by Jina Bacarr
I squirm in my swivel chair as I skim through the assortment of bills from suppliers, fan mail for our writers, and handwritten recipes from housewives eager to see their name in the magazine until one letter catches my eye.
The envelope is engraved on the left with On to Victory for Liberty! I see a big red V and the Statue of Liberty, an eagle, and flying aircraft. No stamp. It says Free in the upper right-hand corner and is addressed to ‘Miss Kate Arden’ at my old address in Posey Creek. It was never postmarked. Somehow they tracked me down here to the publishing company.
A knowing sensation sends chills down my back. I haven’t seen stationery like this since the war. I turn it over. The envelope is wrinkled, but sealed up tight. Like it was stuffed in the bottom of a drawer for a long time. No return address.
I tap my nails on the envelope, a tingling on my scalp giving me a funny feeling. Like opening the letter will bring back the past. You’d think I’d embrace it. Hurry to read it. I can’t. I’m afraid to go there. I know what happened and there’s a certain comfort in that. Whoever sent this letter is opening up a new wound when the old one is still healing.
‘Where did this old letter come from, Bette?’ I call out to my assistant.
‘Oh, that one,’ she says, popping her head in. ‘It came in a large brown envelope for you marked Special Delivery.’
I smile, almost in relief. ‘Another fruitcake recipe from an overzealous ladies auxiliary club, I imagine. I wonder where they got the war stationery.’ Funny, how we cling to our ration book ways. Every time I pull on a pair of hosiery and try to get the seams straight, I take extra care not to snag them with my nails. I can’t help but think about that bet with my sister. Lucy won the stockings fair and square, but I was never prouder of her than when she donated them to the war effort. She wanted to do her part, she said, since nylons were important for making war materials like parachutes and rope and netting. She did it for me.
That doesn’t mean I’ll give in and spend Christmas in Posey Creek.
Still, I’m intrigued by this strange letter. I grab my pearl-handled opener just as the phone rings.
I pick up the phone and cradle the receiver to my ear. The words ‘I’m not coming home for Christmas, I’m working on a book,’ are out of my mouth before she can speak.
‘I know how important your work is to you, Kate,’ Lucy says, her words catching in her throat, ‘but you’ve got to come home this year.’ I hear her suck in a sharp breath. That isn’t like her. ‘With Ma gone, the girls need you.’
‘The girls don’t even know I exist,’ I say, laughing. I adore her twins, but the eight year olds are more interested in their paper dolls than me.
She sighs. Another cleansing breath, then in that winsome voice I know so well when she’s hurting, she says. ‘I need you, big sister.’
I freeze. A strange longing hits me, seizes my brain like a merry-go-round suddenly coming to a grinding stop. And Lucy is waving madly at me, her face crushed with worry, her whole body shaking. The roof caving in couldn’t have hit me any harder.
‘Kate…’ I hear my sister’s voice coming from the receiver.
‘I’m here, Lucy,’ I warble into the phone like a wounded wren when I hear the ache in my sister’s voice. Cold water splashed into my face couldn’t make it any clearer. I acted like a selfish prig. Something hits me then. This bird is through flying away. Time to grow up. ‘Talk to me, what’s wrong?’
‘I know you have plans… and I understand why it’s hard for you to come home for the holidays, but I’m all alone with the kids—’
‘Where’s Jimmie?’
‘We had a fight.’
‘About what?’ I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. They never fight over anything except where to hang the Christmas wreath.
‘I’ll tell you when you get here… if you can make it.’
‘I’ll be there, Lucy. Don’t you worry about anything, you hear?’ I take a moment to compose myself and say what’s on my mind. ‘It’s time I came home.’
Time I move on, I add silently.
‘Oh, Kate… thank you.’ I hear her sob a sigh of relief. There’s more going on than her wanting me to come home. I’ll find out soon enough. I have a lot to do in two days. Cancel my reservations at the inn. That bearskin rug will have to wait. Pack a tote bag filled with Christmas presents instead of sending them by overnight post. Make a train reservation. I can take the Mistletoe Flyer on Thursday, a special Christmas train that runs only during the holidays with a twenty-minute layover in Philadelphia before heading west, making stops along the way in rural towns, including Posey Creek.
I feel lighter, noting my hour of self-pity is up. It’s been replaced with something I’ve avoided for a long time. I’m ashamed of how stubborn I’ve been. I never meant to hurt my sister by hiding my own pain. I made it home for Easter and chocolate bunnies, summer cherry harvesting, even Halloween before Ma passed. Christmas? Never. It’s time to face my fears and my heartache. Jeff is gone and no amount of longing for him every Christmas is going to change that.
It isn’t until I hang up that I remember the strange letter. Somehow it doesn’t seem important anymore. My sister needs me. Or is there another reason? One that makes my knees weak: the suspicion there’s something in that letter I don’t want to know. I stuff it into my handbag unopened. Whatever it is, it can wait.
I’m going home for Christmas.
4
I stare out the window as the train leaves the station in New York and fidget with my gloves. A nervous habit I can’t break. I looked up at the big clock under the glass dome before I boarded and thought about how fragile time is, knowing I’ve wasted it with my meanderings over the years, but also knowing I’ll never get it back. I couldn’t ignore the Christmas tree brightening up the station lobby with its multi-colored lights, as if welcoming me home before I even got on the train. New Yorkers say the only time the railroad station is cheery is during the holidays, which makes me smile. Earlier I got into the holiday spirit by looking at the gorgeous window displays in the department stores and became mesmerized by a homey scene: a small town with picket fences, kids on sleds, skaters twirling around in a circle on a frozen pond, and a train choo-chooing its way around them. Like Posey Creek. A tug at my heartstrings I can’t ignore.
I’m on a mission to help my little sister. I won’t let her lose the wonderful life she’s built for herself because of a silly spat with the man who adores her. I’ll talk with Jimmie myself if I have to, though I’m no marriage expert. Still, I love my sister and pray I won’t break down and sob on her shoulder. I’m not going home to unload on her, but to help her. The only way I can do that is to take a walk through the past and face it once and for all. A cleansing renewal. Find my way back home.
As the city whirls by me in a blur outside the window, I’m determined to bring myself under control. Pulling up old memories that haven’t healed won’t be easy, my ears burning every time I hear someone mention Jeff, my stomach clenching, pulse racing. I press my hand over my heart to slow it down.
When the conductor enters the car and calls out, ‘Two hours to Philadelphia,’ as the train speeds along the tracks, I let my mind wander and my heart remember the warm summer day I first met Jeff. A smile curves over my lips as I pull back the memory of how our friendship started with a bannister at Wrightwood House and a bowl of jelly.
It was 1935. I was eleven.
The country was in the middle of the Great Depression and Ma reminded us often how lucky we were Pop had a job. Most of the town worked in the paper mill turning out fancy goods and every Christmas each family got a chicken and extra coal.
Life was good in Posey Creek. The air was filled with the fragrance of sweet fruit. Colorful butterflies landed on my shoulder as I carried the basket of the ripest cherries up to Wrightwood House. My mother often took me along with her on her weekly trips to the big house on the hill and I peeked into the private lives of the Rushbrookes. I found out
they had as many problems as the rest of us. Why that surprised me, I don’t know. This was a time when going to the picture show on Saturday afternoon was the only peek we had into the lives of rich folks who lived in big houses. We ogled their automobiles with long running boards and giggled at the ladies who wore silk dresses and smoked cigarettes and flirted with gentlemen with slicked back hair.
I went with Ma that day to help the cook who was ailing. She finished setting up the cherry jelly on the saucer and asked me to take it outside to let it cool. No sooner did I sneak through the front part of the house instead of going out the back like I should, when this teenage boy came sliding down the long, winding bannister toward me like an electric pony at Steele Pier. He knocked me down, spilling jelly all over my pinafore.
‘You okay, Jelly Girl?’ he asked me, helping me up. He shot me a concerned look, the tone in his voice telling me he meant it. And that big smile when he called me ‘Jelly Girl.’ Wow. Like we shared a secret that only heightened our curiosity about each other.
I could barely nod. I felt wonderfully special. Not awkward or silly like most boys made me feel. I didn’t want to let go of his hand, big and strong even then, his warmth taking me to a new place I never wanted to leave.
‘I’m in the groove.’ I lifted my chin and tried to act all grown up.
He laughed, then squeezed my hand. ‘Me, too, Jelly Girl, now that we’ve met.’
There. He said it again. Called me his Jelly Girl. I wanted to melt into a puddle of jam right in the middle of Mrs Rushbrooke’s hallway.
‘I’m sorry I spilled the jelly, but I took a shortcut through here and then, well, you…’ I lowered my eyes, knowing this wasn’t going to sit well with Ma. She’d probably make me clean floors for a month of Sundays.
He grinned. ‘I’m not.’
My eyes widened. ‘You’re not?’
He shook his head and chuckled. ‘Nope. If you didn’t take that shortcut, I never would have met you.’
‘Oh,’ was all I could say. He let go of my hand and I felt a sudden lightheadedness, disoriented. He was so good-looking. Taller than any boy I knew with a shock of dark hair that never look combed and the darkest eyes the color of shiny licorice fringed with long, dark lashes and that smile. Crooked but beautiful. A cute scar above his right eyebrow made him even more appealing, like he was a dashing pirate. I knew who he was. I heard the cook telling Ma to make sure Mr Jeffrey ate his spinach so he didn’t get into any more trouble, seeing how he got tossed out of military school for not obeying the rules. That made him a hero in my eyes. I didn’t like rules either, like how girls couldn’t go on adventures or write stories.
Jeff was around fourteen then and already he had the good looks that would stay with him as he matured into a cocky teenager and then the handsomest man I ever saw.
And me? I was thoroughly convinced I’d never wash my hand again.
When his father saw me scrambling to clean up the spilled jelly, he raised a hand toward Jeff that set a fire in me. I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time he struck him. I couldn’t let him hurt my prince. Before he could stop me, I stepped forward and took the blame. Saying I wasn’t supposed to be going through here and I slipped.
Mr Jeffrey had nothing to do with the unfortunate turn of events that led me to slide like a turtle across the elegant foyer.
I remember how I impressed Jeff with my explanation. I had a way with words, Ma said, which she attributed to my Irish grandfather, who could spin a yarn faster than he could turn a card or down a pint. I didn’t mind the 500-word essay I had to write, apologizing to Mrs Rushbrooke for messing up her hardwood floor. All that mattered was that I saved my prince from the horrible dragon.
‘You’re not so dumb, for a girl,’ Jeff said later when no one could hear us. He smiled at me with that toothy grin I grew to love so much as he studied me, his mood playful.
‘You’re not so bad… for a boy,’ I snickered, returning the stare. I realize now I never outgrew my infatuation with him, the years never dimming this day when our worlds collided over a bowl of spilled jelly.
He grinned. ‘Someday I’m going to marry you, Jelly Girl.’
I couldn’t speak. My heart pounded, my head spun, and I didn’t dare speak and say something stupid. My hero, the boy I decided then and there I would adore forever, said he wanted to marry me. Me? The girl who lived on the other side of town. Who didn’t have fancy eyelet batiste dresses with velvet bows like rich girls wore. Who never smeared lipstick on her mouth like other girls, though I wanted to. I floated on a cloud filled with cherry jelly. Then he tweaked my nose and he was off. We saw each other at odd times after that. I snooped around when I went with Ma to Wrightwood House, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Sometimes I did when he was home from school (he got kicked out of more than one military school) and we’d sneak off to the kitchen and talk about our favorite movies and books. Every time, he winked at me like we had a secret.
I never forgot what he said, that someday he’d marry me.
As I crossed the threshold from girlhood into becoming a teenager, I thought of no one but him. I kept the memory of him close to my heart, ignoring other boys’ interest in me, which made Ma breathe easier when I developed a woman’s body. I was tall and slender, but I saw how she tried to fit my bodices so tight they flattened me out. She didn’t like me wearing lipstick, but I told her all the girls did. When the war came, we wore dark red lipstick to boost our morale and the soldiers’, too, and began to crochet and knit more since clothing was rationed. Skirts got shorter and Ma would be happier if I got a job on the mill floor and wore trousers like the other female workers. I was fast becoming a woman. I saw her scowl when I found some shimmery blue yarn in the sewing bin and knitted myself a sweater. I was wearing that sweater when Jeff noticed me that summer we bumped into each other at the factory. We hadn’t seen each other since he went back to boarding school at seventeen and I started high school at fourteen.
Sparks flew.
We’re not kids anymore, his eyes said, taking in my curves and nodding his head in approval. I didn’t dare hope it would go further than that, but something sparked between us just like it did when we were kids. Searching and accepting, touching fingertips, then grabbing hands like we did that first time and easing into each other and the years melted away. I was his Jelly Girl again. Then letting our hearts open up without the fear of getting hurt because we just knew we were meant to be with each other.
We began to see each other. A lot. He was my whole world. The way he laughed, listened to my wild tales, and then tousled my hair when we lay on the grass under the big ole cherry tree. Our spot. Then he took out his sketchpad and drew me. Wispy, light, airy fragments of summer days. Or the crisp chill of autumn. He wanted to build things, he said, showing me his sketches. Modern structures with clean lines. He had three years under his belt at the nearby university studying business, but he also took classes in architecture, even if his pa was dead set against it. Jeff didn’t come home during college breaks, rather than get an earful from his father about how following his dream wasn’t going to keep the family business going.
Now he wished he had, he said, his loving gaze making me warm all over, lowering than slowly crawling up to meet my eyes, promising me something I wanted so badly.
I didn’t know what, if anything, would come of us, but I hoped with all my heart. Jeff had no choice but to leave college when the family mill started making paper for the US Army. He came home to run the mill. Bad blood existed between his father and him and I often wondered what would have happened if Jeff finished his studies after the war. His younger brother, Timothy, squandered the profits the mill made during the war years and it closed down. It didn’t matter to Mr Rushbrooke. He never recovered. He spent his final days far away in a facility where he didn’t have to be reminded he was a fool and lost everything.
When winter came in 1943, the cherry tree stood as a reminder we were at war, the bleakness of winter e
mptying its branches. But I lived for the summer days, embracing the ache in my belly to meet Jeff whenever I could. Sometimes we sneaked into the old stone cottage nearby used by trappers and spent the whole day exploring the abandoned structure filled with arrowheads, leather scraps, and pottery. It was warm and snug and filled with straw. We talked about what we wanted to do after the war. Make a home, have children. Grow old together.
What makes my heart pound even now, is how heated our breath became when we touched each other. How hard his body was against mine, his strong arms lifting me up and carrying me to the bed of straw. Laying me down… and then lifting up my sparkly blue sweater.
Oh. I let out a deep sigh. As the train speeds along the tracks taking me home, I can’t help but wonder what might have been.
5
I undo the frog clasp on my suit jacket and the top two pearl buttons on my blouse. I’m sweating, imbibing in my indulgent trip to the past and forgot where I am. On a train. The Mistletoe Flyer. Staring out the window, paying little attention to the numerous train stops. Passengers getting on and off.
Passing barren fields and deep woods. White clapboard farmhouses and red barns. A homespun embroidery stitched together with tradition and changing little over time, making the past harder to escape.
I look at the schedule clutched in my hand. We’re due to arrive at 4.40 p.m. It’s two thirty now. I panic. I need more time. What if I break down when I see the train station decorated for the holidays? What if I lose my nerve? It’s a soul-wrenching trip, especially when I know it will make my loneliness even more unbearable.
I glance down at my handbag and a small hatbox, my red coat with the fake fur collar slung over my seat. Ah, yes, that red coat. In a moment of pure whimsy, I grabbed my old coat instead of my smart black one with the braided collar. The red coat is a classic. Slim fit, classy gold buttons. If I’m going home, I want to feel young again. Not like a stuffy career woman. After the war, I found myself pushed into rigid, boxy designs made to put women back into the kitchen. I rebelled against it as I rebelled against society’s rules back in 1943. Ripping the plastic cover off my red coat was liberating. The bottom button is still missing, but who will notice except me? I smile. To let something go, you have to embrace it first. That’s what this trip is about. Letting go. So I donned the same outfit I wore on the day Jeff left though my grey suit is a bit snugger and I couldn’t forget my blue silk hat with the wispy veil. I chuckle. I’m an old softie when it comes to family heirlooms. Like Ma’s famous Christmas apron with the bright red cherry print that faded more every year. Pop’s pipe fashioned from briarwood and handed down to him from his father-in-law. The older man won it in a poker game. Frank Junior’s baseball autographed by the 1949 Phillies. I take a moment, remembering the last we heard from Frankie. He’s out in California where it’s warm, picking up odd jobs. He doesn’t want to come home. Without Ma and Pop, he says, there isn’t any reason to. He met a girl and he’s thinking of marrying her. We were thrilled at the news. I pray Lucy can convince him to come home for Christmas. If she can get me packing my bag, why won’t it work on Frankie, too?
