Christmas Once Again

by Jina Bacarr

  ‘Because they don’t fit no more,’ Ma adds with a smirk. You can’t get anything past her, but her war talk worries me. She’s too close to the truth.

  I take Ma aside so her friends can’t hear us. ‘What do you know about the invasion?’

  ‘I might have heard something when I was up at the big house on the hill.’ She winks at me. So Ma listens at keyholes, too. ‘I saw that nice young Mr Jeffrey yesterday. My Lord, he was arguing something awful with his father. The minute he saw me bringing my jams, he stopped and smiled.’

  ‘Did he ask about me?’ I say, hopeful.

  ‘No, child.’ Her eyes dart around the room to see if her guests heard. Fortunately, the two women are busy jabbing needles into the map, trying to outdo each other with their predictions. ‘Is there something I should know, Kate?’

  ‘No, Ma, nothing I swear.’

  What can I say? I want to marry him, but I can’t unless I save him from a mission gone wrong.

  She’ll never believe me. Dating Jeff isn’t easy. We have to be careful what we say or do. He likes my mother, but he can’t risk anyone in Mrs Rushbrooke’s household asking questions about why he’s chummy with her.

  ‘I don’t want to see you get your heart broke, Kate,’ she offers in a voice colored so reverent, it’s like a prayer. ‘Mr Jeffrey is a good man, but he’s not our kind.’

  I clench my fists to my side. Now I know where Lucy gets such ideas. Doesn’t anyone believe love conquers all?

  ‘By the way, Ma,’ I say, a mishmash of things going through my head with her sputtering about D-Day, ‘don’t go talking to anybody about our Army invading beaches in France, do you hear?’

  ‘Why not?’ She winces. ‘It’s the silliest idea I ever heard even if I did overhear Mr Rushbrooke muttering to himself about our boys landing on the sand like they’re at the shore. What’s the harm?’

  ‘You don’t want Pop to get fired, do you?’ I want her to think about what she’s saying so I bring it home to a place where she can understand the implications. ‘Any talk about invasion isn’t a good idea since he works at a war plant.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she says, horrified.

  ‘Remember, loose lips sink ships.’

  She zips her lips. ‘You’re right. I should have remembered that.’

  ‘You’re on the beam, Ma,’ I say, using her favorite expression during the war. Someday you’ll know how right you are about those beaches, I mutter under my breath as I hug her.

  After her lady friends say their goodbyes, I spend the time before supper sitting at her side, rolling up yarn from her knitting basket, listening more than talking. About how cold the weather is but no snow, and if she’ll have enough ration points for a Christmas turkey. Comforting, fuzzy moments that make me feel wrapped up in her love. Knowing I’ll remember this afternoon with Ma and her neighbors conjuring up ways to win the war.

  There’s something else, too. The way she looks at me and smooths down my hair, pinches my cheeks, and then surveys me up and down like I’m a mannequin in a store window come to life. I swallow hard. I have the distinct feeling she senses something out of the ordinary about me. She’ll never guess I’m her daughter from the future. A young woman so fiercely in love with a man, she’ll do anything to be with him. Even travel through time to save his life.

  I let the seconds tick by on the old Dutch clock, each tick tock not nearly as loud as the beating of my heart. I exchange a long, knowing look with my mother that makes me feel twelve years old again before I find the courage to say, ‘You know I’ve been seeing Jeff.’

  She nods. ‘A little bird told me, though she didn’t mean to. It slipped out when I reminded her to mend her socks and she grinned and said she didn’t need to because you were giving her your stockings.’

  I roll my eyes. Lucy. I can’t be mad at her. In a funny way, she did me a favor telling Ma. I exhale loudly, relieved I don’t have to conjure up a lie when we’ve had such a lovely reunion. ‘I never could fool you, Ma.’ I hug her close.

  ‘That don’t mean I approve of Mr Jeffrey courting you,’ she says, ‘but you young people today have your own minds. It’s not like when your Pop came round to woo me. This war’s changed a lot of things.’ She sighs deeply. ‘I meant what I said. I won’t let him hurt you. I expect your young man to pay Pop and me a visit before long.’

  I freeze. Dating was one thing, but what if she knew we planned to elope before Christmas? No telling what she’d say. Pop, too. The two of them were like two tall corn stalks standing side by side in a field reaching for the sun. They followed a straight line and never wavered. I can’t let her know the truth.

  ‘It’s not serious between Jeff and me, Ma,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself, but it’s too late. She arches a brow and gives me a look that says I can’t fool her. She knows I’m lying. God help me, but we never had this conversation back then. I pray I haven’t upset anything on the timeline.

  ‘Nothing more to be said except go upstairs and wash your face. Pop will be home soon and I’ve got a kettle of stew on the stove. Now get on with you.’ She grins and I want to die for deceiving her. I feel like I’ve committed a horrible sin I can never wash clean. Ma has that effect on everyone. That God put us here on earth to help each other and it’s her duty to see you do.

  I have no choice but to climb the familiar stairs to my room. I slide my fingers over the smooth bannister, noting the crack on the third step that never got fixed, the pictures on the wall of us when we were kids playing in the snow or picking berries. Happy days. Carefree.

  I catch my breath as pangs of guilt stab me in my chest. I can’t let go of the feeling that Ma caught me with my hand in her cookie jar. I don’t feel like the confident career girl I was earlier when I got off that train. I have to adjust to being home again, a task I didn’t see coming. Especially when my emotions pull me apart. I’m torn between being with the man I love and not disappointing my mother. I can’t believe that thought didn’t cross my mind back then. That I’ll be hurting Ma by running away with Jeff. True, I was in love, but I was so wrapped up in my girlish desires, I didn’t see her needs, only mine.

  I half expect the stairs to shake before I get to the top step. They don’t. That doesn’t mean I haven’t toyed with the past. Shaken a tile loose. I don’t remember Ma catching on to the reason for my sullen mood swings after Jeff went missing and was later classified Killed In Action. She thought I was upset like the rest of the workers because we all adored him. She didn’t know I was in love with him.

  She does now. Even if I said I wasn’t. That changes everything. She might let it slip out without meaning to when she chats with the cook at Wrightwood House or God help me, Jeff. What if his mother hears about it and forbids him to see me? Not that he’ll listen to her, but it makes it harder for us to sneak out together. She might make it so difficult I’ll never see him alone, never have the chance to warn him, make him believe I came back here to save him.

  I bend over suddenly, holding my stomach. A bout of nausea hits me. I don’t feel so good. I need to lie down and process what’s happening to me. Make a plan. As I lie on my bed, thinking, my fingers digging into the familiar soft pink chenille spread, a kind of deep determination takes over. I managed to get this far without giving myself away, changing little things here and there. Small ripples that won’t harm anybody. So why can’t I save Jeff, too?

  Fueled by this thought, I allow myself to succumb to a meditative state, like a fairy-tale princess with a spell cast over her. I don’t fight it. I’m so tired. Part of me wants to jump up and explore my old room, go through my drawers, and yes, finally look into the mirror. That will come later. For now, I want to sleep.

  I close my eyes and I hear Jeff’s voice whispering in my ear, his arms holding me. We’re standing by the big cherry tree, him nuzzling his face in my hair. My blood rushing through my veins, heart pounding, and I’m thrust into a joyful past with the man I love, the sight of his broad shoulders and blac
k hair hanging in his eyes, their shiny sparkle catching the sun overhead.

  Another thought hits me. How am I going to deal with touching him again? Running my fingers over his broad chest? Kissing his sensuous lips? How can I control myself after so many nights lying drenched with sweat, wrapped up in silk sheets and old memories?

  My emotions jump from anticipation to a more subtle awakening of every nerve in me. I fall into a peaceful sleep, my hands clasped over my heart. My body still warm with need. For him.

  Unfortunately, my respite lasts only a few minutes. Lucy is on the warpath.

  12

  ‘My whole life is ruined, Kate, and it’s your fault.’

  Lucy bursts into my room and throws herself across my bed sobbing. I don’t remember this happening back then.

  ‘What have I done?’ It must be around six thirty. Time goes by faster since I got here.

  ‘Just the worst thing you could ever do to me.’

  ‘It can’t be that bad, Lucy,’ I say, trying to comfort her. I don’t dare look her in the eye, fearful she’ll see the flush of desire lingering on my cheeks thinking about Jeff.

  ‘Oh, I wish you’d go away and never come back.’

  ‘Lucy.’ I don’t know why her words shock me, but they do. I’m hurt. A kick to my ego I’m not expecting. This isn’t the Lucy who begs me to come home for Christmas every year. What’s wrong? ‘Whatever I did, I’ll fix it. Stop crying like a baby and tell me what happened.’

  She sits up, huffing and puffing. Her holiday ribbon comes loose, so I pull back her hair and tie the ribbon into a fancy bow. She doesn’t stop me. ‘I’m in love with a soldier, Kate, and you ruined it.’

  ‘How?’ I’ve only been here a few hours, how can that be?

  She blinks at me as if I asked her a silly question. ‘You know what you did.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’

  I put my arm around her and let her talk, about how she met this dreamy-eyed boy from Ohio when he got off the train and he helped her distribute oranges to the soldiers. How they talked and talked. I smile. My heart melts at her girlish innocence, but also aches for her. I know what it’s like to fall fast for a boy. Didn’t I fall for Jeff when I was a kid? Somehow that seems different. I’ll never tell my little sister that.

  She promised to write to him, but before he gave her his address, I yanked her away and now she’ll never see him again.

  ‘How can you do that to me, Kate?’ she begs to know. ‘I told him I’d write to him every day. All he kept talking about was, “Who’s the pretty girl I saw you with? Tell her to write to me, too.”’

  ‘Lucy—’

  ‘My own sister! I’ll never forgive you.’

  ‘I’d never do anything to hurt you, Lucy. Why, I never even talked to him.’ I don’t want her to get hurt either. Then I have a terrible thought – did I mess up her future marriage with Jimmie? He’s from Ohio, but they meet at a roller rink in the city and get married in 1946. Still, I have to be more careful I don’t change anything without meaning to. ‘I’m sorry, honest. What’s his name?’

  ‘Stephen.’

  I breathe out, relieved. It isn’t him. Thank God.

  She sighs. ‘He looked so handsome in his uniform. Tall with the biggest shoulders I’ve ever seen. Wait until I tell that Gloria. She’ll be so jealous he asked me to write to him and not her.’

  She’s more impressed with his uniform than anything else. For now, I have to keep her focused on flirting with the soldiers and keeping up their spirits, nothing more. Like falling in love.

  ‘Think about what I said, okay?’ I detect a slight acquiescence on her part, a quick nod, then she mumbles under her breath before leaving, her attitude still defiant.

  I sit by myself next to the bay window, looking out at the plot of land we turned into a Victory Garden. It’ll be ready for planting again after the thaw. We used to help Ma put up cans and jars of pumpkin, squash, celery, and turnips in the root cellar. I loved sitting here on the fluffy navy and yellow plaid cushions. Gossamer white drapes enfolding me like angel wings. When I was growing up, this was my favorite place to play with my doll, pretending she was a princess held in a tower waiting for her prince. Funny, how she found him and then lost him. Do princesses get second chances? I hope so.

  I want to linger here, but Ma needs me to help her serve dinner. A one-pot stew simmering with onions, potatoes, corn, tomatoes, and lima beans. Dried parsley flakes dancing on top. She saved chicken stock for the base and added homemade noodles. Thick, sturdy noodles steamed to perfection in the soup, soaking up the golden broth and melting in your mouth. I’ll add her noodle recipe and lima bean soup to my cookbook notes when I get back to my own time. I curl my legs under me and rest my chin on my hands. That’s odd. That I assume I’m going back.

  I waltz into the kitchen, my nose leading the way. For now, I succumb to the overpowering smell of the stew driving me crazy. Rich and savory, I already tasted it twice.

  I lick the spoon. ‘Don’t add any more salt, Ma.’

  ‘Pop likes salt,’ she insists.

  I count to ten, praying she won’t ignore me when I say something about how she cooks. She’s a great cook, but heavy on the spices because that’s what Pop wants. ‘Please, it’s not good for him. You want him to stay healthy, don’t you?’

  She regards me with a strange glance, as if the idea of him not being healthy never occurs to her.

  My pulse races when I hear the front door open. Pop and Frank Junior. He waits for Pop at the bus stop most nights, the two of them enjoying time together without the females in the house. We called him Frankie later on. For now he’s Junior.

  A unique tenderness I have for the boy makes me stop and think. How can I look my brother in the eye knowing that he’ll come home from Korea with wounds that don’t show? That the battles fought in the subzero temperature, sleeping outside at night with his gun by his side, test a man’s mettle in the hard winter. That it does something to his mind, the horrendous trauma of losing buddies, trying to save others, and then spending a brief time in captivity. That he’ll spend years afterward going through the Veterans Affairs office to get benefits. That the doctors are still trying to figure out what to do with the men who saw action in Bataan and the Battle of the Bulge and have no time for him.

  Which brings up another predicament I never saw coming. I’m on thin ice here. If I try to help him, I could make things worse. Especially now that he has a girl and a job. Do I want to take a chance on messing that up? I decide to keep mum and pray to God it’s the right decision.

  Then there’s Pop. I settle in for what will be a difficult reunion.

  Where do I begin? He’s a tall man with shoulders little girls cry on when their doll’s arm falls off so he’ll fix it. He’s the strong, silent type and so honest – he once walked three miles when he was twelve to return two copper pennies back to the grocer who gave him too much change. We were never as close as I would have liked, seeing how he was reared in an era when fathers took charge of their sons and mothers fussed with their daughters. We’ve had more than one heated battle over everything from me dating to leaving home. Yet underneath that stubborn, opinionated talk, a poet’s soul burns. Ma confided to me Pop was quite the charmer with his sonnets when they were courting. Strange to think of my parents courting.

  Stranger yet when we sit down to dinner and the talk turns to the war and the man I love.

  Jeffrey Rushbrooke.

  ‘There’s talk down at the mill that with the steel, power, and electric company strikes going on,’ Pop says, tucking his napkin into his shirt, ‘we could be next.’

  My heart in my throat, I study the man who sat me on his knee when I was a little girl and read stories to me, who sneaked me peppermint sticks when Ma wasn’t looking, and who showed me growing up that a husband can be strong but also tender with a woman. I saw that with how he was with Ma. And I wanted the same for Jeff and me.

  Now I simply wanted to drink in
this amazing man.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ I chime in, sparking the dinner table conversation with my brash comment. Rushbrooke Mills had its problems, but the workforce was loyal and no strikes took place during the war. ‘Everybody I talk to on the floor is happy with their jobs.’

  There was curiosity in his gray eyes, a meandering that set the gears in his mind working. His little girl was talking shop with him? I admit, it was a fun moment, seeing my father in a different light. Made me realize I never really grew up in his eyes. Which explained his behavior later on, but for now I want to savor this time with him.

  ‘You mean them female workers.’ He grunts and Ma gives him a nudge in the shoulder to clam up. She loves her husband more than anything, but she’s a firm believer in a woman’s right to better herself and she lets him know it. Grumbling, Pop goes to work on his stew. In between bites, he lets go with a short speech about how the Allies are stepping up attacks on the German home front with the Brits bombing Berlin. ‘Where are our boys?’ he wants to know.

  ‘Give them time, Pop,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll be over the skies of Berlin soon.’ I sip my soup, ignoring his hard stare. I never discussed military strategy with him back then, but the first American bombing of Berlin won’t take place until March 1944.

  He seems skeptical of my statement and goes back to what’s really bothering him. ‘How can our workers think about striking when we need all the manpower to run our factories?’

  I note Ma’s in the kitchen out of earshot when he uses the word manpower.

  Clever going, Pop.

  ‘Maybe they got a good reason.’ Junior grabs two biscuits with one hand as Lucy sits down at the table. She doesn’t say a word. She’s too busy giving me the evil eye. I sigh. I don’t need another war on my hands.

  ‘We must defeat the enemy, son. Fueling our country and getting our boys up the air in those bombers comes first. That’s what Mr Jeffrey says and he ought to know since he’s taking over as plant manager.’