Tommy jumped back into bed, pulled the covers up, and then leaned on an elbow. “Mom, Mickey said his dad said we’re going to war.”
“Oh, I hope it doesn’t come to that.” But her brow slightly creased as she smoothed Gabriel’s hair. She remembered her uncles going off to fight when she was young and never coming back. How her grandmother was never the same.
“Well,” said Tommy, “if it’s still on when I’m older, I’m going.”
“It’s not a game, Thomas. War is terrible.”
“Well, Mickey’s dad said we have to stop Hitler. And that means war.”
Lillian laid her cheek against Gabriel’s head, unable to refute Tommy.
After a few moments of silence, Gabriel shifted to face her. “Mommy, is it almost Christmas?”
“It’s right around the corner. We have a lot to do. How about tomorrow we start our paper chains and decorate the windows?”
“We can put up our snowflakes,” said Gabriel.
“Can we get our tree tomorrow?” asked Tommy.
“And hang our stockings?”
“Whoa, slow down. Let’s get started tomorrow and see how far we get.”
Lillian glanced at the Christmas photo on their dresser. She and Tom sat with the boys on their laps, Gabriel just a baby, Tommy barely four. They were all smiling, but something had caught Tom’s attention and he looked off in a slightly different direction. That tiny gesture always filled her with sadness – as if part of him had already left them. It was the only family picture of them all together, taken a few months before Tom died. She gazed at the photo and thought – Oh, Tom. Why did you have to be so impulsive and rush in? You should be here now.
Lillian felt the loss for her boys, and herself, even more at the holidays. Tommy and Gabriel clung to every image and story of him. She wished there had been more such photos and she made up for the lack of them by inventing stories about Tom for the boys. Any sense of guilt at doing so was lessened by her belief that she only made up stories that could have been true. She was careful to capture his true character, what she remembered of it. But sometimes she found herself confusing the invented stories with the real stories. Time had a way of blending everything together.
Tommy must have followed her gaze, for he now asked, “Mommy, remember the time Daddy knocked down the Christmas tree?”
Gabriel laughed. “I remember that.”
Tommy jerked his head back in disbelief.
“You weren’t even born yet!”
“So. I still remember it.”
Tommy looked at Lillian, who subtly shook her head at him. He then grinned and handed Gabriel one of his books.
“Here, Gabe. This one has lots of pictures. Don’t worry, Mom, no skeletons or ghosts in this one.”
Gabriel took the book and climbed back under the covers.
Lillian kissed them goodnight. “Ten more minutes.” She took the ghost story book with her.
“Night, Mommy,” both boys said, already engrossed in their books.
Lillian curled up on the couch and browsed through the book, studying the illustrations. She then picked up her sketch pad and began to draw a picture of Tommy and Gabriel. She smiled as she heard them talking in pirate voices.
Tommy initiated it, as usual. “Yaargh! Long John! Look. He’s found the buried treasure.”
Gabriel did his best to sound like his brother. “Well, shiver me timbers!”
They sang “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest. Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum!” taking turns starting and ending it.
The problem with Mr. Drooms, Lillian thought as she sketched the boy pirates at the helm of a ship, was that he didn’t have any children to keep him grounded in life.
By the time her sons’ voices died down, Lillian’s sketch was nearly finished. She held the drawing at arm’s length, and tilted her head. Then she gave them each a tiny moustache and goatee.
She closed her sketch pad, picked up her book, and tucked the afghan around her. Let’s see, she thought. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dorothea Brooke and her emeralds.
Chapter 4
*
Drooms was glad that the weekend was over and he could once again surround himself with Drooms Accounting and the busyness of meetings and decision-making and the plans to expand his accounts. When he arrived at his office on Monday, he was surprised to see Mason’s chair empty again. He wondered if everything was all right. Mason was never late, and now he was twice in one week.
Drooms went to ask Mrs. Murphy for a particular file, but she was on the phone and he was impatient, so he went to retrieve it himself. As he browsed through the file drawers, he overheard some of the employees discussing Mason.
“It’s not like him to be late again,” said one of the clerks. “Do you know what’s going on with him?”
The typist shrugged. “It’s a busy time for him, I guess. You know he lives with the whole family – his mother and all those sisters. And now with his wife expecting again, they’ve moved to a larger place. I don’t know how he does it.”
Finch motioned for them to come closer and spoke quietly. “Don’t let this out, but he’s taking another job. He –”
Drooms dropped the file on hearing this. The others stopped talking and appeared deeply buried in their work as he passed them on his way back to his office.
He took the folder and tossed it on his desk, unable to believe what he had heard. Mason had been his right hand all these years. It didn’t seem possible that he would take another job. Though, now he thought of it, Mason did seem preoccupied of late.
Drooms kept eyeing the clock as he flipped through the file. They must be mistaken. Mason wouldn’t leave him. Had he not been fair? Hadn’t he taught Mason everything he knew? Drooms went to the window and looked down at the busy street below. There must be some explanation. He would get to the bottom of this, have a talk with Mason.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when he spotted Mason across the street, shaking hands with his main competitor, Howard Henderson.
“Henderson! I don’t believe it!” Drooms watched the two men for a few moments, then he quickly grabbed his hat and coat and left the office.
Mrs. Murphy called out after him. “Shall I tell Mr. Mason to meet you at Carson’s, sir?”
“Tell him I don’t need him!” he shouted from the hall.
*
Perhaps it was Drooms’s suppressed anger that gave him an edge at the meeting with the prospective clients from Carson & Co. Whatever the reason, Drooms convinced them that handing over their accounts to Drooms Accounting was in their best interest, and he negotiated the deal nearly entirely on his own terms.
As he shook hands and left the meeting room, he couldn’t help but smile knowing that he had so smoothly pulled off a deal they had been working on for so long. He felt a small pang of disappointment that he and Mason couldn’t wrap it up with a celebratory lunch.
As he walked back across town, he congratulated himself. Yes, he still had what it took, and he could do without Mason, if it came to that. He might even consider expanding if things continued as they were going, hire two more accountants, another clerk perhaps.
He waited for the light to change at Fifth Avenue, dimly aware of the horns blaring, the shoppers gawking at the store windows, the swerve of taxis as they spotted a hand in the air.
Then suddenly, the vibrating world around him came to a halt, as he recognized the woman in the deep blue coat and hat across the street – his neighbor, Mrs. Hapsey.
There she was, walking along, glancing at the store windows that were decorated for the holiday. Drooms observed her as she paused in front of a large display of children’s items – a red wagon, rocking horses, doll houses.
He decided to walk along Fifth Avenue and cross further down. Though he told himself that he had no interest in her whatsoever, he nevertheless found himself walking somewhat parallel to her, turning now and then to watch her.
He was just about to give up
such foolishness when he saw a chauffeur-driven car stop alongside her. A man in a long fur coat stepped out and addressed her. Drooms recognized him as Randolph Rockwell, a man whose name and picture were often in the papers. Rockwell liked to toot his own horn about the charities he was involved with, though his reputation was that of a shrewd, and sometimes unethical, businessman – and recently divorced, if Drooms remembered correctly.
Drooms tried to interpret Lillian’s response to Rockwell. She backed up a step or two but she was giving that smile of hers, with the little dimple and flash of white teeth. Drooms tried to make out what was happening next but the traffic was obscuring his view. It looked like Rockwell took her elbow and gestured to the car, but she backed up slightly and shook her head, pointing to the store. Then – damn the bus! It blocked his view, completely – and when it passed, she was gone. Did she go into the store, or did she get in the car with Rockwell?
Drooms shoved his hands in his pockets and picked up his pace. Women were always after men with money, he knew that well enough. Couldn’t really blame them though, especially the ones with children. He scowled at his own thoughts. Something about that woman threw him off every time he saw her and he was beginning to get tired of it.
He forced his thoughts back to Mason and considered the next step he would take with Henderson, the snake. Can’t trust anyone, he thought.
When Drooms arrived at his office, he saw that Mason was now at his desk. Drooms ignored him and instead addressed Mrs. Murphy.
“I want you to start an accounts file on Carson & Co.” He smiled at her reaction. “I finally won them over to my way of thinking.”
“Congratulations, sir!” she said, clapping her hands together. “I knew it was just a matter of time.”
Mason stood, genuinely happy, and was ready to shake his boss’s hand.
“Congratulations! All our legwork finally paid off. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it, but I was –”
“I’m sure you had something important to tend to.” Drooms disregarded the outstretched hand and walked up to Finch.
“Finch, I want you to take the lead on this.”
Finch rose to his feet, pleased, but surprised. He looked from Mason to Drooms for further explanation, but received none.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He sat down, uncomfortable with whatever was going on between the two men.
Mason stood silent with his mouth open. He was about to ask for clarification, but Drooms cut him off.
“Mason, I want you to give me the notes on the Henderson company. That should be easy enough.”
Mason looked at Drooms, unsure of his meaning. “Yes, sir.” He slowly sat down.
*
Drooms walked home, trying to recapture the feeling of pleasure over the deal with Carson & Co., but the image of Mason shaking hands with Henderson bothered him more and more. As he approached the brownstone he saw his new neighbor up ahead, coming home from work. He remembered her fancy man in the limousine, and crossed the street to avoid her.
He couldn’t care less about her, but he hadn’t thought she was the type of woman to take up with someone like Rockwell; he even uncharitably wondered if Rockwell had bought her the beautiful blue coat. He would go straight to the diner tonight. Have an early dinner. Go home later.
Drooms took his usual booth at the diner, ordered the Salisbury steak and potatoes, and opened the newspaper he brought with him. Over his meal he replayed the deal he had just closed. It would bring in some healthy revenue. Yes, the Carson deal was a real coup. No need to give Mason, or anyone else, another thought. He was pleased that he could always count on his business. In all these years it had never let him down.
He returned home, his mood greatly improved by the fresh air and warm meal. He would
focus only on the things he could be sure about. His work and…well, his work. That was enough.
*
That evening, Lillian began some of her holiday baking. The gingerbread loaf she had placed in the oven almost an hour ago now filled the small apartment with its spicy aroma. She opened the oven door and saw that the edges were browning nicely. Another ten minutes should do it.
She took out the fruitcakes she had made months ago, and drizzled a little brandy over the cheesecloth. The holiday desserts were traditions from her mother, and Lillian had not missed a single year of making them since she had left home.
Baking was an activity that usually relaxed Lillian and gave her a sense of pleasure, but tonight she felt tense, irritable. She couldn’t shake the image of Mr. Drooms purposely avoiding her just as she started to greet him this evening. Was he was trying to be intentionally rude to her, or was he that way with everyone?
She looked at the clock and put a hand on her hip. And now Tommy and Gabriel were over half an hour late. They had begged to play with Mickey and Billy before dinner, and she had given in. She took off her apron, annoyed that she would have to interrupt her baking to fetch them inside. She was just putting on her boots when she heard them clamoring up the stairs. She opened the door, and brushed the snow off their coats as they ran inside.
“Tommy, I told you fifteen minutes! What’s gotten into you lately?”
“We were just playing. No one else’s mom had a problem with that.”
Lillian opened her mouth, about to reprimand him for his cheeky response. Instead she took a deep breath.
“Take off your boots and go wash up for dinner,” she said.
“Sorry, Mommy,” Gabriel said. “All of a sudden it got late.”
As she set Tommy’s snowy boots outside the door, she saw Mr. Drooms climbing the stairs to their floor. She reached behind her to get Gabriel’s boots, determined to avoid another rebuff from her grumpy neighbor. She promised herself that her attempts to befriend him were over. He obviously didn’t want to be bothered, and she had enough to worry about without adding him to her list of concerns: the unwanted attention from her boss, being unprepared for the holiday, and Tommy’s increasing antagonism. The last thing she needed was a tiresome neighbor.
As Drooms passed Lillian, he caught a whiff of fresh-baked gingerbread pouring forth from her apartment. The old familiar scent flooded him with an unexpected sense of well-being, and made him feel that he could afford a little neighborliness.
As he unlocked his door, he smiled and said, “You know, Mrs. Hapsey, your cooking reminds me of –” but when he turned, he saw that she had gone inside. He stared at her closed door, strangely disappointed.
Inside, Drooms took off his coat and hat and stood for a moment, as if he had lost his momentum, but from what, he couldn’t exactly say. He would fix a cup of tea, clear his mind with a little work.
He filled the tea kettle, placed it on the stove, and then lit a match to ignite the burner. The faint scent of gingerbread found its way into his kitchen, again stirring up memories.
No point in remembering, he told himself. Best to keep busy.
He took the tea canister from the cupboard and spooned out some loose tea into a small wicker tea strainer. He placed the strainer in his cup, returned the canister to the cupboard, and added some sugar to his cup.
He drummed his fingers on the counter and checked the flame under the kettle. Rather than wait for the water to boil, he walked to the living room. Without turning on the light, he stood at the dark window and glanced down on the street below. Some older children were bringing home a Christmas tree on a sled. That image, along with the lingering aroma of gingerbread, put him right back in the old farmhouse kitchen, when he was twelve years old.
That Christmas. There was his mother bent over the oven, checking on the gingerbread. His older sister Kate, her apron white with flour, was rolling out cookie dough on the wooden table – giving a thump with the roller every time she placed it on the dough, just the way his mother did.
The twins, Sarah and Sam, six years old now, were running around the kitchen getting in the way. He knew they just needed some fresh air.
“
Come on, you two. Let’s go look for our tree.”
How they had whooped with excitement. His mother threw him an appreciative smile over her shoulder.
But he had another reason for wanting to find the tree. It had been a few days since he had seen Rachel. The tree would give him an excuse to ask her brother Caleb for help chopping it down.
Rachel, his best friend ever since her family had moved into the neighboring farm four years ago. It had started with a competition of who could find the most interesting things to show each other: a rusty nail in the shape of a letter, an arrowhead from the newly ploughed fields, a molted snake skin from the woods. But after a few years, the competition vanished, and the little treasures became offerings to each other: a yellow-and-black butterfly in a jar that they would admire together and then release in the meadow; a robin’s egg perfectly broken in half – Rachel’s favorite color, sky color she called it; bouquets of bluebells in the spring, bunches of holly at Christmas. At eight they had been tree-climbing, frog-finding friends; at twelve, they were confirmed sweethearts.
The twins chattered while they put on their coats and boots. Then they pulled on their green mittens and matching hats with red tassels that Kate had recently knitted for them.
“I know just the tree,” said Sam.
“So do I,” said Sarah. “I’ll get a ribbon to mark it so you won’t forget the tree we pick.” She clomped up the wooden stairs in her boots, and soon came back down with one of her red ribbons.
As they left the house, Kate and his mother stood in the doorway.
“This is going to be the perfect Christmas, Mother,” said Kate, nestling her head against her mother’s shoulder. “We even have snow!”
Then, just as he walked out the doorway, those words from his mother to Sarah and Sam:
“You two mind Charles, now.”
He turned to his mother with an expression that said he was old enough to handle the twins.
She smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know, I know. I can always count on my Charles.”
Sarah and Sam had already run ahead to check on their baby rabbit.
Christmastime 1940 Page 5
