Crestmont

by Holly Weiss

  Fifteen minutes later, her mother, father, sister and Gracie were all lined up near the fireplace facing the kitchen when Eleanor frolicked into the living room, caught the black taffeta skirt of her new dress and twirled around, showing off the red ribbon tied at her hip on the dropped waist.

  “My beautiful little girl,” her father said.

  “It smells like roses. Did you buy me roses?” She clapped with delight turning around to look. A plump lady beamed at her from the kitchen table.

  “Dorothy!” Eleanor threw her arms around her and sneezed from the Ashes of Roses cologne. “What a perfect surprise.”

  Eagles Mere, Pennsylvania

  December 1925

  “My mother said I could pick up the mail.” Eleanor scraped the snow off her boots on the woven straw mat in front of the post office door and scuffed up to Mr. Rose, who was peering down his nose, sorting several piles of mail.

  “Whatever you say, young lady, but it’s a heavy load. Evidently, the Woods get a lot of Christmas cards.” He pushed a tall stack tied with butcher’s cord across the counter.

  “Oh, yes, our guests send them from all over the country.” Eleanor helped herself to the pile.

  “Here’s one for you, too, Miss Antes,” Mr. Rose said handing a single ivory-colored envelope to Gracie.

  “Who’s that from?” Eleanor asked later, chomping on Crackerjacks in the General Store.

  “My sister, Lily.”

  “Well, where are the rest of your cards?”

  Gracie gathered the caramel popcorn and nuts that Eleanor had spilled on the counter, put them back in the box and said, “You had better eat this on the way home. We have beds to change before your mother gets home from her meeting with the contractor.”

  “Papa said they finished the shell of the addition. Mama was picking out bathtubs today.” The air was cold and still, but lazy snowflakes began to dot Eleanor’s yellow knit hat as they walked home.

  “And faucets, bedspreads and curtains,” Gracie added, checking and rechecking the thickness of the envelope in her pocket when they passed the stone pillars at the base of Crestmont Hill. It had the hardness of a card and wasn’t thick enough to have a very long letter in it. She hadn’t heard from Lily in over two months.

  ****

  “You have to shake these sheets till they snap,” Eleanor instructed Gracie when they got home, unfolding a sheet and flapping it in the air before putting it on her bed. “Gets the bugs off when you take them off the clothesline. Now you snap the top sheet.”

  “So you’re saying I left bugs on them when I ironed them?” Gracie teased, smoothing the sheet onto the bed and tucking in the corners.

  “Naw, it’s just what Magdalena taught me last summer, but I like watching your curls bounce and settle right back when you do it. That Zelda lady did a nice job cutting your bob. My hair is always flying all over. Mama moans because I got hers instead of Papa’s. Is your sister’s hair like yours?”

  “It’s blonde like mine, but nice and straight.”

  “Like my friend, Dora.” Eleanor observed knowingly. “So, are you going to spend Christmas with us, or are you going home to see your sister?”

  “I think I’ll stay right here. Now, let’s get your parents’ bed made before they get home. And then, I need to see to dinner.”

  “I saw a hunk of beef in the icebox. Are you going to make pot roast again? Because now that you learned to keep water in the bottom, your pot roast is pretty good.”

  “Well, since you gave me such a nice compliment, Eleanor, I’ll let you peel the potatoes.”

  ****

  On Thursday afternoon, Gracie sat on Mrs. Cunningham’s sofa stringing popcorn for the tiny tree Madeleine had hastily placed in the front bay window two days ago. The crystal-leaded decorative pane above it shone like illuminated stained glass in a dark church. Mrs. Cunningham pulled her brown shawl around her, soaking up the sun’s warmth as it filtered through the three windows in the parlor’s side alcove.

  “I want to hear all about it.” Her face lit up with childlike enthusiasm.

  “Sunday was a lovely day. We put the tree up so we could enjoy it for a week before Christmas. They made me put the star on top, but that was only because Mrs. Woods always does it and she couldn’t reach with her right hand. They asked if they could come tonight to hear my solo and wanted to drive me so I wouldn’t have to walk alone.”

  She paused, sucking on a finger the needle had pricked. “Then we sat around and they opened all their Christmas cards. They got one from PT…”

  “And you didn’t,” Mrs. Cunningham soothed. Frowning, Gracie jumped up, draping the tree with the popcorn strand.

  “He doesn’t know you are there, dear. Didn’t you tell me he left early last summer before Mrs. Woods broke her arm? Grace, it is quite proper in this day and age for a woman to send a man a card.”

  “I’ll have to mull that over.” She gently picked up cranberry strands from a bowl and interlaced them with the popcorn. “Will Madeleine be home soon? I have to go at five to be ready for church, and I don’t want to leave you in alone in the dark.”

  “I won’t be in the dark because I will have my music. Tune in my radio, won’t you? St. Olaf’s choir from that Lutheran college in Minnesota always broadcasts on Christmas Eve and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “It’s really pretty, if I do say so myself.” Gracie backed away from the tree and crooked her head, examining the cranberry and popcorn strands amongst the gold bows she had tied on the ends of the boughs. The voices of the choir filled the room.

  ****

  Families were packed into the pews at the Presbyterian Church. Beeswax Candles on poles with glass globes lined the center aisle, casting a magical glow throughout the sanctuary. The scent of pine permeated the air. Mothers shushed their children as the organ started the prelude.

  It was Gracie’s first Christmas away from home. She proceeded toward the front of the church, singing the opening carol with the choir. In her Moravian Church, the Christmas star with its twenty-six conical points representing the Star of Bethlehem would have greeted her. It always mesmerized her. The presence of the Woods family sitting in a pew toward the back of the Presbyterian Church attenuated that void.

  When she sang her solo, a welcome wash of confidence kept her voice remarkable steady and her knees even cooperated by not shaking. The hush that swept through the congregation told her that the people were moved.

  After the service, Gracie carefully hung up her robe in the choir room, wished her fellow choir members a Merry Christmas, and hurried back into the sanctuary to find the Woods. A cacophony of holiday wishes, babies crying, and children running had replaced the peaceful stillness of the service.

  Suddenly she felt a warm breath on her ear. A deep voice from behind her sent a rippling sensation through her chest. “I understood every word.”

  She turned toward the voice. “Thank you.” A handsome stranger stood before her. He had intelligent, sharp features, chestnut hair, and was dressed impeccably in a three-piece brown tweed suit.

  “And your voice is really pretty, too,” he added, chuckling to himself at his omission. “I’m Eric,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you. Gracie,” she said, thankful for the gloves that separated her perspiring hand from his as she shook it.

  “I know. My parents told me all about you.”

  “Your parents?” Eric nodded toward Rev. and Mrs. Sturdy. “Oh. But I’ve never seen you here before,” she said dumbly.

  “I’ve been away at college. Just came home for Christmas holiday.”

  “Gracie, Gracie, you sounded beautiful,” squealed Eleanor, flinging her arms around her waist. Gracie returned the hug. When she looked up, he was gone.

  ****

  Gracie waited until after she was back in her room to open the card. A manger scene with the baby Jesus surrounded by angels and shepherds was on the cover. An impersonal “Merry Christmas” was imp
rinted on the inside, and Lily had written, “Love, Lily and George.” So that was it. The door was really closed on her old life. She was relieved in a way, but she still wiped tears away as she hid the card in a drawer. After all, she was the one who had left.

  She climbed into bed, tried to read, but was too distracted to concentrate. Sighing, she turned out the light. Before she went to sleep she asked God to help her know what would come next for her. She loved living with the Woods family, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever.

  That night she dreamed she walked down a windy path surrounded by hemlocks and holly bushes to a dark stone house with a tiny green door set in with wrought iron hinges. Gracie knocked.

  A faceless man in a flowing robe opened the door. “You would not have knocked unless you believe. You may enter.” Gracie followed the mysterious escort into the house.

  “I will show you our rooms. You may choose where to spend your time, but you must be quiet. This is a library after all.”

  He opened a door to a music room illuminated by several roaring fireplaces. Five men held hymnals and hummed quietly while Mr. Woods conducted them with a stick from a music stand, his face raised exultantly toward heaven. His hair fell to his shoulders and flew about as he moved his arms. A young girl played a silent violin with vigorous bow strokes. Gracie stepped back out of the doorway and was led down three stone steps.

  Vintage clothes filled the next room. Straw hats with ribbons, felt hats adorned with elaborate veils and jeweled pins sat on hooks all around the walls. A vase held feathers of many colors and sizes. Gracie was delighted to see a dress she had always wanted on a seamstress frame. Dress gloves and jewelry lay neatly arranged on a chest of drawers. When she saw her yellow jewelry box amidst the gloves, she realized she had been in the room before.

  When she was done in that room, her guide instructed her to find the other rooms on her own. She could use whatever she wanted to in the rooms, but she couldn’t take any items out into the world.

  Gracie found a reading room, laden with bookshelves. The deep window sills held various candles, which burned bright against the pitch black outside. Spilled wax had run over and hardened on the sills and floor. Mrs. Woods stood on a little footstool, delightedly pulling one book and then another off the shelves. Finding one that pleased her, she settled comfortably on a big golden couch with pearly white throw pillows. A huge pillar candle on a tiny round table shed light on her book and face, illuminating her contented smile. She opened the book and eagerly turned the first page.

  In the game room, Raggedy Ann dolls pumped their feet in miniature rocking chairs and ate purple ice cream cones. Eleanor set up a Parcheesi game and said, “Remember, Dora, you can only win if you believe you can.” Dora sat across from her in the white shift with the blue ribbon at the hip she had worn last summer. Three of Eleanor’s favorite teddy bears played jump rope in the corner, winking at each other with alternating eyes.

  The last room was the writing room. There was no one in it, but a huge Christmas tree lit with candles stood in the corner. A large center table held Gracie’s writing tablets, the card from Lily, as well as some old journals and many kinds of stationery. The room gave her a chill.

  Gracie chose to spend her remaining time in the reading room. She sat next to Mrs. Woods on the couch for a long time, each absorbed in their own book, not aware the other was there.

  “Where’s Peg?” Gracie asked the escort, who came for her at closing time.

  “She stays outside. Peg likes to feel the sun on her skin and plays badminton or volleyball with her friends. You needn’t be alarmed. There is a locked gate, so she is safe.”

  Gracie was led to a different door from which she entered. She worried that she would get lost, but her escort assured her that she had received in the library precisely what she needed and once on the outside, she would know exactly where she was.

  Camden, New Jersey

  1914

  He licked the tip of his pencil, wrapped a blank piece of paper around the dollar bills and addressed the envelope. It was a ritual he had gone though the last Monday of every month for the past two years. Maybe it would make up for all the times he had discovered his mother putting ice on a black eye or moving as if she were favoring her ribs. PT knew his father was hitting her, but he had never had found a way to make him stop. Maybe he should have dropped out of school earlier so he could stay home more. Maybe she would have paid PT more attention after his father died if she hadn’t let her lazy boyfriend move in.

  Maybe he would stop sending her money.

  Maybe.

  He lay back on the thin, squeaky mattress thinking he didn’t have it so bad for a seventeen-year-old boy. A room in a boarding house suited him. He scraped by just fine on what money he kept for himself.

  He had long ago shut the doors of the rooms his parents had occupied in his head. Being alone was safe, and he liked it. The wall he had drawn around himself was a like a comforting shield, and when he walked into a bar after hours and asked to play the piano, the music washed over him, healing any residual sadness.

  Today, however, he was on a mission. He was sick of washing dishes all over Camden and the occasional car mechanic’s job didn’t challenge him.

  Heading south down North Fifth Street from his boarding house, PT dropped the envelope in a mailbox, then decided to see what was happening on Federal Street. He passed a new bowling alley called “Sloan’s” and then backed up. Forming a visor with his hands on the glass to shield his eyes, he peered inside. Curiosity made him go in. The smell of pretzels, a gnawing reminder that he hadn’t eaten breakfast today, hit him before he heard the Victrola.

  Twenty polished wooden bowling lanes lined up on the right side of the place and a soda bar stood on the left wall. In the central area sat impressive cherry shelves displaying bowling shoes, balls and framed awards. A huge Victrola with a brass horn atop sat on the counter. A girl tying a brimmed blue hat trimmed with flowers under her chin touted, “Drink Coca Cola” from a huge calendar on the wall.

  A door slammed. PT jumped. “I’m sick of telling those pin boys to speed it up, Eddie. You handle it.” Warren Sloan emerged from the rear of the bowling lanes in a dapper black pinstriped suit and red bow tie. He cranked up the Victrola with one hand and pulled out a new record from under the counter. He was about to put it on the phonograph when he noticed PT.

  “Hey, kid, what’s up? Sorry, we’re not running any games right now. You’ll have to come back around eleven.”

  PT dipped his head down in acknowledgement, tucked his hands in his pockets, and cut his eyes over toward the soda bar. “If you need some help, I’m a pretty fast learner.”

  “Oh, you’re looking for work. Come on over here,” Sloan said, motioning toward the soda fountain. “Warren Sloan’s the name,” he said, offering his hand from the other side of the counter. “Boy, you’re a scraggy one. I need some glasses from out back. Give me a minute and I’ll fix you a root beer float.”

  PT pulled up a stool and slumped over the counter as Sloan disappeared through a door behind the pretzel machine. Stacked glasses, a big coffee urn and ads for malted milk, floats and beer half obscured the mirror behind the counter. Through an unoccupied corner PT saw the reflection of a piano on the same wall as the front door.

  Sloan reentered with a tray loaded with thick soda glasses. He pumped root beer syrup into one, added seltzer water from the machine on the counter and a dollop of vanilla ice cream. After popping in a straw, he pushed the drink over the counter to PT. “Here.”

  Sloan pulled up a stool and idly drummed his fingers on the counter while the kid downed the drink. “Know anything about bowling?”

  “Learned to bowl a bit when I played piano at that alley up on State Street.”

  “Good. Show me what you’ve got.” They both stood, PT a head taller than Sloan, who was sizing up PT’s feet. “You wear an eleven shoe, right?”

  “Not bad,” Sloan said later after the kid ha
d thrown a few balls.

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t say much, do you? I like that. You might even listen to me, unlike the knucklehead I just fired. I could teach you a thing or two about bowling if you like. How are you with figures?”

  “Pretty good. I need a job, Mr. Sloan.”

  “Right. Come here a second.” He went to the shoe rental counter, pulled out a sheet with numbers on it and pushed it over in front of PT. “I’ve got a bunch of people who’ve run up tabs renting shoes. Take a crack at adding these totals.”

  “This first guy owes you a dollar and a half.”

  “You added that in your head?”

  “Yup.”

  “Impressive. Stand up and let me take a gander.” Sloan pursed his lips and snapped one of PT’s dirty suspenders. “Not only are you skinny, but a little scruffy too, pardon me saying it. Okay, I’ll start you tomorrow, but you’re going to have to clean up. Do you have a suit?” PT shook his head.

  Sloan pulled his wallet and stuck some bills into the kid’s hand. “Buy a new shirt, wash your suspenders and put on a tie. I need a guy out front to rent shoes and help players with scores. My partner, Eddie, can’t be here all the time and I want to bowl more tournaments. We’ll see how it goes.”

  ****

  Warren Sloan, PT discovered after working for three weeks, ran two successful bowling alleys in Camden, had made a name for himself in tournaments along the east coast, wasn’t in the war because of a slight heart condition, and continually talked about replacing pin boys with something mechanical. He never asked PT where he came from or where his family was. He treated him with respect and paid him a fair wage.

  When PT asked to learn the soda fountain, Sloan corrected him, “It’s a bar, kid. Soda fountains are for kids in drugstores. We sell beer, pretzels and some ice cream sodas for the tea-totallers.” PT smiled widely. “Oh, so you can smile? Crack a few more of those out and you might find you get good tips. Okay, kid, I’ll teach you how to run the bar. I like it that you want more responsibility. Close it up when I’m running a tournament because I don’t want a sticky mess on my lanes, get it? Then you put the Victrola on and open back up for beer and root beer floats to celebrate after the last game.”