocal, more assertive. More of a doer.

  Izzy had been devastated when Red said he wanted to hold off on their wedding, and though she was always worried about him, she didn’t let it get in the way of living. Now here she was, thriving in her new role at Rockwell Publishing: taking charge of the floor, making the schedules for the typists and clerks, taking minutes for Mr. Rockwell, training the new girls. Izzy was sharp, ambitious, professional, and confident. She was the type of woman who made things happen, despite setbacks.

  Lillian put on her coat and hat, and waited for Izzy to finish explaining the filing system to one of the new girls.

  “Ready?” Izzy asked, and linked her arm with Lillian’s as they headed out the door.

  All the way to the café, they talked of the war, the rumors, and how quickly everything had changed. Izzy told her that on Monday, the day after Pearl Harbor, the whole city reeled as details of the attack came in.

  “You wouldn’t believe it, Lilly. Storeowners were throwing out anything that was made in Japan – throwing it right out onto the sidewalks. People were gathered in groups everywhere, trying to figure out what had happened. Everyone found a radio to listen to the President’s speech, to the updates – they clustered around cars with the radios blasting, crowded in cafes, shops, everyone exchanging news, trading information. Much of it wrong. Someone said Pearl Harbor was in New Jersey – that set hearts pounding. Someone else said it was hoax, like the War of the Worlds – remember that? Others said the German Luftwaffe was on its way here. It was pandemonium. Truly frightening.”

  Lillian listened to Izzy’s account with amazement. “I thought it was bad upstate – it must have been terrible here.”

  Izzy shook her head. “The world has been turned up-side-down.” She opened the door to the little Italian café they sometimes lunched at. She pointed out the American flag that now hung outside the door, where last week hung an Italian flag.

  Lillian whispered to Izzy. “I guess they want us to know whose side they’re on.”

  “Either that, or they don’t want to lose any business,” said Izzy.

  They entered the noisy café and slid into a booth. Lillian immediately noticed a difference from the last time – there was more energy, more tension in the air, more movement. Different levels of conversation mixed with the music of the radio coming from the counter. She immediately picked up on a different attitude towards the Italian owner and waiters. Even though the owner displayed a second American flag by the register, there was a decided change towards him, a wariness that had not existed before.

  Lillian greeted the waiter in her usual friendly manner when she placed her order, and saw the woman at the next table shake her head disapprovingly. When the waiter came back with two cups of soup, Lillian smiled, but he seemed angry as he left.

  Izzy raised her eyebrows and peered at the soup. “I guess it’s safe to eat.”

  “Oh, Izzy!”

  Izzy leaned forward. “I know I shouldn’t be happy about anything to do with this war, and I’m not – but they say that a lot of the Americans who joined the RAF want to come home so they can fight against the Japs.”

  “Does that mean Red will come home?”

  “I think there’s a good chance. That’s all I can think about.” For a moment, Izzy was her old self, bursting with enthusiasm and happiness.

  “Have you had any word from him?” asked Lillian.

  The carefree expression immediately vanished. “Last week. I finally got a letter, longer than the ones he had been sending. It turns out it’s more than his leg. I knew he wasn’t telling me everything.” She looked out the window and narrowed her eyes, as if she were still piecing it all together. “I think maybe he had some sort of breakdown. His letters had practically trickled off to nothing. Then in this letter he told me that two of his buddies had been killed on the same mission that he caught the shrapnel.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Lillian. “How devastating for Red.”

  “But that was four months ago. Something’s not right.” She shook off the feeling and started in on her soup, but her brow remained knitted. “He’s recovering in the north of England somewhere. In some enormous manor house they’ve converted into a rest and recovery hospital. He hasn’t so much as mentioned our wedding. I guess I can’t blame him.”

  “I hope he comes home soon. For both your sakes.” Lillian saw the moment in Izzy’s face when she veered close to self-pity, and then decided on a different course of action.

  “In the meantime,” said Izzy, “I mean to do my part. Make the best of a bad situation.” She crumbled some crackers into her soup. “I’m signing up for volunteer work. The options are endless now: air raid wardens, plane spotters, Red Cross work. I know a couple of gals working at the defense centers – the canteens. I’m going with them tonight. Serve coffee and donuts. Hand out paper and pencils to the GIs so they can write home.”

  “Maybe I can join you some nights. See if Mrs. Kuntzman can babysit the boys. I’d like to do whatever I can.” Lillian tasted the minestrone soup. Delicious.

  “I need to do something,” said Izzy. “I feel like everything is on hold. Every day I check the mail for letters from Red – but he’s not much of a writer,” she laughed. “I figure maybe I can get some of these guys at the canteen to write to their gals, let them know how they’re doing.”

  Lillian knew that she would feel the same way. Anything was better than just waiting, not knowing what was going on, as she was beginning to feel with Charles.

  “You can knit, right?” asked Izzy, putting her spoon down. “
The Navy’s looking for women to knit socks, turtlenecks, and watch caps.”

  “That way I could stay at home with the boys,” said Lillian, thrilled that there was a way for her to help out. She had felt helpless in the face of the pummeling news reports, and now here was something practical she could do. “Charles was in the Navy, you know.”

  Izzy looked up. “Do you think he’ll rejoin?”

  “I don’t know,” Lillian said. She kept telling herself that he would be too old, but some part of her knew that he was going to serve again, in some capacity. “I’ll get some yarn on my way home.” The thought of knitting for the sailors made her feel that she would be doing something connected to Charles.

  “The worse thing is just to sit and wait,” said Izzy. “Not knowing what’s going to happen. Thank God for my job! I’m finding that I’m actually good at it, managing the staff.”

  “Your new role really suits you,” said Lillian. “Though Mr. Rockwell has few redeemable qualities, at least he has the good sense to recognize talent when he sees it.”

  “You know,” said Izzy, making room for the waiter to set their sandwiches down. “I think he saw this coming. I mean, not Pearl Harbor, but that war was just a matter of time, and he didn’t want to be left short-handed. Little by little he’s been promoting the women. For months, now.”

  Izzy took the toothpick out of her hot pastrami and lifted the sandwich to take a bite. “I have to say, I’m grateful to Mr. Rockwell for giving me the chance. He could have given it to one of the other girls. It’s really helped to take my mind off things. And, you know, he’s really not as bad as you think.”

  “If you say so. Though do be careful. I’ve seen the way he ogles you. Haven’t you noticed?”

  Izzy shrugged. “The same way he ogles every woman. I guess I’ve chosen to ignore it. It seems beside the point. I just want to be kept busy. I’ve come to know him better, and I can see his good qualities.” She laughed at the skepticism on Lillian’s face. “Well, okay, one or two of them. And even Mr. Weeble improves on closer acquaintance.”