Marguerite (part four)
Preparations for the holiday began in earnest. Pumpkins and cabbage, apples and potatoes mysteriously rose from their hideaway in the dark cold cellar. Ground meat was already mingling with shreds of suet and spices for juicy mince pies. Buttery cookies were being baked as stars and wreaths or filled with purpley plum jam from the shelves beneath the house. Every day was filled with delicious smells from the kitchen soon to be complemented by the high pine scent of the Christmas tree in the front room and finally the smokey haze of the ham, at that moment still hanging from its hook in the austere attic. Charlie thought to search her mother's face now and then but found only holiday busyness and preoccupation. She mentally shrugged her shoulders; she no longer believed in Santa Claus but she wholeheartedly believed in Christmas! The magical day that was made for sparkle and fun! My Mom loved Christmas!
The girls were making decorations for the tree. They mixed the thick flour dough that could be shaped into stars and circles or rolled into beads and strung into hoops or fashioned into small balls, all of which could be painted whatever you liked when they had dried and hardened next day. Charlie much preferred to paint and to make patterns of tiny indentations that wound round and round in never ending spirals. At last the tree itself went up, secured in a bucket of rocks, having survived the inevitable arguments about whether or not it was straight and her father having stomped off to the barn once more.
Now Fredrick helped pop the corn and they strung it together, with a thick needle and thread, the two white ropes that would bind the tree into a whole, encompassing their tiny decorations. Suddenly two more ropes appeared...of shining silver! Little Grandma's Christmas box! They whirled around and discovered again its wonderful store. The small flower shapes and butterflies of iron, made by the blacksmith grandfather they had never known. Three white porcelain balls laced with fine lines of gold and magenta. A single ball of blown glass wind-swept with cerulean blue that you could see right through to its echo on the other side. Carefully wrapped in white tissue.
Finally the small isosceles triangles of glass to fit into the star. Little Grandma needed a chair to stand on as she reached for the top of the tree and bound it into place, clipping the small candle holder on behind. Everything was ready. Charlie and Cissa held their breath. Even Rachel stood at the doorway in anticipation. Grandpa poked his head in beside her and Fredrick handed up the lucifer. The candle lit and star light twinkled down over the colored and the shiny ornaments, magnifying and fracturing light with every movement.
"Oooh!" exclaimed Cissa in astonishment.
"Ummm," purred Charlie. Fredrick put his hands in his pockets and smiled. Dusk had fallen.
On Christmas morning, small white paper packages tied with ribbon appeared on the cotton sheet stretched beneath the tree. The girls were so excited, they'd got up long before dawn. Already the children had eaten the precious oranges from their stockings and could hardly wait for the grown-ups to assemble so they could begin handing out the presents. Charlie read the small tags. Beautifully crocheted handkerchiefs for the girls from Little Grandma. Tied with a pretty bow. A bookmark Cissa had made for Charlie and a hair clip for Cissa in return. A lace collar for Rachel, a book, some letter paper for the grown-ups. That was all. Fredrick was already playing with his new toy car. There was a hesitation, then Charlie's eyes lit up.
"I know! I know!" She jumped up and down clapping her hands with delight! "Somebody's trying to trick me!" She tilted her head to look playfully around the circle of faces and then dived straight under the low branches to the darkest, blackest corner at the back of the tree, scrambling on hands and knees to find the hidden package she knew would be there. Colored balls and tiny bangles sparkled and jiggled precariously. The grownups carefully avoided looking at one another. Finally the tree stood still.
"Rachel?" her father questioned his wife.
"Charles."
Small rustling noises rose and fell away as the little girl backed out slowly, limb by limb, suddenly almost too tired to take her feet. A titter from her Grandmother Cole faded when no one else joined in. As with every wound, at first she felt nothing. Her mother’s face was unreadable. Then Cissa started to cry.
“Stop it!” hissed Charlie as she dug a sharp elbow into the little one's side. She looked all around once more as if taking care to record everything, then lowered her shoulders and walked deliberately from the room without looking back. Cissa followed, wet mucus and tears smeared across her red cheeks and, because Charlie said to, trying to hold back the sobs that went right down into her belly.
“Don’t worry,” said her sister. “We won’t ever forget!”…
My mother paused in her story. She leaned forward earnestly.
“There was nothing for our Christmas.” Looking past me to the reel replaying in her mind, “It was our Mamma. She could have done something!” Mom got up slowly from her chair and took our cups to the sink. Dabbing surreptitiously at her eyes with the tail of her apron, she pretended to look out over the fence at the end of our yard and on up the hill of lush green pasture.
“How could she do that?” she asked, but not of me.
Our Great-grandmother Cole was satisfied. She had expected her eldest daughter to see to things when their husband and father had died. The girl had to have some quality, she mused as she looked in the mirror. Now the marriage had been arranged and she, Faustina, would take residence in the Franz home, situated nicely between the church and the town, with Rachel in charge of the household. The old woman, Rachel’s new mother-in-law, had never been remarkable for her looks, a small plumpish woman, known rather for a sharp tongue and being difficult.
Why, only last year at town meeting, just after the welcoming speeches, and before the dull propositions and arguments, the chairman had thanked us all as usual for coming and, as usual, invited the ladies to retire for the purpose of preparing refreshments. The women smilingly rose and excused themselves, all but Delia Franz, that is!
Chairman repeated himself a little louder and more slowly. “The presence of the ladies is no longer required!" he intoned, probably thinking she'd not understood. But then, bolt out of the blue! Delia spoke up, well, she stood up and spoke out, right there in the middle of all those…men! ... neighbors, store keepers, even farm hands!
"Mr. Chairman, I cannot imagine to whom you refer. I am not a lady; I am a woman! Indeed, I saw no ladies at all here this evening, but if others choose to absent themselves cutting up cakes while important decisions affecting their own families are being made, it is no concern of mine." Her husband, the blacksmith, a foreigner, you remember, just sat there looking straight ahead, giving her no counsel whatsoever! In the end, they called a vote as to whether the meeting could proceed with Delia and it did pass but everyone said it was very uncomfortable!
Being the lady of the house should not be a problem.
They'd fooled around a few times, and more than fooled around, but there was an urgency about him this time that scared her. When he'd been drinking, he was always hard to stop. This time he didn’t stop. A Spring night, they’d pulled over to look at the lake in the moonlight, at least that’s what they’d said. Pretty sight, the reflection sketching out playful ripples against smooth water. But then he’d just kept on at her, touching her, pressing. She said cut it out. She squirmed and said I mean it, and pushed him away.
“Stop it or I’ll get out!” she threatened. But he hadn’t let her.
“How dare you?” she screamed, now slamming out of the door. ”Treat me like... like one of your Greensborough floozies!” He was used to her being feisty; it was part of the fun but he hadn’t expected her to cry. She was not the crying sort! He sobered up in his surprise, struggling to understand what the difference was between tonight and the times before. And what does she know about Greensborough? Anyway, he was slowed down now all right, like with a bucket of cold water!
"Charlie!" He came through the dark around the car. “Charlie, just get back in so I can take you home.”
“I’d rather walk or crawl than ever get back in there with you!”
“I'm really sorry, Charlie, it was stupid! I ought to've paid attention to what you were saying; it just didn't feel like that…" This isn't getting anywhere. He hurried on. "I know you're really…really…" He dropped his voice to reason with her. "But it’s too far for you to walk and sooner or later, somebody’s going to come by and see you out here on the road like this.”
She looked down at herself. No. She didn't want anyone to see her. But her mother would be sitting up in that damned high-back chair at the dinner table, mending or darning or sewing rags for braided rugs under a single twenty-watt light bulb, waiting... Something slid unpleasantly down her leg onto the top of her stocking. She wrinkled up her nose and grabbed the handkerchief offered, only because she had none herself, cleaned off her face and the rest of it and finally blew her nose. She turned and stalked back to the car. Llew started the car quietly as she attacked her tangled hair, splashed on a handful of Evening in Paris, and lipsticked on a Cupid’s bow. She tugged down on her girdle and up on her stockings while she ran silently through her options.
First a check of the situation. He hadn’t really hurt her. It wasn’t the sex that made her mad; it was the indignity! So, sort of no harm done. Her mother would withdraw into cold disapproval at her being late and at all the cologne and lipstick and so would fail to notice the rest of it. Llew would distract her with the apologies as he always did so believably: he’d lost track of time talking to one of the older men. He always spoke so respectfully...
It’s what men are like and you have to put up with it, the girls giggled in front of the restroom mirror, wiggling with satisfaction and a sort of triumph. She didn’t believe it. Not her. She wasn’t going to be a dumb nothing. He’d take notice of what she said or he’d regret it.
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