by Dorothy West
The Duchess felt his passion. “I will be impatient, too, Simeon, until Dean Galloway is actually here. I am not surprised that Mrs. Judson consented so readily to arrange a gathering. She is a woman of great sympathy. And she and the dean are fellow Southerners. I think she is persuasive enough to pledge her guests to whatever cause he has come on.”
While they were at dinner the snow fell thicker and faster for all the small Bostonians who believed that Santa Claus came by sleigh. When it was time for Thea and Cole to leave, the white city made walking to the trolley stop an unpleasant excursion.
Simeon had never made use of the Duchess’s motorcar. He would not let himself be chauffeur-driven to the shabby offices of The Clarion. Seeing Thea’s inadequate rubbers, he remembered how he had chided her a week ago for coming out in just such weather without her arctics. Now he inwardly cursed his obtuseness, and his voice was almost savage when he said to the Duchess, “I think you might offer to have Thea and Cole driven home.”
The Duchess paled. She had not been unaware of the motorcar in the carriage house. She had simply had no knowledge of the direction Simeon’s pride would take. It was a moment or two before she could trust her voice. “Clark has already been told that he might be needed tonight.”
Simeon turned to Cole. “Thea’s neglected to wear her arctics all winter. After this, you really should see to it.”
Cole’s smile was wry. “I’ll put a pair of arctics in the top drawer of my mind.”
The car pulled away from the door. The Duchess could not catch back her sigh that had the sound of a little sob. She murmured good night to Simeon and left him. He watched her go. There had been no other night when they had not said good night reluctantly. But there had been no other night when anyone had come to test the fragile ties of their marriage. When would they ever make those ties secure?
Abruptly he swung his mind away, turned into the library, and poured himself a stiff whiskey. But he could not drown the image of the Duchess. He poured another whiskey, but her image persisted. With a violent motion he smashed the glass against the hearth, and went out of the room, and up the stairs.
Outside the Duchess’s door he paused, took a step past it, then turned back and rapped softly.
After a moment she said, “Come in.”
He entered her room. She was sitting very erect on the side of the bed in a blue dressing gown, but the coverlet plainly showed where she had flung herself across it in a storm of weeping. A silver hairbrush gleamed on the carpet. She raised her hands to push back her pale unbound hair, and the gesture was lovely and feminine.
“Lenore,” Simeon said remorsefully, and then raggedly, “Lenore.”
He crossed to her, and seized her shoulders, and his mouth came down hard on hers. Then gently he pressed her back on the bed, and lay beside her, and took her in his arms.
She could not let it happen this way, however her body yearned. Now was the time to let her body suffer for her sins. Now was the time for atonement. She freed herself from Simeon’s arms, and the wrench was as terrible as tearing flesh apart. Agony was engraved on her face. He got up and stood away from her.
His voice was even, cold. “I came in to offer you an apology. There is no better time than now.”
She rose, too, and a tremor shook her body. He saw it as revulsion. He turned and walked to the door.
“Simeon, wait.”
He half-turned. “Is there anything more to say?”
“I am a Catholic, Simeon.”
“Are you reminding me of your Irish grandmother? Are you going to tell me next about your Anglo-Saxon father?”
“I am trying to tell you I have sinned in God’s eyes.”
“What is this cant of Church and God? What are you hiding behind them?”
“I am hiding nothing, Simeon. I am showing you my heart.”
His look was sardonic. He opened the door. “It is not nearly as interesting as what I had anticipated.”
The door closed behind him.
CHAPTER 19
CLEO HAD TOLD THEM that they could wake up at six. At six the first streaks of light were in the winter sky. But they had all been awake since just past five when Bart had staggered up out of his snatch of sleep to shake the furnace and pile her on heavy that the house might be good and hot for the children on Christmas morning. The three little girls had won the concession to forego the lengthy business of dressing themselves in their long drawers, long-sleeved shirts, body waists, bloomers, flannel under-petticoats, linen top-petticoats, heavy stockings, serge skirts, blouses, sweaters, and knee-high storm shoes with laces that seemed a mile long on school mornings. Small Tim was unable to dress himself, but it was sufficiently tedious for him to have to stand still and be burdened with the woolen layers that were piled on him because it was winter in Boston.
Victoria was the first to scamper out of bed, where she lay beside Lily, her mother. Vicky was seven, a tall, butter-colored, red-cheeked child, whose seniority of six months over Penny and ten months over Judy made her the unquestioned leader of the little girls.
Across the hall, Penny, hearing Vicky’s scurrying sounds, eased herself away from Charity and got into her bathrobe and slippers, adjusting the belt of the robe until the ends were exactly even. Penny was as contented with herself as a cat, and spent long hours basking in her own beauty. Having acquired it at a very early age, she now had no other ambition except to get big enough to wear long dresses.
Together she and Vicky padded softly down the hall to rout out Judy. They had not been cautioned to be quiet, but they did not want the Big People to enter into their Christmas world in the first moments of rapture. Big People were fine for some things. They performed certain commonplace tasks that were necessary to daily living. But aside from that, they were best avoided. Either they told you what to do, like Cleo, or they told you to ask Cleo what to do, which was the same thing.
Judy slid away from Cleo. She still felt surprised that she shared a bed with her mother. She supposed it was all right for her cousins to sleep with their mothers. Their fathers were far away. But it seemed odd to her that she should sleep with Cleo with Papa right here in the house. Papa slept in the small back room on the second floor. Cleo had put him there when the aunts came. They were only going to stay two weeks, she had told Papa, and it would be nice for them to have the top floor to themselves, so they could talk from their beds until they fell asleep. She would take Judy in with her, and Serena and Tim could have Judy’s room for the short time they were going to be here.
Judy could never decide whether or not she liked to sleep with Cleo. Vicky said how could she stand seeing Cleo all day and then sleeping with her all night. But if somebody was your mother, that was the difference between how you felt and how Vicky felt, even though Vicky was probably right.
In a way it was interesting to sleep in Cleo’s room. The four little cousins fell asleep as soon as they tired of giggling back and forth and running in and out of each other’s rooms — except Tim, who was trapped in a crib — until Cleo screamed up to them to stop that fool noise and go to sleep at once, or she’d come upstairs with a hairbrush and wear them out one by one. But when Cleo and her sisters came up to retire, Judy waked.
Cleo would enter softly enough, and start to bank the coal fire for the night. But the little pot-bellied stove was giving out so much cheerful warmth that it seemed a shame to leave it and go to bed. She would call her sisters to come in and undress by her stove, for there were only registers in their rooms. And the furnace heat, which was never really adequate in any Boston house because of New England thrift and addiction to sweaters, had a hard enough time spreading itself around the two lower floors to be of any use to anybody when it reached the top.
The sisters would come in gratefully, giving a look at the sleeping child and talking in whispers. Cleo would urge them to go ahead and sit down, it’s just ten o’clock, draw up those rockers, we can’t wake Judy, children sleep so sound; besides, I never
finished telling you about Ant Rena Robinson, and the time Josie Beauchamp and I dressed up in sheets and scared the poor soul most to death.
It was always Cleo’s laugh that waked Judy. Cleo’s laugh rising out of the well of her joy, growing, swelling, infecting her sisters, great Negro laughter, rich, belly-deep, body-shaking, with the little gasps for breath, and then another gale, and everybody’s eyes wet, and everybody saying, Cleo, if you tell another one of your fool stories, you’ll kill me right in this rocker. I got a stitch in my side. I ain’t laughed so much since you left the South and took your lies with you.
Judy kept her eyes shut and her body still, though she was quivering inside to share this mirth that had its beginning before she was born. She was not quite sure what was funny, for she was on the sober side, and the picture of poor Ant Rena Robinson, with her basket balanced on her head, being scared out of her wits in the lonesome woods at the apparition of Cleo and Josie Beauchamp draped in Mrs. Beauchamp’s fine linen sheets made her feel quite sorry. Ant Rena Robinson had had to wash and iron everything all over again. For the basket fell off her head, and she said, Give me room, ghosts, and God A’mighty, give me wings, and kicked the basket up in the air to give herself a clear path. Ant Rena weighed three hundred pounds. Once around her was twice around Boston Common. But she beat every bird going in her direction, and reached home long before her shadow did. Poor shadow had to hang around outside until Ant Rena’s husband came home and let it in. It never really fit Ant Rena after that. She lost near fifty pounds from being so scared and running so fast, and never could eat it back, because her teeth had knocked each other out chattering so hard.
Cleo would start another outrageous story. Judy would lie there listening, half amused, half moved, and wholly confused in her feelings for Cleo by her admixture of fiction and fact. She made it so hard to know what to believe. Why did she never tell the whole truth? Why didn’t anyone ever stop her? Was it her voice? Did they like to listen to her talk just to hear the music sounds she made? Was it because she was so full of life that she made things move inside you, tears or laughter or anger, and when she went out of a room something like something alive left with her?
Even Vicky and Penny talked about her more than they talked about their own mothers. They never said anything nice, but they said a whole lot. It was funny, but Cleo was the boss of everybody. It was like she was the boss of the house. Papa wasn’t.
Sometimes Judy felt guilty pretending to be asleep, for she knew that the Big People’s tongues were unguarded. They did not always tell funny stories. They talked about everything under the sun, sad things, solemn things, Negro things. And it seemed to the child that Big People had made a strange world for themselves. There was no more happiness in it than in a child’s world. They did not know what tomorrow would bring any more than children did.
When she made her regular reports to her cousins on the Big People’s business, they felt baffled and impatient trying to draw conclusions. If the Big People wanted their husbands, why didn’t they go back to them? If they hated to see their children forget their fathers, why had they brought them away? If they thought Papa was so wonderful, why didn’t they stand up for him? If they didn’t want Cleo to boss them, why did they let her?
They sat in solemn conclave on the Big People, and they were glad of each other. They had almost forgotten what it was like not to live together. As young as they were, five months had seemed like five years. They had decided, after giving the matter much thought, to bring up themselves. They did not want to be brought up by teachers and Cleo.
When Judy joined Vicky and Penny, they held a hurried consultation about Tim. At this hour of the morning, he was sure to be wet. They did not mind, but Cleo would make a fuss if he left a wet spot on her rug. If they waked Serena and asked her to dress him, she would cry because it was Christmas. And if she cried loud enough, she would wake up the rest of the Big People.
It was decided that Judy should fetch a towel to tie around Tim while Vicky fetched him. In a moment or two Vicky reappeared with the twenty-two-month-old blond boy. When Judy approached, his solemn little face began to stretch into an enormous smile, and his great brown eyes filled with the image of his idol. Judy was his favorite of all the world. Before Judy he could not remember any real existence. She had taught him to walk and talk. Serena had never wanted a baby, and Cleo was still not reconciled to his being male. He refused to eat anything except what Judy left on her plate. Cleo fought a losing battle with him every day. The only word he ever said to her was “no.”
Judy wrapped the towel around his waist and made a bow that looked like bunny ears. Half of the towel formed a train behind him. He stood for it soberly. Judy was his life and love, and he did not care what she did to him. When she was through, he put his trusting hand in hers. The cousins descended the stairs.
The towering tree was in the second-floor sitting room with its Brussels carpet and Hepplewhite desk, now somewhat marred by ink spots and scratches which spankings had not erased. The children crowded inside the doorway and stood very still, their tender mouths falling open, their innocent eyes full of awe. The perennial magic of the Christmas tree choked their throats, their hearts shook with happiness.
In the early light the great boughs glistened under their load of sparkling snow nestling on cotton puffs that looked as lovely and flyaway as thistle. The gleaming golden star shone down on them, and they lifted their shining faces, alight with the wondrous belief that Bart had really found the falling star that he had promised them. The fragile colored baubles like balls for fairies’ babies, the silvery tinsel threading in and out, the little candles on the branch tips waiting for first dark, the little presents in ribbon and tissue tucked here and there and held firmly in place by the tree’s witchery, and the big presents, the unwrapped presents, the dolls, the sleds, the tea sets, the teddy bear, the tricycle, the four little rocking chairs, and strung along the mantel the four filled stockings — these were the evidences that renewed their faith in the disturbing world that could stop for Christmas and give little children a day to cherish.
All their Christmas Eve doubts and little fears dissolved. Santa Claus loved them! Santa didn’t care if children were white or colored. He didn’t care if Judy was the richest or Tim was the littlest. She was not first, and he was not least. If everybody could be like Santa Claus, good, and just, and generous, there would never be a day when children were not happy.
“He came,” said Vicky reverently.
They advanced into the room, Tim stumbling over his towel, with no shred of his bliss disturbed.
“Oh, what shall we play with first, Vicky?” pleaded Penny, her placidity upset by so many choices.
“Our stockings,” Vicky said softly. “And we’ll just pat the other things and not play with anything until the Big People see what Santa Claus brought us.” She yearned now to share their joy with the Big People. Her Christmas heart was expanding rapidly. All of her feelings were tender and loving, and she was ashamed that they were not always so. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a rapid little prayer that Santa Claus had stopped at the house of Bill Aloysius Barry. She had been praying that he wouldn’t, because Bill Aloysius Barry had won their last fight when the school bell rung while she was down and he was up.
“I’d liefer let them look, too,” said Penny. She had a penchant for picking up Irish expressions. After a grueling two months with Thea between school and supper, automatically she adopted any unfamiliar word or inflection because she supposed it was expected of her. With the urge of children to conform to the accepted standard, the speech of Judy’s cousins was becoming almost indistinguishable from hers. But Penny’s accent was always going to be a little Irish.
“I want the Big People to see everything, too,” said Judy, wishing she had sewed her pot-holders for Cleo a little more carefully.
“Me do,” said Tim, who was always her echo.
They made a rush for the mantel then, with Tim falli
ng flat and scrambling up to fall and rise again. With their stockings clutched tightly to their overflowing hearts, and their tongues like torrents, they made the circuit of the tree, touching and talking to the large gifts, trying to guess what lay concealed behind the bright wrappings of the small ones.
With happy sighs of complete contentment they sank to the floor and began the exploration of their stockings. Tim’s towel was somewhat askew, and his excited saturated bottom made a new wet spot each time he shifted. The shiny apples, oranges, tangerines, bananas, the ten-cent whistles, the paper-backed picture books, the peppermint sticks, the nuts, and tissue-wrapped raisins were thrilling discoveries as their laps filled with these precious treasures that Santa Claus had selected with no thought of the time and trouble it was taking him.
Anxiously Judy and Penny watched Vicky’s wavering hand, and Tim watched Judy’s. Vicky picked up her apple. They picked up theirs. The sideboard held a bowl of identical fruit, but they would never have been persuaded to this fact. No child wanted to be the only one eating his hallowed apple or other fruit, and find it entirely consumed by the time his cousin began on his. For a long moment there was no sound but the loud smacking of thorough savoring.
Vicky struggled to suppress a thought. It was not a proper Christmas thought, but it refused to settle. Suddenly it exploded, with Vicky feeling a small rush of shame that her period of being wholly loving had been so short-lived.
“I’m going to brag to the white children when I go back to school,” she said.
“Me, too,” said Penny shamelessly.
“It isn’t nice to brag,” said Judy in a small voice, for it was her function to serve as their conscience.
“Not nice,” said Tim severely.
“They’re going to brag to us,” Vicky reminded her.
