Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (11 page)

In the autumn of the year after the Bergstroms’ trip to the Chicago World’s Fair, a new family moved into a ramshackle house on the outskirts of town. The parents and a young daughter were rarely seen, but their oldest child, a boy, attended the elementary school in Waterford. He was enrolled in Richard’s class, and Sylvia often spotted him sitting alone by the fence when she and Claudia dropped off their brother on their way to their own school, a block away. She was appalled that any mother or father could send a child to school in such filthy clothes. His face was always peaked, weariness hung in his eyes, and his sleeves were often not long enough to cover the bruises on his arms.

Most of the schoolchildren shunned the newcomer, whose presence hinted at a darker world than the one they inhabited, one they might have sensed they themselves had escaped only by an accident of birth. Some of the bolder children teased him, but Richard put a stop to that. Sylvia observed the whole incident through the fence on the day Richard suddenly walked off the pitcher’s mound and approached the boy as he watched from his usual spot by the fence. Richard asked the boy’s name and invited him to join in the game. When the other boys protested, Richard said, “Okay, if you don’t want Andrew on our team, him and me’ll play catch instead.”

“But you have the only ball,” a boy in the batter’s box shouted. “We can’t play without you.”

Richard grinned and shrugged as if that had not occurred to him. “Then I guess you can’t play without Andrew, either.”

The loss of Richard’s favor was worse than the loss of the ball, so the other boys quickly agreed to allow Andrew to play. Although their father expected them home, Sylvia stood on the other side of the fence watching the game, her heart swelling with pride.

As autumn waned, Sylvia watched as Richard and Andrew became fast friends. Andrew was as skinny and filthy as ever, but he smiled more, and although he was still quiet around the other children, sometimes he would whisper a joke that would leave Richard howling with laughter. When she spotted Andrew on the schoolyard wearing a jacket Richard had outgrown, she did not need to ask how he had come by it. At home Richard spoke about his friend so often that their father encouraged him to invite Andrew over to play. One day Andrew was waiting with Richard at the gate when his sisters came to escort him home.

“Andrew’s coming over to play,” Richard informed them. “And he’s staying for dinner.”

“Oh, really?” said Claudia. “Does Father know?”

“It’ll be fine,” Sylvia interjected. She smiled at the wary little boy. “Father has asked Richard to invite him many times.”

“Do his parents know?” Claudia asked dubiously.

“They won’t mind,” Andrew piped up. Sylvia was sure they would not. She doubted anyone would even notice whether he returned home.

After that, Andrew came home with Richard nearly every day. Sometimes Sylvia gently probed him with questions about his home and his family, but Andrew said little. Still, his guarded replies were enough for Sylvia to deduce that he was unhappy and worried about his little sister. Sylvia did not know what to do. Extracting details from Andrew was so difficult that she was unsure just how bad things were, and she did not want to do anything to compel him to run away, as so many other children had when their fathers lost their jobs and their mothers could not feed them. An unhappy home was safer than the life on the rails so many other men and boys had chosen. So Sylvia found reasons to give Andrew the sturdy clothes Richard had outgrown but not worn out, and she filled her brother’s lunch box each morning with food enough for two boys. Andrew began to fill out, and he must have begun brushing his hair and washing his hands and face at school. Sylvia suspected that a kindhearted teacher had taken an interest in his welfare, but Claudia teased that the young boy had taken it upon himself to improve his appearance because he had a crush on Sylvia.

When winter snows began to fall, Sylvia’s thoughts turned to Christmas. That winter would bring their fifth Christmas without Mama. Every year since she had left them, the Bergstroms had celebrated in a subdued fashion, in part because of their reduced circumstances, but also because Sylvia’s father was the head of the household and his heart simply wasn’t in it. He found no joy in the old Bergstrom traditions without his beloved wife by his side, and his daughters found it difficult to keep them on their own. When Sylvia thought of Andrew, though, she decided that even a quiet Bergstrom holiday would likely surpass any warmth and happiness he might find at home. They must invite him to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with their family because if anyone needed the joy and hope of the season, Andrew did.

It was Claudia, however, who came to Sylvia with the notion that they must bring back the old Bergstrom traditions in all their splendor. Sylvia was dubious. How could they afford to rival lavish Christmases past? How could they proceed without their mother’s guiding hand? She hesitated to voice aloud her sense that it was wrong, somehow, to enjoy the holiday without their mother.

As the days passed, Claudia wore her down with her persistence, and finally reminded her that if they did not restore their traditions, no one would, and all the Bergstrom stories would be lost. Richard’s memories of their mother had grown dim. He had been so young when she died, and their brokenhearted father could rarely bring himself to speak of her. The sisters owed it to Richard and their mother to fill in the spaces of their younger brother’s memory with their own.

Sylvia, who would do anything for her darling little brother, needed no further inducement to join Claudia in reviving their family’s traditions. Their father was surprisingly willing to go along with the plan. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a truly Merry Christmas around here,” he said, smiling wistfully at his daughters. He opened his billfold and paid them a special “Christmas allowance” to spend on their celebration—modest, but still more than they had hoped for. The sisters decided to spend it upon gifts for their father, Richard, Andrew, Andrew’s little sister, and ingredients for their favorite Christmas treats—Great-Aunt Lucinda’s German cookies and the famous Bergstrom strudel. As they made their preparations, the holiday spirit returned to the home, so gradually and quietly that it came as an unexpected delight when Sylvia discovered Lucinda whistling a Christmas carol as she folded the laundry, or caught Uncle William and Aunt Nellie kissing beneath a sprig of mistletoe. Great-Aunt Lydia took them shopping for gifts and groceries, and in the week before Christmas, Elm Creek Manor was once again filled with the aromas of gingerbread, anise, and cinnamon. Sylvia and Claudia wrapped store-bought presents for the boys and their father, and made gifts for the rest of the family.

It felt like Christmas again. Until the joy and hope of the season had been restored to her, Sylvia had not realized how much her heart had longed for them.

If only Mama were there.

On the day before Christmas Eve, Sylvia and Richard were upstairs in the nursery playing baseball with a broom handle and a bundle of knotted socks when Claudia entered. “I need you in the kitchen,” she told her sister. “It’s time to start the strudel.”

“I’ll be down in a minute.” Sylvia caught a grounder and tagged out Richard before he reached first. “The inning’s almost over.”

Richard trotted back to home plate and picked up the fallen broom handle. “No, it’s not. I still have two more outs.”

Sylvia grinned and wound up to pitch. “Like I said, I’ll be down in a minute.”

“We need to start now, while the kitchen’s free.” Claudia’s nose wrinkled in disapproval as she observed the game. “You shouldn’t play baseball in the house anyway.”

“It’s not a real baseball.” Sylvia tossed the knot of socks toward her brother, who swung the broom handle, connected, and sent the makeshift ball careening toward left field.

“It’s a sockball,” said Richard helpfully as he ran for first base.

“Whatever it is, it could still break something.” Claudia turned for the door. “If you can’t be bothered to help, I’ll do it myself.”

Sylvia could imagine the disaster that would ensue if she allowed that to happen. “No, wait. I’m coming.” She scooped up the sockball and lofted it to Richard, who caught it easily. “Sorry. I’ll have to finish you off later.”

“Says you.” Richard grinned and went off to play with his model airplanes.

“We couldn’t have waited ten minutes?” Sylvia asked as she followed her sister downstairs.

“Great-Aunt Lucinda just finished her last batch of cookies but she’ll need us out of the way when it’s time to make supper. She said we may make strudel now or not at all.”

Sylvia knew that was a valid reason for haste, but couldn’t admit it. “You could have said so before.”

“You didn’t give me a chance. You were too busy arguing for your right to play ‘sockball.’”

Sylvia clamped her mouth around a retort. She wouldn’t be the one to start a fight, not so close to Christmas, not with the family seeming more content than they had been in years.

She hoped allowing Claudia the last word would put her in a sweeter temper, but in the kitchen, Claudia became even more imperious. She sent Sylvia down into the cellar to fetch a basket of apples, a task they had always handled together.

When Sylvia returned, huffing from exertion, she found Claudia taking flour, sugar, nuts, and spices from the pantry—and wearing their mother’s best apron.

“What’s that you’re wearing?” she demanded, setting down the basket with a thud.

Claudia glanced down at her clothes. “It’s an apron, of course. You should put yours on, too, or your dress will get covered in flour.”

“That’s Mama’s apron.”

Claudia regarded Sylvia with exasperation. “You know my old one is worn out. Aunt Lucinda said I should wear this one. If it bothers you so much, you can wear it and I’ll wear yours.”

“Never mind,” muttered Sylvia, taking two paring knives from the drawer.

Claudia sighed and shook her head. “When you’re done being ridiculous, would you please bring a sheet from the linen closet?”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because I’m doing this.” Claudia indicated the pastry ingredients in her arms. “Why are you being so disagreeable?”

“Why are you being so bossy?”

It was a charge Claudia hated, perhaps because she knew how often her behavior merited it. “I’m not being bossy. I just want to make sure this is done right. Don’t you see? It’s up to us to make this a happy Christmas for everyone. If we can’t do it this year, they might not give us another chance.”

“They can’t cancel Christmas.”

Claudia nudged the basket of apples closer to the kitchen table with her foot and set her burdens on the counter. “No, but they can tell us not to try, and then we can go back to the same gloomy Christmases we’ve had for the past four years. Is that what you want? More importantly, do you think that’s what Mama would want?”

Claudia began flinging handfuls of flour into a mixing bowl, her mouth in a defiant line. Sylvia watched her for a moment, then, without another word of complaint, she hurried upstairs, retrieved a clean sheet from the linen closet, and draped it over the long wooden table as their mother had always done, and other women of the family had done before her. She pulled the thin fabric smooth and fastened the corners to the legs of the table with clothespins. As she dusted the sheet with flour, Claudia cautioned, “Not so much.” Sylvia said not a word in reply.

They took turns kneading the dough—pressing it into the floured board with the heels of their hands, folding it over, turning it, pressing again. Sylvia was surprised how quickly her arms tired from the effort. It had not seemed so difficult in years past—but she and her sister had never kneaded the dough for more than a minute or two at a time, as one of the elder Bergstrom women had always shouldered the burden of the chore. After ten minutes had elapsed, Sylvia suggested they set the dough aside to rest, but Claudia insisted they continue for another two minutes apiece. Sylvia was tempted to tell her to do all four of the minutes herself if she felt that strongly about them, but she bit her tongue and did her share.

Finally Claudia divided the smooth ball of dough into two halves, separated them on the floured board, and covered them with a flick of the dishtowel that reminded Sylvia, painfully, of a similar gesture their mother used to make. How pleased she would be to see her two daughters working together to make the famous Bergstrom strudel, Sylvia thought, and she resolved to finish the task in a manner that would make their mother proud.

Yet no matter how agreeably Sylvia followed the directions her sister unnecessarily provided, the more Claudia chided her. Sylvia took off too much apple flesh with the peel. She was not peeling fast enough, and the apples would turn brown before they could be baked. She sliced the apples too thin. She did not chop the nuts finely enough. With every word of criticism, Sylvia’s temper flared, but she would not allow Claudia to provoke her into an outburst, ruining what should have been a significant moment in the history of their family. The two Bergstrom sisters were renewing a beloved tradition they had last shared with their mother, a tradition that reached back into the past to the first Bergstroms to come to America and possibly even earlier.

On behalf of all the Bergstrom women who had preceded them, it was essential that they work together. Especially when the apples were prepared and it was time to stretch the dough. Especially since they would be spending many hours together to make the ten strudel Claudia had decided they needed that Christmas, one for the family and nine to give away.

“It’s rested enough,” remarked Claudia as she pulled back the dishtowel covering the two flattened balls of dough. Sylvia, who had observed the making of strudel nearly as many times as her elder sister and knew as well as she did how long the dough needed to rest, merely murmured her assent. She was reminded of how graciously their mother had always asked the opinion of the other women and girls present, even her novice daughters, achieving consensus before deciding it was time to stretch the dough.