Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Sylvia kept her worries hidden, a silent cry of fear and pain nestled close to her heart, as she and her parents dressed for the cold and carried the baskets outside to the car. Her father rarely drove anymore, conserving the expensive gasoline for emergencies. Sylvia’s mother had been told that her husband preferred to exercise the horses rather than allow them to grow fat and lazy over the winter. As far as Sylvia knew, her mother had accepted this, even though it was not what the Bergstroms had always done. They did so many things differently now, and yet nothing had raised the suspicions of the woman who had always known the intimate details of the household, who had known things about her children she could not possibly have seen or heard. How could she be so unaware of what was going on around her? Suddenly Sylvia was seized by the longing to take her mother by the shoulders and shake her, shake the truth into her and out of her.

  Sylvia climbed into the backseat with the baskets while her father helped her mother into the front. The car coughed out a puff of black smoke from the tailpipe when her father tried to start it, but after a moment, the motor rumbled steadily.

  “The Craigmiles first,” Eleanor said. Her father nodded and drove them to a farm less than a mile away. The Craig-miles had lived in the Elm Creek Valley for generations, and their family had been friends with the Bergstroms since Gerda’s time.

  Sylvia’s father waited in the car while his wife and daughter went up to the house; Sylvia carried the strudel, and her mother rested a hand on her shoulder for support. When Mrs. Craigmile opened the door to Eleanor’s knock, Sylvia could tell her mother was taken aback by how much she had changed. Though she was only ten years older than Eleanor, her dark brown hair had gone gray, and deep crevices of worry framed her eyes and mouth.

  Eleanor swiftly composed herself. “Merry Christmas, Edith.” She nodded to Sylvia, who placed a wrapped strudel in her neighbor’s hands.

  “Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Craigmile stared at the gift. “Thank you. I’m grateful. We weren’t expecting anything, not this year.”

  “Why not?” said Eleanor, clearly surprised. “You must know we’d never forget you.”

  “Yes, but this year …” Mrs. Craigmile shrugged. “Hard times have hit everyone. But you’re looking well. It’s good to see you’re getting out of the house.”

  “I do shut myself indoors too much as soon as the weather turns colder. It must be my city constitution.”

  Mrs. Craigmile’s lips curved in an unsteady smile. “You’ve lived among us so long you surely must be accustomed to our climate by now. I’ve never lived anywhere but here. I can’t imagine what I’ll do if we have to clear out.”

  “You want to give up your farm?”

  “Want to? It’s not even our farm, or so we’re told. It’s the bank’s.”

  Eleanor gripped Sylvia’s shoulder tighter. “But Craigmiles have worked this land for more than a hundred years. What does the bank have to do with it?”

  “Remember when the Brennans put those fifteen acres along our north pasture up for sale?”

  “Of course. You and Malcolm purchased them.”

  “Times were better then. We took out a loan from the Bank of Waterford to buy the land, and add that summer porch to the house, and get that new tiller.” Mrs. Craigmile shrugged matter-of-factly, but her grief was palpable. “When the bank failed, they called in our debt. Now some bankers in Philadelphia say they own the land. I don’t know whether we should pack up and leave with all we can carry before they take the clothes off our backs, or if we should do as Malcolm says and stay put until they force us off.”

  The shock on Eleanor’s face made Sylvia sick to her stomach. Mrs. Craigmile must have sensed something amiss, for she hastily added, “But don’t you worry about us. We’ll be fine. What would a bunch of city bankers want with our farm? They’re likely to leave us be, especially if we promise to send them a little something every month. We’ll get by. You folks have a good Christmas, you hear?”

  Eleanor nodded wordlessly. Sylvia breathed a quick Merry Christmas and accompanied her mother back to the waiting car.

  “Did you know about the bank failure, Sylvia?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, Mama,” she replied in a small voice.

  Her mother nodded, her eyes fixed on the car.

  As they climbed into their seats, Sylvia held her breath, waiting for her mother to confront her father, to demand an accounting of their own circumstances. But she said nothing except to ask him to drive them on to the Shropshire farm, closer to town.

  At every house they visited that morning it was the same. Friends and neighbors welcomed Eleanor and her gifts more gratefully than ever, inquired circumspectly after her health and the Bergstroms’ prospects, and shared stories of misfortune that they clearly assumed Eleanor already knew. In town it was the same as on the farms. A schoolteacher said that half her pupils had dropped off the rolls. The wife of the editor of theWaterford Register confessed that she did not know how much longer her husband would be able to keep the paper going, and it would take all she had to scrape together a decent Christmas for the children. “But Santa won’t forget them,” she added, glancing at Sylvia as if noticing her for the first time. “Nor will he forget you.”

  She looked questioningly at Eleanor before adding the last. Whatever her silent question was, Sylvia’s mother affirmed it with a quick nod and said, “I’m sure Santa will put in an appearance at our home tonight.”

  After the last strudel was delivered, Sylvia’s father turned the car toward home. Throughout the trip, Eleanor had remained mostly silent. Sylvia’s father had glanced at her now and then to be sure she was all right, and no doubt he attributed her silence to fatigue. Sylvia wanted to warn him that her mother knew the secrets he had kept so well for so long, but she did not see how to do it without betraying her mother.

  As they crossed the bridge over Elm Creek, Eleanor suddenly broke the silence. “Freddy,” she said quietly, “our neighbors are suffering.”

  Sylvia’s father said nothing for a long moment. “Of course they are. These are hard times for everyone.”

  “And I had no idea how hard until today. Oh, I knew our circumstances had to be worse than you were telling me, but I never conceived of anything so grim.”

  “Darling, I promise you we will manage. We won’t lose the farm. The children won’t starve.”

  “Perhaps, but what of our friends? What of the others? We must help them.” Eleanor turned in her seat until she faced her husband. “The Craigmiles will lose their farm to the bank unless they pay off the loan. We must pay it for them.”

  “Darling—”

  “Daniel Shropshire needs glasses. The Schultzes need food. No one has been able to pay Dr. Granger for months, so even his family is struggling. We must give more than simply the hope and joy of the season this year. We must give them what they need.”

  “Darling, we haven’t the means.”

  Eleanor stared at him. “Then the bank failure—”

  “Took our savings as well. Eleanor, as much as I long to help our friends, I’m doing all I can to keep our own heads above water.”

  Sylvia shrank back into her seat, sick at heart, wishing she were as deaf to their words as her parents seemed to believe. Her mother sat straight up in her seat, gloved hands clasped in her lap, as her father pulled the car into the old carriage house and shut it down. No one moved to leave the car, and at last Sylvia’s mother said, “As Christians we are not called to give from our surplus but to give all we can. We must sell the horses.”

  “Eleanor.” Her father’s voice was full of compassion and pain. “I haven’t been able to sell a horse in months. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “But our most loyal customers—”

  “—are broke, or in the same shape we are. It’s the same everywhere. We all have to weather this storm together.”

  “Yes. You’re absolutely right.” Eleanor opened the car door, climbed out, and slammed it shut. “Together. That is
the only way we will endure. We can’t think only of ourselves. And you mustn’t hide the truth from me ever again.”

  Sylvia’s father watched her stride briskly toward the house. Sylvia sat perfectly still, her heart pounding. She had never witnessed such a heated exchange between her parents, and it was a thing both terrible and exhilarating.Look! she wanted to shout to her father and the aunts,Mama is not too sick for the truth. She is strong and angry and determined. She will prove all of you wrong and make everything better, including herself .

  “Come along, Sylvia,” said her father tiredly. “Let’s get inside before we freeze.”

  Inside, they found the rest of the family unpacking Christmas ornaments and teasing Uncle William and Aunt Nellie as they dressed for a snowy walk through the woods in search of a Christmas tree. Sylvia’s mother, Claudia reported, had briefly wished the couple well before heading upstairs to rest, or so everyone assumed. Sylvia joined in the decorating with a heavy heart. She wondered if anyone else noticed how often her father glanced to the doorway, how forced his smiles were.

  The couple returned with a tree after little more than an hour had passed, earning them raised eyebrows and speculative looks instead of the thanks Sylvia thought they deserved for making up for the previous year by returning so promptly.

  “Should we get Mama?” Claudia asked Sylvia as their father and uncle set the tree into its stand. “She wouldn’t want to miss decorating the tree.”

  “I’ll get her,” said Sylvia. She slipped from the ballroom before her father could see her. He would not want her to disturb her mother.

  Sylvia hurried upstairs to her mother’s room, expecting to find her in bed, but instead discovering her seated on the floor taking clothes from a bureau drawer. Beside her was a pile of sweaters, neatly folded.

  “Mama?” asked Sylvia. “What are you doing?”

  “Sylvia, darling.” Eleanor motioned for Sylvia to come to her. “I’m gathering clothes I no longer need. We’ll take them to church tomorrow and ask Reverend Webster to distribute them to people in need.”

  Sylvia eyed the pile of sweaters. They were sturdy and warm, the kind her mother had worn when she helped exercise the horses. “Won’t you need them?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “They’re too big for me now.” And it was true; over the years her mother had grown thinner, a willow swaying in the wind. “I would like you to go to your closet and take out any dresses you’ve outgrown. Shoes, too. I’m sure the reverend can find a young lady who will be glad to have them.”

  “Now, Mama? Everyone is downstairs trimming the tree.”

  Eleanor started. “Oh, my goodness, of course they are. We mustn’t keep them waiting. We can finish this tomorrow.”

  Spend Christmas Day sorting old clothes? Sylvia was about to protest, but the stories their neighbors had told of hard times and harder yet on the horizon tugged at her and she fell silent. She took her mother’s hand and accompanied her downstairs. They passed Great-Aunt Lydia, sent out to hide the star. She seemed happily surprised to see Eleanor, and she teased Sylvia in passing about searching for the star before it was properly hidden. Ordinarily a remark like that would have left Sylvia feeling indignant and wrongfully accused, but too many other more upsetting things had been said that day for a harmless joke to trouble her.

  When they entered the ballroom, Sylvia’s father hurried over, took his wife’s hands, and led her to a comfortable chair where she could observe the decorating and offer suggestions. Sylvia half expected her mother to argue that she did not need to sit, but Eleanor took the seat offered her and asked Sylvia to fetch her sewing. Sylvia ran to the parlor for the sewing basket and holly appliqués, and not long after she returned, her father sent the children out to find the red glass star. Sylvia remembered where Great-Aunt Lydia had hidden the star the last time she had taken a turn, three years before. Eager to return to her mother, Sylvia looked there first and discovered the star on a bookshelf in the library, though not the same bookshelf. Sylvia took Richard by the hand and guided him to it; he crowed with joy and raced back to show his parents what he had found.

  And so Christmas Eve passed as all those in Sylvia’s memory had passed, or nearly so. Great-Aunt Lucinda read aloud Christmas greetings from distant family, including cousin Elizabeth’s letter from California. Sylvia’s father read “A Visit from St. Nicholas” aloud to the children, and Great-Aunt Lydia followed with the story of the Nativity from St. Luke. Sylvia’s mother sewed holly berry appliqués to her Christmas Quilt, and Great-Aunt Lucinda passed around a plate of her Christmas cookies. But there were fewer cookies than last year, and fewer presents beneath the tree. Sylvia hoped Santa would not forget that most of those were gifts the adults would exchange, and that there was room beneath the tree for more for the children.

  The children were sent off to bed with hugs and kisses. Sylvia led toddler Richard by the hand and tucked him into bed, as she did every night. When she went to her own room, Claudia was already under the covers. “What happened when you and Mama and Daddy went out this morning?” Claudia asked as Sylvia climbed into bed.

  “We took strudel to the neighbors, just like always.”

  “But you were gone so long.”

  “Mama made more strudel this year.”

  “She might think this will be the last year for it.”

  Sylvia felt a thundering in her skull as the nagging suspicion she had tried to ignore all day erupted to the surface. It was true. Each giving that day had been an expression of friendship, of sympathy during hard times, of the joy and hope of the season—but also of farewell.

  Musing, Claudia added, “It’s almost as if Mama thinks we’ll always be this poor, that we’ll never have enough flour to bake properly again.”

  Gratefully, desperately, Sylvia seized on to her sister’s innocent explanation and held fast. Of course their mother’s gifts were linked to the hard times in Waterford. Of course she would want to give out as many strudel as possible to make sure their friends had a special breakfast Christmas morning. From what Mrs. Craigmile and the others had said, even the most ordinary meals of the past had come to seem luxurious. Their mother’s gifts would remind their friends that better times were sure to come again. She was offering them hope and encouragement with every bite of delicate pastry and cinnamon apples.

  “We aren’t poor.” Sylvia pulled the quilt up to her chin. “We’re a lot better off than most people, especially the families who live in town. We’ll always get by as long as we have the farm.”

  “That’s true. Daddy can always sell some of the land.”

  “That’s not what I meant. We have the farm and the orchards and our home. We’ll never starve and we’ll always have a roof over our heads. That’s all we need.”

  “Everyone needs money, even if they own a farm. We have to pay taxes and buy the things we can’t make or grow.” Claudia spread her glossy brown curls in a fan on her pillow to keep her hair free of snarls, as she did every night. She slept on her back and in the morning her hair would still be spread out obediently, without the smallest tangle. Sylvia could never figure out how Claudia managed to keep still all night, while Sylvia always woke tangled in the bed sheets.

  “I don’t mean sell all of the land,” Claudia added. “We would never sell the manor and leave us without a home. But Daddy will sell the land if he has to. I know I would.”

  Anger stirred within Sylvia. “It’s a good thing Elm Creek Manor will never be yours to sell.”

  She rolled over on her side and folded her pillow around her head, her back to her sister. Claudia was a fool, a silly little fool. The farm sustained their family. The land took care of the Bergstroms as much as they took care of the land. Their father knew this. Every Bergstrom with an ounce of sense understood that implicitly, just as they understood the necessity of air to breathe and food to eat. How Claudia could so blithely contemplate selling off Bergstrom land filled Sylvia with equal parts astonishment and anger.

&nb
sp; Christmas morning dawned gray and cold. Snow had fallen overnight, and the dense clouds gave a twilight cast to the morning air, but the weather had not prevented Santa from coming. Sylvia forgot her frustration with her sister and her worries about their neighbors in the particular happiness that was Christmas morning. Santa had come. He had forgiven her the innumerable acts of naughtiness she had committed throughout the year and had placed her on his good list, a surer sign of his love and his faith in her potential than an accurate evaluation of her behavior. She could even be happy for Claudia, who had received the china doll she had longed for. Little Richard had found a wooden train beneath the tree and was happily pushing it around in circles on the floor. Sylvia received a sewing basket of her very own, exactly like her mother’s except for the color—a cheerful pine instead of dark cherry wood.

  “Santa must have seen you helping me with the Christmas Quilt,” her mother remarked. “He must have decided you needed scissors and needles of your own.”

  Sylvia would have been content with that one gift, but just then her father peered curiously into the branches of the tree. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Claudia, “just a bit of paper. Maybe it fell from Sylvia’s angel. The wings have always been loose. She didn’t use enough paste.”