The grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Betty asked him about college, about his brother. Arthur was reluctant to leave.
“Come and have Thanksgiving dinner with us, if you feel like it, Arthur,” Betty said. “Just Warren and me and another couple—middle-aged, sorry to say, but easy to get along with.”
Arthur was tempted, because the dinner would be in Maggie’s house. “Thank you. I suppose my folks’ll expect me to be home.”
“We have our dinner in the evening. You can eat two dinners, can’t you?”
Arthur grinned. “I suppose I can. Thank you, Betty. I’d like to come.”
“Six-thirty.—Any time between six and seven doesn’t matter at all.”
Robbie’s contribution to Thanksgiving was a rabbit freshly shot by himself in the Delmar Lake woods with “the men,” as Robbie called them. For some reason, Arthur thought of a chain gang when Robbie said this. His mother, of course, was going to bake a turkey, and nobody in the family cared for rabbit except Richard.
“Can’t we put it in the fridge or the deep freeze till after tomorrow?” Lois asked.
This was the day before Thanksgiving Day, and Arthur was home when Robbie came in with the rabbit in a slightly bloody newspaper at noon.
“Sure, but I gotta skin him and clean him first. Want to watch me skin him, Arthur?”
“Not particularly,” Arthur replied. “I suppose it’s dead and not just half-dead?”
Robbie’s macho bored Arthur. He now wore green rubber boots too big for him, somebody’s hand-me-down hunting jacket with pockets for bullets and small game, and a murderous-looking knife in a leather sheath fastened to the jacket belt. Robbie stalked out with the bloody bundle into the backyard, via his father’s study door, and proceeded to skin the animal with the knife. This involved cutting the head and feet off first, Robbie had informed Arthur and their mother. She had a plastic bag in which to put these items for disposal, plus the skin, but no, Robbie wanted to keep the skin, he had said.
Arthur went back to his room, vaguely disgusted. The hide, wherever Robbie put it, was going to be of interest to Rovy the cat. Arthur had considerable homework to do during the five-day Thanksgiving holiday. And he wanted to go to the post office before 4 p.m. that day, so his latest to Maggie would get off. He added to his letter:
You give me so much morale in this boring life here. I wish I could give you half as much.
20
At Christmas time, Arthur arranged with Maggie’s mother that he would pick Maggie up at 4:30 at Indi Airport and drive her home. He saw her before she saw him. She was waiting beside the revolving luggage belt.
“Maggie?” She was still Maggie, with longer hair now, which made him aware of all the time that had passed, and not a bit like the girl called Aline, of whom Arthur had dreamed once, to his annoyance, because he so rarely dreamed of Maggie.
“And what do you think of my—splotches?” She ducked her head with the shyness that Arthur loved.
“Hardly noticed ’em!” But he had, a dozen or more pink and red dots all over her cheeks and forehead. I warn you it’s disgusting, Maggie had written in her last letter. Arthur carried her suitcase and duffel bag. “Wait’ll you see my car.—Not much to look at, even though I cleaned it today in your honor.”
Maggie said the car looked fine, and she didn’t mind its color.
“Anyway, it’s ours,” Arthur said.
They started off for the hour’s drive to Chalmerston.
“My mother wants you to come for Christmas dinner,” Maggie said. “I don’t know if she told you.”
Why hadn’t she said something more personal, Arthur thought. Or for that matter, why hadn’t he? He hadn’t even kissed her, and that wasn’t because of the pink splotches.
“Did Mom tell you?”
“No. Thanks, Mag. I accept—with pleasure.—Know what’s happening at my house? Dad wants this Irene Langley and her sister to come Christmas and my mother’s dead set against it.” Arthur laughed.
“You mean the one you told me about who goes to their church?”
“None other. And if her sister comes—she’ll break any chair in the house, she’s so fat. According to Dad. Well—my grandmother arrived yesterday, and she said can you come for Christmas dinner. So why don’t you do what I did Thanksgiving, my place first and a repeat performance at your house, because your folks eat dinner later—don’t they?” How could he go on yacking like a fool, with Maggie just inches away, touchable, here?
“I’m not presentable. My face. I told you.”
“Oh, Mag! It’s not as bad as you said it was. And it gets a little better every day, doesn’t it?”
After a while, she said, “How’s your social life?”
“Are you joking?—I see Gus. All his classes are in different buildings, though.—And how about your social life?”
Maggie said she had been to one football game, followed by a dance, and she hadn’t liked that enough to want to do it again. She mentioned Larry Hargiss, a medical student, and Arthur supposed he was one of the ones much older, possibly a post-grad student already twenty-two. She said she quite liked a girl called Kate, who was also majoring in sociology and was from Chicago.
Arthur stopped the car in Maggie’s driveway and carried her luggage to the door, but declined to come in. “Get yourself unpacked. Call me later if you want to. I’ll be home. I wasn’t sure you’d feel like doing anything tonight.”
“I dunno—but I’ll call you. After I talk with Mom.” Her mother’s car was not in the garage, Maggie had seen by looking through the garage window. “I’d better not say yes to Christmas dinner at your house. You know how your father is—about me. Tell your mother thanks though, would you? Just say I have to stay with my folks.”
Arthur felt pained and ashamed. “S-sure, Mag.” Now she had the door open. “Want me to carry these upstairs for you?”
“No!” She smiled. “I’m not an invalid.”
Arthur seized her shoulders, kissed her cheek, then her lips quickly, and ran off to his car.
He had been awkward! Off on the wrong foot again. He’d have to make up for that. It was cold enough for snow. One lot of snow had come and gone. He hoped it snowed for Christmas.
At his house, Arthur found the conversation about Irene and her sister still in progress, or it had resumed. His father stood in the living room, having recently come out of his study apparently, because the study door was wide open. His grandmother sat on the sofa, and his mother was just carrying from the kitchen a bowl of popcorn whose aroma filled the house.
“Robbie, do you have to use that word—over and over?” Lois asked.
Arthur had paused in the kitchen, and his mother, on her way to the living room, had not seen him. Arthur scraped up the remaining kernels in the popcorn pot on the stove and chewed them.
“Can’t we, Richard, take them a Christmas box on Christmas Day? Fruit cake and candy—maybe a gift for their house?”
“But I’ve told you I invited them,” Richard replied. “So call it my fault, if you like, my mistake.” He said it in a tone implying that an invitation at Christmas could be a mistake only in the eyes of the selfish and stingy. “I don’t know how I can undo it—in all conscience.”
Christmas was two days off. Arthur rinsed his hands at the sink, then drifted into the living room.
“Hel—lo, Arthur,” said his grandmother. “And how is Maggie?”
“Fine. Complaining about the spots on her face. She thinks she looks like somebody who caught some buckshot, but really—it’s not so bad.”
“Poor girl! If she doesn’t touch it, she won’t have a mark though.—Arthur, I think there’s an old-fashioned for you in the fridge, if you happen to want it.”
Arthur went to get it. It was one slightly sweet drink he didn’t mind
, not as sweet as his father’s silly Alexanders.
“Seems to me if we propose an alternative,” his mother was saying gently, “like the day after Christmas—turkey buffet supper? Christmas comes but once a year, and Mama’s here, and if I can speak plainly—I just don’t care to think of Irene’s face across the table from me at Christmas. Christmas is a family affair.”
His father glanced at Arthur from under lowered brows as Arthur returned to the living room. “A gift or a buffet the next day isn’t the same as Christmas in a real home. And I feel these two are in need.”
His mother sighed. “Well, let’s stop it now for Mama’s sake, for Arthur’s sake.”
“Arthur’s sake?” said his father, feigning surprise.
“Dad says Irene can make good fudge, Mom. Maybe she could bring some.” This from Robbie.
Arthur saw his mother look at Robbie and expected her to say she wouldn’t eat a piece of Irene’s fudge if her life depended on it, but his mother said nothing.
Ludicrous, Arthur thought. Really like a mad soap opera. Who the hell cared about Irene and her fat sister or whether they came to anything? Maggie was in town, just about a mile away! Arthur gave his grandmother a big grin. She patted the sofa beside her, and Arthur went and sat down. His grandmother managed to change the subject, but Arthur’s mind, not for the first time, was on trying to foresee when he might have the house free to ask Maggie over, so they could go to bed in his room. His father went back to work the 27th. Would his mother and grandmother go off somewhere one morning or afternoon or even for a long lunch? Would Robbie, by chance, be off hunting with the men at the same time? Would Maggie’s house be a more likely venue, since her mother was only one person, and Maggie had said her father might not be able to come home even on Christmas Day, and she didn’t know his schedule afterward?
Maggie rang up just after 7. Her mother wanted her to stay in, because she thought Maggie looked tired, but Arthur could come over anytime and also have dinner with them. So Arthur decided to do that.
And the Langley sisters did come for Christmas dinner. His mother had said beforehand, “Not more than two hours, I hope, Richard. You ease them out, would you?” Richard solemnly promised.
The eight-foot-high tree in the living room had been decorated by his mother, grandmother, and Arthur himself, Robbie having backed out, unwilling. Crazy, Arthur thought, at his age, to feel excited by the smell of fir needles and his memories of the old-fashioned red-and-white torchlike ornament that had always graced the very top of the tree, and which Arthur remembered from when he was small. Maggie came over for a few minutes Christmas Eve Day, with a box of candy for the family and a present in a small package for Arthur, which he did not open then. He wanted to open it alone, and besides it was a tradition in his family that presents were opened on Christmas Day morning. He had two presents for Maggie to take, the more important one being a slender gold chain bracelet.
Christmas Day morning arrived: cold white wine and egg nog in a silver punch bowl from his grandmother’s family. Christmas carols rang out on the TV while they unwrapped presents, all eyes on the unwrapper until the surprise was disclosed, admired, and it was someone else’s turn to unwrap. The weighty book from his grandmother turned out to be A Dictionary of Science Terms. His mother gave him a navy blue pea jacket with slash pockets, like a Navy jacket but with a cut of higher fashion.
The dinner hour of more or less 1 approached, pleasantly delayed by chatter in the kitchen. His father went off to fetch the Langley sisters.
“Did you decide on the strongest chair yet, Mom?” asked Arthur, laughing merrily.
His grandmother had been pleased with the pale blue and purple silk scarf Arthur had given her, and was wearing it now. Arthur had given his mother a black case like a briefcase but smaller, with an address book and a writing pad in it, which he thought she could use for her work at the Beverley Home.
The gaiety in the kitchen subsided as Richard’s car rolled up the driveway, and Robbie marched forth to open the door.
“Don’t let all that cold air in, Robbie!” Lois said.
There were a couple of inches of snow outside, enough to make the scene white, and it was still coming down lightly.
Rovy, who had been hovering around the warm stove, interested in the smell of turkey, fled as the trio came into the kitchen. Louise Langley bumped both sides of the kitchen door, and turned a little sideways to let herself through.
Richard introduced everybody.
Irene had a bunch of orange gladioli clasped in both hands along with her purse strap. Her sister Louise looked half-asleep and wore a fixed smile broader and more open than Irene’s, showing her upper and lower teeth. She was taller than Irene, which made her bulk formidable, rather like a piece of furniture that one had to walk around. She moved slowly and from side to side.
“Yes, these gladioli were brought by a neighbor this morning,” Irene said for the second time, “but I wanted the Alderman family to have them.—It’s so kind of you to have us.”
His grandmother stood near the living room door observing all this with a sharp eye, Arthur noticed.
“Take yer coats!” Robbie said brusquely but politely, extending his arms for Irene’s coat, then Louise’s.
Richard halfheartedly proposed drinks. Irene said she would have just a little old-fashioned, if Richard had the makings.
“Egg nog for me,” said Louise, smiling more broadly. “Got a sweet tooth, I have to admit—My, you’ve got a pretty house here, Lois!” She stood on tiptoe and looked around. Her wide hips were covered by a loose black satin skirt that she must have made for herself, and her blouse was also of satin, white and full of ruffles.
Richard led the sisters into the living room, followed by Robbie.
“Whee-yoo!” Arthur whispered.
His grandmother laughed softly.
Robbie was back. “Mom, any more of those tollhouse cookies?”
“First breadbox on the left there,” said his mother.
The bench at the table creaked when Louise sat down on it. Her hair, Arthur observed as they bowed their heads for the blessing, was a natural color, judging from the parting, a dark brown. Louise’s eyebrows were darkened with makeup and surprisingly thick, while Irene had plucked hers to a hair’s breadth.
“It’s so—pacifying to have a blessing by a man,” Irene murmured. “Don’t you think so, Lois?”
“Yes.—It is.”
Crabmeat cocktail. Then Richard carved.
“Yum-yum!” said Louise, and giggled like a child at the sight of the plump and well-browned turkey.
Irene continued to sway gently, even seated. Louise’s mouth seemed to be visibly watering. Robbie yawned while waiting for his plate to be served, as if the Langley sisters came every day.
“How is your mother doing, Irene?” Joan asked. “If I may call you Irene.”
“She’s—Oh, of course you may call me Irene. My mother—is a very sad case. She’s not going to get any better. Though we do pray, both of us.” She glanced at her sister.
“Cancer,” said Louise to Joan.
“Oh, dear,” said Joan.
“If that’s my plate, can I have more cranberry sauce, Dad?” said Robbie.
Richard wore a green-and-red striped shirt in honor of the day and had turned back his cuffs before he began carving. Lois was serving the vegetables. There were candied yams, creamed onions, and green peas.
They ate, and somehow talked as well. In no time, though she did not seem to be rushing, Louise’s plate was empty and she was ready for seconds.
“You said you wouldn’t gorge, Louise,” Irene announced in a flat tone, as if she said the same thing at every meal.
Arthur thought he ought to say something, so he came up with, “Have you some friends in the neighborhood—to help out w
ith your mother?” His last words were almost drowned in a flood of negatives from both sisters.
“No, we are shunned,” Irene told him. “Most people don’t care at all about their neighbors. That’s what Richard says. That’s why my sister and I so appreciate . . .”
Arthur saw his mother take a deep breath.
Louise drank her white wine as if it were water, and outdid herself on the dessert, which was two kinds of fruitcake with or without pineapple sherbet. One fruitcake was homemade by his grandmother. Robbie belched, which evoked from Arthur the only real laugh at the table.
Then there was coffee in the living room. Louise took one of the two sturdy green armchairs and seemed to sink and sink in it, as if the springs had collapsed and she might be sitting on the floor. Arthur, in euphoria after the good meal and with the anticipation of seeing Maggie later, of opening her present which was in his room, was seized with near-hysterics and had to go into the hall on the pretext of a fit of coughing and nose-blowing.
His mother was already trying to ease them out, with some gentle assistance from his grandmother. Lois was not standing, though she sat on the edge of the chair, saying something about her family being obliged to visit another house in the neighborhood.
“I’m sorry this can’t be a longer afternoon,” his mother said.
“Oh, I quite understand, Lois,” said Irene, leaning forward but not getting up. “I did want to say about Arthur—before we leave—” Irene looked at Arthur with the awful, red-lipped smile meant to be gentle and understanding.
At that moment, Louise struggled up from the depths of the green armchair and gave her attention to Arthur also. “Could you show me where the john is, please?”
Arthur escorted her down the hall. She must pee like a cow, he thought.
“. . . Christ does forgive. This is his very own day. Gloria in excelsis, I think people say,” Irene was murmuring. “This is a time for—redeeming—”
People Who Knock on the Door Page 19