Christmastime 1940: A Love Story Page 3

  But today his mind was more focused. He felt the need to add to his collection. He moved to the far back of the shop where he often found what he was looking for, and after browsing for a short while, he lifted an item from a low shelf and inspected it.

  A few minutes later, the little bell rang as he left the store carrying a parcel tied in red string.

  He was often seen coming home with such a package and his neighbors had long since given up wondering what it was that Old Man Drooms collected. They were sure that the boxes and bags were not gifts; his were not the kind of packages that brought happiness, or caused the giver to take two steps at a time in eagerness. Rather, the parcels seemed a kind of burden to him. If anything, Drooms’s step was heavier as he walked home.

  At the corner of his block, Drooms stopped by the neighborhood grocery store to pick up a few items for the weekend. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Mancetti, were busy at the counter but they lifted their heads in greeting, and noticed the package under his arm. Drooms gave an almost imperceptible tip of his hat and picked up a store hand basket.

  He chose a loaf of bread, some fresh ground coffee, a bottle of milk. Not caring much about what he ate, he tended to buy the same things over and over. He reached for a few cans of soup and a box of crackers, a can of peaches and a box of noodles, and placed them in the basket. When Drooms approached the front counter, he guessed that the owner had been gossiping about him to the two customers near the door, for they stood smiling, as if in anticipation of some fun. One of them jerked his head to Mancetti, as if coaxing him to go ahead and say something.

  “Evening, Mr. Drooms,” said Mancetti.

  Drooms took his things from the basket and set them on the counter.

  “So,” began Mancetti as he rang up an item and handed it to his wife to place in the bag, “I understand the beautiful widow Hapsey has moved down the hall from you.”

  “That’s no concern of mine.” Drooms set the last item, the can of peaches, firmly on the counter and said pointedly, “Or yours.”

  “No, no, of course not. Just making small talk.” He finished ringing up Drooms, and Mrs. Mancetti handed Drooms the bag, smiling kindly.

  Drooms nodded goodnight to her, but ignored her smirking husband and the other two customers.

  The sky delivered on its promise of snow and by end of day a light accumulation covered the sidewalks. The temperature had dropped, turning some of the heavily trodden snow to ice. Lillian made her way home with care, trying to avoid the slick spots on the sidewalks, and wishing she had worn her boots. Her thoughts were on fixing dinner for Tommy and Gabriel, but as she rounded the corner to her block, she was suddenly struck by the beauty of the street. She had never seen it in the snow. She stopped, and let her gaze linger up and down the street, slowly taking it all in. The branches of the bare trees were delicately outlined in snow, as were the railings and balustrades of the brownstones. Dusk was falling, and from the streetlights hung soft golden curtains of illuminated falling snow. She looked at the fading sky and wondered which paints she would mix to get that exact shade, how to capture the nuances of that slowly deepening blue-gray. She caught the scent of wood fire from one of the chimneys, and deeply inhaled the clear cold air, thinking that it smelled of snow and softness and dusk. Further down the street some of the neighborhood children were out reveling in the first snowfall, laughing and shouting. Warm yellow light poured forth from some of the windows, holding the promise of the comforts of home. Lillian’s heart was lifted, grateful to be a part of such ordinary loveliness. Sometimes she was flooded with such a feeling, almost like euphoria, but tinged with sadness because it was so fleeting. She had long thought of these moments as the edge of desire – a desperate longing for something beyond her grasp, just at the periphery of knowing. Yet ever elusive. While it lasted she felt as if she had stepped into some pinnacle state, absolutely connected to life.

  Just then, Mrs. Wilson, who lived in the same apartment building as the babysitter, called out from behind, pulling Lillian back down to the solidity of the sidewalk beneath her feet, the coldness of her fingers, the need to start dinner.

  “Evening, Mrs. Hapsey! You must be frozen just standing there! What you need is a good head scarf – far more practical for keeping out the wind and cold.” She tightened her brown plaid scarf, and with a flick of her hand over her shoulder, gestured to some imaginary group behind her. “Let the other women wear their fashionable hats.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Wilson.”

  Mrs. Wilson took Lillian’s arm. “I was hoping to make it home before the snow and ice began. How’re you faring?”

  “Fine. Just on my way to pick up the boys.” They continued down the sidewalk together, careful of their step.

  “Yes, I heard that Mrs. Kuntzman is babysitting them.”

  “The boys love her,” said Lillian.

  “She’s a godsend. You know, she used to watch my kids. That was long years ago.” Mrs. Wilson’s tone slid into friendly sarcasm. “And how do you get on with that neighbor of yours down the hall?”

  It took Lillian a moment to realize who she meant. “Oh, you mean Mr. Drooms? Well – he’s not very talkative.”

  “Talkative? He’s a perfect curmudgeon! Won’t give me the time of day. Or anyone.” Drooms had just rounded the corner and was walking towards them. “Speak of the devil. There he is. With one of his packages.”

  Lillian saw Drooms approaching, holding a parcel under one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. She smiled as the large snowflakes fell on her upturned face, blinking as they caught on her lashes. “Good evening, Mr. Drooms. Look! Our first snowfall. Isn’t it lovely?”

  Drooms stopped and looked around, as if noticing the snow for the first time. “So it is.”

  But as he glanced up he slipped on the snow, lost his balance, and grabbed at the railing, which caused him to drop his package.

  Lillian instinctively reached out to help him but also slipped on the same patch and had to steady herself on the railing. She laughed as she picked up his package and handed it to him. “I see you’ve begun your Christmas shopping.”

  Drooms snatched the package from her and continued down the sidewalk. Lillian’s hand went to her cheek, her hat, taken aback by his abrupt, unexpected response. “Goodness! He is a bit cranky.”

  Mrs. Wilson gave a snort as if to say, I told you so. As they walked up the brownstone steps, they heard a knock at Mrs. Kuntzman’s window and saw Lillian’s two boys waving. “There they are. How old?”

  “Nine and six.” Lillian waved back to them. The boys shouted something through the window, pointing to the papers in their hands.

  “My, they are cute. They remind me of mine when they were that age. Of course, back then I didn’t have to worry myself about Mrs. Kuntzman’s German accent. Everyone’s suspicious now, with Herr Hitler on the rampage. And now with this so-called peacetime conscription of ours.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that.” Lillian so dreaded the thought of war.

  “You don’t build up an army unless you plan to use it,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Mark my words.”

  They walked into the building and stomped the snow off their shoes in the vestibule. Mrs. Wilson untied her scarf and shook out the wet snow. “Well, gotta run and get dinner started for Harry. I’ll see you around!”

  “So long!” Lillian had a sick feeling in her stomach about war developing and feared it was just a matter of time. But she hoped that people weren’t treating Mrs. Kuntzman unkindly. People didn’t come any better than her, whatever her accent.

  Drooms, meanwhile, arrived home. He checked his mailbox, and took out a lone envelope. Postmarked Illinois. A Christmas card. He held it a moment, and then tossed it into the grocery bag. He trudged up the stairs to the third floor, and opened the door to his apartment, still disconcerted by his clumsiness on the sidewalk. He never stumbled. Then, just as he had that thought, he tripped on the threshold and dropped his keys. As he bent to pick them up, he
scowled at Lillian’s apartment, muttering, “The last thing I need is an intrusive neighbor – with noisy kids.” He opened his door, went inside, and slammed the door behind him.

  Lillian smiled as Mrs. Kuntzman opened her door. The babysitter was wearing one of her flowered aprons, and was cheerful as usual. Gabriel and Tommy ran to the door, holding up paper snowflakes.

  “Look, Mommy!” said Gabriel. “Mrs. Kuntzman showed us how to make snowflakes!”

  “Look! Mrs. Kuntzman says to string them and hang them,” added Tommy.

  Lillian opened her eyes wide and bent over to admire the boys’ artwork. “Oh, how wonderful!” She turned the paper snowflakes over in her hands. “Now we have something for our windows.” Lillian beamed at Mrs. Kuntzman, appreciative of her never-ending efforts with the boys. “Go get your coats on. I’ll hold your snowflakes.”

  Lillian looked closely at Mrs. Kuntzman, thinking that she must still have family in Germany. She must feel torn. Anyone would. “Any problems today?”

  “Ach, no! We had a fine time. Such good boys. They even finish their homework.”

  “Already?”

  “And,” said Mrs. Kuntzman, holding up a finger – she went to the kitchen and returned carrying a plate covered with a red and white checked napkin – “I have extra strudel for youse. Still warm. I always make too much.”

  Lillian recognized Mrs. Kuntzman’s modest way of being generous, and graciously accepted the plate. “Thank you.” She lifted the cloth and inhaled. “It smells delicious! We’ll have it for dessert tonight.” She made a mental note to add something for baking when she returned the plate. Some raisins and nuts, perhaps, or better yet, some cherry preserves.

  The boys were already at the door, fastening their boots and buttoning their coats. “Bye, Mrs. Kuntzman!” they hollered, eager to get out in the snow.

  “We’ll see you on Monday,” said Lillian.

  “Good night, Mrs. Hapsey. See youse all next week!”

  Once they were outside, the boys saw the neighborhood kids playing in the snow. Tommy turned to ask, “Mommy, can we play outside? Mickey and Billy are there.”

  “Can we, Mommy? Please?” asked Gabriel.

  Lillian saw the growing number of children playing in the falling snow. “Well, for a few minutes, while I get dinner ready. Put your hats and gloves on. And stay on the sidewalk where I can see you. And don’t cross the street. Okay, Tommy? You’ll watch your brother?”

  Tommy rolled his eyes. “I always do, Mom. You don’t have to tell me every single time.”

  “I know.” She reached out to him but he dodged her and hurried off with Gabriel. She hoped that the undercurrent of anger in him, at having to leave all his old friends, would lessen as he made new ones. She took it as a good sign that he was so eager to play with the other kids.

  When Lillian entered her apartment, she stepped out of her shoes, hung her coat and hat on the hall tree, and turned on the lamps, breathing a deep sigh of pleasure to be back in her haven. She looked around thinking that the apartment had turned out well. She had used every spare minute of the last three weeks unpacking and trying to recreate the feeling of home. The layout was a little different from their old place. The living room and kitchen were divided by a chest-high half wall, which gave the feel of one large open room. It was a cozy place – small, but big enough for them; new, yet familiar too, with things from their old home: the burgundy velvet couch and armchairs with the embroidered pillows her mother had made; the pale green Fiestaware vase from her sister Annette when she visited three years ago; the carved mirror that the fellows from the firehouse had given as a wedding present. She smiled as she remembered the card: “From our House to Yours: To reflect Lillian’s beauty and Tom’s vanity.” Tom hadn’t been at all vain, but he did have a cowlick that never stayed down that the guys used to tease him about. And above the fireplace, Millet’s The Angelus that she had loved as a child, with its sunset mackerel sky, its furrowed field, the distant village – the painting that had first inspired her to want to draw, to mix colors, to capture the sky. A parting gift from her parents when she had joined Tom in New York City, after a cousin of his had helped him to find work.

  How she missed her parents. Her childhood and youth in Rhinebeck, upstate, were full of happy memories of her parents and her sister, Annette. Times had been lean, but their lives had always been full of daily riches: her mother’s beautifully set table and wonderful meals, lamplit evenings on the porch, long walks when the weather was fine. Lillian had been especially close to her mother and enjoyed many of the same pleasures. It was her mother who had encouraged her to read, and draw, to study history and literature. Annette had been more like her father – taking pleasure in running the drygoods store, and helping him with the large vegetable garden. But they had all been close. It was a real blow when first her mother, and then her father, died, just before Gabriel was born. Her parents had always been a romantic, inseparable couple, and could not live one without the other.

  Lillian turned on the radio and adjusted the knob to a music station. She went to the kitchen window and looked down at the street. There was Tommy with his new best friend Mickey, leading some kind of game, with Gabriel and the younger kids running first in one direction, then in another. She hummed along with the radio as she moved about the kitchen preparing dinner, thinking that the fresh bread she picked up on her way home would go nicely with yesterday’s stew. When a swing band began to play “In the Mood,” she turned up the volume and took a few steps with an imaginary partner. She and Tom had spent many evenings in their early days twirling and stepping to the new rhythms. She lifted the lid to the stew and inhaled, and then she sliced the bread and began to set the table. It was a simple meal, but the boys never complained. Still, she was glad for Mrs. Kuntzman’s strudel.

  When the radio began to play “I’ll Never Smile Again,” she started to hum along. But then she abruptly stopped, and with the soup bowls still in her hands, she sat down at the table and stared out at nothing. Sometimes all it took was a strain of melody to remind her of how alone she really was. When the boys were around, she didn’t have time to think about it. Lillian leaned back in the chair and lightly shook her head, thinking how long ago it seemed that she and Tom had been young and in love. Sometimes she felt that they had never really had the chance to get to know each other, to grow together as adults, the way her parents had. She had gotten pregnant immediately, and when Tom lost his job, she had briefly moved back home while he looked for work in the city. Six brief years together, and then his unexpected death. When she thought of him, it was as the young, boyish man she had married. So much had changed. She had changed. After his death, she had to shake off her girlhood and take on the responsibilities of both mother and father.

  She rose quickly and finished setting the table. She had done away with the “if only” habit that left her feeling empty and forlorn: if only Tom had not rushed into the burning building, if only her parents had lived and she could have gone back home. Tom was gone, and her life was here now. Over the years she had come to love the city, and the guys at the firehouse and their wives still treated her like family and invited her to gatherings. And she had her beloved sister, though she only saw her once or twice a year. Annette had stayed with her during those first terrible months – had even considered making Brooklyn her home. But she had gone back to marry her childhood sweetheart, and was at her happiest helping him run the orchard. She kept Lillian and the boys well supplied in apple butter, bottled pears, and cherry preserves. And she now had three little ones of her own. At least Lillian always had that haven to return to in the summers.

  Lillian shut off the radio and looked out the window again at her boys. She almost knocked to wave them inside, but then decided she would go out instead. Dinner was ready and the boys had finished their homework. She could afford a few moments of play with them. That’s what Tom would have done, she thought. She shut off the stove, and then put on her boots an
d coat.

  When Drooms arrived home, he placed his bags on the kitchen counter, and went to the living room to put the Christmas card in the top desk drawer, along with the others from previous years. To be opened later, perhaps in the spring. He went back to the kitchen and put the groceries away. He then fixed himself a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and ate his dinner at the kitchen counter as he listened to the radio. Now and then he thumbed through the stacks of paper on the kitchen table, which was used as a work space. When the news came on, he shook his head.

  “Nothing but trouble. Trouble everywhere.”

  It seemed like just yesterday he was positioned off Ireland, and later in the North Sea. The war to end war, indeed. Now here they were, at it again. He supposed he was too old to serve again, but if called upon, of course he would go. He didn’t like what he was hearing from Europe. He brushed the crumbs from his hands and turned off the radio.

  The package from The Red String Curio Store sat on the kitchen counter, still in its brown paper and red string. Drooms prolonged the opening of it, saving it to give shape to his evening, a little break before starting on the paperwork he always concluded the day with. He finished his sandwich, washed his plate and set it in the dish rack. Only then did he take the package into the living room.