October Suite

by Maxine Clair

  October slipped out of her coat and began helping Gene with the bags. Upstairs had gotten quiet.

  “Vergie’ll be down directly,” Aunt Frances said. “She’s trying to get David to sleep. What’s all this?”

  “Just a few presents and things,” October said, and she couldn’t hold back. “I was hoping to see David tonight.” And, “Can’t I just go on up?”

  “Sounds like Vergie’s just gotten him quiet,” Aunt Frances said. “No need to wake him back up tonight”

  “Oh, go on up, chile,” Aunt Maude said. “Take a little peek. He’s the devil in the mornings, but he’s a little angel right now.”

  Vergie was already coming down the stairs. “Sounds like somebody’s home for Christmas.”

  Vergie’s hair fell loose in big curls around her shoulders, like she had worn it in high school. Diaper slung over one shoulder, print dress; the serious face was the face of the sister October had always known and mostly loved. When she said hello to Vergie, the distance seemed so great she could have yelled and waited for an echo. She couldn’t ask Vergie or tell Vergie anything.

  “Take her up to see David, why don’t you?” Aunt Maude said.

  “He’s asleep, but you can look in if you want to,” Vergie said. Willing to try.

  October followed her up the stairs.

  “He’s in his own room up here now.”

  The room was dark, but October could see that it had been papered and painted. Vergie switched on a small lamp and there was David lying asleep on his stomach in the baby bed on a braided rug in the middle of the room. His head faced them, his arms were at his sides. A study in brown in the white sheets.

  Instinctively October smoothed his back.

  “Don’t wake him up,” Vergie whispered. “It’s late.”

  “I won’t,” October whispered back, and patted the bulge of his bottom. Too precious.

  After a moment more, they left him and went back downstairs to food and a warm kitchen. If October had nothing more that Christmas, she would have the touch of him under her smoothing hand.

  The next morning Christmas Eve, October walked into the kitchen and another golden moment. They were all seated around the table and there was David, in his big-boy high chair with a baby dish of scrambled eggs in front of him. Aunt Maude hobbled in behind October, and when David saw her, his face lit; he threw up his hands and danced in his chair, fairly cheered “Hi!” to Aunt Maude.

  And she cheered right back at him, cane in air, “Hi, baby!”

  “Say hi to your auntie, David,” Vergie said.

  A question came over his face October grinned at him. Should she cheer? She wiggled her fingers at him and gave a cheery “Hi, David.”

  He tried to wiggle his little fingers. “Hi,” he sang softly—melodiously, she noticed.

  “Girl, you can do better than that,” Aunt Maude said. “Tell him”—and she whooped with her cane making all kinds of noise, then ended it with a loud “Hi!”

  It tickled him so, he could hardly catch his breath. Aunt Maude was funny. October laughed, too, and in the spirit of it she cheered, “Hi!”

  He threw up his little arms again—“Hi!”—and giggled at the sheer pleasure of it. She put that in her treasure bag for lean times. For now he was their entertainment at breakfast. Underneath that he was her son.

  “Jooz!” he yelled. Vergie grinned the grin of proud mothers, and poured orange juice into his special cup.

  He threw back his little head and whined “Jooz, jooz,” and pointed to Aunt Maude’s cup of coffee.

  Aunt Frances came into the kitchen. “You see, Maudie—I told you you’re spoiling him. He can’t take coffee.”

  “Ah Fans!” David called, melting her.

  “A teaspoonful won’t hurt him,” Aunt Maude said, and let David sip from her spoon.

  “Ah Mod,” he said, rehearsing who was who. Aunt Maude.

  “Who is that, David?” Vergie asked him, pointing to Gene.

  “Paw-paw,” David said. Clowning he put his hands over his eyes, giggling.

  “This is your auntie October,” Vergie told him. “Can you say ‘Auntie October’?”

  Of course he couldn’t.

  “Aunt Tee,” October pronounced slowly. She had yet to hear what he called Vergie.

  “Ah Tee,” he repeated, looking now to October for the payoff.

  “Yes!” she said, undone and awed at the same time. “Aunt Tee.”

  She could have sat at the table forever, drinking him in.

  “Bathtime,” Vergie announced, and she undid the tray of his chair. “I saw all the loot you brought,” she said to October. Lifting David into her arms. “I can’t wait to see what it is.”

  October checked herself for wear. She was doing fine. “I thought you and I might wrap presents all day like we used to, remember?”

  Vergie chuckled. “That’s what you think. This little devil will be in the middle of everything—won’t you, Davie-do?” She tickled his ribs. He erupted in giggles. Mother-and-son unit. Just like that.

  “Come on, you gotta have a bath,” Vergie said.

  David squirmed and fretted to get down. “Paw-paw,” he said to Gene, reaching.

  “He’s scared bath means bed. You’ll scrub the hide off of him washing him morning and night. Why don’t you just wash him up?”

  Looking at David, Vergie said, “He’s used to having his bath. I don’t want him getting sick or anything for Christmas.”

  “He’s having a ball,” Aunt Maude said. “Let him play awhile.”

  “He’s had enough excitement for one morning,” Vergie said. “When you see him again, he’ll be brand-spanking new—won’t you, Davie-do?”

  Aunt Maude told her, “Suit yourself, honey.”

  And October thought, Don’t worry. I can wait my turn to touch him. What she already had in her sack of treasure would last for months of lean times: his round face, the flawless matte of his bittersweet skin, nose like Vergie’s, maybe—family resemblance—liquid mouth with all those little teeth. And the eyes, wonder-wide, laughter-soft, frantic with feeble revolt—they danced and bored in wherever they alit.

  Three times, October tried to get Vergie to come down and wrap presents. October didn’t care if David tore up paper and trampled on presents—the morning of Christmas Eve could be as big as Christmas. Besides, she had spent weeks sewing and shopping for the best presents for everyone. No perfume and nail polish this time. This time for Aunt Maude she had sewn a gabardine suit with a box jacket, and for Aunt Frances a long-sleeved dress of worsted wool, charcoal with a detachable pique collar and skirt full enough to cover, gracefully, Aunt Frances’s large following.

  Vergie never did care that much for handmade things. Instead, October had gotten her something so un-Vergie-like that Vergie would wonder if she had lost her mind. A nightgown and peignoir made out of sheerest voile, trimmed in mignonette lace. For Gene, October had gotten two new blue twill jumpers, the kind that he wore to the paper mill—nothing special—and a special something that he’d probably never wear, a small-print challis shirt. Red.

  What is Christmas to a child if not everything he could ever want? A two-year-old wasn’t old enough to want much, but he had needs, and other people had to want to see to all of his needs. October wanted that and more for him. Everything she brought should amount to Christmas: the smallest cutest three-wheeler ever made—red with white wheels and black rims and the little rubber bulb thing for the horn; and once she and Vergie and Gene put it together, the horn would screw onto shiny handlebars with yellow tassels. How was that for a boy?

  A smart-thing savings bond for him would go over big with Aunt Frances, and nowadays they made tiny little cars that wound up and zoomed. Two of them. So what if he couldn’t read and wouldn’t for some time? S
he had found the perfect bunch of animal picture books to get him interested. And why not the wooden triangles, rectangles, squares that all fit together? Dexterity, the thing said. Buster Brown outdid themselves when it came to little-boy clothes—the little corduroy pants that went with the little striped knit shirts: two for now, two for him to grow into. And the best—a navy blue suit with the shorty pants, knee socks, and Buster Brown high-tops. Little man on Sundays.

  Didn’t they always say that children spend underclothes like pennies? To make it easier on Vergie and Gene, undershirts, socks, baby pajamas with the feet in.

  Except for the carton with all the tricycle parts, in the trunk of Gene’s car, the loot covered the whole room, including Aunt Maude’s bed. October took out the packages of wrapping paper and ribbon and began writing the note cards. The October she used to be would have been thrilled to buy and give and wrap up pretty. Right then, she felt like her old self.

  Vergie tapped on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Nobody here but us chickens,” October said.

  Vergie came in. “David’s up with Aunt Frances.” She looked around. “My goodness, you’ve got a whole store in here. These are pretty,” she said, touching the stack of boxes already wrapped and waiting for ribbon.

  October had laid David’s things on the bed—some wrapped, some in open boxes, the way she would like him to discover them under the tree on Christmas morning.

  “And what’s all this?” Vergie asked.

  “For David,” October said. She had done well. “Wait till you see what I got him. It’s out in the car. We probably ought to bring it in and put it together.”

  Looking around, Vergie said, “You overdid.” October heard the sour note of—what? Disappointment? Envy?

  “Come on,” she said, cheerleading, “you’ve got to see it.”

  “I’ll have to get Gene’s keys,” Vergie said, resigned.

  The big brown carton said “Schwinn Tricycle.”

  Vergie looked at the box. October waited. “That’s nice,” Vergie said.

  October pushed. She lifted one end of the carton. “We could put it together now, in the room, if you want to.”

  Vergie pushed back. “We should wait for Gene. He’s got a lot to do today. We can do it later.”

  At lunchtime Aunt Frances brought David downstairs and fed him some of her oxtail soup. After lunch they all got him jigging to music on the radio. Early afternoon Vergie and Gene surprised October by leaving him to her aunts and her in the kitchen while they took their coffee and went upstairs. This could be the moment when she would hold David on her lap.

  “Vergie says you outdid yourself this year,” Aunt Frances said, “especially for you-know-who.”

  “I wanted to make it really nice,” October said. “I hope you all like what I got you.”

  “Oh, we’ll like the things, I know that—you always did have a good eye for nice things,” Aunt Frances said.

  “Sure did, always did,” Aunt Maude said. She offered David a bite of peppermint. He crunched it with his little teeth.

  Aunt Frances greased the turkey and began stuffing it. “You know, mothers and daddies don’t always take too well to other folks giving the world to their children,” she said.

  Other folks?

  “Vergie didn’t say anything to me about doing too much,” she said. Vergie hadn’t been serious, she was sure.

  “Come on, Sweet’nin,” Aunt Maude said to David. “Let’s go watch the bubbles in the lights. Want to see the tree?”

  “My teee!” David squealed, hands in the air, and off he ran.

  Aunt Frances continued, “Well, you know Vergie. She doesn’t like to start anything.”

  October stopped to consider the whole picture. She had brought home a houseful of gifts. Maybe she had overspent a little. But it was Christmas. She hadn’t felt this good in this house for a long, long time. And besides, truth be told, David was her child. She would give him the world if she could. And she knew, of course, that she couldn’t—at least, not now. Wasn’t Christmas for children? He was a child, the only child in the Monroe Street house. He should have a good Christmas, and they should all enjoy him having a good Christmas.

  Aunt Frances asked her, “Are you sure you’re not trying to make up for anything?”

  No, she wasn’t sure about anything anymore. But her intentions had been good. She just wanted him, them, to have a nice time.

  “There is nothing to make up for,” she said. Better not to open it up.

  “Well, I’ll leave it between you and your sister. Maybe she’s fine with it. You don’t have to listen to an old lady meddling.”

  October knew about this old lady and meddling. Aunt Frances read signs better than anybody she knew. When Gene and Vergie came downstairs, October understood that Aunt Frances had really intended her word to be heard by the wise.

  There Vergie and Gene stood, she a little taller than he, faces like a fort on a hill—nothing would be getting in.

  “Mommie!” David squealed like he hadn’t seen her just minutes before.

  Gene scooped him up—“Hey, little man”—and carried him out of the kitchen. “Let’s go see if Santy Claus’ll have any snow.”

  Aunt Maude called from the bedroom, “Bring the baby in here, Gene. I’ve got something sweet.”

  Aunt Frances stayed in the kitchen with October and Vergie, puttered over the stove while Vergie fiddled with the knob about to fall off the cabinet drawer.

  “When these potatoes boil, turn the fire down, will you, honey?” Aunt Frances said to either of them, and she, too, made herself scarce.

  October sat down for this one. She wiped make-believe crumbs off the old wooden table.

  Vergie leaned on the chair across the table. “October, I know you want good things for David, just like me and Gene.”

  “Yes, I do, Vergie,” October said. “What ...?” She had been about to ask what was wrong with that.

  “Don’t go getting all upset,” Vergie said.

  Who was getting upset? October had been about to ask what was wrong with wanting good things for David.

  “I’m not getting upset ...”

  Vergie went on.

  “Me and Gene think one present from you is enough. Just one.”

  “What?” And October couldn’t get out the “Why?”

  “I know, I know,” Vergie said. “You went all-out, and we didn’t tell you before you got here. We don’t want to spoil our son. We want him to appreciate what he has and not take it for granted.” She stopped and stared at the table, giving October a chance to say something.

  What voice do you use when the wind is knocked out of you?

  “Vergie,” October said, willing to meet her sister’s eyes. “He’s only two. It’s Christmas, for Pete’s sake. A few presents aren’t going to spoil him. He won’t even know what-all he’s got.”

  But Vergie had obviously rehearsed, and she wasn’t going to ad-lib one line.

  “Gene and I don’t want to spoil our son. We have to do what we think is best. Now, you can give him one present. That’s all.” She let the silence take over.

  Trying to get her mind to bend, October said, “I don’t get it.”

  Vergie let go of her single song to spit out, “And he’s much too young to be riding a tricycle, for goodness’ sake.”

  Okay, so they didn’t want him to have a tricycle. “Is he too young for clothes, too?”

  “You can be mad if you want to,” Vergie said. “But I’m not having a big fight about it, October. You can get your money back or save the outfits for another time. Me and Gene mean it.”

  It had nothing to do with money. October knew Vergie knew that. No need to pretend, either.

  “All right, Vergie, maybe I splurged a li
ttle. I was thinking about all the things that would make him happy, just like you and Gene. And I was thinking about all the things he probably needs ...”

  “Me and Gene are his mother and father,” Vergie said. “We’ll get him whatever he needs.”

  Now October was getting it loud and clear. “You mean to tell me that I can’t give him anything besides one present at Christmas? That’s crazy!”

  Vergie had been holding on to the chair back. She leaned so heavily against it, now, that the chair slid into the table. From the force, October knew that the whole conversation was coming down to a battle.

  “I’m his mother,” Vergie said. “I”—and she tapped her chest with her thumb—“I decide.”

  It wasn’t about what toys or how many presents to give—it was about who decides.

  October scooted back from the table. She stretched out her arms. “Fine. You decide. Nobody’s trying to take that away from you.”

  There was nothing else to say without getting into the whole other layer of what happened and why and who lost and who won. If October didn’t hold an ace, she did have a high card—one strong point.

  “Remember,” she said. “I teach little boys and girls every day. He’s a smart little boy—I can see it already. I may just know something about what he needs and when he needs it.”

  Gasoline on a match. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what he needs,” Vergie said, jaws tight, breath loud. “You don’t know what he needs. You don’t know him—you just think you do.”

  Before October could think of all the reasons not to prick the boil between them she said, “I brought him into this world. You don’t know what I know.” She could feel her own breath now, hot on her lips.

  “And what does that make you?” Vergie said daring her.

  “I’m not trying to take anything away from you, Vergie—I’m just saying I care about him.” The only place to stand.

  Vergie leaned out over the table and nearly spit, “Ha.”

  “You think I don’t care. You think I don’t love him. You think I wouldn’t give anything to be able to do it all over again?”

  “You should’ve thought about that a long time ago. I watched him lay in that crib waiting for you to touch him, just touch him.” Vergie’s voice wavered. “You wouldn’t even look at him.” Vergie sniffed.