Christmas at The New Yorker: Stories, Poems, Humor, and Art (Modern Library)

by New Yorker

  Hearing the paper crackle in Wilf’s hands, Father Urban turned around—just too late, he thought, to catch Wilf observing him. Father Urban stood up. “I don’t think that’s funny,” he said. Jack looked up from the checkers. Brother Harold, at the dining-room table, glanced up from his work. “The bambino isn’t in the crib,” Father Urban explained.

  Jack came over to the tree and got down on all fours. He started to put his hand inside the crib.

  “Look out!” Father Urban said—barely in time, for Jack had his hand in the way of the moving animals and shepherds. “You can see he’s not there. You don’t have to go poking around. He’s just not there—and I want to know why.”

  Brother Harold bent to his work. Wilf rattled his paper, taking a fresh grip on it, and settled deeper in his chair. He sent a message over the wall to them: “He’s not born yet!”

  Father Urban had anticipated this answer, and was not amused. Nor, apparently, was Jack. Stiff in his joints, he was slowly rising from the floor, rearing up the last few inches to more than his full height, then settling down to it. He made his way back to his chair and checkers. He looked worried, as well he might; Jack hated trouble.

  The Rosetta Stone(photo credit 31.6)

  Father Urban stood his ground, by the tree. “All right, Father,” he said. “You’ve made your point.” His tone was threatening—the undisguised, true voice of his feelings.

  Wilf was silent and invisible. Father Urban wavered. Should he make a stand? “It’s my crib,” he could say. Or should he go off to bed? He glanced at Jack, who was staring down at the checkers. Why didn’t Jack say something? Jack was chicken. Father Urban glanced over at Brother Harold. He felt that Brother Harold was against him.

  He went to his chair and sat down. He now knew what he had to do—nothing. It wasn’t necessary to make a stand or to go off in a huff. He had Wilf where he wanted him. As long as the situation remained unchanged, each passing moment would redound to Father Urban’s credit and to Wilf’s shame. It was Wilf’s move.

  But it was Father Urban’s move in the other game—the one he was playing with Jack—and he made it: a bad one. Jack, of course, showed him no mercy. Father Urban sniffed. He wondered if Jack’s whole personality might not have been different—aggressive—if checkers had not become his only accomplishment. Jack certainly got back at the world in checkers.

  Something was coming over the wall: “Hospital nun I once knew in Omaha, she used to take all the baby Jesuses out of the cribs. You know— every floor had its tree and crib. She put them all back on Christmas morning.”

  Not good enough, Wilf, thought Father Urban, holding to his strategy of silence. He had Jack guessing, too. Jack still expected him to fly off the handle. Jack’s right leg had stopped vibrating.

  More was coming over the wall: “It focussed people’s attention on the real significance of Christmas. The idea of waiting, if you know what I mean.”

  Jack dutifully faced the wall while Wilf spoke, but he didn’t comment. Father Urban’s eyes were on the checkers.

  “It’s still Advent,” Wilf murmured, turning a page.

  Father Urban sensed that Wilf, turning the page, had stolen a look at him. Jack cleared his throat and, in a tone even more timid than was customary with him, said, “I see what you mean, Father, and I grant there’s a lot in what you say. But I’ve been wondering if the shepherds themselves should be present yet. Or even Mary and Joseph. In the attitudes we see them in, I mean. And the Three Kings. The animals—yes, they would be there, of course. Not running around in circles, though, as they are in this particular crib.”

  “He’s right!” Wilf cried.

  He had thrown down the paper and was on his feet; he was confessing the error as his, but not all his. He offered no apology to Father Urban, and thereby indicted him—made it appear that, on the authority of Jack’s sound doctrine, they had both been wrong, and that he, at least, was ready to admit it. That was the impression Wilf was giving, and it infuriated Father Urban. He had come a long, long way. He who had preached to the world, and, you might say, won, now contended with fools in the wilderness, and lost. What star had led him to this?

  He watched Wilf go over to the crib, not sure what the man would do next but determined to stop him if he laid a finger on the other figures. When this happened, Father Urban would make the stand he should have made earlier. Wilf, however, was taking the bambino out of his pocket. He disconnected the crib, knelt, and extended his hand to put the bambino back in the simulated straw.

  (photo credit 31.7)

  This was the moment, the move, that Father Urban had been waiting for. “Thanks” was all he’d say. “Thanks” said as Father Urban could say it would be enough to show that he considered that Wilf had bowed to him. Doubtless Jack expected Father Urban to do something of the sort.

  But then Father Urban didn’t take the opportunity, after all. He let it pass. He decided that if Wilf would just leave it at that, so would he. He would have taken great pleasure in asserting himself, in demanding and getting simple justice, but he was gaining more this way. And wasn’t that what it all came down to? Christmas meant peace—not to men but to men of good will. It was hard, thoug—very hard—to see someone like Wilf having it both ways, and at Father Urban’s expense.

  Wilf, having restored the bambino to the straw, plugged in the circuit that lit the blue bulb and started up the animals and shepherds, and then he went back to his chair. He picked up the paper, and, boldly meeting Father Urban’s gaze, he said, “Just shows how wrong we can be sometimes.”

  We! This was too much for Father Urban’s good will. There were worse things than war. He glared at Jack—the peacemaker, who looked at him now—staring Jack down, his eyes following Jack’s back to the checkerboard. There he saw a surprising opportunity, and he decided to deal with Jack first. With his only king, Father Urban jumped this way and that, taking a dreadful toll. He had won the game.

  “Why didn’t I see that!” From the way Jack said it, Father Urban knew that Jack had seen it all, had offered himself and his checkers for sacrifice. Thereupon the desire to deal with Wilf died in Father Urban.

  Father Urban, and perhaps Wilf, too, sensed the rare peace now reigning among them, but Jack rejoiced in it visibly. Still, a moment later, it was Jack who broke the spell. “You know, Urban, I don’t feel right about those animals,” he said—not, Father Urban knew, to be critical but just to be saying something. For a moment, they had all been lifted up, and this was Jack’s way of letting them down lightly to earth. “I’ve always understood that what heat there was at Bethlehem came from the animals. By rights, they should be closer to the Holy Family. Of course, I realize that’s impossible in this particular case.”

  Father Urban looked over at the tree, at the hamper of food and liquor. “Let’s open one of Billy’s bottles,” he said.

  1957

  (photo credit 31.8)

  CHRISTMAS WEEK

  PARKE CUMMINGS

  When saplings pass for Christmas trees,

  And glowing bulbs of red and green,

  Bedeck the Strands and Rivolis,

  And here and there a wreath is seen,

  When everywhere Salvation Nells

  To passers-by their carols sing,

  And rub their hands and toll their bells,

  While castanets with quarters ring,

  When theatres proffer matinees

  Throughout the week, and actors groan,

  And reminisce of better days,

  And weaklings dread to shop alone,

  When markets teem with greens and meat,

  Their floors bestrewn with sawdust clean,

  And office-boys are swift and neat,

  And messengers alert and keen,

  When bankers quote the Golden Rule,

  And visitors enjoyment seek,

  And lads and maids are home from school,

  New York’s engulfed in Christmas week.

  1926

&nb
sp; CHRISTMAS EVE

  (AUSTRALIA, 1943)

  KARL J. SHAPIRO

  The wind blows hot. English and foreign birds

  And insects different as their fish excite

  The would-be calm. The usual flocks and herds

  Parade in permanent quiet out of sight,

  And there one crystal like a grain of light

  Sticks in the crucible of day and cools.

  A cloud burnt to a crisp at some great height

  Sips at the dark condensing in deep pools.

  I smoke and read my Bible and chew gum,

  Thinking of Christ and Christmas of last year,

  And what those quizzical soldiers standing near

  Ask of the war and Christmases to come,

  And, sick of causes and the tremendous blame,

  Curse lightly and pronounce Your serious name.

  1943

  “Fifty-ninth Street, Columbus Circle. Change for the B, D, and uptown express. Step lively, watch the closing doors, and once the train is in motion start singing ’Good King Wenceslas.”

  (photo credit 33.1)

  A CHRISTMAS CAROL

  JOHN CIARDI

  The stores wore Christmas perfectly

  With little bells to ring for sales.

  In neon, the Nativity

  Proclaimed the spirit never fails.

  Accessory to Monsieur’s paunch,

  Madame’s embezzled look

  Harassed the velvet screen where Punch

  (Watched by wide-eyed kids) forsook

  Judy. Forced to abdicate,

  She did a wonderful children’s trick

  And disappeared in billingsgate

  Like a chattering monkey-on-a-stick,

  And reappeared (gift-wrapped) to be

  The nephew on the itemized list.

  Monsieur, impatient, turned to flee,

  But Madame had him by the wrist:

  “Three more, my dear, and we are done.

  Now, please be patient.” Box by box,

  The puppets waited one by one:

  Judy next to Goldilocks,

  Pluto by Pinocchio,

  Mickey next to Jack-Be-Quick.

  Neon, pink upon the snow,

  Made of every flake a wick

  Till the last item itemized

  By Madame, and the little bells,

  Collateral to the surprised

  Morning look of boys and girls,

  Made carols on the children’s air

  And brought a smile to Tiny Tim

  And to Madame and to Monsieur,

  Making a sudden light in her,

  Ten years’ difference in him,

  And so much difference in me

  I’m ready to forgive you all

  For what you’ll turn around and be,

  Starting at nine the usual

  Morning after memory.

  1946

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  JOHN CIARDI

  Salvation’s angel in a tree

  Stared out at Blake, and stares at me

  From zodiacs of colored bells,

  And colored lights, and lighted shells,

  A cherub’s face above a sheet:

  No arms, no torso, and no feet,

  But winged and wired against the Fall,

  And a paper halo over all—

  A nineteen-hundred-year-old doll

  In a drying tree. What does it see?

  The house is sleeping; there’s only me

  In the cellophane snow by the lethal toys

  That wait all night for the eager boys:

  Metal soldiers, an Indian suit,

  Raider’s tools, and gunner’s loot.

  I mash my cigarette, and good night,

  Turn off the angel and the light

  On a single switch. The children toss

  In excited sleep. Alone in the house,

  I feel the old, confusing wind

  Shake the dark tree and shake my mind,

  Hearing tomorrow rattle and bang

  Louder than all the angels sang.

  By feel, I lower the thermostat

  And pick my way through a creaking flat.

  The demon children, the angel doll,

  Sleep in two darks off one dark hall.

  I move through darkness memorized,

  Feeling for doors. One half-surprised

  Wish stays lit inside my head.

  I leave it on and go to bed.

  1947

  WHAT EVERY WOMAN KNOWS

  PHYLLIS McGINLEY

  When little boys are able

  To comprehend the flaws

  In their December fable

  And part with Santa Claus,

  Although I do not think they grieve,

  How burningly they disbelieve!

  They cannot wait, they cannot rest

  For knowledge nibbling at the breast.

  They cannot rest, they cannot wait

  To set conniving parents straight.

  Branding that comrade as a dunce

  Who trusts the Saint they trusted once,

  With rude guffaw and facial spasm

  They publish their iconoclasm,

  And find particularly shocking

  The thought of hanging up a stocking.

  But little girls (no blinder

  When faced by mortal fact)

  Are cleverer and kinder

  And brimming full of tact.

  The knowingness of little girls

  Is hidden underneath their curls.

  Obligingly, since parents fancy

  The season’s tinsel necromancy,

  They take some pains to make pretense

  Of duped and eager Innocence.

  Agnostics born but Bernhardts bred,

  They hang the stocking by the bed,

  Listen for bells, and please their bette

  By writing Kringle lengthy letters,

  Only too well aware the fruit

  Is shinier plunder, richer loot.

  For little boys are rancorous

  When robbed of any myth,

  And spiteful and cantankerous

  To all their kin and kith.

  But little girls who draw conclusions

  Make profit of their lost illusions.

  1948

  CHRISTMAS FAMILY REUNION

  PETER DE VRIES

  Since last the tutelary hearth

  Has seen this bursting pod of kin,

  I’ve thought how good the family mold,

  How solid and how genuine.

  Now once again the aunts are here,

  The uncles, sisters, brothers,

  With candy in the children’s hair,

  The grownups in each other’s.

  There’s talk of saving room for pie;

  Grandma discusses her neuralgia.

  I long for time to pass so I

  Can think of all this with nostalgia.

  1949

  LANDSCAPE OF THE STAR

  ADRIENNE RICH

  The silence of the year. This hour the streets

  Lie empty, and the clash of bells is scattered

  Out to the edge of stars. I heard them tell

  Morning’s first change and clang the people home

  From crèche and scented aisle. Come home, come home,

  I heard the bells of Christmas call and die.

  This Christmas morning in the stony streets

  Of an unaccustomed city, where the gas

  Quivers against the darkly shuttered walls,

  I walk, my breath a veil upon the cold,

  No longer sick for home or hunted down

  By faces loved, by gate or sill or tree

  That once I used to wreathe in red and silver

  Under the splintered incense of the fir.

  I think of those inscrutables who toiled,

  Heavy and brooding in their camel train,

  Across the blue-wrapped stretches: home behind,

  Kingd
oms departed from, the solemn journey

  Their only residence; the starlit hour,

  The landscape of the star, their time and place.

  O to be one of them, and feel the sway

  Of rocking camel through the Judaean sand—

  Ride, wrapped in swathes of damask and of silk,

  Hear the faint ring of jewel in silver mesh

  Starring the silence of the plain, and hold

  With rigid fingers curved as in oblation

  The golden jar of myrrh against the knees.

  To ride thus, bearing gifts to a strange land,

  To a strange king, nor think of fear and envy,

  Being so bemused by starlight of one star,

  The long unbroken journey, that all questions

  Sink like the lesser lights behind the hills;

  Think neither of the end in sight nor all

  That lies behind, but dreamlessly to ride,

  Traveller at one with travelled countryside.

  How else, since for those Magi and their train

  The palaces behind have ceased to be

  Home, and the home they travel toward is still

  But rumor stoking fear in Herod’s brain?

  What else for them but this, since nevermore

  Can courts and states receive them as they were,

  Nor have the trampled earth, the roof of straw

  Received the kings as they are yet to be?

  The bells are silent, silenced in my mind

  As on the dark. I walk, a foreigner,

  Upon this night that calls all travellers home,

  The prodigal forgiven, and the breach

  Mended for this one feast. Yet all are strange

  To their own ends, and their beginnings now

  Cannot contain them. Once-familiar speech

  Babbles in wayward dialect of a dream.