Christmastime 1942

by Linda Mahkovec

  Mason’s head snapped up and his face filled with worry. Perhaps the relationship had progressed further than he thought. He raised his palms, as if bracing against the onslaught of change. “Just – don’t do anything rash. Promise me that much, Edith. Everything is so – volatile right now.” He rubbed his brow. “No one is thinking clearly.”

  “Including you, dear brother.”

  For the first time, Edith noticed the gray starting in at his temples, and the weariness behind his eyes. Her heart went out to him. “Don’t worry so much, Robert,” she said in a kinder tone.

  “Promise me, Edith,” he asked again, looking up at her.

  “I can’t start making promises. But think about it. Have you ever known me to be rash? Ever?”

  “Headstrong,” he responded, unwilling to concede that she was right.

  She gave a light laugh in agreement. “That’s different.” Then she kneeled down beside him and placed her hand on the armrest. “Won’t you meet him, Robert? I’m sure you would like him.”

  Mason took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on the carpet, and remained silent.

  Edith stood, closing up once again. “Very well,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “I won’t ask you again.” She looped her lacy white scarf around her neck, raised her eyebrows at Susan, as if in comment on his stubbornness, and left the house.

  Mason glanced over at his wife, expecting a mild reprimand.

  But Susan merely eyed him over her knitting. “Perhaps you should join the girls,” she remarked playfully. “At least that way you would know where they are. Two of them, anyway.”

  “No, thank you,” he said, reaching for the newspaper. There was no way he could enjoy his book now. “I’m surprised they haven’t tried to corral you.” He gave the newspaper a firm shake.

  “Oh, they have. There’s a can-can number they think I would be right for.”

  Aghast, Mason lowered the paper with his mouth open. Then catching the merriment in his wife’s eyes, he quickly raised the newspaper to hide the foolish smile that crept about his mouth. He had actually believed her.

  They sat quietly for a few moments, Mason apparently engrossed in his newspaper, Susan closely observing him now and then. She smiled as her little girl sang a lullaby and rocked her doll to sleep.

  She knew exactly what was bothering her husband. Better to address it than to dance all around it. “They won’t take you, anyway, Robert,” she said softly.

  Mason turned to the opposite page, folded it back, and punched the newspaper into place. “I told you. No stages for me.”

  “I’m not talking about the Fractured Follies, as you well know.” She knitted another row, and watched him lower the paper with an air of defeat, all the little lines of worry around his eyes deepening.

  She set her knitting down, and her eyes filled with tenderness. “You might get around the fact of your age and your family status. But that wheezy chest of yours would never pass inspection. You might as well accept it.”

  Mason frowned at the memory of this time last year, when he had tried to enlist – and was summarily rejected. Unfit. A fresh wave of shame washed over him. He set the newspaper aside. “It just feels wrong. I’m as fit as any man.” He stood and began pacing again. “All these young boys going off to fight. And some older ones, as well. Many of them fought in the Great War, and here they are fighting again. Risking their lives for a second time. Look at Mr. Drooms.”

  “You can’t compare yourself to him. For one thing, he was single when he enlisted. And his experience in the North Atlantic is invaluable. You said so yourself.” She could see that her words had little effect. “And he couldn’t do it without you here to run the business. You know that.”

  Mason scooped up his little girl from Susan’s lap, and lifted her up to the ceiling, enjoying her cries of delight.

  He set her down and she raised her arms. “Again! Again!”

  Mason picked her up and walked around the room with her, lifting her high now and then, and smiling at her giggles. “I know I’m one of the lucky ones. Not to have to leave my children. Or you.” He stood next to Susan, and bent down to kiss her forehead. “But it’s not right.”

  *

  Edith linked her arm with Desmond’s as they walked through the forest-like Ramble in Central Park, the dirt path lightly covered with snow. Every now and then Desmond helped her to step over a fallen branch, or held back a bramble to allow her to pass.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, taking Edith’s arm as they climbed a few wide steps hewn from rock. “This isn’t too much for you?”

  Edith gave a small smile at his concern. “I told you, I’m strong!”

  After a few more steps, she realized that her slenderness, not to mention her limp, was at odds with her words. “Well, stronger than I look, anyway.” She squeezed his arm, appreciative of his considerate nature.

  She had been following him, letting him lead the way through the woods, when suddenly, through the bare trees, she caught a glimpse of the pale gray tower, and recognized where they were headed.

  “The Castle!” she cried, quickening her step as the stone structure rose up before them. “One of our first days together.”

  Desmond smiled at her enthusiasm, gratified that she held the memory as fondly as he did.

  She climbed up the steps and let her eyes travel around the area, remembering the various scenes from Shakespeare that Desmond and his friends had performed. “Did you ever see the photographs and film clips?”

  “Artie showed me just the other day. Hit and miss. But every image of you was absolutely breathtaking.”

  Edith gave him a doubtful look, but relished the memory. “I thought it great fun being part of your theatricals. Though I was glad when the sword fight was over.”

  “I was, too. I’m getting too old to be running up and down stairs, brandishing a sword.”

  “I couldn’t bear to see you lying there, on the cold stone.” She rested her eyes on the top of the steps where he had enacted the scene, and again her face took on a worried expression as she remembered his all too believable death.

  “That anguish on your face is what prompted Artie to start clicking away at you. You were so shy. I don’t know how he ever got you to agree to pose.”

  “I was pretending to be someone else, and so it was easy. You of all people should know that.”

  He took her arm and they climbed down the steps on the side of the courtyard, and then strolled over to the sloped Shakespeare Garden.

  Edith smiled as they entered the garden, delighted at the snowy transformation. A stillness and hush had settled over it, with only a few small birds darting about the bare branches. The withered stalks of flowers and arched brambles were outlined in white; a few bright red berries clung to some of the bushes. She leaned her head back and breathed deeply, as if enjoying some subtle snow scent. “A winter garden,” she said.

  She glanced at the snow-covered bench, and, for a moment, Desmond worried that she was going to sit down on it. She often did the unexpected, and he was relieved that she apparently decided against it.

  Instead she crossed over to the sundial and searched for a shadow, then raised her eyes to the gray and white dappled sky. A few small snowflakes softly landed on her hair, her shoulders.

  Desmond observed the curve of her neck, her eyes cast heavenward. Something about her pierced his heart every time he gazed on her. He hoped she wouldn’t shift her position – he wanted to drink in her beauty, impress it on his mind. He started to reach into his satchel, but she turned her head to scan the horizon.

  Though her every move captivated him, she never stayed in one position for long. She was constantly gazing about, her mind engaged with her surroundings, her eyes registering delight, puzzlement, wonder – unless he happened to catch her when some impression resonated deep inside, and for a moment she would be utterly still, as she briefly left this world for another.

  She returned her eyes to t
he sundial. “No shadow,” she said, lifting her face to him. “Time has stopped for us.”

  He took her hands and held them to his chest. “Sometimes I think I might give it all up, the stage and all – and teach or something. Buy a little house for us somewhere. What would you say to that?”

  Edith studied him, as she imagined the scenario he described. “I think you would miss it. The excitement of opening night, the lively cast parties, the intensity with which you study your lines.”

  They began to retrace their steps. “No,” he said. “I think the only thing I would really miss is the becoming someone else. As you say.” He stopped and faced her, placing his hands on her shoulders, allowing the castle to form a backdrop behind her. He beheld her face, so open, proud, and sensuous all at the same time. “A kiss,” he said, bending down to her. “A kiss. My kingdom for a kiss.”

  She pressed her lips against his, and then laughed. “You see? You could never live without it. And you shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, linking his arm with hers and continuing up the path. “Sometimes I think I would enjoy teaching Shakespeare to a bunch of young students. Open up the world of the bard to them, with all of its riches.”

  Edith wondered what he was getting at. “So why are we here, back at the Castle? You haven’t told me why you brought me out in this cold, snowy weather.”

  “Because,” said Desmond, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a camera, “I want to photograph you. I want my own pictures of you.”

  “All right. But I get to take some of you, as well.”

  For the next half hour they took turns posing, with Desmond reciting lines from various plays, and coaching Edith to take on expressions of Juliet, Titania, Ophelia – Edith surprising him once again with her ability to step into other worlds and effortlessly inhabit them.

  They only stopped when the lighting grew dim.

  Desmond returned his camera to his satchel and took Edith’s arm. “And now – hie home! Where I shall prepare a feast for you, fit for the gods.”

  “Truly?” asked Edith, delighted by the prospect.

  “Well, dinner, anyway,” Desmond laughed.

  “What are you going to make?”

  “Pasta al pomodoro,” he said, in an exaggerated Italian accent. “And antipasto, a loaf of fresh bread, and Chianti. We’ll pick up something on our way home for dessert. And then we’ll build a fire, and have dinner by candlelight.”

  *

  Four hours later, Edith and Desmond sat in front of the dying fire. Desmond wrapped an old quilt, silky soft with many washings, around Edith’s shoulders. He then poured out the last of the wine into their goblets.

  Edith lifted her glass up to the fire, turning it to catch the glints of ruby in the etched vines.

  Desmond watched her for a moment, then stood and reached for his satchel. He pulled out the camera and snapped a photo of Edith’s up-turned face in the soft lighting.

  “Tell me, Desmond. Why all these photographs? Why now?”

  It was a moment before he answered. “Because I want to take your image with me, wherever I go.” He waited to see if Edith would ask the next question, but she merely waited for the words that would explain.

  “You know I’ve signed up with the USO. Well, an actor from one of the camp show tours has fallen ill. And they need a Prospero, a sometimes stage manager, and – someone who could be gone for several months at a time.”

  Edith returned her gaze to the fire, seeing figures in the flames, reachings in the shadowy coals. She set her glass down, and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders.

  “I have to give them my answer by Monday.” He sat down next to her and tried to interpret her expression. “I’m past the draft age. But I have to do what I can. It’s little enough, with so many men dying, so many wounded. But if I can help to boost morale, give a laugh, offer some hope, then I must do it. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course, I do.” Edith sat quietly, taking it all in. Then she impulsively took his hands and kissed them, and held them to her breast. “In all my thoughts of you, I never imagined that you would leave. When do you – ”

  “After Christmas. They have a temporary replacement through the holidays. Then I set sail the first of January.”

  “I see. Well then, you must. And I will be here when you return. Waiting for you.” Again she kissed his hands.

  “Edith, there’s something else.” He stood and reached up to the mantelpiece, and clasped something. Then he sat next to her and opened her hand, placing a ring in her palm. “I want us to be married. Before I go, I want us to be married.”

  Edith looked into his eyes, and then away. She held up the ring to the fire. A dark star-shaped stone, encircled with seed pearls. “It’s beautiful.”

  “A garnet. It reminded me of you. It’s from the 1880s or so.”

  He watched the soft flickering shadows on her face, her hair, her hands.

  “Edith?”

  She took a deep breath, and placed her hand on his arm. “Desmond, I want to marry you. But I think we should wait.” His look of disappointment prompted her to explain. “In my heart, I am already your wife.”

  “Then why not make it official?”

  “It wouldn’t change anything that we already are. If you feel the same when you return, I’ll marry you.”

  A shadow of sadness came over his eyes. “You doubt me, don’t you? You think I might change?”

  “No. I don’t doubt you.” Though in truth, she did. She didn’t doubt that Desmond loved her. But that he could love her forever, she couldn’t quite imagine. She had long ago given up the dream of being a happily married woman, and it proved a difficult dream to resurrect. Surely he would change his mind. Especially if he was going to be gone for months. Some beautiful actress would make him forget her.

  “Is it because of your brother?”

  Edith gratefully latched onto that excuse; it was much easier to blame her brother than her own insecurities. “I would like to give him time to get used to the idea. Poor Robert. He’s been responsible for all of us for so long. Suddenly, it seems that we no longer need him.” She gave a light laugh. “It’s not easy being an older brother to us. At one time or another, we’ve all been a handful. We’re a willful bunch. We get it from our mother.” She remembered Robert rubbing his face, the weariness in his eyes. “He’s had so much on his shoulders. I think it’s quite aged him.”

  Desmond held her tight. “I was so sure you would say yes. But I want whatever is best for you. I will wait as long as you want.”

  “Let’s wait until you return. See what the world has in store for us then.”

  “I can live with that,” he said. “As long as you are truly my wife. Will you wear it, in the meantime? So that when I imagine you from wherever I’ll be, I’ll see the ring and know that you are mine?”

  She slipped on the delicate garnet, and lifted her face to him. “I’ll never take it off. It will become a part of me. Forever.” Of that, she was sure. It would always be there to remind her of this moment. When the man she loved desired her as his wife. When the promise of the future surrounded her in sweetness.

  Desmond jumped up. “Don’t move. That’s the photo I want. Just like that.”

  Edith’s hair hung down in glossy waves about her shoulders, the quilt forming a kind of mantle.

  “You look just like a queen. I could imagine that is ermine around your shoulders. It should be ermine.” He took a few clicks. “Or a fairy princess. Yes. This is the image I want to take with me.”

  He wanted to capture that immediacy in her eyes, her gaze that both pierced and had a dreamy softness about it.

  “My husband,” was her only reply.

  Chapter 8

  *

  “Where do all these people come from?” Lillian asked her neighbor, Mrs. Wilson, as they entered Mancetti’s crowded grocery store.

  “I think our neighborhood has doubled in size,” said Mrs
. Wilson. “And, of course, the ration coupons and lines slow everything down.”

  They heard snippets of conversations, all concerning the war. Mr. Mancetti was waving around a newspaper, denouncing Il Duce as a pompous fool, more concerned with his appearance than with the welfare of his people.

  Others were discussing the recent North African invasion, with differing views. “With us in North Africa now,” said one man, “it’s just a matter of time before we lick ’em.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” countered an older man. “We’re not prepared. Our artillery is old and inadequate. I hear the boys over there refer to our tanks as Ronsons – one piece of shrapnel and they blaze up like a cigarette lighter. They’re no match for Hitler’s panzers.”

  Others added their opinions, the conversation vacillating between bravado and doubt, confidence and cautious skepticism.

  Tommy and Gabriel stopped in front of the comic book stand while Lillian and Mrs. Wilson went to the deli counter in the back. Lillian noticed yet another new young man behind the meat and cheese case. It seemed that just as she got used to one, he was called off to serve, and another filled the position. They were getting younger and younger.

  Tommy suddenly felt Gabriel’s elbow in his side and was about to yell at him, when Gabriel whispered, “Be bold!”

  Tommy snapped to attention; there was Amy entering the store.

  “Don’t forget, you have to report back to Gino,” Gabriel said.

  Tommy stood immobile, eyes fixed on the Superman comic book in front of him. He swallowed, trying to think of the various stages of Gino’s plan, but forgetting which point he was at – had he progressed to Point Two? And what was it? A present?

  “Hi, Gabriel,” said Amy. “Hi, Tommy.” She gave a gasp of delight and reached for a Captain Marvel comic book. “Oh, my gosh! You have to get this one, Tommy. It’s so good. Billy Batson finds out that he has a sister! His long-lost twin Mary. And just like Billy, when she says ‘Shazam!’ she becomes amazingly strong and powerful and can do anything!” She handed the comic to Tommy to look at, and twisted her shoulders side to side. “But her powers come from the goddesses. Cause she’s a girl.”