Runny03 - Loose Lips (22 page)

“‘Adeste Fideles,’” he said.

Hundreds of voices in sync boomed out, “‘Adeste fideles, Laeti triumphantes—’”

Little Barbara Tangerman screamed as her pony bolted. She was in no danger, but the pony had had quite enough—not so much of the singing as of Barbara. Bucky Nordness, astride his good pal, Target, took off after her. It was a good thing he’d stayed mounted. Everyone else had dismounted, holding their horses’ reins. Bucky caught Toothpaste in front of the Bon-Ton, where the pony had stopped to admire the big store window decorated with Santa and his reindeer. Barbara Tangerman, dumped in the snow, sniveled but was none the worse for her adventure. Toothpaste, enchanted by the reindeer, didn’t want to follow Target. Lured by apples, he finally gave in.

As they sang “The First Noel” and “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” Julia noticed that some of the men were already in uniform. Those who had served in World War I and reenlisted thanks to special skills wore their uniforms. The young men soon to leave envied them.

Rillma Ryan, home for the holidays, sang with the Baltimore Street crowd—causing a sensation among the men just by breathing.

As Juts drank in the whole cocktail of happiness it was hard to believe that someone in this group or in one of those cozy houses had burned out Noe Mojo’s business. She put the incident out of her mind, but it would pop back again like a headache. She
decided she never would understand people. This chased away the headache.

Other reminders of the war would creep into her consciousness. She wondered, How were they celebrating the holiday in Paris? Or London? And what of Berlin—did they go about their Christmas festivities believing they were in the right? After all, they started the damned war. Why march into Poland or Czechoslovakia? Did Hitler really think the Western nations wouldn’t fight?

Were the German people told the truth? Maybe they didn’t know over there.

A chill shot up her spine.
Maybe we don’t know, either. Are we told the truth?

If Popeye Huffstetler is an example of the free press, God help us
, she thought to herself.

Then she thought of the huge poster in the post office. It showed people gossiping in an armaments factory while, behind them, a ship hit by torpedoes was sinking. “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” read the warning.

The carolers had started on “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” Juts’s favorite carol.

Even Mother Smith, on the other side of the tree, seemed to enjoy herself.

Maizie asked Cora if she thought people were singing carols in Germany.

“I expect.” Cora handed her a red-sugared doughnut made specially by the Yosts for this occasion.

“I don’t get it.” Maizie blinked.

“What, sweetheart?” Cora watched Tubby’s baton.

“They’re like us, then.”

“More or less.” Cora readied for “Good King Wenceslas.”

Maizie sang along with her grandmother. Adults made life complicated. If she ran the world there wouldn’t be any wars, Maizie was sure of that.

After the caroling, people exchanged favors, kisses, hugs, food and drink. Bitter cold was fended off with inner fire. For one evening, domestic squabbles were set aside, financial troubles forgotten, cracked romances ignored, and old enmities muffled. Christmas Eve in Runnymede was about as close to heaven as a body could get.

Juts floated home on a cloud until she opened the door to her house and beheld her decorations shredded, the presents under the tree clawed to pieces, and the balls, as high as Yoyo could reach, smashed in glittering colored pieces on the floor.

This proved conclusively that cats do not have Christmas spirit. They might not even be Christians.

C
hristmas supper at Cora’s, everyone ate like pigs.

Juts held up her glass. “Here’s to 1942, Louise. We’ll have paid off Flavius by May.”

“Free and clear.” Chessy clinked his glass to his wife’s.

“Here’s to an end to this war before—well, you know.” Mary raised her glass.

Everyone drank and chattered, exchanging gifts. Juts oohed and aahed at the beautiful gold bracelet Chester gave her. She assumed the earrings she’d liked had gone to his mother, the bitch. They’d look better on her.

Trudy had given Chester a gentleman’s walking stick. He
unwrapped it while at the store. Chester had given the gold shell earrings to Trudy. He wasn’t sure it was proper to give her earrings—maybe he should have given her perfume—but the earrings looked like her.

Pearlie stood up. “I’m going to pick up Patience Horney.”

“You are?” Louise smelled the wonderful fragrance of cherry wood in the fireplace.

“All her people are dead now and she’s alone. I just this minute thought of it.”

“Really? Did Rollie Englehard die this year?” Juts was losing track of time. “Was it this year?”

Rollie was Patience’s last surviving cousin.

“I think he did,” Cora replied.

“Be right back.” Pearlie grabbed his hat and coat. Chessy followed him.

Twenty minutes later they returned with Patience, so happy she babbled. It made the others teary, not just because they were glad to make her happy, but because Patience’s situation could be any one of theirs someday. Nobody ever knew what might happen. And it happens so damned fast.

M
ary Miles Mundis declared she had second sight, a nifty concept since most people don’t even have first sight: People see what they want to see.

Chester, not a man seeking arguments in order to display his intelligence, casually let such ideas go in one ear and out the other. He was one of those men who drive their wives to ask constantly, “Did you hear a word I said?” Not that Chessy pondered second sight, but if he’d paid a bit more attention to himself and others he would have known what was hurtling around the corner like a trolley car out of control. Maybe he could have ducked.

He left the hardware store at five to see his mother. Josephine, rolling pie dough, shook her rolling pin at him. “You’re late.”

Black-eyed peas bubbled in a pot on the stove because New Year’s, commencing the following night at 12:01, she had to eat black-eyed peas for luck. Mother Smith first boiled them, then let them simmer on low, low heat, every now and then adding more water and molasses.

He didn’t reply, but went down into the cellar to check the furnace. The coal-delivery man had left the doors to the coal chute open, so the frigid air was pouring in. He shut the doors and then shoveled coal into the furnace. He dusted himself off as he walked up the wooden stairs, which reverberated with each step. “Tommy left the doors open.”

“That boy.” She shook her head. “He’ll never be able to take over his father’s business.”

“He’s enlisted. Maybe when he comes home he’ll be ready.”

“Tom West enlisted?”

“Army. Ted Baeckle told me he scored so high on the entry tests that he’ll be going to officers’ training school after boot camp.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“I don’t know, Mother, maybe Tommy West is a square peg in a round hole. Someone else can run West and Co.”

“That’s ridiculous. Where do you get these ideas? Juts?” She squinted.

“You know, Mother, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I surprise
myself.” His tone of voice was crisp. “I realize that I can’t make you happy and make Juts happy. If I do something for you, she’s upset. If I do something for her or agree with her, you’re upset. I’ve decided I’m going to please myself. At least one person will be happy.” He walked out the door.

It was snowing again so Chessy drove slowly to the dance studio and parked, as always, in the alleyway. He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door. Trudy was wearing the lovely gold seashell earrings.

“Let’s dance.” He laughed, swept her in his arms, and kissed her. She returned the kiss with passion. It was a sure bet that Chester Smith’s 1942 was going to be different from 1941.

Y
oyo snuggled on the afghan drawn around Juts’s legs as she flopped onto the sofa in front of the roaring fire. Buster, head on paws, stretched out on the floor in front of Juts because Yoyo wouldn’t let him on the sofa.

“I told you to wear a hat when we went caroling.”

Louise’s admonition at this moment was not appreciated. “You say that every day there’s a drop of moisture in the air, Louise. Don’t take credit for being right one time out of thousands.”

“You’re not a good sick person.” Louise handed her a hot tea. “Come on, Juts, drink a little of it.”

“New Year’s Eve, one of my favorite nights in the whole year, and I’m home sick. This is as bad as the time I got measles at Christmas.”

“That was 1909!”

“So?” Juts squiggled farther down in the afghan, kicking the newspaper on the floor.

The headline of the
Clarion
read “Dusseldorf Bombed.”

Wheezie picked up the paper and properly folded it. “Guess the Germans are getting back some of their own.”

“You’d think they’d have the sense to realize if they’re going to bomb London then the English will fly over the Channel and bomb them.” She sat up a little straighter and reached for the tea. “Can you imagine, Wheezie, being high up in the air with people shooting at you from the ground and other planes coming at you to blow you out of the sky? I can’t imagine it, really, and the cold air when those bomb doors open.” She shivered.

“I could be on the ground but I couldn’t be a pilot or a sailor.” Louise folded her arms across her chest. “I want the ground under my feet at all times. Hey, where’s Chessy?”

“Civil Air Patrol, emergency meeting. He’s learning Morse code and semaphore.”

“If the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor off aircraft carriers, why can’t the Germans do the same thing?” Louise asked.

“Do the Germans have aircraft carriers?”

“I don’t know, but they have submarines.” Louise stared into the fire.

“Guess I should let him go to the party with you and Pearlie, huh?”

“Well, he can’t dance. He’ll just sit around and watch the rest of us.”

“He can drink and throw confetti with the best of them.” Juts’s laugh turned into a cough.

Buster barked, hearing the car turn down the block before
the human ears could pick up the tread sound. Within a minute Juts and Louise heard the car and saw the lights, which were soon switched off.

Chessy pushed open the back door, his arms full of groceries.“Hey.”

“Hi, Chess.” Louise walked into the kitchen to help him with the bags. “The patient is”—she lowered her voice—“crabby.”

“You’re talking about me,” Juts yelled from the living room. “I know you are.”

Chester tiptoed into the living room, face solemn. “We were talking about you.” He shook his head. “Tuberculosis. Won’t be long.”

Louise sang a hymn from the kitchen, where she was putting away groceries.

“You wouldn’t think it was funny if you were sick on New Year’s Eve,” Juts pouted.

Louise brought in orange juice and a bottle of gin as well as little party hats and streamers. “Whoopie!”

Juts smiled. “Chester, did you think of this by yourself?”