by AGNES IRENE
Having walked for hours in the snow, Drooms was disoriented with fatigue and cold. He knew his words were cruel, but they were for her benefit, he believed. He shook off his coat, pried his frozen feet out of his sodden shoes.
Then, when he saw the boy sitting quietly on the couch, he clenched his hands, his jaw, furious.
The boy spoke in a soft voice. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“You! This is all your fault! I want you out of here, do you hear me? Out!”
The boy tried to squirm away but Drooms grabbed him roughly by the arm and pushed him towards the inner room.
“I just wanted to play,” said the boy, wincing in fear.
“I want you out of my life – once and for all. Out! I never want to see you again! God help me. Never!”
The boy began to cry but Drooms was hardened to his tears and wrenched him to the inner room.
“Don’t make me go back!” pleaded the boy. “Please don’t put me away. No, no!”
Drooms shoved him into the room, locked the door, and pounded on it. “Never come back! Never! Do you hear me?! Never!!”
He staggered backwards towards his bedroom and collapsed on his bed. Alone. He was utterly alone in the world except for the gnawing guilt and sorrow that would never leave him, his only company all these long years. He held his head in his hands and muttered confusedly. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I’m so sorry, Sam, Sarah, I’m so, so sorry....”
In a state of fevered confusion, images swirled in his head of the twins laughing and playing, riding on his shoulders, giggling at the dinner table; he saw their frozen little bodies laid out in the parlor. Fitful images of his mother blurred into Lillian saying, “You two mind Charles, now.” His mother’s words, “I can always count on my Charles,” blended into strangled screams. Confused memories of him as a happy little boy shifted to him standing frozen at the burial, then morphed into Tommy standing in the snow, then to Gabriel lying dead on the couch. The sad eyes of the little boy as he slammed the door on him, turned into the sad eyes of Lillian as he closed the door on her.
The visions finally slowed and settled to a heavy, still darkness that mercifully pulled him into sleep. But it soon shifted into a restless sleep. He tossed and turned and gradually became aware of a tiny noise. He desperately wanted to sleep, to forget, to sink into black nothingness, but the sound kept waking him. He lifted his head to listen. It sounded like a child’s soft weeping. He sat up, and realized it was the boy. Drooms repented his cruel words; he could never willingly hurt a child. He hoped the weeping would stop. But it went on.
The sadness and pain that shaped the crying left him shaken. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Shhhhh. I’m sorry boy. Don’t cry. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry anymore.” But the heartrending sobs continued. Drooms got up and looked for the boy.
He searched around his bedroom. Nothing there. Then he saw that the door was open to the inner room. “Little boy? Where are you? Don’t cry. Please come back – it’s not too late. Come back.”
He looked inside the inner room, but it was empty. He went into the living room and peered around in the faint light. He could make out the furniture, but he couldn’t see the boy and he became worried.
Then the weeping stopped, just a soft catching of breath now. No, no – silence was always worse. “Little boy? I’m so sorry. Please come back.”
Drooms stumbled around his desk, the couch. He walked towards the animal collection on the bookshelves – then a flood of relief to see the boy standing there. Drooms almost laughed with joy. Of course the boy would be there, with the animals.
How could he have hurt him? “Little boy, I’m so sorry–” But as Drooms reached out to touch him, he recoiled as his hand touched the stiff body. The boy had become stuffed like the animals, his face the last to change, with tears still streaming down his cheeks.
Drooms backed up in horror, falling to the floor. He reached out again, only to pull back in revulsion. “Oh, what have I done? Please come back! Oh my God,” he moaned, “what have I done?!”
Drooms sat up in bed, pale and sweaty from the nightmare. His heart hammered inside his chest, as if tiny fists pounded on it, sending the vibration up to his neck and temples. He held his head, and gasped for air, until slowly his breathing calmed.
Though he knew it was just a dream, he got up and looked around. He had to be sure. The door to the inner room was closed. Thank God.
His breathing still ragged, he stumbled into the living room, and stood in the center of the room. It was softly illuminated by the streetlight, but he could see that it was still the same; nothing had changed. There were the stuffed animals, frozen, rigid. For the first time, he was repulsed by them. He saw them for the dusty, dead things they were, staring back at him with lifeless, glassy eyes. He slowly shook his head. He was not going to do that to himself. He was not.
He threw open the living room window, cold air rushing in. He then stood in front of the shelves and beheld the lifeless menagerie. He shuddered as he grabbed a bunch of the stiff animals and threw them out the window into the falling snow, crying out, “No more! No more!” Back and forth from shelves to window, tossing and throwing them out until the shelves were bare.
The animals landed on the snow below – squirrels, birds, rabbits, snakes in weird embraces and chase scenes. In the distance a garbage truck made its way in the darkness of early morning, picking up the trash and the odd discarded items of humanity.
“No more!” cried Drooms as he crumpled to the floor, his hands over his face, rocking on his knees. “No more!” Anguish, long pent up, now claimed its right, its life, and flailed out in a frenzy of unpracticed expression; long years of tears came gushing forth, tears of the boy, and tears of the man – tears for the guilt, the loss, the raw festering loneliness. Anguish released in long, twisted groans and messy, wrenching weeping by a man searching for some answer in the darkness, his beseeching hands held open, weighted with the figment of sorrow. The mourning that was never expressed, the regret for the emptiness of years, now burst forth, knocking down the layers of hardness, tumbling the harsh rocky façade, stripping away the protective exterior – until there was nothing left, but a man bent over a cold, dark floor. Weeping, like a child.
Chapter 12
The next morning after breakfast, Lillian packed two tins of Christmas cookies. She was thankful that she and the boys had the week off. She desperately needed the time to finish up with her Christmas preparations and put her mind in order. And the extra hours of sleep were a luxury that she needed this morning, after the terrible night. She had barely slept. She kept thinking of the cruel words from Charles, though some part of her refused to believe them. In the middle of the night she had woken, dreaming of him as he was in the sketch – struggling, alone. He was trying to move through the snow but couldn’t, and he was beginning to freeze, the icicles keeping him bound. She thought of the figure of the woman in the long gown standing next to him, with the flame flower cupped in her hands. Lillian had turned on the lamp, brought the sketch pad to her bed, and finished the drawing. She colored the woman in soft shades of warm rose and blue and gold, and let the colors seep into the gray world of the frozen Drooms, the icicles catching the gold of the flame. She studied the drawing and felt that it was now complete. Then even though she believed that all doors between her and Charles were firmly closed, and that it was better this way, she had gotten out of bed, taken the drawing, and leaned it against his door.
She wondered now whether it was a drawing of the way things could have been, or the way they actually were for a few beautiful moments. She frowned at her own thoughts. In the light of morning, it all seemed foolish.
She quickly dressed, powdered her strained and puffy face, and put on a cheerful front for the boys, who were dressed and ready for their visit to Santa.
“Come on, boys. We have a lot to do today. We’ll deliver Mrs. Kuntzman’s cookies on our way.”
Gabriel had his coat on
and could barely contain his excitement. “I’m gonna ask Santa for a sled, no – a puppy. No – a pirate sword!” He cast a make-believe thrust at Tommy, who responded by unsheathing his own imaginary sword.
“Down villain! Bite the dust!” cried Tommy.
“Oh, yeah? Well, take this Peg Leg! Yaaargh!!” Gabriel grabbed Tommy around the legs and they tumbled, laughing.
“Boys, boys! Come on now, we don’t have time for that.”
Lillian took one tin of cookies, and closed the door behind them. She glanced down the hall and saw that the drawing was still there, propped against his door. She briefly considered retrieving it, but the boys were already running down the stairs.
Gabriel gave a hearty Santa’s laugh, “Ho ho ho!”
When Tommy answered in a pirate’s voice, “And a bottle of rum,” the boys doubled over laughing.
They delivered the tin of cookies and spent a few minutes with Mrs. Kuntzman and her daughter, and then caught the bus to the department store.
As Lillian looked out the bus window, she wished she could go away for the week, to avoid bumping into him. Though it was last minute, maybe she could take the boys upstate to her sister’s for Christmas. Or maybe they could all take a trip somewhere. No. It was no good running away from things. She would be fine. She would learn to think of him again as just a neighbor.
Spent, pummeled, exhausted, Drooms lay in a heavy, powerful, forgetting sleep, the blackness of nothingness reigning deep while the crumpled soul recovered and rested. A sleep that eventually grew into a lighter slumber as the soul healed and awoke.
Drooms rested in a state of soft waking, his mind rocking back and forth between dream images and awareness of his deep, rhythmic breathing. He lingered in that place between sleep and waking, a kind of third place that he never knew existed, had always rushed by, never even catching a glimpse of it.
He savored the calm that pervaded him, wondering at the nightly miracle of sleep, the daily miracle of waking. Such a simple, pure thing, sleep. Like love, he thought. What a strange force – that love lives beyond death, across time. His love for his mother, for Sarah and Sam was as strong today, was the same love, as it was back then. And he could still feel their love – nothing had changed or diminished.
And this new love, this new love that filled him–
His eyes opened, and in a flash he saw Lillian’s face, remembered his words to her, the sadness in her eyes. He whipped back the blanket, thinking no, no, no. He could not let that look exist in the world, couldn’t bear for her to feel pain, must hurry. He had to go to her.
Drooms saw the late time and dressed quickly. He recalled the nightmarish day and night, and still felt a sickness in his stomach when he thought of Gabriel lying in the snow. But he no longer felt paralyzed, or immobilized by fear. He even wondered at the new feeling inside him, the light, effervescent feeling of hope. He would convince her that he didn’t mean any of it, that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and that he was grateful for her kindness and–
He wasn’t sure what he would say, but he knew that what had happened between them was real and true and beautiful. But perhaps it was too late, he thought. Perhaps all they could be now, after his terrible treatment of her, were friends, neighbors. He couldn’t blame her for this. No, however long it took, he would do what he could to make her life easier, to be there for her, to one day see that look of love and trust in her eyes again.
When he opened his door, he saw that something was propped against it. He lifted it and saw the drawing of him – it now had a woman in a flowing blue robe offering him warmth and light. His heart pounded; there was still hope. Or, did the gesture mean that it was over – that this was what might have been? He felt a heavy darkness filling his chest at that possibility. No, he would protect whatever remnant still remained. Gingerly, he held the drawing, searching for a safe place to put it. He went to his bedroom and laid it on his bed.
Then he left his apartment and knocked at Lillian’s door. He had to know. He would know when he saw her face. He knocked again. Was she home and didn’t want to see him? His despair deepened. He placed his hand on her door and spoke softly. “Lillian?”
Drooms saw the neighbor from the fourth floor coming up the stairs and, for a brief moment, was ready to scowl and leave. But that old self could not be summoned. Drooms actually smiled at the old man.
“Mrs. Hapsey and her boys left about an hour ago,” the old man said. “Off to see Santa.”
“Of course. Thank you. Merry Christmas!”
The old man stood a moment staring at Drooms. “And a Merry Christmas to you, sir,” and he continued up the stairs.
There’s still hope, thought Drooms. He showered and dressed for work, with a clear image of what he was going to do. He walked briskly with his head up, smiling and tipping his hat to the neighbors, which caused a few double takes.
When he passed The Red String Curio Store, he paused to look in the window at those combs. They did not have the same power they had yesterday. Today, they were just hair combs.
The shop owner knocked on the window and motioned for him to come in. Drooms smiled and opened the door, causing the little bell to jingle.
The owner was at his cheerful, holiday best. “Good morning, sir! I have a new raccoon you might like to take a look at. A nice addition to your collection.”
“I got rid of that collection,” said Drooms. “Decided to make room for some other things.”
“Oh. Well then,” said the shopkeeper, clearly surprised. He hooked his thumbs around his red suspenders, rocking on his heels. “Can I help you find anything else?”
“I noticed some toys in the window,” said Drooms.
“An excellent selection just delivered for the holiday.”
After a few minutes, Drooms stacked several games and toys on the counter, smiling at the other customers. “Can you wrap them, please? I’ll pick them up in a few hours. Thank you. Merry Christmas!”
The shopkeeper chuckled lightly as the door closed. “There goes a man in love,” he said, to no one in particular.
At Drooms Accounting, the staff discussed their plans for the holiday as they worked, all of them wondering at the fact that their boss was late. They broke up the merriment when Drooms hurried in.
For the first time, Drooms saw himself through their eyes, and the effect his presence had on them. He started to speak, then went into his office, stopping Mrs. Murphy as she walked by.
“Mrs. Murphy, good morning. Please, call everyone together. I want to announce some changes.” He saw the employees exchange nervous glances and make themselves busy at their desks.
“Oh, Mason. I want to speak to you first, in private. Please, come inside.” Drooms closed the door, took his seat, and gestured for Mason to sit down. He was puzzled when Mason remained standing.
Mason locked his hands in front of him and straightened, as if gathering strength for a battle. “Before you begin, sir, I must speak my mind about the takeover.”
Drooms cocked his head to the side, and knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “Takeover?” He then remembered his earlier intention that Mason referred to, and waved it away. “Oh, that. Bad idea. I’ve changed my mind. Henderson’s a good man.”
After a moment of surprise, Mason’s shoulders relaxed somewhat. He looked down and put his hands on the back of the chair in front of him. “Well then, I guess I know what this is about. Let me speak plainly. I know you’re upset at my taking a second job. But I honestly don’t believe it has affected my performance. However, if–”
Drooms jerked his head back at the preposterous idea. “I couldn’t be more pleased with your work. Please, sit down, Mason.”
Mason sat down hesitantly. “But – I thought when you gave the Carson account to Finch that–”
Drooms’s effervescence vanished for just a moment. “I thought you were leaving me, Mason. Going over to Henderson. I saw you two shaking hands.”
Mason dro
pped his mouth, searching his memory for when he had last seen Henderson, and then he remembered. “That was just a holiday wish of good cheer. Why would I leave?”
“Forgive me, Mason. I haven’t quite been myself.” Drooms didn’t want to dwell in the past. He waved his hand again, as if brushing aside his old ways. “Look. I know I’m not always the easiest person, but I’ve been thinking things through and – well, I’m going to make you a partner.”
Mason thought he must have misunderstood him. He shook his head lightly, and leaned forward, waiting for Drooms to repeat himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear–”
“Partner. I’m going to make you a partner.”
Mason tried to read the unusual expression on Drooms’s face. It seemed to be one of unbounded happiness.
Drooms had expected a different response and hoped he hadn’t been presumptuous in thinking that Mason would want to be a partner with him. “That is, if you’re interested.”
“Partner? I don’t know what to say. Of course! A partner?” Mason’s expression bounced back and forth between confusion and joy.
“It’s long overdue. I’m only sorry I didn’t realize it earlier.” Drooms handed him an envelope. “Here’s your bonus, Mason.” He watched as Mason sat speechless. “Well, open it.”
Mason opened the envelope and was overcome with emotion. Inside was the end to his immediate financial pressures, and a brief vision of himself as he presented his wife with the new coat she had so admired. He stood up. “Excuse me, sir,” but his voice broke. He held up a finger. “A moment, please.” He left the room to compose himself, and stepped out into the hall.
The other employees saw Mason leave Drooms’s office visibly shaken, holding an envelope. They kept their heads down, eyes on their desks, afraid of what was coming next.
Drooms stood in his doorway, and cheerfully called Mrs. Murphy. “Please, step inside.”
An angry Mrs. Murphy, who had also witnessed the exchange with Mason, stomped into Drooms’s office and closed the door behind her, not waiting for him to speak. “Mr. Drooms. In all my years I have never spoken out against you, but if you have gone and fired your best employee, after all these years–”
