Christmastime 1942

by Linda Mahkovec

  Edith shook her head, embarrassed by her earlier thoughts. “That beautiful actress. She would turn any head. I thought – ”

  “Oh, Edith. I was afraid you might have thought something like that. I keep forgetting that you don’t always know – that you haven’t been around the theater and artists and – ”

  “But I can imagine, Desmond. I can imagine that romances blossom and die with the productions. How could they not? I don’t even care. As long as I have your heart.”

  Desmond smoothed her hair. “I would never be disloyal to you. It’s not my way. My Edith,” he said, kissing her again.

  “But you were so happy to see her. And she is beautiful.” Edith let out a sigh and shrugged. “And she dances without a limp.”

  “Oh, Edith. Your limp is a part of you and I love it. It’s part of your mystery and otherness that I so love. Yes, I was delighted to see her. We all were. We all played in a show two years ago. It was a wonderful cast. A wonderful run. One of the best I ever had.”

  Edith couldn’t help regretting that there was so much of his history that she didn’t know. She wanted nothing more than to start building her own memories with him. To be able to say – yes, I remember that show. It was wonderful.

  “Who is she?” asked Edith, wanting to fill in any gaps in her understanding of Desmond.

  “Valerie Robbins. A British actress.”

  “Were you – a couple, once?”

  “No, Edith,” Desmond laughed. “She’s – well, it’s not a secret that – ” He smiled at Edith’s beautifully naïve lifted face.

  “What?” she asked.

  “She’s not interested in men.”

  Edith opened her mouth, then sat up, peering into the dark room. “Truly?” she asked, trying to make sense of it. “But she’s so beautiful. She could have any man she wanted.”

  “And yet she’s been unlucky in love. She’s always recovering from some heartache. The last I heard it was a Russian countess.”

  Edith’s eyes grew wider.

  “Not that she talks about it. It’s understood – we accept it, don’t make much of it. In the theater we’re used to things being not what they seem. The boundaries are more blurred. Nothing is black and white, or absolute.” Desmond gave a little smile. “You’re shocked. But I was raised in the theater. It’s all normal to me.”

  “No, Desmond. I’m not shocked. Well, perhaps a little,” she conceded, lying back down. “I had imagined a passionate relationship between you two, complete with details. No, I’m not shocked. To me it is refreshing. The openness, the blurred boundaries as you say. To me, it feels expansive, as if you step in and out of possibility, as if the magic of other worlds is woven into all your lives.”

  “Well, while we’re on stage, that’s true enough. But off stage – we’re just everyday people with failed loves, scrambling for rent, wondering what to fix for dinner – all rather prosaic, I’m afraid.”

  “No. It’s a wondrous world. You live many different lives, and are exposed to other ways of being. I’ve lived a rather sheltered life.”

  Desmond cupped her face in his hands. “To be absolutely honest, part of your allure, my dear Edith, is that you are not of that world. I know exactly what I have in you. Everything about you is right here – in your sweet face. No airs, no pretense – you’ve no idea what a comfort I find in that. I know I’m on solid ground with you – I need that. With the shifting grounds of my trade, you’re my North Star – steady and bright. I was adrift until I found you. The idea of not having you would be like cutting a boat loose without oars or sail.”

  He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. “And you are more exciting than anything I’ve encountered on the stage. You are through and through lovely and mysterious and exotic and other-worldly. You are the thing that we actors pretend at.”

  Edith threw back her head and laughed. “What a romantic you are. My Desmond.” She impulsively took his hand and kissed it, and placed it over her heart.

  “Let’s celebrate tonight!” said Desmond. “Let’s celebrate that we were both wrong, and that nothing has changed, and that we’re going to be very happy together for a long, long time.”

  Edith tossed back the covers, got out of bed, and began to undress. “Wonderful! I’m starving! But first, a hot bath.”

  Desmond sat up, surprised. “Now?”

  “I’ve been freezing all day. It’s the only way to warm up. Come. Let’s take a bath, and then go to that little French cafe down the street.”

  Desmond smiled to think that Edith was by far the more impulsive, dramatic, dreamy one. And that she had no notion of it made her all the more charming to him.

  Chapter 15

  *

  Lillian rode the elevator down to the Christmas party where the winners of the poster contest would be announced. She knew her submission would most likely languish in the file room; nevertheless, she felt good about it, and was happy that she had simply listened to and followed her heart.

  Along with several other employees, she entered the main office and had to stop to admire the transformation. A party atmosphere pervaded the large open room. The office vibrated with the buzz and excitement of the last day before the holidays, conversation and laughter filling the air. From the ceiling hung colorful streamers, and cheerful Christmas music played from a phonograph. Platters of Christmas cookies, a coffee urn, and a punch bowl lined the far credenza. Next to it, a raffle table was set up, with a crowd gathered around it, examining the various items, which included several War Bonds. In the back of the room, next to Rockwell’s office, the draped easels were being arranged by the head of the Art Department.

  Lillian knew that Izzy was behind most of the planning, including the spiked punch. Rockwell had told her to organize the holiday party, and Izzy had run with the idea, convincing him that a War Bond raffle would reflect well on him. Izzy moved about the room, giving last-minute directions for the raffle and the poster contest. Lillian noticed that she was wearing the red dress she had so admired in the window a few weeks past.

  Rockwell made his entrance, and the room quieted while he delivered a few stiff words of thanks and holiday good wishes, and the need to work even harder when they returned after Christmas.

  Then he moved to the platform with the covered easels and waited for the crowd to gather around him. With little ceremony, he unveiled the third prize poster, Izzy rolling her eyes at his utter lack of flair. Lillian knew that if Izzy had been in charge of the contest, she would have whipped off the veil in a dramatic reveal, amidst much cheering. Rockwell moved on to the second place and first place winners, handing out envelopes and shaking hands.

  Though the themes were predictable, Lillian had to admire the composition and execution of the fighter planes, and the sinking U-boat – though she thought the pairing of a wounded soldier next to Uncle Sam, best of buddies, was a bit of a stretch. She wondered why there was a fourth canvas.

  Rockwell moved to the fourth easel and pulled off the drape – revealing Lillian’s poster of the soldier and his girl gazing up at the stars.

  Her mouth dropped open to see her painting so exposed. Was he going to reprimand her in front of everyone? Say that it was too “sweet” and make an example of her for not following instructions? Several heads from the Art Department turned to her, and she felt the color rise to her cheeks.

  “The panel of judges, and myself, have decided to give an honorable mention to Mrs. Drooms. This theme,” he said, waving his hand over the painting as if it were somehow problematic, “well – it’s not what I asked for, but it works.”

  A round of applause went out to all the winners, and the level of conversation soon rose to its previous level, with most people either stopping off at the punch bowl to refill their cups, or moving over to the raffle table.

  Izzy walked over to Lillian, and gave a light shrug, indicating that she had no idea about the honorable mention. “Congratulations.”

  They moved
closer to the paintings where a few people lingered. Lillian turned a questioning eye to Mr. Rockwell.

  “Thank you, sir. I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

  He uttered a kind of grunt, suggesting that in part, she was right. “You’ll be getting the February cover – a special Valentine’s Day edition on the importance of – well, love in wartime and that sort of thing.”

  Izzy jerked her head back, and fixed him with an exaggerated stare of concern.

  Rockwell waved his unlit cigar at her. “Yes, yes, it’s sentimental, Miss Briggs, but trust me – it will sell.”

  Izzy was pulled away to tend to the raffle across the room, and Lillian began to follow her.

  “Mrs. Drooms,” Rockwell began, “a moment please.”

  Lillian recognized his scowl of annoyance. “Yes, sir?”

  “You got talent – but sometimes I wonder if you know it.” He gestured to the winning posters. “Look at these three paintings. Tell me what you see. What do the winners have that yours doesn’t?”

  Now for the lecture, thought Lillian. She studied the other drawings. “Well, the winners have themes of battle and destruction – and heroism, of course,” she was quick to add. “Mine – is on a smaller scale, between two people.”

  Rockwell lifted his eyes to the ceiling, impatient. “What else?”

  “Well, these are done with bold strokes, vibrant colors – reds, orange, black.” She glanced over at him to see if she was on the right track; she wasn’t. “And dynamic images of smoke and fire and – ”

  He waved his hand against her words. “All that is artist stuff. I’m a nuts and bolts kind of man. Meat and potatoes. Dollars and cents. You’re still missing one big point, and until you get it, you won’t be taken seriously as an artist.”

  Lillian looked in dismay, and swallowed. Again and again, she compared her painting to the others. “Well, mine has a female figure in it. Perhaps it is overall more feminine. Too feminine? Is that it?”

  Rockwell uttered a heavy sigh of exasperation. “I thought you artists were supposed to be observant.” He flicked his fingers on the winning posters, making a snapping sound as they hit the canvas, and read the artists names as he went. “Steinmeyer. Harrison. McKenzie.”

  Then he tapped Lillian’s drawing. “No name. Blank. What does that tell a panel of judges?” He raised his eyebrows while he waited for an answer, then scowled. “Sign your work!”

  Lillian’s mouth remained open. “Well, I thought perhaps it wasn’t that kind of competition. I thought – I mean I didn’t think – ”

  Rockwell cut her off. “Like I said earlier, Mrs. Drooms, it’s a good thing I’m not paying you to think!” He stuck the stub of his cigar into his mouth, and left for the other side of the room.

  *

  Lillian laughed as she recounted the incident to Charles the next morning, as they lingered in bed. She lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. “I didn’t know whether I wanted to give him a kick or a hug.”

  Charles laughed along with her, and then kissed her shoulder. “The main thing is that your work was recognized – as it should be. I knew you would come up with something meaningful.”

  “I’m afraid you had more belief in me than I did.” She suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. “Did you already make the coffee?”

  “No – I thought you had.”

  Their brows creased in perplexity, and they quickly got up and dressed. They went to the kitchen and were startled to see Tommy flipping a pancake, and Gabriel setting the table.

  “We’re making breakfast!” Gabriel announced.

  Tommy looked up from the stove, and exchanged a grin with Charles.

  “It smells wonderful,” said Charles. “What are you making?”

  “Pancakes, toast, and coffee. And hot chocolate with marshmallows,” Gabriel said, pointing to the table, which was crowded with jars of jam, jelly, honey, and maple syrup.

  Lillian saw that strands of tinsel and a few ornaments had been borrowed from the tree and now decorated the table. “What a wonderful surprise!” she cried, giving both boys a big embrace.

  Over breakfast, Tommy and Gabriel talked about what had happened at school the day before, and how Skippy Petrie’s team had won the salvage drive contest.

  “His dad owns a grocery store,” said Tommy, “so he gets a lot of cans and papers and stuff. But I don’t care. We came in second.”

  “And we had more fun the way we collected,” said Gabriel.

  “We sure did,” laughed Tommy, remembering their antics.

  The bitter coffee and lumpy pancakes didn’t prevent the breakfast from being one of the most delicious Lillian had ever tasted.

  *

  Later that evening, Tommy and Gabriel, with the help of Amy, finished decorating the last of the cookies, while Lillian filled several thermoses with hot chocolate and coffee. Then they all bundled up to join Charles, who was already up on the roof setting up the telescope and talking with the spotters.

  Lillian was buttoning up her coat when she suddenly stopped, went to her bedroom, and came back out – with the brooch from Gino glittering on her collar.

  “The star pin!” cried Gabriel.

  Tommy stood before her, his eyes taking in the brooch. Then he looked up at her, and a smile of understanding passed between them. Lillian gave him a quick hug, and then they gathered up the thermoses, and followed Gabriel and Amy up to the roof.

  “Come on, Amy!” cried Gabriel, running up the last flight of stairs. “We’ll show you Gino’s star!”

  The rooftop was rarely so full. The regular spotters were up there, along with Billy and Mickey, Mrs. Kuntzman, Mrs. Wilson and her husband, and a few other neighbors. Lillian offered cocoa and coffee to everyone, while Amy and Gabriel passed around the tins of fresh-baked Christmas cookies, star-shaped.

  Tommy walked away from the crowd, and over to a quiet corner on the roof. He gazed up at the starry sky, and found Orion’s Belt.

  “Thanks, Gino,” he said softly. “I’ll always remember you.”

  Then he looked over at the man who had helped him time and again, never giving up on him. The man who believed in him, who had become his teacher, father, and friend. And who made their lives so happily complete.

  Tommy walked over and stood next to Charles, and smiled up at him.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Charles wrapped his arm around Tommy, and steadied the telescope as he fixed it on the stars.

  About the Author

  Linda Mahkovec writes about the search for beauty and meaning, and the awe and delight on finding it. Most of her stories are set in the places she has lived and loved: small town Illinois, the San Francisco Bay Area, Seattle, and New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian Literature.

  If you would like to learn more about Linda visit her at her website. You can reach her on Facebook or Twitter