He ambled back to his seat. “Now imagine that the rock you are planning to throw costs millions of dollars. And to catapult it, you must risk the lives of thousands of men. You’d want to make sure that rock hits exactly where it is supposed to, destroying exactly what it is intended to destroy. Otherwise you’ve squandered all that money and wasted all those men.”
Simmons lowered his hands and sat forward. “You follow me, Charlie? You’d want to make goddamn steel-trap iron-clad sure.”
Charlie nodded. “I follow you, sir.”
“Like it or not, son, modern warfare has become a race. Hitler has his panzers and rockets, the Japs have their fleet and their fighter planes. Right now we are in a mad dash to catch up. I landed you this assignment as a favor to your mother. But to put it plainly, you are doing a mediocre job. It will not do, you hear me, Charlie? In a race to victory, mediocre will not do.”
Charlie stood. “Loud and clear, Uncle John. I hear you loud and clear.”
The professor also rose from his chair, the smile back on his face. “See? I knew this talk would be good for us both, Charlie.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Of course.” He held out his hand.
Charlie shook it, and left the office at a run.
7.
He had never tasted eggnog before. When my mother poured Charlie that nice big glass of it, and clinked her glass against his, cheers, and he took the big, gulping, enthusiastic swallow you’d expect of a polite boy, thank goodness she didn’t see the expression on his face three seconds later. While she turned to check the oven, he looked like a gargoyle who’d just drunk gasoline.
“Wow,” he managed to say, shuddering, “that is really something.”
I caught his eye, and handed him my glass of water. Charlie nodded gratefully, filled his mouth and swished it around.
By then my mother had straightened. “Give that casserole five more minutes, and then we’ll eat,” she said, taking a decent gulp herself.
The three of us stood in that tiny kitchen, smiling for three different reasons. Who would have predicted that my mother would have a helpful role in our romance by giving Charlie and me secrets to share together? In retrospect, perhaps she could have. Maybe we were amateurs, and she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Come on,” she called, charging into the living room. “Let’s watch the snow.”
My mother had turned off the table lamps but left the front steps’ light on. Great fat flakes fell past as I stood at her elbow watching. A gust of wind made them all change direction at once, like a school of tropical fish.
“Sure is pretty,” Charlie said, joining us. His glass was nearly empty, and I imagined he’d made a stop at the sink along the way.
“Do you get much snow where you come from?” my mother asked.
“We do,” he said. “I’d say Boston gets buried twice a winter.”
“Sing something,” I blurted. “Some Christmas song.”
Charlie made his surprised expression. “Really?”
“Great idea,” my mother cheered, dropping into a chair. She raised her glass to him. “Knock yourself out, kiddo.”
Charlie gave us both a look, then leaned to the piano and played an E. I already knew—from his humming beside me while I played the organ, from snippets of songs here and there—that he could sing on pitch. Plus he’d told me stories from his years in the choir. Still, maybe my favorite thing he had done up to that moment was playing that note, so he would be on key for us. And then he began.
O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.
We clapped, he blushed, it was adorable as kittens.
“Let’s open gifts,” my mother cried out. Sometimes she could be worse than a kid.
“Honestly, Mother. It’s not Christmas yet.”
“Charlie has work tomorrow.” She made a face. “Just one won’t spoil anything.”‘
There was no point in arguing. My mother was flexible as a brick. We’d skipped a tree that year, to save money, and the old fireplace hadn’t been safe to burn things in for years, so our presents lay in their wrapping on the hearth. Meager, to tell the truth, what with the holiday packages for Frank and Daddy mailed weeks ago.
“Charlie first,” my mother insisted, lighting a cigarette. “Pick that big box.”
Now when it comes to unwrapping, I am a shredder. So is my mother. We believe in getting to the goods as quick as we can. Not Charlie. He found the taped places, and slid a finger under them to open the paper without tearing. By the time he was done we could have used the wrapping paper all over again. I wanted to give him a shake.
“This is a really large gift,” he marveled, weighing the box.
“For the love of Pete, kiddo. Open it.” My mother gulped her eggnog.
It was an overcoat, black as coal with a velvet collar. “My goodness,” Charlie said. He put it on, discovering that it was double-breasted, smoothing the front down with his hand. “I feel like Humphrey Bogart.”
“Well, well.” My mother half-hid a smirk behind her eggnog glass. “Brenda, doesn’t he look smashing?”
I felt a little clench in my heart. I was not in love with Charlie Fish. I liked him well enough, and he was sweet as cinnamon candy. But he was so skinny, almost frail. I had higher hopes. Still, I hated when he had to cancel a date because of duty, and I liked our little confidences. Any Monday he didn’t visit the shop, I’d spend the whole afternoon at the spinet model, trying to lift my mood with show tunes. Now my mother’s urging was not helping to clarify matters.
“He does,” I said at last, because it was true. “Smashing.”
He went to the hall mirror and examined himself. “Well, hardly. But now I’ll be warm.” He turned to us, beaming. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
“Brenda next,” my mother bossed, ever the dictator. “Open your gift from Charlie.”
The woman knew what she was doing. He handed me a small box, long and narrow. Wrapped in graph paper. Can you imagine anything less romantic? Light green, covered with square grids. Granted, Charlie had drawn a little spruce tree on it, a few holly leaves, and in the corner what I guessed was either the sun or a star, sending rays in all directions. At least there was a personal touch.
Today I wish like anything that I had saved that paper. I wish I had those little drawings, sketched with a red pencil, probably made in stolen time at his math office. I would frame them in silver, hang it on my apartment wall, and call it “Before.” That is, before everything happened with us, and to us. Before I learned to cherish his kindness. Instead I tore it all away, ripped open the box, and then had to catch my breath. Gloves—beautiful calfskin gloves the color of butterscotch.
“What is it? What did he give you?”
“One second please, Mother.”
I touched the one on top, soft as spring leaves. I slid one finger inside, and felt some kind of fur.
“They’re lined,” Charlie pointed out, “so they’ll be warm as well as fashionable.”