Christmastime 1940: A Love Story

by AGNES IRENE

Tommy looked at his mom who subtly shook her head at him. Tommy 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 good night, taking the book with the illustrated pirate skeleton with her. “Ten more minutes.”

  “Night, Mommy,” both boys said, already engrossed in their books.

  Lillian went back to the living room and opened the pirate book to the illustration. She studied it for a few moments, and then picked up her sketch pad and began to draw a picture of the boys as she overheard 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 the weekend was over and he could once again immerse himself in 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 and he wondered if everything was all right. Mason was never late, and now he was twice in less than a 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 to the typist. “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 taken 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 going 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 that he thought of it, Mason did seem preoccupied of late. Drooms kept watching 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 saw Mason across the street, shaking hands with his main competitor, Howard Henderson. “Henderson! I don’t believe it!” He watched the two men for a few moments, then 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 it was, 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 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, vaguely aware of the horns blaring, the shoppers gawking at the store windows, the sudden swerve of the taxis as they spotted a hand in the air. Then suddenly, the vibrating world around him came to a standstill, as he recognized the woman in the deep blue coat and hat across the street – his neighbor, the widow Hapsey. 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. Was that her going into the store, or did she get in the car with Rockwell?

  He continued on to work. Women were always after men with money, he knew that well enough. Couldn’t really blame them, 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 planning 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. He ignored Mason and instead turned to 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 up, genuinely happy, ready to shake his boss’s hand. “Congratulations! All our legwork finally paid off. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to see it, I was–”

  “I’m sure you had something important to tend to.” Drooms ignored the outstretched hand and addressed Finch. “Finch, I want you to take the lead on this.”

  Finch stood up, 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 he had witnessed of Mason shaking hands with Henderson bothered him more and m
ore. 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 seat 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.

  As he returned home, the fresh air and warm meal greatly improved his mood. He decided to focus 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. She had placed a gingerbread loaf in the oven almost an hour ago and its spicy warmth now filled the small apartment. 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 something 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.

  Gabriel was sufficiently chastised. “Sorry, Mommy. All of a sudden it got late.”

  Tommy simply left the room.

  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 think about without adding him to her list of concerns: the unwanted attention from her boss, being completely unprepared for the holiday, and now Tommy’s increasing antagonism. The last thing she needed was a tiresome neighbor.

  As Drooms passed Lillian’s door, he inhaled the smell of warm 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, your cooking reminds me of–” but when he turned, he saw that she had already 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. 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 and returned the canister to the cupboard. He added some sugar to his cup. He tapped 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 smell 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 like 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 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 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 field, 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, 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 by the door, and pulled on their green mittens that Kate had recently knitted for them, and the matching hats with red tassels.

  “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 which tree we want.” 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 just 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. “Now, stay in your pen, Alphonse,” said Sam.

  “And don’t run away,” added Sarah, shaking her finger at the tiny rabbit.

  “Alphonse! Is that what you named him?” he had laughed.

  “Cause he’s so smart, Charlie,” Sarah said, taking a bit of bread from her coat pocket and sticking it through the chicken wire.

  Sam knelt down to check the latch on the makeshift pen. “He keeps getting away. We almost couldn’t find him last time, Charlie.”

  “Well, we’ll make a stronger pen when we get back. Come on you two. Let’s go find our tree.”

  As they walked through the woods, he listened to the twins’ plans to make a snow house, but he soon got distracted when he saw Rachel and her brother Caleb coming towards them on the path.

  Sarah and Sam began singing, “Charlie loves Rachel, Charlie loves Rachel.”

  “Hush up!” said Charlie under his breath, as h
e ran a hand through his hair. He smiled when he saw Rachel’s face light up like it always did when they met. Rachel, with her long dark hair, her sweet smile with the ever so slightly crooked front tooth, her blue eyes crinkling with merriment when she laughed–

  The tea kettle’s shrill whistle reached an ear-piercing shriek, recalling Drooms. He hurried to the kitchen and lifted the kettle from the burner, realizing that his heart had been pounding. He felt his pulse slow back down as the frenzy of the whistle lessened, lowered, and then vanished.

  He poured the hot water over the tea, and took a deep breath. No point in remembering. The past is past. He lifted and lowered the wicker strainer to steep his tea, up and down, watching the tea darken. He put the strainer in the sink and stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cup. No point in remembering.

  He took his tea into the living room and placed it on his desk. It was a little ahead of schedule, but he would study the monthly numbers. He always enjoyed comparing the books with his forecast, and then determining his next steps. It cleared, focused his thoughts. Once he began working, there was no room in his head for anything else.

  Yet as Drooms settled into his desk, he realized that tonight his mind was fighting him. All those faded images were becoming sharp again, gaining in color and precision, against his will. It took more and more effort to suppress them, but slowly the numbers and columns and calculations took over.

  He was deep in his work, surrounded by stacks of papers and ledgers on his desk. Yet he kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Something. What was it? He tilted his head and frowned in concentration, listening. He swiveled around and glanced over the living room, then to the inner room between his bedroom and living room. Just a closet, full of books, shelves filled with files of long dead accounts, dusty old boxes full of junk. Nothing. Nothing there.

  He returned to his accounts and tried to concentrate. But after a few moments, he again heard a tiny noise and looked behind him. The doorknob to the inner room was turning. He scowled, determined to ignore it. He took up his papers and stacked them loudly, repeatedly. Then he heard the door open. His shoulders slumped. Why? Why, now? He twisted around in resignation.