Once Upon a Christmas

by Richard J. Smith

  “You gotta grow up, Louise,” Aunt Bess was saying. “Ain’t no excuse for you sleepin’ through a job interview.”

  “Audition,” Louise corrected.

  “Don’t matter.”

  “Besides, they were casting for chorus parts today. Tomorrow is for leading roles. I just got all rested up to land a bigger part.”

  Tracy gathered correctly that Louise had overslept and missed tryouts. Aunt Bess had spoken her mind; now she acknowledged Tracy’s entrance. “Lord, you home already? I better start supper.” The air seemed cleared, so Tracy spoke. She tried to sound nonchalant.

  “Louise, you wanna come to my Winter Concert? I’m getting’ a ride with my best friend. You can ride along. I’m singin’ a solo, Louise, Silver Bells.” There! She had done it. Now she waited expectantly for Louise’s response. Surprisingly, there was no hesitation.

  “Oh, yes!” Louise gushed. “Oh, yes! I love Christmas music. And Bess will come along, won’t you Bess? It’ll put us all in the Christmas spirit.” And she went on about how every family should celebrate this magnificent season. Tracy was once again delighted by Louise’s enthusiasm and pleasantly surprised when Aunt Bess, after some good-natured teasing from Louise, agreed to go also.

  “If they can stand me, I guess I can stand them,” she said, referring to the white suburbanites she mistrusted. “But don’t tell Art.” Tracy felt her chest swell in admiration for the way Louise had twisted Aunt Bess around her little finger, something Louise had always known exactly how to do.

  The two women took turns speaking, making their plans before Art came in for his supper. Tracy was enthralled to be included in real, grown-up female talk.

  After she finished at Josh’s, Aunt Bess would take the train downtown and meet Louise at Rusty’s Roundup, a bar on Wabash, near the theater where Louise would be auditioning. They would eat lunch and then shop for some Christmas presents, just practical things, what people really needed, and maybe buy a few decorations for the apartment. “To hell with Art!” Bess exclaimed, and Louise and Tracy laughed hard at her bravado. Louise, for all her shortcomings, could work wonders on the psyches of those around her. If Louise could fly over the rainbow, so could they.

  “Christmas presents, really?” Tracy was incredulous.

  “I been saving a few dollars Art don’t know about. New curtains can wait. I guess we need some Christmas more.” Bess stopped and looked directly at Tracy. “Me and Louise will go to hear you sing tonight, honey. It’s Art’s night to play cards at Josh’s, so he won’t be home until closin’ time. You fix yourself some supper and go back to your school with your new friend. We’ll be there when you sing your solo.” Louise moved quickly to the older woman and hugged her tightly. Tracy flushed with emotional warmth.

  Later that night, Bess and Louise talked at the kitchen table quietly to avoid waking anyone.

  “You oughta tell her, LuLu. She’s getting’ too old not to know.”

  “Not yet, Bess, not yet. I gotta be a success when I tell her. I gotta be over that rainbow. Just a little longer, please, Bess. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll get the part of Julie. Imagine, me bein’ Julie in Show Boat. It’s a big part, Bess. It’ll pay a lot. I’ll tell her then.”

  After a school day and a bus ride home she thought would never end, Tracy unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside. The place felt cold and lonely. She had wanted to talk to Tammy that day, but Tammy was never in her usual places. Tracy was lightheaded with the excitement of Winter Concert night, but she managed to eat a piece of peanut-butter toast with raisins sprinkled on top and drink a diet cola. She put on her best clothes and at six-fifteen walked to the first-floor building entrance where she waited expectantly for the arrival of Tammy and her parents. She could tell them she would have family at the concert, too.

  What seemed like more than fifteen minutes passed.Disregarding the danger, Tracy stepped outside into the darkness to wait. More time passed, and she began to worry. She asked the time of a woman passerby. “Seven o’clock.” Suddenly, like being shown the “how” of a magic trick, Tracy understood everything. She was momentarily embarrassed by her gullibility, then shocked by the implication of her predicament: Aunt Bess, Louise, Mrs. Howley, Mrs. Howley’s friend, Silver Bells … she would miss the Winter Concert. She couldn’t breathe.

  Frantically, Tracy’s brain began to search for relief. Could she walk to school? Too far. Take a cab? No money. Ask for help? Who? Uncle Art? Maybe. She ran for Josh’s.

  “Hey, Art. Kid here askin’ for Mr. Johnson. You answer to that name?”

  “Get outta here, Tracy.”

  “But … Uncle Art. Please.”

  “You get the hell outta here!”

  “Better go, kid. Art’s been here a long time, and he’s losin’.”

  It was all over for Tracy. The concert was already started. She was too scared, too angry, too hurt, too dead to cry. She turned for home.

  “Ain’t you out kinda late, little Tracy?” A female voice.

  “Ain’t you scared someone gonna catch and eat you?” Another female voice.

  “Who she?” A male voice.

  “Our baby sister.” Sarcastically.

  It was Rose and Marcelle, hanging out on the corner with Skeeter Brown, neighborhood slick.

  “I’m tellin’ Art you out at night.” It was Rose.

  “He gonna whup you good.” Marcelle

  “Why you out here?” Rose again.

  Tracy saw no point in keeping her catastrophe secret, so she, with a sprinkling of tears soon becoming a cascade, sobbed out her misfortune. Then Skeeter spoke. “I can get a car. You want a ride? We’ll show them smart, white asses.”

  Without encouragement Skeeter ran off and in minutes returned with a Cadillac DeVille. “Get in,” he ordered, and by eight-fifteen Tracy, Skeeter, Rose, and Marcelle were in the wings of the stage of the Austin Middle School Auditorium. “You gonna sing your song, kid,” Skeeter promised. With a wave of his hand, he caught Mrs. Howley’s eye from her place at the conductor’s podium and with his index finger directed her attention to Tracy’s presence. Mrs. Howley smiled. Tad Arlington was singing his solo.

  When the applause following Tad’s Little Drummer Boy stopped, Mrs. Howley, without explanation, strode from the stage to the wings. Completely unruffled, she said to Tracy, “You will be last on the program. Sing sweet, girl.” Then to Rose, Marcelle, and Skeeter, “Clean her up.”

  Right after Tammy Barstow’s solo and before the final number by the entire chorus, Mrs. Howley turned to the audience. “I am pleased to announce the delayed arrival of one of our soloists. Before the chorus concludes our program, I am delighted to present Tracy Johnson singing Silver Bells.” There was some polite clapping, and Skeeter Brown shoved Tracy out of the wings. If ever there were a wretched-looking little creature, it was she. Like a scolded puppy, Tracy, head drooping, sidled up to Mrs. Howley’s podium. The piano tinkled Silver Bells.

  Mrs. Howley reached down, lifted Tracy’s chin, and quietly commanded, “Sing, girl. Sing for me, sing for your family, sing for my friend, sing for your school, sing for yourself, sweetheart, sing for all of us, rich, poor, white, black. Sing, girl.”

  And Tracy sang, softly at first, gently, sweetly. And the bubbles began to float, “… it’s Christmas time in the city … Silver bells …” The bubbles sailed and drifted into the audience. They rose, dipped, fell, and burst, filling every space in the room. Every listener’s inner voice sang along, anticipating each word and note in the familiar carol.

  Tracy sang for Louise and Aunt Bess, somewhere in that darkness. She sang for Mrs. Howley and her special friend, for Rose, Marcelle, Skeeter Brown, and even Uncle Art. She sang for harmony and love and kindness and birds and rainbows. And when she finished, exhausted and fulfilled, the audience rewarded her with a standing ovation.

  Mrs. Howley cued the chorus, the final number was sung, and the Austin Middle School Winter Concert was over. It was December 19.

&nbs
p; The choristers and the audience merged for handshakes, hugs, laughter, and praise. Tracy found Aunt Bess. “Where’s Louise?” she asked.

  “Gone again,” Aunt Bess answered. “She didn’t get a part in Show Boat. Heard there were jobs for singers in California and hitched a ride with someone else who didn’t get a part.” Tracy looked devastated. “She’ll be back,” Aunt Bess consoled. “She promised. Said to tell you she’d be back.”

  Tracy and her aunt turned to leave when Mrs. Howley and a short, plump man in a striped suit and red bow tie approached them. “Tracy, this is Mr. Walton, a very good friend of mine. He heard you sing.”

  Mr. Walton took Tracy’s hand in both of his. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I’m casting director for Show Boat. You heard of that?” Tracy nodded. “I’d like to hire you for a part in the chorus.” He cleared his throat and continued. “And I’m also looking for singers for a revival of Annie, all black this time. I’d like you to try out for the lead.”

  On the way to the train Tracy asked Aunt Bess, “Are we going to have presents this year?”

  “Seems to me you got all the presents you need tonight.”

  “I mean real Christmas presents.”

  “I gave all my Christmas money to LuLu,” Aunt Bess confessed. “California’s a long way away.”

  “What’s in California?” Tracy asked.

  “More rainbows, I guess.”

  I Begin My Career

  IN 1953 WISCONSIN, THE marketplace for English teachers was meager, especially for male English teachers. Teaching literature and grammar was considered women’s work. Real men were sought for teaching math, science, industrial arts and for coaching football.

  Nonetheless, two school superintendents recruiting at OSTC had my name on their interview lists. One didn’t show up because of a late-spring snowstorm that dumped so much snow on Highway 41 north of Oshkosh, even the plows couldn’t get through. The other, who drove from a different direction, said he was nervous about his return trip because the storm was predicted to continue southward. So he offered me a contract after a five-minute interview. Being desperate for a job, I signed before reading the contract and before he could change his mind about offering it.

  I waved goodbye to my new boss as he sped out of the OSTC parking lot through a swirl of snowflakes collecting on the blacktop. Then I shuffled back inside to read the document I had so hurriedly put my name to.

  I was to teach the following:

  1.

  One English class for college preparatory seniors.

  2.

  One speech class for juniors and seniors.

  3.

  Three tenth-grade English classes.

  In addition, I was to supervise one study hall daily, direct the senior class play, act as advisor to the Drama Club, coach the forensics team, edit the school newspaper, announce all home football games (with an undependable hand microphone while dragging a fifty-yard cord up and down the field behind me), manage the score clock at home basketball games, and chaperone the junior-senior prom.

  For these duties I would be paid thirty-two hundred dollars a year in either nine or twelve monthly payments—my choice. Sure enough, there was my signature at the bottom of the page. I now knew why my employer had beat a hasty retreat. He was even more desperate for a teacher than I was for a job. The blizzard had been a subterfuge.

  I reported for work in late August and stood before my first class a week later. I had made it! I was employed and, having signed up for the twelve-month pay plan, making two hundred sixty-six dollars and sixty-six cents a month. Hot dog! I was no longer a desperate man, still poor, but not desperate.

  However, I had one more test to pass, possibly more important than my college finals had been. It was the test every first-year teacher in my new school had to pass—an observation by the superintendent of schools, the same man who rushed my signature that snowy day in Oshkosh.

  Word had it that he had “canned” one first-year teacher because the kids raised hell in the class he observed. I was nervous because my third-period sophomore English class had more than a few “hell-raisers” in it.

  His visitation was always unannounced; but again, word was that the high school secretary was informed ahead of time and, being a good Christian woman, found some way to alert the novice the morning of his or her examination day.

  I lit a candle at Sacred Heart Catholic Church to attract God’s attention to my prayer: Please keep him out of my third-period sophomore English class. That class of mostly farm boys, who were more adept at squeezing milk from cows than identifying adjectives and adverbs, had been difficult to manage from day one. And please, God, don’t let me miss my alert from your trusted servant, Francine.

  My alert came on the Monday morning of the sixth week of school when I stopped at the office to collect my mail. “How are you today?” Francine sang. I could not have missed it. My eyes must have widened and asked, “What period?” because Francine held up three fingers. My candle hadn’t worked, so I gave God one more chance: If the kids behave, I won’t have a beer for two weeks. I promise.

  I worried through my first two classes, and just before the bell for third period rang, my “examiner” slipped into my classroom, giving no more than a quick hand movement to acknowledge my presence. He strode to the back of the room and sat at a desk next to a window in the back row.

  My sophomores followed him into the room, playfully jostling each other and talking loudly. When the first one spotted the superintendent in the back row, he began a shushing campaign that spread to the end of the group so that their noisy entrance was replaced by an eerie silence. Our visitor was peering out the window as if a parade were passing in the distance.

  When the students were seated, I stepped forward and unnecessarily asked for their attention. No class of twenty-five farm boys with a few girls in the first two rows had ever been more attentive.

  “For starters today,” I intoned, “we are going to name the part of speech for each word in the five sentences on the board.” I gestured behind my back as if I were conducting a symphony orchestra. “Who will volunteer to try the first one?” No hands went up.

  Perhaps, I thought, I am being too formal. So to loosen the atmosphere a little, I backed up to my desk and hoisted myself to a sitting position, hands palms down at my sides and behind my back to support my torso. “Okay. Now who will try the first one?” Still no takers. “Suppose I do the first one,” I said in desperation.

  That said, I pushed myself upright, swung my legs to the side of my desk, and leaped in the direction of the five sentences on the blackboard. My left foot hit the floor, and my right dove straight into the metal wastebasket beside my desk.

  The basket was round with a larger opening at the top than at the bottom. Perhaps it was designed that way to trap the foot of any first-year teacher who might leap from his desk to name the parts of speech in the first sentence on the blackboard while being observed by the superintendent.

  With my right foot wedged in that damnable wastebasket, I heard the silence of the room give way to gasps and laughter. One boy rolled out of his desk to the floor. Another banged his hands on his desktop while one of the girls shrieked hysterically, as I tried desperately to extricate my foot from the wastebasket. Then as suddenly as the silence had left, it returned. I looked up as my foot popped free, and I saw the superintendent correctly labeling the part of speech of each word in the first sentence. Then he returned to his seat next to the window and peered out. The remainder of the class went well, and my benefactor smiled as he left just before the dismissal bell. I would keep my promise not to have a beer for two weeks.

  During the hubbub something weird had happened. Through the turmoil I somehow made eye contact with one of the girls in the second row. She was not laughing, but rather staring into my eyes, soberly and with an unexpected empathy. I knew her only as Marcella Jacobson, a girl who never volunteered and who lowered her head and shrugged when I called on her. As s
he left that morning, I asked if she would stop by after school, and she did. I was correcting student essays when she entered the room.

  “I want to thank you,” I began, “for not laughing at my predicament this morning.” She averted her eyes and said nothing. “So how’s school going?” I asked, not knowing how else to proceed because of her reticence. She waited, lifted her head as if to answer, then lowered it again. Finally her mouth opened, but no words came. She tried again, and a quick repetition of the consonant p emerged. That repetition became a low-pitched growl that continued until she closed her mouth.

  I tried to think of something comforting to say. But I could not. So I said the obvious, “You stutter. And you felt sorry for me. You knew how I felt.” She nodded. “Thanks,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” And that was that. I felt hugely inadequate.

  All faculty members took their turns supervising after-lunch activities in the gymnasium. Two-thirds of our students were bussed in from area farms and recreated in the gym after they had eaten. The girls in their angora sweaters, long pleated skirts, bobby socks, and saddle shoes danced together at one end of the gym. The boys at the other end shot buckets, pushed and shoved each other, and taunted the girls. Young males tend to deny themselves many joys of life by scorning what only their gender considers unmanly.

  Marcella was a “townie,” but she ate lunch at school so that she could dance in the gym with Iris Doyle. Together, they outshone all the other dancing pairs. Although the more popular girls pretended not to notice, I sensed some envy. The thought came to me that the rhythm absent in Marcella’s speaking had been routed to her body movements on the dance floor. She was good.

  Early in November I realized I had not yet called a meeting of the Drama Club, so I had Francine issue a call-to-meeting at morning announcements. Twelve girls and two boys showed up after school. Surprisingly, Marcella was one of the fourteen, her dancing partner, Iris, another.