An Irish Christmas

by Melody Carlson

  I felt another wave of melancholy as I walked down the business loop, past other familiar shops, restaurants, my favorite bookstore . . . and although I’d walked this street hundreds of times before, I felt sort of like a stranger today. My family no longer owned the shoe store on the corner, my mother was selling the family home, and most of my old friends had moved on to jobs or had headed back to college to finish their degrees. Where did I fit in here now? Where did I fit in anywhere?

  I gazed in the window at Harper’s Cafe, trying to decide whether or not I was hungry since it was getting close to noon. But the window was grimy looking and uninviting, and their window display—a cluttered menagerie of crepe paper turkeys and cardboard pilgrims—wasn’t particularly appetizing, although it did remind me that Thanksgiving was less than a week away. Mom had said that she wanted us to go down to Aunt Sally’s in San Diego, which was fine with me since I had no other place to go anyway. Plus I hadn’t seen my cousins in ages.

  I continued walking until I reached Scott’s Television and Appliance Shop, and that’s when I observed several people clustered close to the large plate glass window out front. I wondered if Scott’s had gotten in something new and amazing—maybe a color TV with stereo. But the small crowd was simply staring at an ordinary black-and-white television that was playing inside, and as usual, the sound was being piped through an outdoor speaker to the sidewalk. But I noticed the elderly woman had her hand clasped over her mouth and her eyes were wide with terror.

  “Oh, no!” Mr. Garvey cried, the owner of the “No!”

  “It can’t be,” a woman next to him gasped.

  “What?” I asked, but the small crowd was rushing into the shop.

  “The president!” the elderly woman called over her shoulder. “

  He’s been shot!” Mr. Garvey said.

  I followed them inside, where we all stood in silent horror, watching the nightmare unfolding before our very eyes. President John F. Kennedy had been shot while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. Everyone in the store was crying, including me. No one even tried to hide it. And I didn’t care that I knew many of the people in the shop. I didn’t care that I was supposed to be a grown man, a man who barely cried at his own father’s funeral. I just stood there and openly sobbed with the rest of them. How could this have happened? In our own country? Our leader had been murdered, with his pretty young wife by his side. It was like a really bad movie.

  I eventually left Scott’s and spent the remainder of the day in a deep, dark depression. Tucked away in the gloomy warehouse, with my transistor radio blaring on an AM news station, I sat on a crate and listened to all the ongoing details of the assassination, the head wound, how long before

  JFK died, how Vice President Johnson was sworn in on Air Force One before leaving Dallas—I took in the whole works. And finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I started to play my piano. I played and played. And, although I knew it was senseless and would probably matter to no one but me, I dedicated my playing to President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his two children and beautiful wife Jackie. My heart ached for all of them. How could something like this have happened?

  It was about four o’clock when I finally remembered my own mother. I suddenly wondered how she would be taking all this—and realized that it might have hit her as hard as it hit me—and so I rushed home to find her sitting in front of the television with her hands in her lap and her big brown eyes all swollen and red from crying.

  “Have you heard?” she whispered, clutching a white handkerchief in her fist and looking at me with a trembling chin.

  Without saying anything, I nodded and sat down beside her. I draped one arm around her frail shoulders, and together we watched the news until finally she got up, went into the kitchen, and made us some supper. But neither of us felt hungry that night. We continued to watch the news on television, seeing that scene in the car again and again. Then we watched as they replayed the scene where Jackie stood by LBJ on Air Force One, watched as a new president was sworn in. We listened to the familiar newsmen, the ones who came on every evening at 6:00, but tonight they were discussing the terrifying events of the day and speculating over what would happen next, but it was impossible not to notice the sound of uncertainty, the uneasy caution in their voices, as if they too, like us, were afraid.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, Saturday, that I remembered to ask Mom about the sale of the house and whether or not the third time really had been the charm. She had already turned on the small television that Dad had insisted on putting in the kitchen, and I’m sure it was the first time I’d ever seen that television on, but the volume was turned down low.

  “Yesterday?” she said as if it had been a few weeks ago. “Let’s see . . . as I recall Jane had just told me that the couple liked the house and wanted to make an offer.” She handed me a cup of coffee, setting the cow-shaped porcelain creamer on the table. “But that’s when Sally called and told me about the shooting. She was crying and she said to turn on the television.”

  “And you did?”

  She sighed. “Yes. Then we all just stood there in the family room and watched it. It was the strangest thing, Jamie. I’d only just met this couple and suddenly we were all sobbing and holding on to each other, like it was the end of the world and we were all we had. And then just as abruptly, they left, they wanted to go and get their children. I doubt they will want the house. Who can think of buying a house right now?”

  I nodded. “It sure makes you look at life differently.”

  “I still can’t believe it happened, Jamie.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s really dead.”

  “I really liked Kennedy . . . I think he was the best president ever. No one can ever replace him.”

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to vote for him in the next election.”

  “It’s all so sad.” She stared down at her coffee cup.

  “It was so cool having such a young president. It’s like he understood young people. He wanted to make this country better.”

  “He was too young to die.”

  I swallowed hard. “Man, it just really ticks me off. And I know you don’t want to hear this, Mom, but it really makes me want to join the Air Force more than ever now. I’m ready to give back to my country. I want to do it for JFK.”

  She nodded slightly, then looked away. I sensed she wasn’t too pleased with my newfound resolve, but I could tell she didn’t plan to stand against me either. At least not today.

  The next few days felt like the entire country was draped in this ominous blanket of heavy darkness. Everyone seemed to be in mourning, or if they weren’t, they at least had the good sense to keep their thoughts to themselves. The house was quiet and both Mom and I moved silently through the days. I was extra careful not to leave any dirty dishes on the counter, and I kept my personal items picked up, even put my dirty clothes in the laundry hamper in my room. I wasn’t sure if I was growing up or if life had just suddenly gotten serious.

  Finally, it was Thursday and Thanksgiving Day. Mom and I drove to San Diego, and we all did our best to “celebrate” the holiday, but even my cousins were much quieter than usual, a cloud of sadness hovered over everyone. I think we were all relieved when the day finally ended and we could put our party faces aside.

  “Will we see you before the big trip?” Uncle Richard asked as we stood around my mom’s white Caddie. He paused to light up a Marlborough, then took in a long drag.

  “I don’t know . . .” Mom jingled her keys in one hand.

  “You don’t still want to go over there now, do you?” Aunt Sally asked. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind, Colleen . . . I mean with all that’s happened and everything. Are you sure it’s a good idea to travel now?”

  “I don’t know why not,” Mom said. “What do you think, Richard? Any warnings about international travel?”

  He shook his head, then let out a puff of smoke over his shoulder
. “Not that I’ve heard. But make sure you check with your travel agent a day or two before you leave.”

  “Kennedy was Irish,” I said suddenly. Of course, I instantly felt stupid for making such a childish-sounding statement, except that it had just occurred to me.

  “That’s right,” Uncle Richard said, crushing the cigarette butt beneath the heel of his boot. “He was Irish-Catholic. First time ever in this country.”

  Then we all hugged and everyone said good-bye.

  “They’re okay,” I said to Mom as she drove back up the freeway toward home.

  “Yes, they are.”

  I decided it was some comfort to have family around at times like this. Especially since my dad was gone and he didn’t really have much family still living, at least not around here. I know he had some relatives out on the East Coast, but they’re like strangers to me. And the rest of my mom’s family, except Aunt Sally, still live in Minnesota. I’d been out there once, back when I was about nine, before my Grandpa Johnson died, and although there were lots and lots of cousins to play with, along with tons of other relatives, I pretty much felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because most of them had Johnson for a last name, the same name as the big family farm, and I didn’t really fit in too well there.

  So on Thanksgiving Day, less than a week after Kennedy was shot, I was glad to have Aunt Sally and Uncle Richard and my cousins around. And I was glad to have my mom too. Maybe that was one of the good things about a tragedy . . . it made you appreciate what you had.

  5

  Colleen

  I made my best effort not to feel sorry for myself as Jamie and I walked through Los Angeles International Airport in mid-December. The terminal was busier than ever with all the holiday travelers, and everywhere I looked seemed to be wrapped in the trappings and trimmings of Christmas. From the oversized Christmas tree near the entrance, dripping in silver tinsel and blue lights, to Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” over the sound system, it was obvious that Christmas was just around the corner. They even had a Santa Claus wearing a flight jacket who was giving out candy canes and airline wings to young travelers.

  And I think I could’ve dealt with all of that, if it hadn’t been for all the families coming and going and saying goodbye to or greeting their loved ones. That was what got to me. Whether it was college students coming home for Christmas break or grandparents arriving with arms laden with brightly wrapped gifts—all the jubilant greetings and embraces and heading off for a joyous family reunion somewhere, well, it just got to me. And, as much as I despised self-pity or feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge, all that sweet Christmas cheer was hard to swallow.

  Needless to say, I was greatly relieved when we were finally loaded onto our big jet, cozily buckled into our comfy seats, and being treated so nicely it was almost like being family. After we took off, I even allowed myself to imagine that the pretty blonde stewardess named Cindy was a relative, a cousin perhaps. And when she smiled and offered me hot tea, I actually pretended we were sitting in a parlor with a fire burning and a small pine Christmas tree in the corner.

  “Do you need a blanket?” she asked Jamie with a sparkling Colgate smile. I could tell by the way she looked at him that she thought he was a nice-looking young man, and I had to agree with her on that account. And although she was probably at least ten years older than he, I could tell he was enjoying the attention.

  “Sure,” he said, taking the neatly folded plaid woolen throw from her. “Thank you.”

  “I think Cindy likes you,” I whispered to Jamie as the stewardess walked away.

  He looked slightly embarrassed, then grinned. “Maybe I should ask her out.”

  I made a slight face—a motherly expression meant as a subtle warning—then asked him what had become of his last girlfriend. “Wasn’t her name Shelly?”

  “Shelly,” he said stiffly. “And that was almost two years ago, Mom.”

  I sensed a slight irritation in his voice, as if Shelly was an unpleasant subject, but since I also knew we’d be stuck together for some time and conversation topics might possibly get scarce, I decided why not persist a bit. Besides, I was curious about the girlfriend. He had even talked about bringing her home to visit at one time and then that was it—not another word on the subject. Of course, Hal had passed away about the same time and life got a little stressful after that. Perhaps I’d missed something. And that made me feel sad . . . like a poor excuse for a mother. But now I really wanted to know. Not that I could force my son to talk. But I could try. Just as I was formulating my next question, Cindy returned.

  “We have complimentary champagne,” she said, flashing that brilliant smile again. I started to decline on her offer, but then remembered that this was going to be a long flight and perhaps a little champagne would make things more comfortable for both Jamie and me—might even loosen our tongues a bit.

  “That sounds lovely,” I said. “How about you, Jamie?”

  He grinned and nodded eagerly. Although my son had been twenty-one for months now, it still felt strange to think that he was of legal drinking age and could casually drink a glass of champagne with me right now. Hadn’t he just been learning to ride a two-wheeler last week? And when did he get his braces off? Suddenly everything about motherhood and raising my only son felt like a fast hazy blur—similar to the clouds that were passing by the window at the moment.

  “Here you go,” Cindy said, handing us both a glass of champagne.

  We thanked her, and then I held up my glass to Jamie. “Here’s to a good trip.”

  “To Ireland.”

  We clinked glasses, and despite my lapse in matters of faith these past couple of years and particularly recently, I actually said a silent little prayer just then. God, if you’re there, if you can hear me and you’re not too busy, please, help this trip to turn out right. So much is at stake . . . please, please, help me. Amen.

  “So . . . ,” I said to Jamie, as we were finishing our champagne, “I’m curious as to what became of Shelly.”

  He downed the remainder of his drink. “She went her way . . . I went mine.”

  “So, it was a congenial parting?”

  He shrugged in a way that suggested it was not. Then Cindy reappeared with her bottle of champagne. “More?”

  Jamie stuck his glass out, and thinking it couldn’t hurt our conversation, I followed his lead. Then when we were about halfway through our second glass, I tried again, deciding that if he really didn’t want to talk about Shelly, I would simply change the subject. But to my amazement, he began to open up.

  “It was really her idea to break up,” he said quietly.

  I just nodded, trying to look empathetic but not overly so.

  “It was right after Christmas break, back in ’61. I was so glad to get back to school and see her again. I’d been wishing that I’d invited her to come home with me during the holidays, to meet you and Dad . . .” He kind of sighed now. “Turned out I was a day late and a dollar short.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “During Christmas break, Shelly had gotten back together with an old high school sweetheart who’d been going to an Ivy League school back east.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Yeah, she told me that this guy had always been the love of her life and that he’d broken up with her to go to college, but then when they got together again, he suddenly decided she was really the one for him and they’d actually gotten engaged on Christmas Eve.” He shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

  “Seems like pretty fast work, not to mention a little harsh,” I said defensively. “Especially since she’d been dating you.”

  “Yeah, you’d think she might’ve called me or something.

  ” “Well, I don’t mean to sound callous, Jamie, but I’m not too sure I’d like this girl. She sounds a little fickle to me. I think you deserve someone better.”

  “Yeah, but you never met her, Mom.” His voice got that defensive edge to it again, just like when
he was in high school and I questioned him on something. “She was actually very nice—smart and pretty. Everyone who knew her liked her a lot. Some of the guys in my dorm were pretty jealous of me for going with her.” He paused and got a thoughtful look. “I think I might’ve asked her to marry me.”

  Well, I knew I’d stuck my foot in my mouth now. But, at the same time, I was glad that he was being so open with me. Whether it was the champagne or being away from home, it didn’t matter, we were actually talking and not arguing! And yet, at the same time, my heart ached for my son. I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay; I wanted to put a bandage on his owie and kiss it and make it all better. Wasn’t that what mothers did when their sons were hurting? But I realized things had changed. Jamie wasn’t my little boy anymore.

  “She sounds like a nice girl,” I finally said, “and, of course, I can’t imagine you caring for a girl who wasn’t nice. I’m sure that I probably would’ve liked her too. But I do feel badly that she hurt you like that, Jamie. I can’t help feeling like a mom, you know. It’s just the way God wires us.”

  He nodded now. “It was hard losing her, Mom.”

  “I’m sure it was . . .”

  Then he turned and looked at me with those clear blue eyes, so striking against his dark brown hair, so reminiscent that it was painful to look at sometimes. “Did anything like that ever happen to you? Any broken hearts in your past?”

  I took a quick sip of champagne, gauging my time and asking myself if this was the right moment or not. I just wasn’t sure. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready.

  “I mean, I know that Dad was head over heels in love with you,” he said quickly, relieving me of having to give an answer. “I could see it in the way he treated you, Mom. I don’t know if you always saw it, but I’d see him looking at you, and it was as if he had stars in his eyes. The guy adored you, Mom. And I remember, not that long before he died, Dad was talking about how you guys met when you came to apply for a job at the shoe store, and how it was love at first sight for him, and how even though you didn’t know the first thing about shoes, he hired you right on the spot. And he even confessed at how stunned he’d been when you actually agreed to marry him. I think he said he was ‘over the moon for you.’ ” Jamie laughed. “That was pretty good for Dad, don’t you think?”