Tommy shrugged and continued gluing bits of tin foil on his star.
“And now, a green one,” said Gabriel. He carefully brushed paste on one end and squeezed the ends together. He rested his chin on his hand as he waited, and watched Tommy.
“I’m going to put sparkles on both sides of this one,” said Tommy.
Lillian leaned over to look more closely at Tommy’s progress. “Oh, how beautiful you’ve made it! All shiny and sparkling.”
Tommy held up the snowflake by the string and blew on it to make it twirl. He nodded in approval and set it back down. “Just a few more pieces and it will be completely covered.”
Lillian then switched her attention to Gabriel. “And look how long Gabriel’s paper chain is. Very nice! Our new home is going to look so festive for Christmas.”
Gabriel looked down at the paper chain and smiled at his accomplishment.
She thought of all the Christmases they had spent together and how quickly they had gone by. Then, as if picking up on her thoughts, Gabriel looked up.
“Mommy, will you tell me a Christmas memory?” he asked. Tommy was busy with his snowflake, but Lillian could see that he was listening.
Lillian put her sewing down and tried to remember the details of the stories she had made up, before repeating them. Every now and then the boys caught some discrepancy and weren’t satisfied until she told it exactly the way they remembered.
“There are so many. Let’s see. When you were a little baby your daddy would carry you to the Christmas tree and show you the lights and all the ornaments. And you would reach out your little hands to them. Especially the glass Santa. He was red and carried a green tree.”
Gabriel delighted in hearing the tale. “That’s cuz I liked that one, Mommy.”
“Yes, you did.”
Gabriel looked at her expectantly, waiting for more.
“And one Christmas, maybe you were two or three, I couldn’t find you. I searched everywhere. Then I went into the living room – and there you were, fast asleep under the Christmas tree, with that same little Santa ornament in your hand.”
“Yeah, I remember that. But Daddy wasn’t there, was he. He was in heaven, right?”
Lillian picked up her sewing. “That’s right.”
Gabriel glued another link and pressed it together. “Is that where Santa is?”
“No, Honey, Santa lives at the North Pole. You know that.”
“I know.” He thought about this for a moment, and then asked in a tentative voice, “But do you think he ever goes there?”
Both boys listened for her response.
She looked from Tommy to Gabriel. “Well,” she said, setting her sewing down and considering how to answer. “I think he does at Christmastime.”
Gabriel smiled. He then stretched out his paper chain across the table. “Finished!”
“That’s beautiful, Gabriel!” Lillian leaned over and admired the uneven chain.
Tommy tied his glittery snowflake to the window latch. Down below he saw Drooms returning home. “Hey, there’s Mr. Drooms.”
Gabriel jumped up and knocked on the window and called out loudly through the glass. “Hi, Mr. Drooms!”
Lillian also went to the window and peered down. There he was with his hands thrust in his pockets, walking through the snow. Gabriel knocked on the window again.
“Don’t bother him, boys.”
Just then, Drooms raised his head. The boys waved to him. He gave the smallest of nods.
Then he stopped, and he and Lillian looked at each other, an intense charged exchange. She was glad there was a pane of glass between them, glad for the distance of two stories, glad that she was inside and he was out. Yet even with all those barriers, his gaze penetrated her heart, as if he had just placed his warm hand there and pressed.
She put a hand on the boys’ shoulders. “Come on. Put your things away. It’s time to wash up.”
While the boys splashed in the bathroom, Lillian stepped over the garlands and boxes. She started to organize the Christmas mess, then gave up and sat on the couch, gazing at the embers from the fire they had made earlier. She heard Mr. Drooms come up the stairs, with his heavy slow tread, as if gravity rested its leaden hands on his shoulders.
Her sketch pad lay half buried under the boxes of tinsel and ornament hooks. She picked up the pad and pencil and turned to a new page. She stared at the whiteness, thinking of Drooms out in the snow. What was it about him that so pulled at her?
Lillian tapped the paper with her pencil, and drew a few tentative lines, and then began a sketch. An outline of him in the snow began to take shape. Yes, there he was – a man alone in the swirling snow, head down, trudging to some destination of his own. She studied the figure for a moment, then added icicles hanging off his arms, his hat, his coat – making him appear even colder and more forlorn.
She studied it for a moment, then closed the pad, and held it closely.
*
Drooms climbed the stairs to the third floor and when he passed Lillian’s apartment, he felt his heart quicken, and he half expected the door to open. Then he realized there was no reason why this should be.
He entered his apartment, stomped the snow from his shoes, and hung up his hat and coat. When he turned, he saw the mischievous boy walking around the apartment as if he owned the place.
Drooms was about to chastise him, but decided it was better to simply ignore him. He would organize the stacks of paper on the kitchen table. There must be three months of papers he could file away.
But as he started to separate them, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The boy had followed him there and was purposely getting in the way – rolling pencils under his palm, flipping through the ledgers as he stifled an exaggerated yawn, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table. Try as he might, Drooms could not ignore him.
Drooms gave up and went to the living room. He tried to settle into his desk, but the boy had followed him there as well.
Drooms kept his back to him and decided to work on his accounts reconciliation. It would require his complete attention. He opened the ledger in front of him, sharpened his pencils, and put on his reading glasses.
The boy bounced noisily on the couch and tossed a pillow up and down.
Drooms tried his hardest to become engrossed in the columns of revenues and expenses, but for the life of him, he could not concentrate. He coughed once or twice, took out a few more pencils from the drawer, should he need them, and began to add a column of numbers.
The boy strolled over to the animals on the bookshelves and spoke to them as he moved them around, standing the new squirrel on its head, putting the old squirrel in the robin’s nest, and arranging the robin, weasel, and blue-jay as if in lively conversation.
“Be still,” Drooms said quietly, but forcefully, without moving his eyes from the ledger.
The boy put the animals down, and bent to read the book spines on the bottom shelf. He lifted out a thick tome on Roman history and pretended to browse through it; then he slammed it shut, coughing loudly and waving his hand at the dust that was released.
Drooms flinched at the sound of the slammed book but kept his eyes on his work.
The boy walked to the desk and stood just behind Drooms, watching him add columns of numbers.
Drooms shifted in his chair so that he couldn’t see the boy, and then he rolled up his sleeves, as if now, he was really going to get some work done.
The boy gave a sigh of boredom and went back to the animals. He picked up the rabbit and began petting it.
“You were the very first one,” he said in a soft voice, as if speaking to his favorite. He took a few steps back so he could view all the animals. “Let’s see. Then the blue jay, then the squirrel and owl. Or was it the mallard.” Then, with a wave of his arm, he declared in a louder voice, “And now there’s a whole world of dead animals!”
Drooms spoke in a louder voice. “Be still.”
The boy set the
rabbit down and sat quietly on the couch, watching Drooms.
After a few moments of silence, the boy said, in a rather sarcastic tone, “I don’t know why, but the widow Hapsey likes you.”
Drooms gave a little puff of disbelief.
“Well, she does,” said the boy.
This actually made Drooms smile. “Ah yes, the beautiful, charming widow likes the old, dry-as-dust accountant.” He tallied the numbers and entered the figure at the base of the column. “Highly unlikely.”
The boy sat silently for a few more moments, then added, in disbelief, “And she thinks you’re handsome.”
Drooms took a sheet of figures and carefully compared it to the ledger. “Utter nonsense.”
“So you don’t believe me?” challenged the boy.
Drooms slid the pencil down the column, carefully checking his numbers. “Not for one moment.”
“Okay – I’ll show you. We’ll just go and ask her.” He jumped off the couch, ran to the door, opened it, bolted down the hall, and began knocking on Lillian’s door.
Horrified, Drooms jumped up and ran after him. “No! Wait! Come back!”
Lillian had taken her bath and was reading on the couch when she heard the urgent knocking. She got up and opened her door – there was Mr. Drooms. She looked at him, and then glanced around the hall but saw no one else. She pulled her robe close and her hand went to the pin-curls in her hair. “Why, Mr. Drooms. Is anything wrong?”
“No, no.” Drooms tried his hardest to appear relaxed.
They stood staring at one another.
“Did you come to see the tree?” asked Lillian. She turned to the disarray in the living room – the lights laid out on the carpet, the strands of popcorn and cranberries coiled on the coffee table, boxes of ornaments on the floor. “We haven’t really done too much yet.”
“No, no. I – It’s just that – you were so kind to invite me to dinner and –”
“You’re here for dinner?” She never knew what to expect from this man. She looked towards the kitchen wondering what she could throw together.
“No! No, of course not,” stammered Drooms.
“I made some gingerbread the other day. Let me cut a few slices.” Despite her recent resolve against him, she was happy he was there. And he appeared so ill at ease that she wanted to make him feel welcomed. “Please, come in.”
She busied herself in the kitchen as Drooms watched her from the doorway. Feeling foolish just standing there, he reluctantly came inside and closed the door. He glanced around her apartment and felt even more awkward and self-conscious.
“How about a little sherry? Or port?” Lillian turned to ask.
“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself.”
Lillian pressed her lips together and gave a short huff of exasperation. Surely he didn’t expect her to do this all on her own.
“Some port would be nice,” he said, catching her look of frustration.
She took out a bottle from the cupboard and poured two small glasses. Then she placed them on a tray, and unpinned a few curls, trying not to be too noticeable as she fluffed out her damp hair.
Gabriel appeared in the hallway, rubbing his eyes. “Is it Santa, Mommy?”
From the boys’ bedroom came Tommy’s sleepy voice: “Santa doesn’t knock at the door.”
Lillian went to Gabriel and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go back to bed, Honey. It’s just Mr. Drooms paying a visit.”
“Hi, Mr. Drooms.” Gabriel rubbed his eyes again and walked sleepily back to bed.
Drooms finally came to his senses. “I’m so sorry, disturbing you, waking the children. I really don’t know what I was thinking.”
Lillian set the tray of gingerbread, crackers, cheese slices, and two glasses of port on the crowded coffee table. “No, honestly, I just turned off their light.” She gestured towards the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
Drooms sat down stiffly, still feeling foolish. It was not like him to be so impulsive. Not like him at all.
Lillian pushed aside her sketch pad to make room for the tray, and handed Drooms a glass of port. She was glad the radio was on and that soft crooning filled the air around them.
Drooms waited for Lillian to take her glass, then lightly raised his glass to her and took a sip.
“I let the boys stay up a little later than usual tonight – they were so excited about the tree. And I always stay up a bit, until I’m sure they’re asleep. I never know when I might have to vanquish a ghost or a sea monster.”
Drooms gave an awkward smile and nodded.
Lillian waited for him to say something, but he remained silent.
She gestured to the garlands and lights strewn over the floor. “We didn’t get too far, as you can see.”
Drooms only now noticed the pine tree lying on the floor next to the stand. He looked at Lillian, then back to the tree. He hesitated, and then asked, “Why is the tree on its side?”
“Because it’s a very stubborn tree.”
Drooms set his glass down and got up to see what the problem was. “I can help, if you like.”
Lillian stood but frowned at the tree skeptically. “I think it might need a different stand or something.”
Drooms lifted the tree to an upright position and began to wedge it into the stand. “Here – if you hold it steady, I can secure it.”
They worked together, making a few adjustments until the tree was firmly in place.
Drooms brushed the bits of bark off his hands, stood up, and took a step back to make sure the tree was centered. The corner of his mouth lifted in satisfaction.
Lillian clapped her hands, delighted. “Oh, the boys will be so happy. Thank you, Mr. Drooms.”
They both looked at the strings of lights stretched out on the floor, and then at each other.
“Might as well,” said Drooms. “It’s much easier with two sets of hands.”
Together they strung the lights, bending and reaching as they threaded the colored bulbs around and through the tree. Lillian was acutely aware of the nearness of their hands, felt the warmth from his arm as it lightly brushed hers.
She was encouraged by the words that flowed easily between them, now that they had a fixed purpose. He really was a pleasant man, when he wasn’t scowling. He had a gentle way of handing her the lights, and he gave her a little smile each time he asked her to lift a branch, or hold the strand while he reached for it around the back of the tree.
She stole several glances at him while he was intent on the lights; for the first time, she was able to really see him up close. She tilted her head, and studied his profile, his mouth. There was an intensity to his eyes, always full of expression; now his dark eyebrows were lightly knitted in concentration. He was extremely handsome, with a strong brow and chin. She assumed he hadn’t shaved since morning and the heavy shadow accentuated his angular features. She glanced at his arms with the rolled up sleeves, and quickly imagined his chest. When he bent to pick up the strand of lights, she noticed the thickness of his dark hair. It looked like there was a wave to it. Lillian imagined that when he came out of the shower it must indeed look wavy and –
Drooms looked up, feeling her eyes on him. She quickly turned and fumbled for the second string of lights on the other side of the tree. She gave her flushed cheeks a quick double pat, and took a deep breath. Then she handed the strand to him, smiling lightly.
He plugged one end into the other and with her help, looped the lights around the bottom of the tree. When they finished, Drooms searched for an outlet behind the tree. He bent to plug in the lights but Lillian reached for his arm.
“Wait!” She ran to the lamp and switched it off. Except for the light coming from the kitchen, the room was dark. “Okay. Now!”
Drooms plugged in the lights and the tree suddenly blossomed with colored bulbs, softly illuminating the room. They stood back, admiring their work.
“Oh, isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, it is,” he said.
&
nbsp; They slowly sat back down on the couch.
Lillian reached for her port, and gave a warm smile. She clinked her glass to his. “To Christmastime, Mr. Drooms!”
Drooms raised his glass, took a sip, and smiled. Then he began to twist the glass around in his hands. “I wanted to say that – I didn’t mean to seem ungrateful today. It was so kind of you to invite me, but I thought it would be an imposition to join you and the boys.”
“Not at all. They’ve taken a liking to you.”
Drooms’s smile looked more like a wince.
“I’m afraid I’m not at my best around the holidays.” He took a small sip. “Especially this one.”
Lillian waited, wondering if he was going to explain himself further, but he remained doggedly silent.
She took a deep breath and reached for her glass. “It can be a difficult time of year. My sons always feel their father’s absence more around the holidays.”
Drooms turned to her, worried that he had caused her pain. “I’m sorry.”
Lillian appreciated his concern, but didn’t want any pity. She’d had enough of that over the years. “I’m not looking for sympathy, Mr. Drooms. We all walk around with some wound in us, don’t we?”
Drooms glanced away. “I suppose we do.” He wanted to stay away from this subject and guessed that she did too. He noticed the sketch pad and gestured towards it. “Yours? May I?”
Lillian handed it to him. “Of course. Something I do to relax. Nothing very impressive, I’m afraid.”
He turned the pages, looking carefully at each sketch, clearly impressed. Lillian glanced over at the drawings as she surreptitiously hunted down a few missed pins and took them out of her hair.
He lingered over her sketches of Central Park: a twilight grove of trees with falling leaves, the Castle with a few imaginary winged creatures perched on the walls, the curved bridge over the lake filled with cattails and reeds in the rain. They were realistic and fanciful at the same time. He understood that she had a way of seeing the world that he had long ago lost. “These are very good. Did you study?”
“Briefly. A long time ago.”
Christmastime 1940 Page 8
