Christmastime 1941

by Linda Mahkovec

  In the alcove to her left, tiny flames glittered in the rows of ruby-glass votive candles. She imagined tiny whispers of warm air rising from them, rising up to the stained glass windows, up to the Gothic arches. She discreetly took out her sketchbook, and made a quick drawing of the candles; their wisps of smoke, like little prayers or thoughts of love, turned into tiny angels – spiraling up, up into the cathedral air.

  She would finish the drawing at home. She tucked the sketchbook into her purse, and quietly left, the soft clicking of her heels, her thoughts, her love, becoming part of the cathedral.

  Lillian opened the heavy brass doors, and walked out into the cold of the night. She stood at the top of the steps, taking in the bustling world all around, and smiled at the exuberant, striving, pulsating swirl of humanity playing out in front of her.

  She walked down the steps and turned up Fifth Avenue, thinking, there are a thousand ways to drink from the world.

  Chapter 10

  *

  Mrs. Murphy and Brendan met every night after work. Brendan traded his night shifts to days, and took her to dinner at his favorite pubs. She helped him with his Christmas shopping; he helped her with her Christmas baking. On the weekend they rode the ferry around the Statue of Liberty, and spent an entire afternoon window-shopping along Fifth Avenue, stopping to listen to the carolers. Mrs. Murphy had the curious sensation that her life had suddenly become three-dimensional. Time seemed to be popping out at odd angles; time she never thought she had available was now filled with lunchtime strolls, evening outings. Brendan even surprised her with tickets to the Christmas show with the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, and they finished the evening with a visit to the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. The corners of her life, the corners of her mind were filled with time with Brendan.

  Once or twice, she told herself to slow things down, reminding herself that all good things must come to an end. But each time she intended to say no to one of his larks, he pulled her arm, saying, “Come on, Mary! There’s life to be lived!” And she gladly gave in. He had always used that line on her, and it had always worked. She had been as hungry for life as he had been.

  But surely they had changed, she kept telling herself. Surely, they would have their fill, and then go back to their old lives. If things didn’t settle down soon, she would have to help it along. Explain that enough was enough. Push the friendship back to the status of cards at Christmas. Tea, once or twice a year, perhaps.

  Those were her sincere intentions. But she couldn’t stop herself. She felt like she was living again, and the feeling was intoxicating. When Brendan asked her to spend either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with him and meet his daughter and family, she had simply changed the subject, and avoided the confrontation she knew was coming. Sooner or later it would have to end, but she didn’t want to miss out on a single day with him until then.

  And sure enough, that day did come. In a messy, quarrelsome manner that she had not foreseen.

  One afternoon, they strolled through Central Park, wending their way along the paths, crossing over bridges, stopping to look at the ducks in the lake, the bare trees against the gray sky, a few clopping horse carriages. A light snow began to fall, but it didn’t cause them to pick up their pace. If anything, they walked more slowly, arms linked tightly under the umbrella, reluctant to leave the quiet and beauty of the winter day. One by one, the lamplights came on, shining brightly along the path before them. Mrs. Murphy felt a small tug at her heart – the loveliness of the golden lamplights in the darkening day filled her with sadness. They seemed to her to mark the end – of life, of dreams, of her time with Brendan.

  By the time they left the park, night was settling in, and they now felt the cold. They decided to warm up at their favorite pub, a cozy little place off Times Square, with live Irish music – fiddles and flutes, and sometimes simple impromptu singing.

  They took a table by the window, and slowly the place filled up. Over dinner they talked and laughed, and when the music began to play, Brendan prevailed upon her to dance with him. Mrs. Murphy surprised herself that she still remembered how.

  They sat back down, flushed with the dance. Mrs. Murphy fanned herself with the menu, while Brendan went to get them drinks.

  What a time they had! She had forgotten that a day could be so full.

  She observed Brendan as he stood at the bar and ordered another pint for himself and a ginger beer for her. He had the air of a young man, the way he leaned back against the bar, one foot resting on the brass foot rail, laughing with the bartender. He had a broad chest, a thick head of nearly white hair, an energetic way of moving. She had the surprising thought that it would be a lovely, comforting thing to rest her head on his chest. When he suddenly turned and smiled at her, she felt her heart leap.

  Brendan came back with their drinks and sat down across from her. He then took her hand, and held it tightly.

  They turned to listen to the singer who had stepped up to the little area that served as a stage. In a clear tenor voice he began to sing “The Rose of Tralee.”

  Mrs. Murphy couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so full, so brimming over with love and passion for life, for the beauty of music, and the companionship of a kindly man.

  Brendan squeezed her hand. “I feel like a young man, Mary. I – I haven’t been this happy in a long time. We always were good together.” He laughed, and except for his white beard, he looked like a young man again. “Sure, as I live and breathe, I feel that nothing has changed.”

  He took her other hand and leaned in towards her, his eyes twinkling with happiness. “And though I may feel young, I’m too old to be beating around the bush,” he said, with a small nervous laugh. “I once gave you a locket, because I didn’t have money for a ring. But I do now.”

  Brendan reached into his vest pocket, took out a blue velvet box, and set it in front of her. Then he opened the lid, turned it towards her, and clasped both her hands again.

  “I still want you for my wife, Mary. For whatever time we have left. Let’s live our lives together. Let’s make up for lost time.”

  Mrs. Murphy looked away. The love and hope in his eyes nearly broke her heart. Before she answered, she took a good look all around her, memorizing every detail of the moment. Outside the window, people hurried by, tucked beneath their hats against the snow, and couples strolled by arm in arm under a shared umbrella. Inside, laughter and warmth filled the pub, and the soft strain of “The Rose of Tralee” ached with longing and regret. And across from her sat a lovely man with a warm, gentle heart. Here she was, she thought, for this brief, fleeting moment, thick in the charm of life. She closed her eyes, and impressed the memory on her mind so that she would never forget it.

  Then she opened her eyes, and once more became the practical and efficient Mrs. Murphy. It was her own fault, she told herself. She was like a child who willfully ignored the fact that daylight was fading and time for play would soon be over. And now here it was – the fall of night, an end to play and dreams. She took a deep breath and looked Brendan in the eye.

  But she couldn’t speak the words. She tried, but they just wouldn’t come.

  When she didn’t answer, Brendan gently asked the question that had been plaguing him every time he tried to fill in the gaps in her life.

  “Mary dear, I don’t mean to pry, but you’ve – you’ve never once mentioned your husband. I know you’ve lost him, and sure, I don’t want to be stirring up painful memories. But – was he not good to you, Mary? Is that it? I swear to you, I’ll never give you cause for pain or sorrow. Not a moment. I only want to make you happy.”

  She gave a light groan, laden with despair.

  Brendan believed he had hit upon the answer, the reason why she held back, why she avoided talking about her past. He began to grow angry that anyone would dare hurt his sweet Mary Margaret.

  “Is that it? Was he a drunk? Did he not treat you right?”

  The pain in her eyes as she
turned away stoked his imagination and he envisioned the worst.

  “Oh, I could kill the brute if he ever laid a hand on you.” He sat back, riling himself up for a fight. He made a fist, as if winding up to throw a punch. “You should have told me years ago. I would have come and, by God, if that husband of yours so much as hurt a hair on your head, why, I would have –”

  “Brendan!” She couldn’t let him go on like this.

  He froze, his fist still in the air, surprised at the force of her tone.

  “There was no husband,” she said quietly.

  Brendan stared open-mouthed, waiting for her words to make sense. He squinted, attempting to understand what she was saying. “But – I thought – Do you mean to tell me you never married?”

  “No. I never married.”

  He sat back in his chair, trying to puzzle out what she meant. Then his head snapped up.

  “Are you saying –” He pulled on his beard, trying to be broadminded about things, trying to rearrange his idea of the saintly Mary Margaret. “Are you saying – you two lived together? And never married? Was he a married man, then? Is that it?”

  “Brendan Sullivan!” said Mrs. Murphy. She sat up straight and gave her jacket a quick tug. “How dare you think such a thing?!” She was grateful that his words had shifted her sorrow to indignation. It would make the rest easier. She gathered her coat around her shoulders and slipped her arms through the sleeves, and then began to pull on her gloves.

  “Come. It’s time we’re off and away,” she said. “It’s getting late.”

  Brendan’s world had just shifted, the earth was still wobbling beneath him.

  “Now, hold on here, Mary. I’m not good at readin’ between the lines.” He leaned towards her, with pleading eyes. “Help me to understand what you’re sayin’ here –”

  She responded as casually as if he had just asked her the time. “There was no one.” She pulled smooth her gloves, and held her purse in front of her on the table. She held his eyes, and spoke with just a glimmer of regret. “There was you. And then there was no one.”

  Brendan waited for her to say more. Then he looked away, blinking in incomprehension. He squinted again, and cocked his head.

  “But – but I understood you were to marry – that you intended to marry someone else.” He became agitated now, as if learning that some lifelong joke had been played on him, and he was just now catching on.

  The accusatory tone in his voice spurred Mrs. Murphy to take the defensive. “I never said or implied such a thing.” She put on her hat, and again held her position behind her purse.

  Brendan scooted his chair back loudly, hands on his thighs. “But – when you broke off – it was because you – you had someone else –”

  She waved his words away. “What nonsense you’ve always talked. I never said anything of the sort. Come, let’s go.”

  “What are you sayin’?” his voice louder now, his brogue returning. “You led me to believe – I remember clearly –”

  “I told you simply that I had changed my mind. That something prevented my marrying you. And not to make a fuss about it.”

  He shot to his feet, unable to believe what he was hearing.

  “No, Mary Margaret Murphy! Don’t you dare tell me those words! Not now! Not after all these years. You told me there was someone else,” he said, pointing his finger at her. “That was the only reason, the only way I would ever have let you go. I remember like it was yesterday, you said there was someone else –”

  Mrs. Murphy also stood and gripped the sides of the table, her voice raised.

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I said, Brendan Sullivan! I remember my words exactly: ‘There’s something that prevents me marrying you.’ My exact words!”

  “You said there’s someone else!”

  “‘There’s something else!!’” She slapped her hand down on the table. “Those were my very words. By God, I should know – I practiced them enough times never to forget a single one of them!”

  They stood leaning in towards each other, both of them gripping the sides of the table, anger and desperation in their eyes.

  The tenor stopped singing. The talking and laughter around them ceased. All eyes were on the couple who just a few moments earlier had appeared to be a happily married couple still deeply in love. Everyone watched for who would break the tension-filled face-off – the man who looked remarkably like Santa Claus, or the woman who appeared his equal in passion and strength.

  Then the woman’s face crumpled, and she hastened from the pub, leaving behind her the large, barrel-chested man, still gripping the table.

  Mrs. Murphy ran out and hailed a cab, ignoring the hot tears burning in her eyes – as she once more fled the presence of the only man she had ever loved. Once more leaving him alone, and without the truth.

  Brendan stumbled back into his chair. Stunned. His whole life had just been flipped over. The long, quarrelsome years with Elizabeth. The anger that filled him over the years. And now – now to realize that he had been ousted by, jealous of, a phantom? An idea? How many times had he imagined what the fellow might look like? What their lives together were like, while his was bitter. How many times did he take out the crushed rose from that evening? How many times did he cry tears into his pillow, trying to hate her, but unable to overcome his love? And now – now to hear that there was no one?

  Then why?! Why? He tried to imagine what else it could have been. And had to face the only answer he could come up with. That she had never loved him the way he loved her. Didn’t want to share her life with him. It’s as simple as that, he told himself. You old fool.

  He took the tiny blue box in his large hand, closed the lid, and pocketed the evidence of his foolishness. He finished off his drink in one quick swig, and allowed himself another stunned moment of staring out at nothing.

  One of the musicians began to play a merry tune on the fiddle, and slowly the foot tapping and head bobbing resumed, and conversations took up where they had left off. For the most part, people turned their eyes away from the man resembling Santa, who looked very much as if he might cry.

  *

  Mrs. Murphy had hurried home, paced around her apartment in an attempt to walk off her anger and distress, and had finally taken a hot bath. She was now trying to regain the composure and presence of mind that had always been her habit. She was shocked that she had behaved like a schoolgirl.

  Calmer now, she forced herself to review her past. Forty years ago she had been a young girl, bursting with confidence and a mad passion for life. She had been proud of her trim figure, her mass of dark curls, proud that she had caught the eye of the man she had been so smitten by – a tall, handsome man who had just started rooming at the boarding house down the street. All the girls had been wild about him – but he had eyes for her alone.

  There began the sweetest courtship, one that had wheels of its own that nothing could have stopped. Brendan was a determined young man, studying and working his way up from machinist to engineer. He was on his own, and lived life according to his belief: “There’s life to be lived!” Those words had convinced her to run in the rain with him, to row on the river Charles, to walk the city from dawn to dusk, and to defy her parents’ plea to wait until they were older to court. She had accepted Brendan’s attentions, convinced her parents, and had never known such happiness. A year of life bursting at the seams, of plans for living life to the hilt, and of someday starting a family of their own.

  They had spent nearly every evening together that summer. She attributed her growing fatigue to their escapades and larks, and to the fact that love had taken all her energy – and well worth the trade it was.

  The night Brendan gave her the locket and asked her to marry him was the most magical night of her life, a pinnacle moment against which nothing else had ever come close. He had taken her to the little restaurant along the water. Had presented her with a heart-shaped locket, as good as an engagement ring.

  They
had then strolled in the warm summer breeze along the banks of the Charles, and sat on their bench where they often watched the lights twinkling on in the dusk. They had each picked a bright red rose from the bushes that grew alongside the bench, brought the roses to their lips, and handed them to each other.

  And she had said, of course, she would marry him. And they had kissed the sweetest kiss, the promise of a closeness that would soon be theirs. She still blushed to remember her boldness, how that night, for the first time, she had let him place his hand under her blouse and cup his hand around her breast. And Brendan had spoken words of pure love and tenderness: “Sure, but I’m holding a bit of heaven in my hand,” he had said. “A bit of heaven.”

  Mrs. Murphy stood before her mirror now, forty years later, and admitted that she had been a coward. The strong front of bravado and confidence that she had so easily worn all these years, fell away as she stood vulnerable in her robe, before her bedroom mirror. She had turned off the overhead light; the room was softly illuminated by the small lamp that stood next to her bedside. She had long ago traded the white shade for a pink shade, the rosy light being far more forgiving for nights such as this, when she reminded herself of why she had chosen the path in life that left her alone at age sixty – an office manager, instead of a wife; an aunt, instead of a mother.

  She took a deep breath and slowly parted her robe, letting it fall around her shoulders. The locket that she had never taken off rested on her chest, above the two scars that had long ago replaced her breasts. They no longer shocked or repulsed her. She felt pity for them, as if they were two independent little beings she had cared for, protected all these years. She pulled her robe closed, climbed into bed, and turned off the lamp.

  With her hand around the locket, she buried her face in her pillow, and allowed herself one last act of weakness, and then she would once again become the strong and cheerful Mrs. Murphy that everyone believed her to be. She allowed tears to pour forth, weeping for that younger self, for the pain she had caused her dear Brendan, for the youthful dreams that had come to naught. One last act of girlishness, before that old chapter was closed forever.