“Yes. It’s me, Mary.”
For a moment, she felt a surge of pleasure rising up inside her, and tears started to her eyes, though whether from happiness or pain she didn’t have time to consider.
Laughter from the crowd made Mrs. Murphy aware of the ridiculousness of her situation. Her tenderness gave way to a tone of admonishment. “Well, why didn’t you say so?! Letting me go on making a fool of myself.” But now she, too, was laughing, to find herself arguing with Santa, and from the pure delight at seeing Brendan again, after all these years. “My, but it’s good to see you!”
The crowd slowly dispersed, having enjoyed the brief drama in the middle of their holiday shopping. A few heads kept turning back to see if there was to be any further development.
Brendan Sullivan took both of Mrs. Murphy’s gloved hands and squeezed them. They stood smiling at one another, their eyes briefly scanning the other, before settling into an old familiar eye lock that forty years did nothing to diminish.
Mrs. Murphy was the first to break away, look around, and point to the children, who were calling out, “Santa! Santa! Come back. It’s my turn.”
Santa sniffed and tried to laugh away his emotion. “I must go. I’ll be through in fifteen minutes. Will ye wait for me?”
Mrs. Murphy’s cheeks were flushed a warm pink. She squeezed his arm. “Yes, of course! Go, go! You mustn’t disappoint the children.”
He returned to the North Pole, where the frazzled elf was trying his hardest to re-establish order in the curious children.
Santa climbed the stairs and settled into his cushiony seat, his cheeks redder and his twinkly blue eyes brighter, looking more than ever like a picture-book Santa. He listened to the rest of the children, glancing out again and again, delighted to find Mrs. Murphy chuckling at his playful performance.
He got through the remaining children rather quickly, promising them everything they asked for, to the consternation of a few mothers. But Santa was in his element now. He had the world to give, and wished the best for all these hopeful young children, for everyone!
Mrs. Murphy stood transfixed, suffused with a sensation of life stirring, memories unfurling. There was Brendan. There was his merriment, his barrel chest, the tossing back of his head in laughter. There he was, just as he used to be. A pain deep inside her began to creep over her happiness, shooting its tingling tendrils all through her. Her smile disappeared in tiny increments.
Santa was just agreeing to the wish lists from the last of the children, two bouncing sisters. With bells jangling, he finished with a hearty flourish of “Ho, ho, ho!!” He raised his head to once more fill his eyes with Mrs. Murphy – but she was not there.
He shifted in his chair, and scanned the area around him. The last of the mothers led their happy children away. The green-clad elf rested an elbow on the North Pole mailbox, tapping his pointed shoe back and forth to cheery Christmas music, while he chatted with a pretty sales clerk.
Brendan leaned forward, hands on his knees, staring at the empty place where Mrs. Murphy had stood. For a brief moment, he wondered if he had imagined the whole thing, was once again conjuring up images as he used to do.
He climbed down the steps and moved to the spot where he had seen her. “Mary Margaret?” he called out. “Mary!” He looked around. Perhaps she went to the powder room. Perhaps she was making a quick purchase somewhere. He waited a bit, and then walked up and down the aisle.
Then around the entire floor.
Then up and down the escalator, peering out over the store.
For the next half hour, Santa wandered through the department store, talking to himself. “You daft man. Why did you think she would wait? Did you not learn your lesson well enough once?”
Chapter 2
*
Lillian Hapsey embraced her sister on the crowded train platform, grateful that, as usual, Annette was strong and in control. Lillian had tried to make the most of their last hours together, but every moment of the day was now darkened. The shadow of war loomed over everything.
“I still can’t believe it,” said Lillian.
Annette pressed a basket of apple butter and fruit preserves into Lillian’s arms. “Neither can I,” she said. “At least we had a few days together. And I was finally able to meet Charles, after hearing about him for almost a year.”
Lillian’s heart filled with tenderness as she watched Charles shake hands with Annette’s husband, Bernie. Charles had formed an immediate and comfortable rapport with Annette and Bernie, taking an interest in the details of their orchard, and enjoying the lively discussions they had in the evenings. And he had quickly become “Uncle Charlie” to their three small children, giving them piggy back rides and playing hide-and-seek with them.
Lillian overheard her sons already making plans with their cousins for their next trip. Gabriel, at seven years old, loved having three younger cousins who looked up to him. It was the first time Lillian had ever seen him in an older, protective role, and he had clearly enjoyed the position.
Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t want to play with little kids and had complained the whole train ride that there would be no one his own age to pal around with. So when his uncle Bernie announced that his ten-year-old nephew, Danny, the same age as Tommy, was staying with them, Tommy was beside himself with joy. Lillian watched now as Tommy and Danny argued over the merits of the Brooklyn Dodgers versus the Yankees, and made a last minute marble trade.
Annette turned to Charles. “I’m so happy we were able to meet. And I guess we’ll see you all in the spring?”
“Soon, I hope,” said Charles, lifting the lunch hamper at his feet. “Come on boys, climb aboard.”
Tommy and Gabriel scampered up the steps, followed by Lillian and Charles. Lillian turned around to wave goodbye to her sister and family.
Annette gave her a reassuring smile, and walked along the train as it began to pull out. “Remember to stock up on things as soon as you get back. Especially sugar!”
Lillian nodded and gave a final wave, her slender figure in blue hat and coat framed by the train doorway. She tried to put on a cheerful face, but a trace of sadness seeped through as she looked out at her sister and recognized the same expression.
Charles found them seats facing each other and placed their things on the rack above. Tommy managed to open the window a bit, and he and Gabriel called out their final goodbyes. Tommy pointed an imaginary machine gun at Danny and fired a round: “Take that, you dirty Jap!”
Danny spun around in melodramatic death throes, and then ran alongside the train. “See you, Tommy! Bye, Gabriel!”
“Tommy!” scolded Lillian.
“What?” said Tommy, with an exaggerated drop of his mouth. “They bombed us, Mom!” He plopped down in his seat and slouched back. “We barely got here and have to go home already! All because of the dirty Japs. We were supposed to stay ten days,” he grumbled. “You said we could help them find a Christmas tree and cut it down. I didn’t even get to see the beaver dam Danny found.”
“Yeah,” said Gabriel. “And we didn’t even get to ride the pony.”
“It’s best we get back home,” said Charles. “It might not be so easy to travel in the coming days. We’ll come back as soon as we can. Maybe in the summer.”
Lillian shot Charles a look of surprise at the word summer – their wedding was planned for May at Annette’s. Charles folded his coat and stowed it above his seat. He must be preoccupied with everything, she thought. She would be relieved when they were finally married. Right now, her plans with Charles seemed the only stable point amid the turmoil of a changing world.
Lillian was on edge, fearful of what lay ahead. She was frazzled by the last-minute packing and their hasty departure, and disappointed at not being able to spend time with Annette. She had carefully planned the visit months ago, and had so looked forward to her and Charles spending time with Annette and Bernie.
Tommy and Gabriel were standing at the window, but now that
the train had picked up speed, they began to fight over who would get the window seat.
“No fighting!” Lillian said, exasperated. “Come take my seat, Gabriel!” She left her window seat and sat in the aisle seat across from Charles.
Gabriel darted into the seat, carrying an old burlap bag with sticks poking out of it. One of the sticks snagged on Lillian’s coat sleeve.
“And put that bag of dirty sticks away! I told you to leave it behind.” She heard the note of anger in her voice and tried to soften it. “What do you need sticks for anyway?”
“They’re for my friend, Tiny.”
Tommy rolled his eyes and twirled his finger in “cuckoo” circles by his ear.
Lillian took the bag and shoved it under the seat. “Well, keep them out of the way.”
She took a deep breath and looked at Tommy and Gabriel. They seemed all right. At least at this point. For now, war was just a word, an abstraction. An interruption in their plans for playing with their cousins. She hoped they would never experience bombs, and fires, and food shortages, and… She stopped her thoughts, and rested her eyes on Charles. Thank God, she had him. He always seemed so calm, so in control. He would be there to help her.
Charles had purchased the New York Times at the station and now opened it, eager to read the latest details. Lillian crossed over to him and sat on the arm rest, her hand on his shoulder. She read the headlines: U.S. Declares War, Pacific Battle Widens; Manila Area Bombed; 1,500 Dead in Hawaii; Hostile Planes Sighted at San Francisco.
“Fifteen hundred! So many?” exclaimed Lillian. “My God, planes over San Francisco?” she said, almost in a whisper, afraid of alarming the boys.
Gabriel kicked his feet against his seat while he looked at a photograph on the back of the newspaper. “I want one of those!” he said, pointing.
Lillian leaned around to see the back of the paper. Her brows contracted at the photo, and she gave a low groan. “Hope to God it doesn’t come to that.” It was a photograph of a group of children somewhere in England, pulling a wagon full of scrap metal. They all appeared happy, smiling at the photographer. Each child had a little cardboard box on a string hanging around their necks, worn like a satchel – across the chest and hanging at the side.
Gabriel sat up and studied the photograph. “Mommy! I want one of those. One of those little boxes. Can I have one?”
Lillian went back to her seat; her eyes sought out help from Charles.
He caught her glance and folded the paper to see what had caught Gabriel’s attention. “Those aren’t toys, Gabriel,” he said. “The boxes contain gas masks.”
Gabriel tilted his head in puzzlement.
“In case the enemy uses poison,” Charles explained.
Gabriel still looked blank.
“So the children won’t breathe it in,” Charles continued.
Gabriel jerked his head back, more in surprise than in fear. “You mean they want to poison kids?”
“They want to kill everybody,” said Tommy, rummaging around in a bag. “Except themselves.”
Gabriel looked to Tommy, and then back to Charles for an answer.
Charles searched for words of explanation for how to make the world sound less like the frightening madhouse it was fast becoming. “It’s best to be careful,” he said, letting his inadequate words drift off.
“Then I better get one,” Gabriel said, closing the matter, and kicking his seat again.
Tommy pulled out a rolled up comic book and tapped Gabriel on the head with it. “Here, Gabe. Danny gave me two of his comics. You can read Green Hornet. I’ll read Superman. Then we’ll switch. Don’t get it dirty.”
The tenseness around Lillian’s mouth softened into a smile. It made her happy that Tommy was showing an interest in Gabriel. Lately, he had taken to treating Gabriel like a tag-along, and often shooed him away from his games with the older boys. Though brief, the trip to Annette’s had been good for Gabriel; his cousins had followed him around everywhere, making him feel important and wanted.
There were her boys, she thought, gazing at them – Tommy with his stubborn cowlick and sprinkle of freckles across his nose. The all-American boy. Gabriel, with his soft curls and wide eyes, still had the aura of an angel about him. Her boys. So vulnerable, so young. She suddenly put her hands to her mouth and realized that she was scared to death for them. What if they were going to need gas masks? Where would the nearest bomb shelter be, if it came to that?
She impulsively leaned over and kissed them. “My darling boys!”
Gabriel looked up and smiled, but Tommy frowned and wiped his cheek where she had kissed him, never taking his eyes off his Superman comic book.
Lillian saw that Charles was gently smiling at her. She knew that he understood everything – her fear, her worry, her sadness. Just having him beside her brought a sense of comfort and safety, knowing that she wouldn’t have to go through the war on her own. He would be with her. They would be married, a couple. They would be a family.
She looked out the window, clearly remembering the evening before Pearl Harbor. The children were off playing, and the adults lingered over their coffee at the dinner table, discussing the possibility of war. Lillian and Annette believed that war would be averted. Bernie was more skeptical. And Charles had been strangely quiet. As Annette pointed out, all the newspapers stated that there were no new developments towards war; Hitler was occupied with the Russian Front, and the U.S. was in negotiations with Japan. Lillian had thought that it was all far away and would eventually be worked out. No one wanted war.
Then the news on the following afternoon, Sunday, December 7th. A day she would never forget. That moment was etched in her mind, with odd details still fresh and sharp. She and Annette had been preparing dinner. They had just sent the kids out to the cider house to fetch some apples; Annette was going to make her famous apple crisp for dinner. Lillian stood at the table peeling potatoes, and Annette was at the sink washing vegetables. The mention of the cider house reminded Annette of a Christmas dinner when they were girls, and the two sisters playfully argued over the unusual mashed potatoes, and whose decision it had been to add cider to them.
“I might have been the one to add the cider,” said Lillian, “but it was at your suggestion. I remember it clearly. And if I hadn’t put in quite so much, they might have tasted all right.”
She turned to her sister, waiting for her to object. But Annette had shut off the water and was staring out the window over the sink, leaning forward. Then she walked to the front door, a red and green woven dish towel in her hand, and stepped out on the porch. Lillian could still remember the bang of the storm door closing and the rush of cold air against her legs.
Lillian had followed her onto the porch, shivering in the cold. “What is it, Annette?”
At the end of the lane a pickup truck had stopped. Bernie had been showing Charles around the orchard, but now both men stood next to the truck. The driver was waving his arms, upset about something, and then he sped off, grinding the gears as he left. Bernie turned and ran up the lane. Charles had just stood there, staring at the horizon. Then he slowly walked up the lane. Lillian knew that something was terribly wrong, but couldn’t imagine what it could be. Had there been an accident? Did someone need help? Was there a fire somewhere? She eyed the horizon for signs of smoke, then waited for Bernie to tell them what had happened.
She would never forget that image: Bernie in his red and black plaid jacket, running up the lane and onto the porch, a mix of surprise and terror on his face. “We’ve been attacked!! Bombed!” he had cried out, holding Annette by the arm, almost as if hoping she could do something about it.
Then all the overlapping questions from her and Annette: “Who has?” “The Germans?” “Where’s Pearl Harbor?” “Are they coming here?” “Go get the children!” Disorientation and gut-clenching fear pulled the ground out from beneath them, making it difficult to think clearly.
Lillian had impulsively dashed out into the
snow in her good shoes to gather up the children, fearing that the flying crows overhead were German bombers. When she and the children returned to the house, she found the others gathered around the radio. Bernie sat on the edge of a chair, leaning in as close as possible towards the radio; Annette stood next to him, twisting the red and green dish towel. Charles stood next to the couch, eyes fixed on the radio. The children took their places on the couch, or sat cross-legged in front of the radio, receiving most of their information from the worried faces of their parents.
Lillian stood with one hand on the back of the couch to steady herself, the other pressed against her stomach. Like the others, she was stunned as she listened to the report about events that had already taken place over three hours ago: the United States had been attacked by Japan! Much of the US fleet severely damaged.
Lillian followed Charles’s eye to the morning newspaper folded next to the radio, the headlines seeming a mockery now: Navy is Superior to Any Says Knox. She wondered what Charles’s thoughts were, what he was seeing in his mind. He had been in the Navy. She knew that he would feel the loss deeply, and understand the significance of the attack, in a way that she would not.
Annette and Lillian had tried to make the evening as normal as possible for the children, but the very air was different. Nothing looked or felt or tasted the same. Lillian’s mind took off in a thousand different directions. Should she stay at Annette’s with the children? Could she convince Charles to stay with her? Or would it be better to go home? Then the horrible thought that perhaps Charles would have to serve. She didn’t want him out there in harm’s way, bombs dropping, bullets flying; and yet they must all do whatever was required of them. She felt twisted by the two competing sentiments. Annette had remained rock solid throughout, helping to quell Lillian’s disorderly fears.
Then the somber mood the following day as they once again gathered around the radio, listening to the President’s speech: “a date which will live in infamy.” The words “the Empire of Japan” had frightened Lillian, making her feel small, insignificant. Two mighty forces, empires, on either side of them. War was now coming from the Atlantic and the Pacific.
Christmastime 1941 Page 2