Christmastime 1940: A Love Story

by AGNES IRENE

  Christmastime 1940

  A Love Story

  Agnes Irene

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright (c) 2012 Agnes Irene

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1480045063

  ISBN-13: 9781480045064

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  ALSO BY AGNES IRENE

  The Dreams of Youth

  Seven Tales of Love

  To lovers and merrymakers everywhere.

  And,

  as always,

  to A.E. Mandeville.

  Chapter 1

  The first light of morning revealed a heavy sky over Manhattan, dappled clouds that promised snow. A few early risers looked forward to the first snowfall of the season, hoping it would last until Christmas. Shop owners, as they unlocked their stores or rolled down their awnings, wondered how it would affect business. They hoped this holiday season would be profitable, despite the news from Europe. For others, the threat of snow intensified the sense of unease that was now a part of daily life, as they stopped at the newsstands for their morning papers and read the headlines with the now familiar foreign words: “Luftwaffe,” “Blitz,” “Führer.” Some of the veterans could feel it in the old wounds that never really healed – war was coming sure as winter was coming. They shuddered that it could be happening again, and thought of the brothers lost, the limbs lost, the minds forever scarred. They shook their heads as they walked or limped away with their newspapers.

  Mothers read the headlines or heard the dire news on the radio and bit their nails, or smoothed the brows of their little ones as they watched them sleep, calculating how many years before their sons could be torn from them.

  One such mother, the widow Lillian Hapsey, parted the curtains in her sons’ bedroom, allowing the morning light to gently nudge her boys away from dreamland.

  “Time to get up,” she said softly.

  As expected, they mumbled a few sounds of protest and rolled over. Lillian leaned down and kissed their foreheads, smoothing back their hair. Though she hoped war would be averted, she was thankful that her sons were just children, too young to fight. She gave them a few more minutes to cross from night to day, from sleep to waking, while she went to her room to dress for work.

  Lillian looked in the mirror above her vanity and, for the first time in years, wondered how she would appear to a stranger. How might a handsome man find her – plain? Worn, even? She stood in profile, then stepped closer to the mirror, and frowned at the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth.

  She browsed through her closet, and on impulse pulled out her blue silk dress with the tiny white polka dots and white collar and cuffs – her special occasion dress. She tilted her head, trying to remember when she had last worn it. A wedding, two years ago – or was it three? She held the dress up against her and glanced at her reflection, thinking she might as well get some use out of it. It would be nice to feel attractive again – not that she was looking for anyone, far from it. But in that moment, she decided that she wanted prettiness back in her life – and just like that, a tiny door opened up inside her, and a thin thread of connection was cast out into the world. She slid the dress over her slip, and sat at the vanity to fasten her stockings. Then she clipped on her pearl earrings, applied some lipstick, and looked at herself in the mirror again, satisfied that she looked just a little bit new and different. This was to be a fresh beginning, after all.

  She went back into the boys’ room, turned on the light, and spoke in a louder voice. “Tommy, Gabriel, time to get up for school.” She jostled them lightly. “It looks like it might snow today.”

  Her words had the effect she was hoping for, and after a few disorienting seconds of remembering that they were in their new home, the boys jumped out of bed and ran to the window, searching in vain for the snowflakes that might allow them a snow day from school.

  “Yippee! Snow today!” Gabriel craned his neck to see the sky directly above. He then dashed out of his bedroom and headed to the bathroom. “Me first!”

  “Not if I get there before you!” said Tommy, pushing past him.

  Lillian listened to the sounds of water splashing and drawers opening and closing, relieved that the boys hadn’t gone back to bed. While they washed and dressed for school, she lit the stove for the coffee pot and filled a pan of water to boil the boys’ oatmeal. She opened the bread drawer and took out the bakery loaf, giving it a quick squeeze. Still soft. She buttered one slice to go with her coffee, and used the rest to make peanut butter and jam sandwiches for their lunches. Then she wrapped them in wax paper and put the boys’ sandwiches in their Hopalong Cassidy and Lone Ranger lunchboxes, and placed hers in a paper bag. She added apples and two sugar cookies each for the boys.

  The water in the pan was now popping and splashing. She lowered the flame and stirred oatmeal into the pan. The rich aroma from the coffee rose and filled the cold morning kitchen; it was a small moment but one of her favorites of the day. She poured herself a cup, and inhaled deeply before taking that first, heavenly sip.

  As she waited for the oatmeal to thicken, she took her coffee and opened the curtains by the kitchen table. On the street below, she saw the milkman delivering bottles to the stoops. Not so unlike their old home in Brooklyn. She imagined mothers skimming the cream for their husbands’ coffee, or pouring milk for their children’s cereal.

  She warmed her hands around the cup and blew lightly on the steaming coffee before taking another sip. Up and down the street she noticed a few early signs of Christmas: red ribbons and garlands of pine boughs twisted around some of the brownstone balustrades, and a few wreaths on the doors and in the windows. She was grateful for the cheer and hope of the merrymakers that helped to diminish the encroaching gloom that increasingly filled the newspapers. This was their first Christmas in their new home, and it had to be a good one.

  She needed this change, she thought, as she stirred the oatmeal. She had grown tired of herself, and had forced herself to climb out of her apathy, find a new job, a new apartment, and learn to live again. Her friend Izzy had recommended the area west of Central Park, and something about this street had charmed her from the first time she saw it – the way the elms reached across both sides to form a canopy of branches, the familiarity of the brownstones, the tranquility of the street so near the bustle of the city. Or maybe she was just seeing what she wanted to see – something beautiful, promising, lifting.

  Her thoughts wandered to her neighbor down the hall, Drooms was the name on his mailbox, and how she had met him on the day she moved in, nearly three weeks ago. She had come upon him suddenly as she turned up the stairs. He was just coming down the third floor hall, and for the briefest of moments, they stood staring at one another. For those few seconds, she had felt a profound connection to him, something beyond attraction, though she had been struck by his handsome face and broad shoulders. She briefly introduced herself, but he had simply stepped aside for her and the boys to pass, never saying a word. She thought she had caught a glimpse of something in his face, some recognition of – what, was it really something or just her imagination?

  No, she thought, as she poured the oatmeal into bowls, she must have been mistaken. For ever since that day, he seemed to have no interest in her whatsoever; she even felt he was avoiding her. And just as well. She had no time for such things, and certainly didn’t desire any further conne
ction.

  Still, she couldn’t help wondering about him. She had seen him on another occasion, coming home with a package tied in red string. At the time, she thought that it must be something for his wife, but had later been told he was a bachelor. Since then, they had only passed each other now and then. He seemed to be a rather crabby, irascible kind of man. She hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult. At any rate, this was their new home, and she would be as neighborly to him as to all the other tenants.

  She sprinkled brown sugar on top of the oatmeal, and set the bowls on the table, just as the boys clamored into their seats, discussing what they would do when it snowed.

  “I’m going to build a snow fort,” said Gabriel, taking a spoonful of oatmeal.

  Tommy shook his head. “There’s not enough room for that. But we could make a barricade and stock it with snowballs.”

  “Yeah, we’ll make a barricade,” said Gabriel, who agreed with Tommy ninety percent of the time.

  Lillian watched them eat, thinking how quickly they were growing up. At nine years old, Tommy was already starting to get more angular, leaner, leaving little boyhood behind him. Even his expressions were subtly changing – sometimes now he smiled with just one side of his mouth, especially when something made him a little shy or self-conscious, and at other times he had a way of cocking his head back to the side in a challenging manner. And Gabriel – at six he was still all sweetness and softness, though he could hold his own against Tommy. She wondered if he would outgrow his curls, as Tommy had.

  Both boys raised their heads, seeing their mom standing there staring at them.

  “What?” said Tommy.

  “What are you looking at, Mommy?” asked Gabriel.

  “Oh, nothing. Finish your oatmeal.” She rinsed the coffee pot and set their lunches by the door.

  Ten minutes later they were pulling on their coats and hats. Except for Gabriel’s shoes being on the wrong feet, the boys were ready to go. Such trouble-free mornings were rare, and she hoped that, in part, it meant the boys were happy about the new place. It made her feel more confident that she had made the right decision to move. With a swish of her blue dress as she put on her coat, it was with a lightness of heart that she left her apartment with the boys in tow.

  Just a few moments ahead of her, from the same brownstone apartment building, Old Man Drooms left for work. At forty-five he was hardly old, but that’s what the neighborhood children called him, for he somehow had the feel of an old man. And it suited him just fine. He had long ago adopted the mask of a curmudgeon to keep the busybodies away. Dressed in a long gray coat and gray hat, he always walked with his head bent down, his shoulders slightly hunched. As another person might wrap their scarf or turn up their collar to keep out the cold, Drooms kept out the world by keeping his head down and his mind focused on work.

  However, this particular morning, a cheerful female voice threatened to break through his façade as he walked down the sidewalk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Drooms!” called Lillian from the top step.

  He almost turned around, but his long practice of ignoring such remarks served him well and he continued on, a slight flinch the only indication that he had heard her.

  He frowned as he remembered the day she moved in. He had been leaving for work as usual, but had to step aside as two rambunctious boys stormed up the stairs, and all of a sudden – there she was – on the landing below him, looking up. Why he had stopped and stared, he couldn’t say. For one split second he had let down his reserve, and she had slipped through a chink in his walled exterior. He must have been distracted or tired or something, he now thought with annoyance. Well, there would be no more such slips. That was already three weeks ago. She should have learned to avoid him by now. Maybe she was one of those dull, pretty women who had to have everything spelled out for her. He turned up his collar and directed his thoughts to work.

  Lillian was beautiful and brisk – and young, in the same way that Drooms was old, though only ten years separated them in age. On most days Lillian moved with a suppleness and light energy, no doubt, in part, to keep up with her boys. Tommy and Gabriel were now several steps ahead of her on their way to the home of Mrs. Kuntzman, the babysitter on the corner who would later walk them to school. They saw her standing at the door of her brownstone, waiting to welcome them. She was in her late sixties, gray-haired and a bit stooped, and utterly grandmotherly in her affection for Tommy and Gabriel. Even though Lillian had told her it wasn’t necessary, she often had pancakes or cobbler or some other treat freshly made for the boys.

  Tommy ran up the stairs, with Gabriel trailing behind calling, “Wait for me!”

  Though Lillian had tried to smooth down Tommy’s cowlick and Gabriel’s curls, their hair still looked tousled from sleep. As they said goodbye, the vulnerability in their sweet faces squeezed her heart, as it did every day. She waited for them to go inside, where they always knocked on the window and waved. She blew them a kiss, and headed off to work, the happiness in her heart today outweighing the uncertainty.

  Drooms determined not to think of his new neighbor as he walked the six blocks to the subway station. There were more important things to think about, though he wished she had moved to a different floor, so as not to bother him. He hoped she and her boys would keep to themselves, the way the other tenants did.

  Drooms resented the intrusions from other people, always trying to burden him with their emotions. The smiling chestnut vendor grated on him as much as the sour-faced street sweeper. The cheerful subway riders annoyed him even more that the grumpy ones. Though by far the worst were the people who took it upon themselves to speak to him, who attempted to engage him in conversation. “Terrible news,” they might say as they glanced up from their newspapers. Or, “Getting colder,” as they looked up at the sky. Even a silent head shake or a simple smile felt like someone had just opened the door to his apartment and barged right in. What business was it of his what they all thought? His new neighbor could just keep to herself, he thought, and he tugged his hat lower on his brow.

  Meanwhile, at the office of Charles Drooms Accounting, the stout office manager, Mrs. Murphy, clapped her hands when one of the staff accountants walked through the door carrying a pine garland.

  “A wonderful idea, Mr. Finch! I was just thinking it was time to put up the holiday decorations.” Mrs. Murphy adjusted the brooch on the lapel of her tweed suit. Though Christmas was still weeks away, she had dug into her holiday jewelry this morning and decided to wear the little green wreath with the red bow and red rhinestone holly berries. The coincidence of her choosing to wear her Christmas brooch today and Finch bringing in the fresh pine made it the official beginning of the holiday season for her.

  Finch and one of the new clerks helped Mrs. Murphy lift the old box of decorations from the top shelf of the coat closet and set it on her desk. Then she began directing the staff on where to hang the Christmas decorations. She handed a gold garland and a box of tinsel to the typist, while two of the accountants helped Finch tack up the greenery around the doorframe. As the other employees arrived, Mrs. Murphy handed out more items: a few Santa hats, some tiny reindeer, boxes of ornaments, and a pinecone wreath.

  The holiday activity and the scent of woodland pine energized them as they discussed their plans for the weekend, the time in the morning before the boss arrived being their best opportunity for catching up. By 8:30 there must be no lingering chitchat. They were on the clock after all, and Drooms expected them to be in full work mode by the time he arrived.

  Mrs. Murphy hung a few glass ornaments on the gold garland that was now looped over the credenza, and stepped back to admire her work. “Let’s finish this up before himself arrives.”

  The typist held the box of tinsel and carefully pulled out long shimmery strands and draped them on the pine branches around the door. She glanced quickly at the clock. “That gives us exactly ten and one half minutes.”

  “Less talk, more work!” barked Finc
h as he donned a Santa hat and scowled. The typist laughed at his antics and tossed a few strands of tinsel on his hat.

  Though largely oblivious to the world around him, Drooms became increasingly annoyed as the signs of the Christmas season rudely imposed themselves upon him. First, a shopkeeper and his wife unintentionally blocked his way with a string of colored bulbs as they hung it along their store awning, forcing Drooms into an unwilling dance as he attempted to get around them. Then, as he rounded the corner, he was bumped by a Christmas tree as a vendor arranged fresh-cut pines and firs along the sidewalk. A final Christmas affront came outside the office building Drooms was entering, as the Salvation Army bell ringer, dressed as Santa, inadvertently rang the bell in Drooms’s ear just as he walked by.

  When Drooms finally entered his office, the holiday merriment in his staff was too much for him. What were they thinking, lollygagging with Santa hats and garlands in their hands? He snapped at them all: “Less talk, more work!” He ignored the ripple of low laughter and looked around for his senior accountant and right-hand man. “Where’s Mason?”

  Mrs. Murphy recognized her boss’s Christmas mood and continued hanging the silver bells outside his office, causing them to jingle as she gave them a final tap. “And a good morning to you, sir. I’m sure Mr. Mason will be in soon.”

  “Well, send him into my office when he arrives.” Drooms looked fixedly at the clock, in justification of his bad temper, then stepped into his office and closed the door.

  The new clerk stood frozen, holding the other end of the gold garland as the typist finished scalloping it above their desks. Mrs. Murphy patted him on the shoulder and went back to the old box to dig out some red ribbon. “Oh, carry on, carry on. He’s all bark. I’ve been putting up these decorations for nigh on twenty years.”

  Drooms watched his staff through the glass door of his office as they put the final touches around their desks. He knew he had overreacted, but it was his habit to be offended by holidays, especially this one. He looked in disgust at the wreath, the garlands, and ornaments, and muttered as he sat at his desk, “Christmastime. Again!”