Tomorrow's Christmas
By Nadine Martin for an Advance Composition class in 1964 or 1965
Retyped by daughter Tina Martin—Originally typed on a typewriter.
Cora glanced over at the bland face of the alarm-clock ticking at one end of the large, oak bureau, and saw that it was almost time for her ten-year-old to be coming in for lunch. Then she bent again over the old sewing-machine, her gray hair hanging in meager, untidy wisps about the tense face. Her feet rocked the black-metal treadle, up-down, up-down, and her fingers fed the brown silk to the needle. A moment more and the needle had picked its way to the end of the seam. Cora let out a long-held breath and felt a tight muscle in her cheek relax. She closed her eyes and rubbed the lids with sandpapery knuckles.
The dress for Sharon’s Christmas was done at last. Cora opened her eyes and started at the dress. How dull it was, how lifeless, how unsuited to the dark, slight child she had made it for. “Ugly,” she said out loud in the silence of the cluttered, unattractive room. Her mouth was dry with disappointment. Oh, what had she expected from an old hand-me-down, anyhow? A made-over dress for Sharon, their pride, their delight! Her face felt hot and she pressed the back of her thin, freckled hand to her face and found the hand moist and cold. What were they going to do? Her thoughts became jumbled and frantic. What was to become of the three of them, now that the grocery had failed? Louie, worn out with worry…an old man at fifty. Could he even get a job?
Looking down at the muddy, brown silk, she remembered happier, prosperous, younger days. She thought of the gay gifts in the past. Sharon in a tiny frock of red velvet—soft folds of creamy lace tickling fat folds of the baby neck…Sharon at seven, wild with delight, a yellow bird on the sidewalk-bike. What could she do to brighten up this poor gift…this old-lady’s leaf-brown frock?
She stood up and moved to the bureau. Pulling out a deep drawer she found an old, brown-spotted candy box filled with rolls of old ribbons, hand-crotched lace…Yes! Here was what she was looking for. From her finger a long length of crimson ribbon unwound its lustrous coils. Then she noticed the bent, frayed edge of a photograph. She peered at the sepia tint and flipped on the light switch. The mild light from the ceiling shone on clear, dark, candid eyes, on a wide breadth of forehead with its wave of hair, richly dark and soft as a plume. The rather heavy lips met in a firm line, repeating the line of even brow. There was only a slight suggestion of a smile on the lips and the steadfastness in the gaze seemed underlined by the firmness of a square and tilted chin.
“Oh, Louie,” her whisper was tender. “What has happened to you..what is happening to us all?”
She tucked the picture back into the box, burying it under the hoardings of past luxuries. She closed the drawer and walked to the machine, the crimson ribbon curling in her hand. Placing it on the darkness of the dress, she admired its glow—soft, warm. I’ll make a sash, she thought. The screen-door slammed, and a quick smile warmed her sallow face.
“D’ya have to always slam the door?” she called out as she lay the dress with gentle hands in an empty drawer of the bureau. Funny, she thought, how that old ribbon had kept its young color. And she went to fix lunch for her darling, her pride, her child.
After lunch Cora walked the short block to her husband’s store. The wind was shrill and bold. It spun the wires on the telephone poles, then swooped to prickle her neck. She hunched her shoulder and pulled her head deeper into the scruffy fur-collar of her coat. Cora felt her heart become a hard lump of pain as she saw the crude sign in the window of the small, red-brick grocery: “Going out of Business: Fixtures Cheap.” Through the window she saw her husband bending over the gas heater, rubbing the palms of his hands together, slowly. The bell above the door jingled as she entered then tugged the door shut against the wind.
“Vegetable soup. Be careful, it sure is hot.” She had unscrewed the top from the thermos and handed it to him.
The steam curled up to mist her husband’s steel-rimmed glasses. He blew at the soup with little breaths and filled up the deep hollows under the high cheekbones.
“Sharon home?” he asked. She nodded, looking around the empty shell of the store. Two rows of dusty shelves held all that remained of the canned goods. How hard it was to see it as it had been I the good days. Why, she thought in amazement, it had taken the two of them and sometimes an extra boy just to keep up with the customers.
She reached up and tugged at the long cord handing from the white-globe fixture suspended from the ceiling. The light was dim and did not penetrate the gloom beyond the small area in which they stood.
“That was good, Cora. Hit the spot.”
While her husband went to the backroom to wash the thermos-top, Cora walked to the cash register and found what she was looking for—a shoe-box stuffed with cheap, gray charge books. She made her voice hard and cold.
“How long before you collect on these dead-beats, Louie?”
“I can’t collect from most of those accounts, now or anytime soon, Cora. You know that,” his voice reproached her quietly. “Some of those people haven’t worked in months.”
He bent over suddenly, his face gray and drawn. The ulcer was acting up again, she thought. But he had to be made to see, to understand. It wasn’t right for his own flesh and blood to have to do without so that he could help strangers…It wasn’t fair.
“Mr. Kashuba’s getting relief checks, now. Mrs. Cooper saw him cash one at the drug-store yesterday. Look” She pulled out two charge-books. “He owes you $111.75, Louie! Make him pay some of it, at least.”
“I can’t do it, Cora. All those kids. Why, tomorrow’s Christmas.”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” her voice was a savage mocking of his slow inflection. “Louie, tomorrow’s Christmas and all I have for Sharon is an ugly brown dress. It isn’t right!”
“All right, all right, Cora. I’ll go see if they can pay something.”
She watched him silently while he changed from store-apron to his overcoat and went out into the December wind. Alone in the store she put her head on the counter and tried to rest. But anxiety, irritation, and a terrible sadness seemed to churn together in her brain. Maybe they’d have to go on relief. That’d be something, wouldn’t it! On the government, like the Kashubas. She saw the six, pale kids, string-bean thin and with those dutchy haircuts and the old-timey braids. Can’t even speak good English. A hundred dollars! If Louie could collect even some of that she could get Sharon a little red sweater…get the radio fixed, maybe…
Then Louie was back and she knew—even before he shrugged his shoulders, apologized with his upturned palms.
“What could I do, Cora. Just the kids there. Looked scared to death.”
Disappointment made her tongue a sharp, cruel weapon.
“You’re a failure, Louie, that’s the trouble with you. You’re just a worn-out failure.” She pulled her coat on and started for the door.
“Cora,” he walked toward her, “Cora, I’m sorry.” His voice was low and unsteady.
“My God, Louie!” She thought she might scream if she didn’t get out of there. “What good is being sorry?”
….
It was quite dark by the time Cora reached the new shopping-center and the temperature had been dropping steadily. The afternoon’s wind was a gale now, but Cora’s fingers were warm as she counted her change in the shelter of a doorway. She told herself she was glad she had told Louie how she felt. Maybe it’d wake him up…make him see that a wife and child had some rights too…A dollar bill and sixty cents in change, she counted. I’ll get some ground-beef at the butcher-shop, she planned, and I’ll fix it up nice with some catsup and onion. It’d be nice to have turkey, but a good meat-loaf…some people even preferred meat-load, she told herself.
Inside the butcher-shop the air seemed close and still after the wind-swept freshness outdoors. She smelled the odor of cold, lifeless flesh, dried blood, damp sawdust. A red tissue-paper bell hung from crossed ropes of green crepe paper intertwined with tarnished tinsel. She had thought she was the last customer, but as she walked up to the counter she saw a puny figure—Mr. Kashuba. His hands were deep in the pockets of a jacket dark with age and dirty. Mouse-gray hair was plastered in thin strands over the high dome of his narrow head. His mouth was pursed. Cora thought in wonder—He’s whistling! One of the kids was standing beside him. A plaited braid of nearly-white hair hung limply down the back of her sweater. Cora saw sharp points of elbows breaking through the untidy darns of the navy pullover. Their eyes met, hers and the child’s and Cora saw her tug at her father’s arm until he turned away from the scrawny turkey being folded into the butcher-paper.
“Mrs. Kashuba,” she began. “Mr. Kashuba,” she started over. “You’ve owed Mr. Simpson on our bill too long now…really, too long.” Surely he understands English, she thought. I must make him see why it’s all wrong…not fair. “Mr. Kashuba, you must pay something on the bill.” Her anger was red and hot. “I’ll just thank you for the money, Mr. Kashuba.” She saw the butcher’s red, sausage-shaped fingers begin to tie up the turkey. “People on relief don’t eat turkey!” she raged.
The man stared at her from milky-blue, protruding eyes. Fish eyes, she thought wildly. He stepped back a little and hid his child from sight.
“Here,” he said, pushing the wrapped turkey towards her. “Take it, take it.” He fumbled in the outer pocket of the plaid jacket and drew out a bill. Throwing the money on the counter he took the child by her hand. “Come,” he said. The little girl followed her father to the door of the shop. At the doorway she paused for a moment and turned to look at Cora.
Staring back at the child and holding the turkey against her breast Cora pleaded. “It’s fair. Don’t you see? You owe it to us.” Then the door slammed and they were gone.
Cora walked to the door holding the turkey in her arms. She thought miserably, disconsolately—I don’t want just the turkey. I want them to know I’m right…tell me they know I’m right…
No comments:
Post a Comment