The River Rose (10 page)

Though it was after ten o'clock, most of the shops on Main Street were still open and doing a merry business. The strolling carolers had moved from Court Square to the business section, the snow was still glistening and pretty, the night was cold but clear, the air sharp and bracing. Marvel turned to sit on her knees so she could see out the window better.

George Masters seemed to be struggling to find words. His eyes kept going to Marvel, then back to Jeanne. "Um, Mrs. Bettencourt, I can't tell you how very much I've enjoyed your company this evening. And Miss Marvel's, of course."

"And we have enjoyed yours, Mr. Masters," Jeanne said politely.

"No, I mean I have truly enjoyed our time together," he said insistently. "And I would like—that is, I hope—if you would be so kind—I mean—"

Marvel suddenly sat up stiffly and said, "Mama, look! There's the Singing Man! Right there, walking with those other men! Hello, hello!" she called loudly.

"Marvel, please," Jeanne said, flustered. "Don't shout. Ladies never call out to men. Especially men they don't know."

"But he winked at me," Marvel said in a small voice. "He would know me again if he saw me, I know." She came up to a kneeling position, put her mittened hands against the windows, and stared out. She thought she saw the tall dark man look at her and smile.

"No, he wouldn't. And don't wave." Jeanne said to Masters, "I apologize, sir. Marvel was very taken with the tenor soloist with the Calvary Choristers."

"He's good enough for the stage," Masters agreed. "His rendition of 'Ave Maria' and 'O Holy Night,' with only the harpist's accompaniment, was very powerful. It sort of overshadowed the rest of the performance, I thought."

"I thought the same," Jeanne exclaimed. "The Choristers, as a choir, are the best I've ever heard, but the man was outstanding. And the lady harpist was very proficient, and a fine soprano herself."

"And so beautiful," Marvel sighed. "She looked like a queen."

With amusement Masters said, "I'll have to tell her that you said that, Miss Marvel. She'll be pleased."

Marvel turned to him. "You know her, that lady?"

"I am acquainted with her, yes. Her name is Mrs. Eve Poynter Maxfield. Her father is a judge here in Memphis." He faltered a little as he saw the stiff expression on Jeanne's face. "My family has known the Poynter family for many years."

And here it is, the name dropping,
Jeanne was thinking. She turned to look neutrally out the window. An awkward silence prevailed.

But Marvel didn't know it was an awkward silence, and she told Masters, "My mama and I said that when the Singing Man sang "Ave Maria," it made us both forget how cold it is." She said it all together, "avaymaria."

"It is cold," Masters said with emphasis, his eyes on Jeanne's profile. "May I ask you ladies what part of the Regale you enjoyed the most?"

Marvel readily answered, "The puppet show. And the Singing Man. And the huge Christmas tree. And the oranges. And the sleigh ride, I almost forgot! But this is just as nice, in the carriage." She turned back to stare out the window again.

"Mrs. Bettencourt?" Masters said quietly. "I hope you, too, are finding the carriage ride as nice as the sleigh ride."

Jeanne answered, "I admit it is very pleasant, riding home in such a fine carriage. I'm sure Marvel and I will always remember it."

"But you don't have to remember it," Masters blurted out. "No, that's not what I meant. What I mean is, it doesn't have to be the only time. We can do it again. We can ride in carriages a lot."

"I suppose you can," Jeanne said quietly. "But Marvel and I don't have many carriages at our disposal."

He looked extremely frustrated, and started to reply, but just then the carriage came to a stop. Jeanne looked out the window and saw the tawdry little shacks of the Pinch. "Here we are, darling," she said brightly to Marvel.

George Masters opened the door, kicked down the steps, and handed Jeanne and Marvel down, looking around with his eyes narrowed. "Is that your house, Mrs. Bettencourt?" he asked warily, nodding to a weather-beaten clapboard cottage directly on the corner of Main and Overton.

"No, we live a little farther on," Jeanne said vaguely. She took Marvel's hand and held out her right hand to Masters. "Thank you very much for such a wonderful evening, Mr. Masters. It was so kind of you."

Quickly he took her hand, bent over it, then clasped it in both of his own. "I assure you, Mrs. Bettencourt, the pleasure was all mine, and a great pleasure it has been. But please, you must allow me to walk you to your door."

Jeanne gently pulled her hand free. "No, that's not at all necessary. Would you hand me Marvel's parcel please?"

"And my gingerbread man, please, from your pocket," Marvel added.

But George Masters ignored her and frowned at Jeanne. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I must insist. I am not at all comfortable with leaving you on the street like this, in this place."

Jeanne said evenly, "Mr. Masters, I walk to work every day from this street, and I walk home every night to this neighborhood. This is my home. I appreciate your consideration, but surely you must see that it's misplaced."

"No, I don't see that at all," he said quietly. "But I don't wish to upset you, ma'am, of all things. Here is your package, and Miss Marvel, here is your gingerbread man. I hope that you both will have a very merry and happy Christmas. Thank you so much for allowing me to share in your Christmas Eve."

Marvel curtseyed and said formally, "Thank you, Mr. Masters, for taking such good care of me and my mama. You're a really nice man."

Now Jeanne was feeling perfectly horrible, so she mustered the warmest smile she could and said, "Mr. Masters, you have truly made our Christmas Eve a wonderful time, and I thank you. Merry Christmas to you and yours, and good night."

She and Marvel turned and walked in silence. Jeanne was very aware that he stood watching them until they went down the block and disappeared into the alley toward their house. Marvel sighed deeply and said, "See, Mama, I told you. You just don't like men."

And again Jeanne wondered if she was right.

THEY AWOKE TO THE sound of church bells, for all churches had services or mass on Christmas Day. Immediately Marvel ran to the tree, for there were two packages for her, wrapped in plain brown paper and decorated with small felt white and red stars. "Mama, may I open them now?"

"Mmph, just a minute," Jeanne said sleepily. "My eyes aren't even open yet."

"Okay," she said, then went to stand on tiptoe to look out the window. A cheerful golden sun in a periwinkle-blue sky shone down on the snow blanket, making it glitter as if it were strewn with diamonds. It was still bitterly cold, but there was no wind. It was peaceful.

"Why don't you go ahead and light the candles on the tree while I make us some tea?" Jeanne said, tending the fire. "And then you can open your gifts."

"But Mama, we have to wear our holly crowns!" she said excitedly.

"All right, we will," Jeanne said. She had put them in a bucket of water to keep them from wilting, and she went to take them out and dry them on a rag.

Marvel stood on an upturned bucket to light the candles with long thin pine sticks. Then they put on their garlands, got their tea, and settled onto their mattress. Jeanne said, "Open this one first."

It was not one but two long-sleeved chemises that Jeanne had made for Marvel from the Gayoso pillow slips. "Oh, thank you, Mama. They are so soft! May I wear one to church?"

"Well, if you wear a dress over it," Jeanne said. "Go ahead, darling, open the other."

It was a real, store-bought, German-made lady china doll. She had a glazed porcelain head with molded hair painted black, wooden limbs padded with kid, little porcelain hands, and painted blue eyes and a small red cupid mouth. Her full-skirted white dress was made of embroidered eyelet trimmed with delicate lace. For long moments Marvel was speechless, her dark eyes as round as buttons.

"Oh my gunness!" she breathed. "She's beautiful! Thank you, thank you, Mama!"

"You're very welcome, Marvel," Jeanne said happily. "She is very pretty, isn't she? Just like you. What are you going to name her?" Jeanne had made Marvel a rag doll, and because Marvel fancied the name of the owner of Gayoso House, Robertson Topp, she had named her doll Mrs. Topp. She had always been very insistent that Jeanne call the doll by her name.

Now Marvel frowned with concentration. "I think," she said slowly, "I'll name her Avaymaria."

"Avaymaria?" Jeanne repeated with amusement. "That's a nice name for a grand lady."

Marvel touched the doll's head, smoothed her hair, felt of the dress. "Mama, did you know the words to that song?"

"No, darling, it was in Latin. I do know that it's actually two words: Ave Maria, and that means Hail, Mary."

"Mary, Jesus' mother?"

"That's right."

Marvel nodded, her eyes still on the doll. "Why did you say that the Singing Man couldn't be married to the Harp Lady?"

Jeanne explained, "I could tell by their clothes that the lady was rich and the man was poor. Rich people don't marry poor people."

"Ever?"

Jeanne hesitated. She always tried to tell Marvel the exact truth, as much as she could comprehend. "I suppose that it does happen sometimes, but not very often. Rich people just usually don't want to marry someone that is poor, because they think that the poor person just wants to marry them for their money."

Marvel digested this for a few moments, then asked, "Is Mr. Masters rich?"

"I think so. Yes, I know he is."

Now Marvel looked up to meet Jeanne's eyes squarely. "So you don't like him because we're poor and he's rich?"

Flustered, Jeanne said, "No, that's not why—I mean, I guess I didn't explain it properly. I think—that is, Mr. Masters thinks—oh, never mind, Marvel. This is something about adults that you're not old enough to understand yet. And besides, we were talking about rich people and poor people getting married, and that has nothing to do with me and Mr. Masters. In fact, you need to just forget about Mr. Masters, and the Singing Man, too, because you probably won't see either of them again."

Marvel looked downcast. "Yes, Mama."

Jeanne thought,
What's wrong with me? Making my own child unhappy on Christmas morning? But it's not my fault, if she questions these things I have to tell her the truth!

She reached over and put one finger under Marvel's chin to lift her head. "My darling girl, we're happy, aren't we? You're not sad about Mr. Masters, are you?"

Marvel gave her a sunny smile. "No, Mama. If you're happy, then I am too."

Jeanne nodded. "I am happy, Marvel. The Lord has blessed us so much this Christmas. We have a home, and good food, and nice presents!"

"Like snow, and a Christmas pudding, and Avaymaria," Marvel agreed, hugging the doll. "Thank you, Mama, and thank you, Baby Jesus."

"Yes," Jeanne said quietly, "thank you, Lord Jesus."

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Jeanne went back to work the day after Christmas, a sparkling and warm day that immediately melted the heavenly snow. Grimly, she realized that her boots were so muddy that Mrs. Wiedemann would never allow her to come into the hotel, and Jeanne would have to sit down outside, take them off, and clean them thoroughly. She picked up her pace so she wouldn't be late. When she stepped off the Main Street boardwalk to cross Union Avenue, she felt the cold muck of the street slide greasily up into her left shoe. The patch on the sole had worn through. Three dollars for new boots. Jeanne could have cried. But she didn't; she squared her shoulders, cleaned her boots, and reported to Mrs. Wiedemann at the service door.

"Only thirteen rooms in the whole hotel," Mrs. Wiedemann told her, "so today only you and Agatha work." She handed Jeanne her list of rooms to clean.

Jeanne collected her supplies and went up to the third floor. She was surprised to see that George Masters was still in residence. Christmas was a time for families to be together, and even the most hard-nosed businessmen gave up work travel to go home for the holidays. Then Jeanne realized that Masters had said something about being alone on Christmas Eve.
I didn't even think about that, or ask him about it . . . How unkind of me . . .
She determined that she would be warm and cordial to him, and she would find a way to ask him about his family and his plans for the remainder of the holidays, and to let him know she wished him well. Jeanne was fairly sure that wasn't exactly the impression she had given him on Christmas Eve.