and putting them away. Alcohol went straight to her head, and that spike of rum had obviously been enough to release a flood of melancholy emotions better left hidden.
She tidied up the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The heavily carved mahogany furniture glistened with lemon oil, and the scent mingled with that of cinnamon and bayberry. The tree, a beautiful pine, occupied a place of honor near the picture window, waiting for evening when the Wilson women would transform it into a thing of beauty. In the old days they would invite everyone on the block—from the Weavers to the Lewises to the Fiores—to join them as they strung popcorn garlands and sang carols and draped tinsel on the welcoming branches.
Thanks to the war, of course, everything was different now. It was hard to celebrate Christmas with the same excitement, what with Douglas gone and her dad somewhere far away. Last year Johnny Danza had written to her, telling Catherine of the USO show and a first-run movie they’d watched by the light of a December moon.
She looked out the dining-room window and shivered. The sky was the color of heavy cream and the falling snow had already obliterated her footprints from the path to the front door. The postman had already delivered a batch of Christmas cards and, given the weather, it was unlikely he’d be back to make a second delivery. “A white Christmas,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. How she wished there was something to celebrate, some sign that the war would end and those she loved would come home safe and sound.
The grandfather clock in the foyer announced the hour. Three o’clock. Her mother and Nancy wouldn’t be home for hours. An endless afternoon stretched out before her, as bleak as the weather.
* * *
“You okay, pal?” The cabbie peered at his passenger through the rearview mirror. “You don’t look so good.”
The man’s face was as white as the snow blanketing the city streets.
“I’m fine,” the soldier mumbled, his voice muffled by his upturned collar.
The cabbie hung a left at the corner of Queens Boulevard and Seventy-first Avenue. “Now what was that address you wanted?”
“Hansen,” the soldier managed. “Seventy-fifteen. One of those Tudor jobs.”
The cabbie laughed and clamped his teeth more tightly around his cigar. “They’re all Tudor jobs in that neck of the woods, kid. You gotta have some dough to live there.” He took another look at the soldier. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”
The soldier turned green around the gills. “Just drive, would you?”
“Hangover is it?” The cabbie eased off the gas. “Don’t worry, old pal. I’ll get you home in time to trim the Christmas tree....”
* * *
Catherine frowned and buried her face more deeply into the sofa pillow. Who on earth was making that racket? Didn’t they know people were trying to sleep?
She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to conjure up the dream once again. It was Christmas Day and President Roosevelt came on the radio and announced that the war was over. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the doorbell was ringing—
Wait a minute.
She opened one eye and listened closely. “Must have been my imagination,” she said, then pulled the afghan up over her shoulders. But then there was the noise again, only it wasn’t a doorbell ringing. No, it was more like a faint tapping.
She threw back the afghan and sat up, yawning. Maybe the mailman had made it back through the snow, after all, with one last batch of Christmas cards. And maybe this batch would bring the long-awaited letter from her father—and one from Johnny. She hurried out into the hall, praying to see a welcome stack of cards and letters pooled on the floor beneath the mail slot.
Not so much as a postcard. She turned to hurry back to the sofa and the cozy comfort of the afghan when she heard it again, louder this time, a tap-tap-tap at the door. If Danny Tesch from down the
She tidied up the kitchen and wandered into the living room. The heavily carved mahogany furniture glistened with lemon oil, and the scent mingled with that of cinnamon and bayberry. The tree, a beautiful pine, occupied a place of honor near the picture window, waiting for evening when the Wilson women would transform it into a thing of beauty. In the old days they would invite everyone on the block—from the Weavers to the Lewises to the Fiores—to join them as they strung popcorn garlands and sang carols and draped tinsel on the welcoming branches.
Thanks to the war, of course, everything was different now. It was hard to celebrate Christmas with the same excitement, what with Douglas gone and her dad somewhere far away. Last year Johnny Danza had written to her, telling Catherine of the USO show and a first-run movie they’d watched by the light of a December moon.
She looked out the dining-room window and shivered. The sky was the color of heavy cream and the falling snow had already obliterated her footprints from the path to the front door. The postman had already delivered a batch of Christmas cards and, given the weather, it was unlikely he’d be back to make a second delivery. “A white Christmas,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. How she wished there was something to celebrate, some sign that the war would end and those she loved would come home safe and sound.
The grandfather clock in the foyer announced the hour. Three o’clock. Her mother and Nancy wouldn’t be home for hours. An endless afternoon stretched out before her, as bleak as the weather.
* * *
“You okay, pal?” The cabbie peered at his passenger through the rearview mirror. “You don’t look so good.”
The man’s face was as white as the snow blanketing the city streets.
“I’m fine,” the soldier mumbled, his voice muffled by his upturned collar.
The cabbie hung a left at the corner of Queens Boulevard and Seventy-first Avenue. “Now what was that address you wanted?”
“Hansen,” the soldier managed. “Seventy-fifteen. One of those Tudor jobs.”
The cabbie laughed and clamped his teeth more tightly around his cigar. “They’re all Tudor jobs in that neck of the woods, kid. You gotta have some dough to live there.” He took another look at the soldier. “When was the last time you had a good meal?”
The soldier turned green around the gills. “Just drive, would you?”
“Hangover is it?” The cabbie eased off the gas. “Don’t worry, old pal. I’ll get you home in time to trim the Christmas tree....”
* * *
Catherine frowned and buried her face more deeply into the sofa pillow. Who on earth was making that racket? Didn’t they know people were trying to sleep?
She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to conjure up the dream once again. It was Christmas Day and President Roosevelt came on the radio and announced that the war was over. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the doorbell was ringing—
Wait a minute.
She opened one eye and listened closely. “Must have been my imagination,” she said, then pulled the afghan up over her shoulders. But then there was the noise again, only it wasn’t a doorbell ringing. No, it was more like a faint tapping.
She threw back the afghan and sat up, yawning. Maybe the mailman had made it back through the snow, after all, with one last batch of Christmas cards. And maybe this batch would bring the long-awaited letter from her father—and one from Johnny. She hurried out into the hall, praying to see a welcome stack of cards and letters pooled on the floor beneath the mail slot.
Not so much as a postcard. She turned to hurry back to the sofa and the cozy comfort of the afghan when she heard it again, louder this time, a tap-tap-tap at the door. If Danny Tesch from down the
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