by Paul Bowles
“Please, Mother…?”
Her voice was adamant. “This cold air will put you to sleep in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Now go to sleep.” She went to the doorway, the lamp in her hand, and disappeared through it, closing the door behind her.
There was a little china clock on the table that ticked very loud and fast. At infrequent intervals from below came a muffled burst of laughter which immediately subsided. His mother had said: “I’ll open this window about an inch; that’ll be enough.” The room was growing colder by the minute. He pushed the sole of one foot against the heated brick in the middle of the bed, and heard the crackle of the newspaper that enfolded it. There was nothing left to do but go to sleep. On his way through the borderlands of consciousness he had a fantasy. From the mountain behind the farm, running silently over the icy crust of the snow, leaping over the rocks and bushes, came a wolf. He was running toward the farm. When he got there he would look through the windows until he found the dining-room where the grownups were sitting around the big table. Donald shuddered when he saw his eyes in the dark through the glass. And now, calculating every movement perfectly, the wolf sprang, smashing the panes, and seized Donald’s father by the throat. In an instant, before anyone could move or cry out, he was gone again with his prey still between his jaws, his head turned sideways as he dragged the limp form swiftly over the surface of the snow.
The white light of dawn was in the room when he opened his eyes. Already there were bumpings in the bowels of the house: people were stirring. He heard a window slammed shut, and then the regular sound of someone splitting wood with a hatchet. Presently there were nearer noises, and he knew that his parents in the next room had gotten up. Then his door was flung open and his mother came in, wearing a thick brown flannel bathrobe, and with her hair falling loose down her back. “Merry Christmas!” she cried, holding up a gigantic red mesh stocking crammed with fruit and small packages. “Look what I found hanging by the fireplace!” He was disappointed because he had hoped to go and get his stocking himself. “I brought it up to you because the house is as cold as a barn,” she told him. “You stay put right here in bed till it’s warmed up a little.”
“When’ll we have the tree?” The important ritual was the tree: the most interesting presents were piled under it.
“You just hold your horses,” she told him. “You’ve got your stocking. We can’t have the tree till Aunt Louisa gets here. You wouldn’t want her to miss it, would you?”
“Where’s my present for Aunt Louisa and Uncle Ivor? Uncle Ivor’s coming, too, isn’t he?”
“Of course he’s coming,” she replied, with that faintly different way of speaking she used when she mentioned Uncle Ivor. “I’ve already put it under the tree with the other things. Now you just stay where you are, all covered up, and look at your stocking. I’m going to get dressed.” She shivered and hurried back into her room.
The only person he had to thank at breakfast was his grandfather, for a box of colored pencils which had been jammed into the foot of the stocking. The other gifts had been tagged: “For Donald from Santa.” Uncle Willis and Uncle Greg had eaten an early breakfast and gone in the sleigh to the hotel in Portersville to fetch Aunt Louisa and Uncle Ivor. When they got back, Donald ran to the window and saw that Mr. Gordon had come. Everyone had talked so mysteriously about Mr. Gordon that he was very eager to see him. But at that moment his mother called him upstairs to help her make the beds. “We all have to do as much as we can for Gramma,” she told him. “Lord knows she’s got all she can manage with the kitchen work.”
But eventually he heard Aunt Louisa calling up the staircase. They went down: he was smothered in kisses, and Aunt Louisa asked him: “How’s my boy? You’re my boy, aren’t you?” Then Uncle Ivor kissed him, and he shook hands with Mr. Gordon, who was already sitting in Grampa’s armchair, where nobody else ever sat. He was plump and pale, and he wore two big diamond rings on one hand and an even bigger sapphire on the other. As he breathed he wheezed slightly; now and then he pulled an enormous yellow silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his forehead with it. Donald sat down on the other side of the room and turned the pages of a magazine, from time to time looking up to observe him. He had called Donald “my lad,” which sounded very strange, like someone talking in a book. At one point he noticed Donald’s attention, and beckoned to him. Donald went and stood beside the armchair while Mr. Gordon reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat watch with a little button, and tiny chimes struck inside the watch. A few minutes later he signaled to him afresh; Donald bounded over to him and pressed the button again. The next time, his mother told him to stop bothering Mr. Gordon.
“But he asked me to,” objected Donald.
“Sit down right there. We’re all going in and have our tree in a little while. Uncle Ivor’s going to be Santa Claus.”
Presently Uncle Willis came into the room. “Well, everybody,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “I think the parlor’s warm enough now. How about our tree?”
“It’s about time,” said Aunt Emilie. She was wearing a red taffeta dress which Donald had heard his mother discussing with his father earlier. “Most inappropriate,” she had said. “The girl doesn’t seem to realize she’s living on a farm.” Aunt Emilie reached down and took Donald’s hand. “Would you care to accompany me, sir?” she said. They walked into the parlor holding hands. The fire in the fireplace roared and crackled.
“Where’s Ivor?” said Uncle Greg. “Has everybody got a seat?”
“Here he is,” said Uncle Ivor, coming in from the hallway. He had put on an old red knitted skull-cap and a red dressing gown, and he had a wreath of green fluted paper around his neck. “This is all Santa Claus could find,” he announced.
Aunt Louisa began to laugh. “Look at your Uncle Ivor,” she told Donald. “I am,” said Donald. But he was really looking at the tree. It was a tall hemlock that reached to the ceiling, and underneath it was piled the most enormous assortment of packages he had ever seen. “Look at that!” they all cried.
“What do you suppose is in them all?” said Aunt Louisa.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
Uncle Ivor sat down on the floor as near the tree as he could get, and lifting up a large crate he passed it to Uncle Greg, who stood in the middle of the room. “Let’s get this out of the way first,” he said. Then Uncle Greg intoned: “To Donald from the Folks at Rutland.”
While Uncle Ivor went on passing out packages, Donald struggled with his box. He was vaguely aware of the little cries that were being uttered around him: “How lovely! But it’s too much!” “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” “Why did you do it?” as the others opened their gifts, but he was too preoccupied to notice that most of the exclamations were being addressed to Mr. Gordon, who sat in the window looking very pleased.
It was too good to believe: a fire engine three feet long, with rubber tires and a bell and a siren and three ladders that shot upward automatically when it stopped. Donald looked at it, and for a moment was almost frightened by the power he knew it had to change his world.
“Oh…isn’t…that…lovely!” said his mother, her annoyance giving a sharp edge to each word. “Louisa, why did you do it?” Donald glanced up quickly and saw Aunt Louisa indicate Mr. Gordon with a jerk of her head, as if she were saying: “Everything is his fault.”
His mother moved along the floor toward the crate and fished out the greeting card. “I want you to keep each card in with the present it came with,” she told Donald, “because you’ll have a lot of thank-you notes to write tomorrow, and you don’t want to get them mixed up. But you can thank Aunt Louisa and Uncle Ivor right now.”
He hated to be told to thank a person in that person’s presence, as though he were a baby. But he said the words bravely, facing Mr. Gordon: “Thank you so much for the beautiful fire engine.”
“There’s more there, my lad,” beamed Mr. Gordon; the diamonds flashed in the sunlight.
&nbs
p; Aunt Emilie was holding out her arm in front of her, looking at her new wrist-watch. Grampa had put on a black silk dressing gown and was smoking a cigar. He looked perfectly content as he turned to Mr. Gordon and said: “Well, you’ve spoiled us all.” But Donald’s mother interpreted his phrase as a reproach, and added in explanation: “We’re not used to getting such elaborate gifts, Mr. Gordon.”
Mr. Gordon laughed, and turning to Donald, told him: “You’ve barely started, my lad. Tell your Uncle Ivor to get on with it.”
Now it seemed as though nearly every package was for Donald. He opened them as fast as he could, and was freshly bewildered by the apparition of each new marvel. There were, of course, the handkerchiefs and books and mufflers from the family, but there was also a Swiss music box with little metal records that could be changed; there were roller skates, a large set of lead soldiers, a real accordion, and a toy village with a streetcar system that ran on a battery. As Donald opened each package, the little cries of admiration made by his parents came closer to sounding like groans. Finally his father said, in a voice loud enough for Mr. Gordon to hear him above the general conversation: “It’s bad business for one kid to get so much.”
Mr. Gordon had heard him. “You were young once yourself,” he said airily.
Aunt Emilie was trying on a fur jacket that Uncle Greg had given her. Her face was flushed with excitement; she had just planted a big kiss on Uncle Greg’s cheek.
“The little Astor baby got five thousand dollars’ worth of toys on its last birthday,” she said to Donald’s father, running her hand back and forth along the fur.
Donald’s father looked at her with narrowed eyes. “That,” he said, enunciating very clearly, “is what might be called an asinine remark.”
Save for the crackling of the fire there was silence for a moment in the room. Those who had not heard knew that something had happened. Uncle Greg looked quickly at Donald’s father, and then at Aunt Emilie. Maybe there would be a quarrel, thought Donald, with everyone against his father. The idea delighted him; at the same time he felt guilty, as though it were his doing.
Uncle Ivor was handing him a package. Automatically he untied the ribbon, and pulled out a tan cashmere sweater. “That’s Mother’s and Daddy’s present to you,” his mother said quietly. “It’s a little big for you now, but I got it big purposely so you could grow into it.” The small crisis had passed; they all began to talk again. Donald was relieved and disappointed. “How about christening that bottle of brandy?” cried Uncle Willis.
“You menfolk sit here,” Gramma told them. “We’ve got to get out into the kitchen.”
“I’ll bring yours out to you,” said Uncle Ivor to Aunt Louisa as she got up.
On her way out of the room Donald’s mother bent over and touched his shoulder. “I want you to put every present back into its box just the way it was. After that you carry them all up into our room and stack them carefully in the corner under the window. You hear me?”
She went out. Donald sat a moment; then he jumped up and ran after her to ask if he might save out just one thing—the fire engine, perhaps. She was saying to Gramma: “…quite uncalled for. Besides, I don’t know how we’re ever going to get it all back to New York. Owen can take the big things at least with him tomorrow, I suppose.”
He stopped running, and felt peace descend upon him. His father was leaving the farm. Then let him take everything with him, fire engine and all; it would not matter. He turned and went back into the parlor, where he meticulously packed the toys into their boxes, put the covers on, and tied them up with lengths of ribbon and string.
“What’s all this?” exclaimed Mr. Gordon suddenly, noticing him. “What are you doing?”
“I have to take everything upstairs,” said Donald.
His father joined the conversation. “I don’t want to find those boxes lying all over the place up there, either. See that you pile ‘em neatly. Understand?”
Donald continued to work without looking up.
After a moment Mr. Gordon said under his breath: “Well, I’ll be damned.” Then to Donald’s father: “I’ve seen some well-behaved kids in my time, but I don’t mind telling you I never saw one like that. Never.”
“Discipline begins in the cradle,” said his father shortly.
“It’s sinister,” murmured Mr. Gordon to himself.
Donald glanced up and saw his father looking at Mr. Gordon with hatred.
In the kitchen his grandmother, his aunts and his mother were busy preparing dinner. Donald sat by the window mashing potatoes. The blue of the sky had disappeared behind one curtain of cloud, uniformly white. “We’ll have more snow before night,” said Gramma, looking out of the window above the sink.
“Want to smell something good?” Donald’s mother asked him. He ran across to the stove and she opened the oven door: the aroma of onions mingled with that of the roasting turkey. “He’s coming along beautifully,” she announced. She shut the oven door with a bang and hung the pot-holders on their hooks. Then she went into the pantry. Donald followed her. It was very cold in here, and it smelled of pickles and spices. His mother was searching for something along the shelves, among the jars and tin boxes.
“Mother,” he said.
“Hmm?” she replied distraughtly, without looking down at him.
“Why does Mr. Gordon live at Uncle Ivor’s?”
Now she did look at him, and with an intensity that startled him. “What was that?” she demanded sharply. Then, before he could repeat his question, she went on in a suddenly matter-of-fact voice: “Dear, don’t you know that Uncle Ivor’s what they call a male nurse? Like Miss Oliver, you remember, who took care of you when you had influenza? Only a man. A man nurse.”
“Is Mr. Gordon sick?”
“Yes, he is,” she said, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper. “He’s a very sick man, but we don’t talk about it.”
“What’s he got?” He was conscious of being purposely childish at the moment, in the hope of learning more. But his mother was already saying: “I don’t know, dear. You go back into the kitchen now. It’s too cold for you in here. Scoot! Out with you!” He giggled, ran back into the kitchen, satisfied for having definitely established the existence of a mystery.
During dinner his father looked across at him with the particular kind of sternness he reserved for remarks which he knew were unwelcome, said: “You haven’t been outside yet today, young man. We’ll take a walk down the road later.”
Aunt Louisa had brought a large glass of brandy to the table with her, and was sipping it along with her food. “It’s too cold, Owen,” she objected. “He’ll catch his death o’ cold.” Donald knew she was trying to help him, but he wished she had kept quiet. If it became an issue, his father would certainly not forget about the walk.
“Too cold!” scoffed his father. “We have a few basic rules in our little family, and one of them is that he has to get some fresh air every day.”
“Couldn’t you make an exception for Christmas? Just for one day?” demanded Aunt Louisa.
Donald did not dare look up, for fear of seeing the expression on his father’s face.
“Listen, Louisa,” he said acidly. “I suggest you just stay on your side of the fence, and I’ll stay on mine. We’ll get along a lot better.” Then as an afterthought he snapped: “That all right with you?”
Aunt Louisa leaned across Grampa’s plate toward Donald’s father and spoke very loud, so that everyone stopped eating. “No, it’s not all right with me!” she cried. “All you do is pick on the child from morning till night. It’s shameful! I won’t sit by and watch my own flesh and blood plagued that way!”
Both Gramma and Donald’s father began to speak at once. Gramma was saying, “Louisa,” trying to soothe her. Donald’s father shouted: “You’ve never had a kid. You don’t know the first thing about raising kids.”
“I know when a man’s selfish and plain cussed,” Aunt Louisa declared.
“Louisa!” cried Gramma in a tone of surprise and mild reproof. Donald continued to look at his plate.
“Have I ever come up to Rutland and stuck my nose in your affairs and criticized? Have I?” demanded Donald’s father.
“Now come on,” said Uncle Willis quickly. “Let’s not spoil a beautiful Christmas.”
“That’s right,” Grampa said. “We’re all happy. Let’s not say anything we’ll be sorry for later.”
But Aunt Louisa would not retreat. She took a fast gulp of brandy and almost choked on it. Then, still leaning toward Donald’s father, she went on: “What do you mean, come to Rutland and criticize? What’ve you got to criticize in Rutland? Something wrong there?”
For an instant Donald’s father did not reply. During that instant it was as though everyone felt the need to say something without being able to say it. The one who broke the short silence was Donald’s father, using a peculiar, soft voice which Donald recognized immediately as a vicious imitation of Uncle Ivor. “Oh, no! There’s nothing wrong in Rutland!”
Suddenly, with two simultaneous motions, Donald’s mother slapped her napkin into her place and pushed her chair back violently. She rose and ran out of the room, slamming the door. No one said anything. Donald sat frozen, unable to look up, unable even to breathe. Then he realized that his father had got up, too, and was on his way out.
“Leave her alone, Owen,” said Gramma.
“You keep out of this,” his father said. His footsteps made the stairs creak as he went up. No one said anything until Gramma made as if to rise. “I’m going up,” she declared.
“For God’s sake, Abbie, sit still,” Grampa told her. Gramma cleared her throat, but did not get up.
Aunt Louisa looked very red, and the muscles of her face were twitching. “Hateful,” she said in a choked voice. “Just hateful.”
“I felt like slapping his face,” confided Aunt Emilie. “Did you hear what he said to me when we were having our presents?”
At a glance from Uncle Greg, Aunt Emilie stopped. “Why, Donald!” she exclaimed brightly, “you’ve scarcely touched your dinner! Aren’t you hungry?”
