Christmastime 1940 Page 7

  Lillian shook her head and set the hot chocolate down at the end of the table. She looked at their drawings and the beginnings of their letters.

  “Look, Mommy,” said Gabriel. “It’s a map of the buried treasure by a Christmas tree. There are presents under the X and the pirate snowman is guarding it.”

  “That’s wonderful, Gabriel! Oh, the snowman even has an earring.” Her voice didn’t sound right, sounded false. She covered it with a smile and stroked Gabriel’s head. She looked over at Tommy, who was working intently on his drawing. “Very nice, Tommy.”

  Lillian went back to her seat and took a sip of the hot chocolate that she had left. She gave a slight start on seeing that there were four mugs, each at a seat. Staring at the fourth mug, she felt herself slipping, slipping. The carefully constructed scaffolding over the empty hole in her life collapsed, unexpectedly, leaving her to fall dizzyingly into her own despair. The dark animal that she thought was securely chained at the bottom of the pit was now thrashing its way out, clawing wildly in its anguish, lurching at her chest; soon it would release its long pent up howl.

  She stood up shakily. “I’m going to take a bath. You’ll be in charge, Tommy?”

  “Aren’t you going to drink your hot chocolate?” he asked.

  When she didn’t answer, he looked up, and watched her closely as she turned up the volume on the radio. She rested her hand on the counter, then the couch, the wall, as she made her way to the bathroom.

  She closed and locked the bathroom door, and turned the faucets on full. Then she covered her mouth with her hand as she slid to the floor and leaned against the tub, her sobs covered by the sound of the foaming water.

  Chapter 6

  *

  Mrs. Murphy found herself thinking increasingly about her boss. He was always difficult around the holidays, but this year something else was going on with him. She didn’t know whether she should be concerned or not.

  As she went to the files, she passed his office and noticed that once again, he was staring out the window, lost in thought. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was 12:15. She knocked lightly on his door.

  “Excuse me, sir, but aren’t you supposed to be at the lunch meeting with Carson’s?”

  Drooms snapped out of his reverie and looked at the clock.

  “If they call, tell them I already left.”

  He grabbed his coat and hat and dashed out the door – the first time he had ever been late for an important meeting.

  His mind was wandering lately, thinking of all sorts of things. Remembering, imagining, wondering. Not at all focused as it usually was. As he wove his way through the crowded streets, he had to admit that he would never have been late if Mason were still involved with the account. He realized how much he had come to depend on him, and enjoyed his company – ever sanguine, offering alternate points of views, possibilities. Mason’s way of thinking was quite different from his own. He couldn’t blame Henderson for trying to take him away, though it galled him every time he thought of it. But he had decided against speaking to Mason about it. If Mason wanted to leave him, so be it.

  *

  Lillian and Izzy stepped off the elevator at the end of the day and passed Mr. Rockwell, who was returning from an outside meeting.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hapsey, Miss Briggs.” He addressed Lillian with an expression of concern. “Is your son feeling better?”

  Lillian searched for, but couldn’t detect, any sarcasm in his question. “Yes, he is. Thank you for asking.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Well, good evening,” he said, without his usual predatory manner, and he stepped inside the elevator.

  “He’s clearly interested in you, Lilly.”

  Lillian shook her head. She assumed he was simply trying a different tactic.

  “Don’t discount him,” said Izzy. “He could be your ticket to the Art Department. And he’s not as bad as he first seems. You know how some people put up a fake front to scare people away.”

  “Yes, I do know and I don’t like it. How is anyone supposed to know what someone is really like? Why can’t people just say what they mean? Why must everyone be so difficult?”

  Izzy was surprised at the warmth of Lillian’s response. “He’s actually kind of nice,” she said. “In the ten years I’ve worked for him I haven’t heard of him do anything too bad. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.”

  “I don’t like the way he makes me feel – the way he looks at me.”

  “Oh, that’s just a stupid habit that comes from being handsome and powerful.”

  Lillian shook her head. “No. He’s not a comfortable person. There has to be some engaging quality, something you’re drawn to, that pulls you in –”

  “Sounds like you have someone in mind.”

  “No, I’m just saying…I don’t know what I’m saying. I think I’m just tired.” She waved her hand to brush away her tangled thoughts. “The boys have been asking when we can get a tree. I think I’ll stop by the tree lot on my way home and see what they have. See you tomorrow, Izzy.”

  Lillian made her way down the busy sidewalk, thinking how lucky she was to have Mrs. Kuntzman as a babysitter. She could take her time getting home tonight. She didn’t feel like taking the bus. Her mind felt jumbled, unfocused. Not happy.

  That was no way to be this time of year, she told herself. She would walk along Central Park and try to get her thoughts in order, muster up some holiday cheer.

  Usually it was the tiny things that lifted her up when she was down – the glow of the first lamplights in the dusk, the smell of wood fire in the air. She gazed out at the park with its snow-covered paths, heard the soft clopping of the occasional horse-drawn carriage, saw the lights of the city sparkling through the bare trees – and waited for that surge of pleasure. But tonight the beauty of the park did not touch her. Tonight it just looked cold and empty.

  When she arrived at the neighborhood Christmas tree lot, she saw that it was busy with couples and families carefully selecting the perfect tree, deciding between the wreaths and garlands, and lining up at the hot cider booth. The scent of cinnamon and pine filled the air, colored lights hung around the periphery of the lot, and strains of Christmas music came from the corner where a group of street musicians played. It was just the kind of place she would normally have delighted in.

  She walked from tree to tree, considering the different shapes and colors. She stood in front of a sage-colored spruce and felt its prickly branches through her gloves. Then she moved to a row of shimmery, deep green pines. She took off her gloves and touched the long, supple needles; she leaned in, deeply inhaling the pungent fragrance. She could imagine one of these trees in her apartment near the couch, with the fire crackling, the boys sitting in front of it discussing what Santa might bring. She would come back for one of these, bring the boys, get them some cider. It would put them all in the holiday spirit.

  For now, she would get a wreath with red ribbon and give it to Mrs. Kuntzman. As Lillian held up different sizes, she saw Mr. Drooms coming down the sidewalk. She took a quick breath and moved back among the trees, not wanting to be seen.

  He walked along the snowy sidewalk with his steady, heavy tread, his head and broad shoulders bent down. She realized that he was deep inside his own world and would not notice her. As he approached and passed, she wondered what darkness filled his mind.

  No, she thought. There was nothing they could do for each other. Nothing. She watched him until he turned at the corner and she could no longer see him. Then she paid for the wreath and went to pick up her boys.

  Lillian climbed the steps to the babysitter’s and knocked at the door. When it opened, Lillian held up the wreath.

  “For you. I thought you might like it for your window or door.”

  Mrs. Kuntzman smiled and graciously accepted the wreath, taking deep breaths of the fragrant pine and saying, “Ahh,” after each one. “Like the forest back in old country, when I was a little girl. Thank you, Mrs. Hapse
y. I put this in the window to make the house cheerful.”

  Lillian caught a different tone in Mrs. Kuntzman’s voice and observed her closely; she was smiling as usual, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. Lillian had never seen her like this before and worried that the boys had acted up.

  “Have the boys been giving you a hard time?”

  “Ach, no, no. They bring me happiness.” She made a vague gesture to the outside world. “It’s those others. Last week they throw a tomato at window, today an egg.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible!” said Lillian. “I can’t believe people can be so –”

  “Why they do this to me? I been here long time. My son fought and died in the Great War. My only son. What more they want from me?”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  The sadness on Lillian’s face prompted Mrs. Kuntzman to pat her hand and say softly, “This is what happen with war. This happen with last war, too. I don’t tell Tommy or Gabriel. They will find out soon enough how the world is.” She mustered up a smile. “For now, we keep them happy.”

  Lillian nodded and pressed her hand. “Please call me if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hapsey.” She was holding the wreath and smiling as Lillian and the boys left.

  *

  Before going to bed, Lillian checked on her boys, as she did every night. But tonight the words from Mrs. Kuntzman echoed in her mind:

  “They find out soon enough….For now, we keep them happy.”

  Lillian gazed down at her sleeping sons. The light from the street softly highlighted their cheeks, their foreheads. She bent over them and watched the soft rise and fall of their chests, their innocent sleep.

  Here they were, safe in their beds. No war as yet, no sickness. They were excited about Christmas, the snow, life. Yes, she thought, as she kissed their foreheads, these are the beautiful hours.

  She vowed to do whatever she could to give her boys strong roots and happy memories that they could always carry with them near their hearts – should they ever need them for company in some faraway snowy trench.

  Chapter 7

  *

  On Saturday, Lillian and her boys passed Drooms in the doorway as he was coming home and they were leaving to go out.

  “We got our Christmas tree!” Gabriel said to him, too excited to note Lillian’s eagerness to keep moving.

  “Just now – and we carried it home by ourselves,” added Tommy.

  Drooms smiled at the boys, and then turned to Lillian. “You should have asked. I could have helped you.”

  Lillian interpreted the gentle expression in his eyes as the poor-widow-with-children look of pity. “Thank you. We managed all right.”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “It wasn’t that heavy. We’re going to get popcorn and cranberries to string.”

  “Want to help?” asked Gabriel.

  Lillian didn’t want to intrude on Drooms any further. She wasn’t sure which part of him she was more afraid of stirring – his unpredictable irritable side, or that heartbreaking vulnerable one.

  “Mr. Drooms is busy, boys,” she said, giving him a graceful way out. But when Drooms appeared to hesitate, she added, “Of course, you’re welcome to stop by.”

  He seemed to be gauging her face, trying to determine whether she meant it, so she added, “You could join us for a bite to eat if you like.”

  She found herself warming to the idea of having him over. It might be a good way for them to get past the tension that always seemed to surface between them.

  “And see our tree,” said Gabriel.

  “And help decorate it,” added Tommy.

  Lillian laughed at their enthusiasm and turned to Drooms for his response. But he now appeared preoccupied and looked away.

  “Thank you, but I have some things to do tonight.”

  Lillian’s temper flared and her cheeks flushed pink. “Mr. Drooms leads a very busy life. He doesn’t have time for tree trimming and visiting. Come on, boys.” She left without saying goodbye.

  Drooms was taken aback by her abruptness. He watched them continue down the steps.

  Gabriel smiled and waved. “Bye, Mr. Drooms!”

  Tommy called back from the sidewalk. “You don’t know what you’re missing. It’s lasagna tonight!”

  Lillian was angry with herself for inviting him so impulsively, and then losing her temper. She didn’t want him to think that it mattered to her what he did.

  Yet she felt disappointed by his response. She had briefly imagined an enjoyable evening of simple holiday cheer. Now she dreaded that he might have mistaken her invitation, perhaps he even thought she was setting her cap at him. She groaned and promised herself, once again, to ignore her neighbor from now on.

  Drooms stared after Lillian as she walked out of sight. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. Surely she didn’t really want him to stop by? She was just a warm, neighborly sort of person, kind to everyone.

  He went upstairs and attempted to organize his papers, but couldn’t seem to focus. After a few hours of fruitless activity, he decided to go to the diner. When he passed Lillian’s door, he had half a notion to knock, knowing of course, that he never would.

  Drooms sat at his usual booth, opened the menu that he knew by heart, and began to peruse it. The thought, the possibility that perhaps Lillian had been sincere in her invitation, struck him like a blow. What if she had really meant it? She certainly appeared offended when he declined. He tried to imagine himself sitting at the same table as her. What would they have to talk about? He felt both shaky and warm, almost happy at the thought.

  He quickly dismissed such foolery, looked again at the menu and saw that he had been staring at the dessert page. He opened to the specials, but once again his thoughts drifted, and he imagined Lillian moving about her apartment. Was she clearing the dishes by now, trimming the tree? Was she thinking of him?

  His gaze fell beyond the menu and into the dark wood of the empty booth. Never one for music, he was surprised to find himself lost in the simple lyrics of “Maybe.” Maybe, you’ll think of me. When you are all alone. He set his menu down and let the rest of the world fall away as he listened to the words, wondering at the desperate stirring in his heart.

  The waitress came and asked him if he wanted the meatloaf special. When he didn’t answer, she smiled. “You like the Ink Spots, sir?”

  Drooms frowned at being caught in a personal moment. “When did you start playing music here?”

  She looked around, perplexed. “You mean the radio? We always have it on.”

  He glanced down at the menu. “It must be on louder tonight or something. I’ll have the special.” He slipped the menu back in its stand and continued to frown as he tried not to listen to the song.

  He ate his dinner, stopping to look out now and then at the lights and traffic and pedestrians. Everyone in a hurry to go somewhere. After dinner, he sipped his coffee and opened the newspaper he had brought with him. When he realized he was reading the same page over and over again, he asked for the check, and left.

  *

  Lillian and the boys sat at the kitchen table, which was strewn with strings of popcorn and cranberries. Gabriel hummed along with the Christmas music on the radio as he attempted to make a red and green paper chain, and Tommy decorated his paper snowflakes with bits of foil and sparkles from the crafts box.

  Lillian quietly mended a blouse. She was thinking of other Christmases, and how Tom had always been in charge of putting up the tree. She should have paid more attention. After he was gone, his buddies from the firehouse had always delivered a tree and set it up for her. This year she had declined their help, saying that she only had room for a small tree and that she and the boys could manage. She didn’t want to bother them any more. She no longer lived close to them, and they all had families of their own.

  She lifted her eyes from her sewing and frowned at the mess in the living room. Near the couch a large box sat open, reve
aling Christmas decorations. Strings of lights were stretched out on the floor. The six-foot tall Christmas tree lay on its side near a stand, pine needles all over the rug.

  Lillian shook her head and shifted her attention to the boys. Tommy was carefully picking out just the right bits of foiled paper and sparkles and then gluing them onto the largest snowflake. Gabriel was brushing paste on the end of a red strip of paper, his tongue in the corner of his mouth in concentration.

  Gabriel pressed together the ends of the loop, waiting for the paste to hold. “Hey, I know. While the paste is drying, let’s see if we can name all the reindeers.”

  Tommy sneered without looking up. “Don’t be a dope, Gabe.”

  “Tommy!” said Lillian. “What have I told you about talking like that?”

  “But Mom,” Tommy said, “that would only take ten seconds. Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blixen. Five seconds. His paste is going to take at least a minute.”

  Lillian tried to sound stern. “That’s beside the point. I don’t want you calling names.”

  Gabriel gave a snort under his breath. “You forgot Rudolph.”

  “He’s not really one of the reindeers,” said Tommy.

  “Yes, he is,” said Gabriel.

  “No. He’s not.”

  “He is so. Right, Mommy?”

  “Come on, boys. Enough of that. Finish up your projects. We’re going to need your decorations.” Lillian made a few more stitches. “This is our first Christmas in our new home – we have to make it look especially nice.”

  “I like our old home better,” said Tommy.

  “You just haven’t given this place a chance yet, that’s all,” said Lillian.

  “Can’t we go back,” he said, “just for a visit?” His tone had changed. He sounded like a little boy again, with a touch of longing in his eyes.

  “Yeah,” said Gabriel. “Let’s go back and see everybody. And then come back here. I like it here.”

  Lillian smiled. “We will. After the holidays we’ll take a trip. See all our old friends. How about that?”