Christmastime 1942

by Linda Mahkovec

“Mason doesn’t seem to think so. He’s concerned about her.”

  “But why? Has he met the man?”

  “He has no intention of doing that. He obviously doesn’t expect it to last. An actor, and all,” he said, merely repeating Mason’s words.

  Lillian pulled her chin in and fixed her eye on Charles. “For heaven’s sake, Charles. That sounds quite patronizing. What does it matter what profession he has?”

  Charles hadn’t really given it any thought, and Lillian’s choice of words took him aback. “I don’t know. It’s none of my business, after all.”

  “Surely Mason has more faith in his sister than that. She’s not the type of woman to act foolishly, I should think.”

  “I don’t know all the particulars. I only found out about it today.”

  Lillian got up to stir the embers, and then returned to the couch, keeping her eyes fixed on the low flickering flames. “I can see an actor, or an artist of some sort, being interested in Edith. Can’t you? You have to admit that she’s beautiful. She has an old-fashioned quality about her that sets her apart from other women.”

  “I suppose so,” said Charles. “On the other hand, there’s a guardedness, an aloofness, that I think might put men off. Men like warmth and liveliness in a woman, especially in times like these.” He took her hand, trying to get back the closeness of just a minute ago.

  “Perhaps,” said Lillian, gazing into the fire. “But I think some men would find her ravishing. There’s an ethereal quality, mixed with sensuality, that someone of an artistic nature would be drawn to.” She picked up her glass and took a sip. “It’s a shame Mr. Mason isn’t more accepting of them.”

  “Well, I think he’s preoccupied these days. He has his hands full with a household of women – four sisters, and his own wife and children. And his mother. He makes her sound like the spirited ringleader – encouraging them all to spread their wings. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been one of the younger ones taking up with an actor. You’ve met them. They’re quite a lively bunch.”

  Lillian smiled at the thought of the three younger sisters, all vivacious and engaging.

  “But Edith,” continued Charles. “She has the same reserve as Mason – you never really know what’s going on inside of them.”

  “Sounds like someone else I know,” Lillian said, kissing his cheek.

  Charles drew her to him. “Enough about everyone else,” he said, waving his hand against the intruders. “I want to hear about you. How’s life at the publishing house?”

  “Oh, fine. Mr. Rockwell drives us all pretty hard. There’s such a demand for posters, magazine covers, illustrations. I’m learning so much. My only complaint is that Mr. Rockwell has me drawing the same dame, as he refers to her, over and over again – except that her dress keeps getting shorter. War Production Board restrictions, he keeps reminding us.” She raised and dropped her eyebrows in doubt of Rockwell’s motivation. “Anything to increase sales.”

  Charles gave a quiet laugh at Lillian’s ongoing criticism of her boss.

  “He’s sponsoring a war poster contest and I have to come up with something soon. There’s going to be a panel of judges – three outside artists. And Rockwell, of course. ‘Give me something with meat on it!’ he said. ‘Make ’em feel! That’s what sells!’”

  “Aren’t you pleased at the opportunity?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m having a hard time with it, for some reason. The Art Department teases me that my work is too soft. Too sweet. They say that Rockwell wants harrowing explosions, heroic deaths, high drama.” Lillian took a sip and shrugged.

  “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

  Lillian knew his response was supposed to be comforting, but it somehow sounded trivializing. “I suppose so,” she said, not wanting to discuss it any further.

  “And there’s nothing wrong with being soft and sweet,” he added.

  Lillian started to defend herself against the words she always interpreted as meaning ineffectual and insipid. But she decided to keep quiet.

  Charles noticed Lillian’s lips pressed together, the sudden tenseness about her, and thought that perhaps she felt overwhelmed by her job. He knew that Rockwell could be a difficult taskmaster. He hesitated a moment before bringing up the subject that always ended in a stalemate.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to draw what you want, when you want?” He waited for Lillian’s response, but she just stared into her glass.

  “Have you thought more about it?” he asked.

  “You mean give up my job,” she said, aware of the sharpness that had entered her tone. “Charles, you know how hard it was for me to get this position. I’m finally earning money as an artist and I’m not about to give it up. At least for the time being, I want to work.”

  “I’m not saying to give up being an artist. But you would have more time as an artist if you didn’t have to work.”

  “And I explained that the time is just not right. I want to keep working. I need to stay engaged with an operating art department in order to keep growing. I’ve explained this again and again. I don’t know why you’re always so against it. It’s as if you don’t really take me seriously as an artist.”

  Charles opened his mouth. That was not his sentiment at all and he found himself on the defensive again. “Of course I do! And I’m not against it. That’s not it at all. But – it would be nice to know that you were safe at home.”

  He gave a weary sigh, and wondered if he sounded patronizing again. “That’s all I’m saying.” He suddenly became aware of how physically tired he was.

  She leaned away from him and set her glass on the coffee table. She knew she had overreacted, but this was something she felt strongly about.

  Charles tried to shift the conversation to the boys, to the rationing books. Lillian mentioned something about the weather, and the Christmas cards that had arrived. But something had come between them and stubbornly remained there.

  They sat quietly for another ten minutes, watching the fire slowly sputter out.

  Then Charles stood and held his hand out to Lillian. “Let’s go to bed. I think we’re both tired.”

  Chapter 4

  *

  Edith sat at the edge of her bed, rubbing rose-fragranced lotion into her hands and arms. It was well past midnight. It must be close to 2:00, she thought. She had come home and taken a hot bath, grateful that the bathroom was at the end of the hall. She didn’t want to disturb anyone; she knew that sometimes Susan had a hard time getting the baby to sleep.

  A pool of golden lamplight illuminated her velvet robe, one of her treasures from the antique store near Desmond’s place in the Village. They had come upon the shop one afternoon and she had immediately fallen in love with the place. The proprietor had appreciated the way the Victorian blouses fit Edith so flatteringly, and he encouraged her to try on several. Edith had purchased one of the lacy high-necked blouses, along with a gray striped Edwardian skirt. When Desmond spotted the garnet-colored robe, rich with gold and black embroidery twining up the sleeves and blooming into foliage around the shoulders, he had insisted on buying it for her. He said it conjured up images of desert caravans and moonlit oases, of someplace ancient and faraway. For some unfathomable reason, Desmond considered her exotic. Edith gave a small laugh at his romantic notion.

  From under her pillow, she took out a small notebook and opened it on her lap. She had taken up her old habit of filling pages with images and words, something she hadn’t done for years. Phrases or a few sketchy lines to express some glimpse of a thought or feeling or mood. Sometimes a poem would take shape; sometimes patches or smudges of color would dominate the page, with a few single words interspersed. Always fragmentary, collage-like. Her old, dreaming self, that found such meaning in everything, had reawakened. Lately, she found herself once again stepping over the threshold into that other world, and tentatively exploring, gathering small beauties to take back with her to the day-to-day
world.

  She opened the drawer to her nightstand and reached for her tin of oil pastels. She lifted the lid, and ran her fingers over the colors, choosing deep Prussian blue and cobalt, gold, silver, and umber. Then she began to draw, her fingers trying to capture the image in her mind. A sketch emerged of two large pillows, a rumpled comforter, a soft bed under a large window. The night world outside dotted with stars. Colors of midnight, she wrote beneath it. She studied the bed, and added a few more lines, and then sprinkled a dusting of stars onto the pillows and blanket. Satisfied, she tucked the notebook back under her pillow and turned off the lamp.

  The early sketches in the notebook were shadowy, vague. But over the past several months, the images had gradually become clearer, beginning with the drawings of a castle against a darkening sky, stone steps, a man’s gauntleted hand reaching out to a cloaked figure. Drawings from one of her early days spent with Desmond. A friend of his worked at the Astoria Signal Corps learning the art of film-making, producing war-related instructional and informational films for the government. One day, he had asked Desmond and a few other friends to enact some scenes from Shakespeare while he filmed and took photographs.

  They had congregated at the Belvedere Castle in Central Park on a chill and cloudy spring evening. The film-maker wanted the stairs, and height, the distant vistas, the castle suggestive of another time.

  Edith had been intensely curious about everything, and loved watching Desmond in different roles. His sword fight, his lines delivered at the edge of the wall, his tragic death on the stairs that was all too believable. As soon as the camera moved away, she had run and knelt down beside him, placing a hand on his cheek. He had laughed and pulled her to him.

  The director, captivated by Edith’s beauty and spontaneity, had tossed her a cape, and began to give her directions. Though usually shy, Edith had playfully donned the cape, easily slipping into the world of make-believe. The director had her furtively climb the steps and then glance over her shoulder, the camera capturing the haunting quality of her face, her striking profile and deep-set eyes.

  That was long months ago. So much had changed since those early, tentative days.

  Tonight she had attended a cast party with Desmond. He had been worried that she wouldn’t like it, but he wanted her to meet the cast, and, moreover, he wanted them to meet her. She was a bit uneasy at first, but there was such a sense of camaraderie and sheer exuberance, that she soon got caught up in it all and immensely enjoyed the evening.

  Aside from their nights at the Stage Door Canteen, most of their time together was spent alone. So tonight she had enjoyed seeing different sides of him, like facets that caught different lights – at one moment his leaning forward all rapt with attention, then sudden bursts of laughter at some comment or story, then a far-off look; but always connected to her – his hand on her leg, giving a light squeeze or a caress, an attentive filling of her glass, an arm draped over her shoulder, or just a gaze into her eyes that momentarily shut out everyone else. Afterwards, they had gone to his place – his cramped, charming, gypsy caravan-like rooms. And later, they had taken the train uptown – and then the slow walk to her home in the soft-falling snow. A magical night.

  She nestled into the comfort of the pillows and blankets, floating in the sweet sensation of well-being. The hot soak in the bathtub dissolved the achiness in her feet and legs, and banished the cold of the night.

  The rose-scented lotion was a gift from Desmond, and the scent of it now formed a soft cloud of memory around her. She felt the alluring pull of slumber, but fought it off – put up a gate against sleep.

  For she wanted to replay her time with Desmond, like a bedtime fairytale that she told herself every night. She would start at the beginning and see how far she could get in their story.

  It had all started in the spring, after weeks of indecision about whether she should volunteer at the recently opened Stage Door Canteen. She had finally allowed Mrs. Sullivan to convince her to sign up as a Junior Hostess. At first she had been terribly uncomfortable with all those vibrant young women and innumerable men. Thank God for Lillian Drooms and her friend Izzy. Lillian, knowing that she was hesitant about going to the Canteen, had invited them both to dinner one evening to introduce them. Izzy, a volunteer at the Stage Door since its opening, was wonderful – funny, irreverent, protective, adventurous. She knew everyone. It was Izzy who had first acquainted her with some of the actors who volunteered there. When Izzy introduced her to Desmond Burke, Edith felt that her legs were going to buckle. A tall, handsome man – with a quiet intensity that hinted at worlds of richness inside.

  He had beheld her with a peculiar expression, as if she were some strange bird who had just alighted in front of him. Did she strike him as odd? Perhaps she should have taken her sisters’ advice and worn one of their dresses. But she was uncomfortable in the shorter hems.

  She had felt herself blush, and quickly shifted her attention to the other actors Izzy was introducing.

  Then later that night, when she was finally feeling somewhat at ease, at least able to give yes and no responses to the soldiers’ questions, she had looked around for Desmond Burke and caught him staring at her. He gave a small smile that she suspected resulted from sympathy. He must have noticed my limp, she thought, prickling at the idea. If there was one thing she couldn’t tolerate, it was a look of pity. She had abruptly turned away from him – then, and every time she caught him looking at her.

  Izzy had dropped a few bits of information about all the actors there. She said that Desmond was unattached. That he had married long ago, but that his young wife had died in childbirth. That he was from a family of actors, on stage since he was young.

  In the following weeks, from an obscured position next to a pillar, or across the ever-crowded dance floor, Edith observed him. He was kind and generous to the soldiers, with the air of an older brother – indeed, he seemed a good twenty years older or more from most of the servicemen. And when, to her alarm, he happened to catch her watching him, his whole manner seemed to express a sudden happiness.

  What could he mean? Or was she simply seeing things? Afraid of the feeling that was stirring inside her, and not wanting to be the recipient of anyone’s pity, she gave up her shifts for two weeks, convincing herself that she was better off rolling bandages. But something drew her back to the Stage Door. She told herself that he was just a kind man, and had no interest in her. Of course he didn’t. And so she had returned.

  And when she did, he finally spoke to her. She found herself stationed next to him at the sandwich counter.

  “I was afraid you were not coming back,” he had simply said.

  And that had begun their friendship. He later told her that he had switched stations with someone in order to be next to her that night. And that he was somewhat afraid of her, which caused her to burst into laughter.

  At first she didn’t take it all seriously. She enjoyed his company, and loved watching him on stage, loved the seriousness he brought to everything – serious, yet warm and caring, with a deep laugh that melted her.

  But over the months, he had eased open her world, making her realize how closed she had been to life. It was Desmond who coaxed her to dance with the soldiers – she who hadn’t danced in years; Desmond who took her to the theater and out to clubs and parties; and Desmond who slowly opened her heart. In the quiet evenings in his apartment, they cooked meals together, and talked long into the night, hungry for details of each other’s life, curious to know the depth and breadth of each other’s mind, weaving their lives and souls closer and tighter.

  Lately he spoke about marriage. She had neither agreed nor disagreed – she was simply astounded that it was even a possibility for her. At first the idea existed only in the imaginative, dream part of her life, like the images in her notebooks, in that world of longing and beauty. But slowly she was coming to believe in the vision. She could imagine coming home to Desmond, cooking for him, going to his rehearsals after wo
rk, blending their lives together.

  He even surprised her by saying that perhaps it was not too late for them to start a family. Make a home together. His parents had both been actors and they had traveled widely, and the actor’s life was normal to him. Was that something she could see for herself? he had asked. And if not, then he would teach, or find some way to support them. But his deepest wish was to be married to her, to know that they would always be together.

  Desmond. He answered to the most yearning, deeply felt part of herself.

  Tomorrow afternoon she would see him again. He had planned a stroll through the park, and then dinner.

  Edith’s heart swelled in anticipation. She lifted her rose-scented wrist to her nose and inhaled, remembering the tender embrace of just a few hours ago. And with that image filling her mind, she gave in to the sweet blanketing of sleep.

  Chapter 5

  *

  Mr. Rockwell droned on in the staff meeting on Monday morning, Lillian only half hearing what he said. She glanced over at Izzy and caught her trying to stifle a big yawn as she took the minutes. Rockwell usually didn’t attend the Art Department meetings, but he wanted to apply some pressure in order to step up production time. She heard him reminding them about the poster contest and the themes he was looking for.

  Lillian sat at the far end of the table, tapping a pencil on her notebook, her mind on the weekend and what had gone wrong. The unexpected tension between Tommy and Charles. Between her and Charles. The coldness she had shown him on Saturday night after their disagreement about her job. Sometime during the night, she had placed her hand on his chest, with the intention to set everything aright on Sunday. She only vaguely remembered the phone ringing in the early hours. But when she awoke in the morning, it was to find Charles already dressed and preparing to leave. He had received a call from naval headquarters, requesting his immediate return. He kissed her goodbye, and quietly left, leaving an aching distance between them.