Philip Wylie - Tomorrow!

At this moment, however, she realized how very little “nice things” meant in relation to the whole of human life. Her very realism had showed her, long ago, that life was closing in on her. The sweetheart of her childhood had not turned into the dream prince of maturity. He was far away now, doing some sort of menial chore for the Air Force. Desk work. He’d grow up at a desk, drawing buildings that probably would never be constructed, because Chuck didn’t seem to have even as much drive as his father. All Chuck’s drive was in his head, his imagination. It never came out, never produced.

Long ago she’d begun saying to herself, Wise up, Lenore. He isn’t for you. Find yourself another boy.

Well. Her mother had found one. If it wasn’t to be Chuck, did it matter so greatly who it was?

Lenore could anticipate the turnings of her mother’s mind. She anticipated now, as her mother began, “After all, Lenore, in time….”

“I know. Divorce. With alimony. Abundant alimony.”

Netta got ahead of her then. “Why not? People like the Sloans expect it.” Netta was aware that Minerva had no such idea in mind, but she went on confidently, ‘‘I’m sure his mother feels that even an unsuccessful marriage would be good for him. Start him on the way. And, Lenore, have you thought? Suppose you were married a few years? Suppose you came—out—well the way you would. Comfortably off? Even wealthy? Then you might be in a position to give Charles Conner financial aid till he got on his feet in architecture. You could get married and be happy, with a settlement from the Sloan family in your bank account! I mean, if it’s really love you feel for Charles, what could you do that would help more? Have you thought of that?”

Lenore ate another nut, tossed a hull, twisted her dark hair. “Thought of whoring for the man I love? No. I haven’t. I suppose it’s been done, though. By plenty of women.”

“Then you’ll…?”

“I haven’t said,” Lenore answered. “I painted myself into this corner with my own little hand. If Dad isn’t to go to the pen right off, I suppose I’ve got to get engaged, at least, or have an ‘understanding’ with the ape. You’ve got me in a spot where either I do that, or Dad’s jailed.”

“I always knew my daughter….” Netta began rapturously, and rapturously she rose from her chair to bestow an embrace.

Lenore sat perfectly still. “Sit down, Netta,” she said icily. “Let’s have no manure in this.”

“Minerva will want to know!” Mrs. Bailey breathed, discomfited only momentarily.

“You call her and the deal’s off. I’ll tell Kit in my own time and my own way, and the terms won’t be—practicing matrimony from the moment he slips on the diamond either! Sit still, Mother! I swear to God, if you put the needle in anywhere, one more time, I’ll take a job in New York and be damned to you and Dad both!”

Mrs. Bailey was slightly disappointed, but not very. She had always been a main-chance gambler.

Charles had come home for Christmas. His mother had answered the phone when he called from Texas with the good news. Something wonderful, she had thought, almost always happens around Christmastime.

But the pleasure of having Charles at home again, so soon, had been alloyed. He didn’t seem the same. He was thinner. He was preoccupied. Twice, in the first four days after his homecoming, he’d put on his uniform, borrowed the family car and driven to Hink Field, the military base, “on business.” Restricted business, confidential business, business that upset him, Beth thought.

On Friday, the Friday before the Monday which would be Christmas, Beth was in the kitchen, working and thinking. It was late afternoon, getting dark, threatening to snow again. A gray light softened the already white world outside. Across the shoveled snowbanks along the drive, across the children-tracked yards, through the kitchen windows, the yellow lights of the Bailey house made a picture post card. The summer shrubs were covered, like igloos: it looked cozy beneath their snow roofs and Huffy sides; the gazebo had a fringe of icicles that shone golden in the light.

Beth was “going over things” in her mind. Yuletide lists.

The turkey would be delivered in the morning.

The presents were all wrapped and hidden in the bedroom closet. Nora, she was sure, had inspected them thoroughly; it was possible that even Ted had taken a peek: sometimes he was still more like a child than a man. The holly and mistletoe had arrived from Beth’s aunt in North Carolina, as usual. As usual, they were going to the Williamses’ for a pre-Christmas dinner.

The gifts for the Williams children were already wrapped, too, heaped in a clothesbasket in the front hall.

Mr. Nesbit had sent the tree over from the grocery store that afternoon. If they got back in time from the Williamses’ and from seeing Santa Claus in the park, they could trim the tree on Saturday. If they were too tired, Sunday would do. Maybe Lenore would come over and help: Charles would like that.

Old snow slid down the roof, cascaded into the yard.

She opened the kitchen door, hardly knowing why, and looked at the roped-up tree.

Seven feet and symmetrical. She could see it in the front room, decorated—see, back through the years, all the Christmas trees of her children and all her own Christmas trees, spangled, shining, redolent, the big magic of childhood: gifts and excitement, seasonal aroma, Santa Claus and love.

Henry drove in, racing the car before switching it off, beating his feet on the frozen doormat, blowing as he entered the kitchen, helping her shut the door. “Beauty,” he said of the tree. “How you coming?”

“All right.” She picked up a big spoon, stirred the cranberries on the stove. “Do you think we could leave my sister’s in time to see Santa and do a little shopping?”

He kissed her on the back of her neck, grinned. “Why not? Matter of fact, I have a couple of things to get, myself, still.” His look of innocence was absurd.

My present, she thought. He hasn’t bought mine yet. And she reminded herself for the hundredth time to phone Mr. Salten at the men’s shop and tell him she’d decided to take the dressing gown for her husband and would he please deliver it, rush.

“Maybe,” he said, breaking and buttering a hot cinnamon roll, “we could skip Santa this year. Kids are pretty grown-up—”

“Nora would be scandalized!”

“I suppose so.” He ate a mouthful. “Mighty good!”

“Don’t spoil your appetite!”

“Fat chance,” he chuckled. “Hungry as a bear! Truth is, I’d miss Santa, myself. Saw him the first year they put him up and every year since.”

In Simmons Park, annually, the stores erected a giant mechanical Santa Claus whose arms moved to hand gifts to children, who talked over a loud-speaker in his midriff and who even sang carols in a sonorous voice. He was the yuletide deity and big wonder of Green Prairie; a child who missed him was unfortunate indeed.

Beth looked at the roast. Her mind moved even raster than her dinner-getting hands. “I’ve got to find something yet for the minister’s wife. Every year I promise myself I’ll give her a Christmas present, and every year I put it oil’ or forged” She handed him a spoon. “Hold this—over the sink!” She took the lid from a pot, looked, popped it back. “And don’t let me forget to take the ice cream along tomorrow. It’s in the deep freeze. Ruth couldn’t afford it this year.”

“Where’s everybody?”

“They’ll be in soon. Nora’s over with the Crandon youngsters. I don’t know where Ted is. And Charles is shopping.” Henry eyed another roll and restrained himself. “If Chuck’s downtown, he’ll be late. Never saw such crowds.”