SANTA CLAUS
Father McGowan, holding a cassock high about his black-clad legs,
stood in the back yard of the rectory grounds. The back yard looked
like those photographs entitled, "Rude shelters for the soldiers," or
"Huts built by the South Australian Light Horse Brigade."
All over the brown lawn were small shacks. Some of them made of
brick, some of old and weather-beaten boards, and some of these two
with a smattering of very ex and sticky roofing mixed in. Father
McGowan smiled. Mrs. Fry looked out of the window. Her lips
tightened.
A small boy emerged from one of these affairs. Emerged on his
stomach, wiggling out.
"Father McGowan," he yelled, "we got a secret passage!"
"No!" said Father McGowan enthusiastically, "No!"
Another door opened. Another boy came wiggling forth. "_We_ got a
secret place to hide things in, in ours!" he said in a sing-song,
mine-is-better-than-yours tone.
"Aw----!" said the first disparagingly.
Father McGowan laughed. A boy came swaggering across the lawn. He
whistled, "In My Harem." He touched his hat to the priest.
"I'm going to get a case of pop," he said loudly, "an' drink it here.
Mom, she gimme a candle, and Pop sez I can stay out 'til nine."
After this he was instantly the centre of an awed and admiring group.
Mrs. Fry opened the door. "The 'phone wants yuh," she said shortly
to Father McGowan. Father McGowan went in with evident reluctance.
He wanted to hear more of the case of pop, which he knew would narrow
down to two bottles.
After he'd passed through the kitchen, Mrs. Fry spoke again to her
sister who sat steaming by the stove. "_He's_ like that," she said,
a great love, yet vast contempt, showing in her tone. "He lets all
the kids around build shacks in the backyard, and even gets 'em stuff
to build with!"
"What fer?" asked the steaming one. Her bewilderment was complete.
"Oh," said Mrs. Fry, "he sez something about its bein' necessary to a
boy's soul to build something and tear it down. An' pretend things
that ain't. One day they calls that mess of rubbish the wilds of
Sieberia, an' the next an Indian camp. An' _he_, he gets right out
an' chases around with 'em. He's busted his glasses twice this
month." Mrs. Fry sighed. "I kicks," she went on, "and then he sez,
'Mrs. Fry, I'm sorry, but the fact is, an aunt brought me up, awfully
good woman, too, but too neat. I never pounded, and a boy needs to
pound.' Then he sez, 'Now if there is anything you need for the
kitchen that I can get you, Mrs. Fry, I'd be glad to.' An' what can
I do? I lead an awful life because of them young rapscallions, but
_he_ can't see it!"
"Well, I'll be beat!"
Mrs. Fry poured out a cup of coffee and pushed it toward her guest.
"Ain't sugar high?" she said as she dumped in two lumps.
"You bet," answered her guest. "Does _he_ set and study much?" she
questioned. _He_ was very interesting. Mrs. Fry drew a long breath.
"He don't get no time to set," she answered. "He hardly has a chance
to eat half the time besides being pestered by them kids. I never
know when he'll be on time for meals. Did I tell yuh about the
bath-tub?" she questioned.
The steaming shook her head.
"_It has two ally-gaters in it!_" said Mrs. Fry with emphasis.
"My Gawd!"
"Yes, one of these here kids got 'em sent him from Florida, or some
furrin port, an' his mother, being a sensible woman, wouldn't have
'em near. Well, the kid comes bawlin' to Father McGowan (they always
do), an' he sez, 'Now, Jimmy, don't cry. You can put 'em in my
bath-tub; I only bathe once a day, and I can use a tin one. Mrs. Fry
has her own bath-tub on the third floor, so she won't care.' I did,
but what kin yuh do? I sez, 'I won't enter that room with them
rep_tiles_ in it fer to clean it.' He sez, troubled like, 'Well,
Mrs. Fry, I'll do it, or get one of the boys to. I don't mind.'
Them kids messing around there. Can yuh see the way _they'd_ clean
it!"
"Ain't that fierce?"
"Yes, an' he don't care so much fer it, either. He sez he _could_
hope they'd die or summer'd come. (We're going to have a pond in the
backyard--to run into the cellar!) Yuh oughta see that room after
he's bathed in that there tin tub. All that's missin' is Noah and
Shem--we got the animiles."
There was the click of crutches in the dining room. The door opened.
A small boy appeared.
"Come in, dearie," said Mrs. Fry. Her tone was softened.
"What's his name?" asked the visitor.
"He don't know," answered Mrs. Fry. "He was in the hospital one
time, real sick, and lately he don't remember so good. 'Father
McGowan calls him 'Sebastiano.' Want a cooky, dearie?" The boy
nodded, and smiled.
Cecilia had had her friend Marjory to lunch. It had gone rather
well. She recalled it as she stood looking out of a heavily glassed
window into a frosted street. She, herself, had set the table. The
napkins had not been set up in tumblers. The fibroid tumor vase was
quite absent. There had been valley lilies in a flat bowl for the
centrepiece.... She had disposed of the blue glass butter dish by
dropping it. Cecilia felt strangely sad as she did it. The blue
glass butter dish had once seemed so very lovely.... "Are they
giving me anything to take your place?" she questioned, as it
shattered on the floor. Then she called Norah, and listened to her
laments as she gathered up the pieces. She had the feeling of
untruth added to her little sadness.
As yet nothing had taken the place of blue glass butter dishes for
small Cecilia. She still preferred rhinestone hair-pins, and
French-heeled shoes to their plainer sisters. Beauty had been taken
away and none substituted, at least none that she enjoyed. The only
thing she really cared for was the dragging of her newly acquired
French in her talk. She did this often with the proud feeling that
it was what her mother had wished.
Jeremiah had said, on meeting Marjory, "Pleased to meet yuh, mam,"
and Cecilia had broken in with, "I love papa so much, Marjory, you
must too." She had hardly known why she had made this defiant and
sudden declaration. Johnny had been much impressed with Cecilia's
guest. So much so that his misery was acute when Jeremiah related
the incident of the brick throwing.
"I sez to him, 'Yuh can lay yer own bricks an' here's one to begin
with!'" Jeremiah had said with his customary chuckle, that chuckle
that always came with his proud remembrance.
"I think that was exceedingly clever of you, Mr. Madden," Marjory had
replied. Cecilia had smiled on Marjory with the smile of an angel,
she had also laid her hand on her father's. Johnny had squirmed.
Cecilia gazed out of the window. The air looked cold. She wondered
whether she would ever get the chance to thank that Mr. Keefer
Stuyvesant Twombly for those lovely flowers? They had come just at
the right time. He was wonderful, as the girls said, and
"ravishing," but better, he was nice. There was a scuffle at the
door, Norah's voice was heard: "Now mind the _eee_-lectric sign!" she
said sharply. Cecilia knew that the tree was coming in.
Late that evening Jeremiah opened the door of the pink and gold
"parlour."
"Santa Claus has been here and went," he said mysteriously to Cecilia
and Johnny, who sat on the stairs, "an' he's did good by yuh!"
"Now remember!" said Cecilia to Johnny, with a stern look. Johnny
had been told that his disbelief in Santa Claus was not to be
expressed. They scrambled up. Cecilia stopped in the door. The
tree was a mass of silver and glittering lights. It was really very
lovely. Mr. Madden's tastes were well suited to trimming a Christmas
tree.
"Showy like, an' nothing cheap or old lookin'!" he said, as he
surveyed it with proud eyes. Cecilia went toward a table on which
her gifts were spread out. First, she saw a phonograph with a
morning glory horn.... By it was a pink velvet box, strapped in
silver. "Jewels," was written in a neat, spencerian engraving on one
spot of the silver banding. There was a mother of pearl brush and
comb and glass, bound in wiggly gold.
"They are lovely, Papa!" said Cecilia. "And _just_ what I wanted!"
"Looka here!" whispered Jeremiah. He pulled her toward the light the
tree threw and took from his pocket a small box. He opened it
slowly. Cecilia saw a chain and pendant that would have made a very
good showing on the Christmas tree itself. It was plainly built for
one of the rhinoceros family. It had seemed to dislike showing any
partiality in gems. There was a fair smattering of all jewels
present.
"Three hunderd dollars!" breathed Jeremiah Madden. His eyes shone,
and he breathed quickly. "Celie," he said, "it ain't too good fer
yuh! There ain't nothing I wouldn't do fer yuh!"
"I know, dear," answered the small Cecilia, "but you shouldn't. It
is too much. You have made me very happy." She turned away. There
was a sudden smarting beneath her eyelids.... She hated the school
that had taught her a quiet manner, and to see blue glass butter
dishes as a visitation rather than a glory.
"That ain't _all_!" said Jeremiah. He took hold of her arm, and led
her to the other side of the room. "Throw on the lights, Johnny!" he
called loudly. Cecilia felt him tremble. The lights snapped on with
a too white glare. Jeremiah and Cecilia stood before a picture over
which was thrown a cloth. Jeremiah drew it aside.
"It was did from a tintype," said Jeremiah softly. He looked on the
face of his Irish wife. Her lips were painted a brazen carmine. Her
cheeks glowed like the stage ladies' of the billboards. Around her
neck were three ropes of huge pearls.
"He threw in the pearls," explained Jeremiah in a voice that shook a
little, "an' fancied her up some, but them eyes,--it's your maw,
Celie. Your maw that died in a two-room flat." With the last words
Jeremiah had turned away. His shoulders had a limp droop. The
happiness of the evening had faded.
"What's in this box?" asked Cecilia, unsteadily. It was a hat box
and stood beneath the new portrait.
"Her present," answered Jeremiah. "The present I give her. Look at
it, Celie. Ain't it pretty? I picked it."
Cecilia opened the box. She drew out a large, flopping hat. It was
trimmed with pink roses.
The next day when Father McGowan was all ready to start for the
Madden house, there was commotion in the wilds of _Sie_beria. It had
been reported the day before that one of the "guys" had smoked a
Piedmont, and Father McGowan, finding this so, had had to dust him
mildly with a hickory cane, hung on the back porch for that purpose.
He disliked doing this, and smoked for a good hour afterward to
soothe his nerves. Mrs. Fry had watched the chastising with pleased
eyes, but then, on going to the bathroom, all happiness had vanished,
for one of them rep_tiles_ had crawled out of the tub. She had
dropped her scrubbing cloths, and disappeared screaming.
Father McGowan had been all ready to start. He had found his hat
(which had the most mysterious way of disappearing), and with an
ashamed expression, he'd put a small box in his pocket.
Then the wilds of _Sie_beria had demanded attention.
"Them young devils," Mrs. Fry had said, with a bob of her head
backward. "They are raising Cain! Something's wrong." She went off
muttering. She still cherished and resented the encounter with the
rep_tile_. Father McGowan went toward _Sie_beria. It was one of the
few times in his life that he hadn't wanted to.
"_Now_ what?" he called from the back porch. A scream was the only
answer. It came from one of the brick dwellings. The chastised of
yesterday, Father McGowan saw going quickly over the fence.
"Oh, drat!" said Father McGowan. There were wilder howls from the
brick mansion. Father McGowan went toward it. He looked for the
door, then he chuckled softly, for the door was entirely gone. He
took off his gloves and began to pull out the bricks.
"Walled in," he muttered.
"Lemme out! Lemme out!" came from within, in muffled tones. Then
with the opening Father McGowan had made, and with the advent of
light, the screams dissolved into pathetic sobs.
"When I git him!" came in moist tones. A small boy wiggled out. He
had a paper covered book in his hands. "He done it," explained the
boy, between sniffs, "while I was a-readin' in the secret chamber.
_He_ done it. When I git him! I'll smash him! I mighta starved!"
he ended pathetically.
"Well," said Father McGowan, "that is a shame! Won't you come have a
piece of pie now? You must be hungry."
The boy nodded. He followed Father McGowan toward the house. "He
done it," he went on, "because I told on him fer smoking. I thought
I _oughta_." The sufferer's tone was pious. "My nerves is shook
up," he said when they reached the porch. "I was afraid I'd starve.
There's pictures in our physiologies of starving Cubans--they ain't
so nice.
"Mrs. Fry," said Father McGowan, "we do need a piece of pie. Could
you find us some?" Mrs. Fry muttered and went to the refrigerator.
Out on the back fence the chastised called, "Yi! Yi!" A note
expressing scorn. He added, "Cry baby! Cry baby!" The cry baby
turned and exhibited a piece of pie. The chastised relaxed into a
pained silence.
"Come here!" called Father McGowan. The boy slid from the fence and
came slinking toward him. "Mrs. Fry saw you smoking," said Father
McGowan. "I never listen to what you tell of each other. Here's a
piece of pie for you." He looked at his watch and added in a
perfunctory way, "You shouldn't have walled him in."
"I ought to have given you a Rosary," said Father McGowan. He still
looked guilty, but happily so. Cecilia stood before a mirror,
looking at a dainty little chain and pendant, which she'd clasped
about her throat.
"I know you ought, Father McGowan, dear," she answered, "but I'm _so_
glad you didn't! It's _so_ beautiful!"
She gasped happily. Father McGowan smiled. "Papa gave me one," she
said. "It--it is, that is, I love it, but I'll wear this more." She
looked into Father McGowan's understanding eyes.
"I am learning," she said, "but I learned things before I went to
school that I shall never forget, and that I never want to forget."
Jeremiah came in.
"You give her that?" he asked in a pleased voice. "Well! But have
you saw the one I give her? _Three_ hunderd dollars! Get it, Celie,
and then play us 'The Shepherd Boy.'" Celie vanished.
White-clad nurses flitted about the halls of Jeremiah Madden's house.
There was a dead silence, and upstairs that druggy-sick smell.
Cecilia had been very ill. She was better, but still sick enough to
keep Jeremiah anxious. He hovered about the house almost forgetting
bricks, and wearing a collar all the time, as he did on Sundays. It
had begun with a cold, then a cough, which (through Celia's standing
on the curb, better to view a gentleman down the street who was
interestingly drunk) had turned to pneumonia on both sides.
She had gone to bed protesting that she felt very well, but that her
breath was not acting quite right. Then she had grown so very, very
sick that she had forgotten time, life and even Jeremiah of the
bricks.
Those days had been rather dreadful for Jeremiah.... He had taken to
sitting just outside her door on a very upright chair. He turned the
pages of "Ridpath's History of the World." He was trying to "educate
himself up to Celie." ... However, he missed a great many of the
pictures and only got as far as Volume One.
Each time a trim nurse would step from Cecilia's door, he would cough
to get his voice in shape, and then whisper gratingly: "Excuse me,
Missis, but how is she?"
"She is doing well," the white one would answer, in a tone of thin
sincerity. Then Jeremiah would go back to Ridpath, miserable, and
unconvinced. Once in a while he would hear Cecilia's high, little
voice--"Keefer, the butler!" she repeated again and again one day.
She said it in gasps, but somehow got out the words. The effort in
her voice had cut Jeremiah's heart, but the words had brought a proud
smile.
"Associatin' with butlers!" he whispered. "_Ain't_ she gettin' fine?"
Then Cecilia moaned of butter dishes, blue ones. Jeremiah had left
his post and Ridpath's History long enough to go shopping. He bought
her three butter dishes. Two of them had covers. The third boasted
of a curling handle, on which perched a dove and a cupid, on a spray
of something that looked like spinach in the crude state. Cecilia
had been very pleased with them. She had looked on them, said,
"T-thank you, _dearest_!" and then cried gently, the tears slipping
down her face with pathetic regularity. She cried all that afternoon.
"I'm not good enough for you!" she gasped, "but I love you, and
butter dishes!"