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The Last Believer
by
Harry Buschman
From The Westlake Village Collection.
It always snowed on Christmas Eve. Like
clockwork, the first flakes would
fall the middle of the afternoon. We would be on our way home by then because
old man Langley would close the office at lunch time.
He would appear at the far end of the
drafting room bundled up and ready to leave. "Merry Christmas, everybody."
It was the signal for the rest of us to leave as well. We would be out of the
building hard on his heels -- some of us would have a drink or two at Hurley's
before catching the train for home. Some office romances would linger a bit
longer, and there was always one or two people from out of town who had nowhere
to go.
The railroad ran extra trains in the early
afternoon, the schedules were ignored and you would see people on the east bound
trains you never saw before. Many of them were tipsy and it was a fair bet they
would ride past their stop to the end of the line. They would find the return
trip long and embarrassing. Looking through the dirty windows of the home-bound
train we would see the first flakes falling, and we would count off on our
fingers the presents we bought for family and friends, to make sure we hadn't
forgotten anyone. We were resigned -- we should have started earlier, but it was
time to call a halt and if it wasn't bought and wrapped by now, there was always
next year.
The train would pull into Westlake Village
on the east-bound track. Some of us would make for the wall phones that hung in
the cold dark station, others would strike off on their own -- knowing that
their harried wives were busy in the kitchen and should not be disturbed. By now
there would be an inch or two of snow, like cake frosting, to smooth over the
dingy parts of town. Some of us would stop for a Christmas drink at the Hollow
Leg Saloon. On Christmas Eve drinks were on the house and Clancy the bartender
would be wearing his red and green suspenders. There would be Irish music on the
phonograph. The road to home would then be only a quarter mile up Breakneck
Hill. It would be a bitter cold quarter mile, and when we reached the top the
north wind would be waiting, but the sight of our houses, the smell of wood
smoke and the cooking, (not to mention the warming bite of Clancy's bourbon)
would insulate us from the chill of a night in late December.
At that moment we would become separate
men, each man distinct and alone to himself -- no longer a group of
homeward bound husbands. I would be me, and you would be you.
The pies were being made. Apple and mince
for us -- squash for the old folks. The girls were stringing popcorn and
cranberries in the living room -- the younger stuck herself and quickly blamed
the older for pushing her.
"Don't take your coat off dear -- get the
tree before it's covered with snow." The debate would begin as to where the
heavy iron stand had last been seen.
"It's under this or behind that -- or
perhaps it's in the garage back of the lawn mower." Wherever it might be, it
would have to be found before the tree could be brought in; like opening an
umbrella indoors, it was bad luck to lay a Christmas tree on the floor.
At last it would stand warming itself in
the corner, concealing the picture of Uncle Fred for the duration of the
yuletide season.
I always asked, "Anybody want to take a last look at Uncle Fred?" No takers!
There was never an answer. For the next few weeks, Uncle Fred would stare glumly
through the tinseled branches at the festivities he never got to see in the
living room.
I would have to get the lights and the
decorations and the kitchen stepladder. The younger daughter would abandon her
tiny string of popcorn and cranberries and plunge into the business of
ornamenting the tree. It was the husband's job to hang the lights and climb the
ladder to the topmost star. It was the wife's job to tell the husband the tree
leaned a little too much this way or that -- "and turn it so the bare spot is
against the wall."
The old dog, a stickler for the status quo,
would view the proceedings with mixed emotions. He had been through enough
Christmases to know that the quiet placidity of the next week or two would be
interrupted. He would stare at the tree from his warm spot by the sofa,
accepting the fact that this tree was sacrosanct -- unlike other trees he knew
that could be peed upon, this one was for looking at only. He was prepared for a
late night filled with hushed whisperings and muffled thumps from the attic to
the basement. He knew he must ignore these noises tonight -- but only for
tonight, for they are the same noises that every dog has sworn to the death to
defend his family from. He could only hope that he would be walked and fed at
regular intervals.
Christmas Eve supper was a casual affair,
and quickly forgotten. Leftovers, eaten only to clear space in the refrigerator
for tomorrow's onslaught of uneaten turkey wings, cranberry relish, creamed
onions, turnips, Brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes. The lady of the house
would look worn and faraway, with her mind on the night to come, the dinner
tomorrow, and what she should pray for at the Mass in the morning. I would look
haggard and wonder if I would be able to get the car out of the driveway now
that the snow was six inches deep. The younger daughter would ask if she would
be able to see the footprints of Santa and his reindeer on the roof, now that
the snow had fallen. The older daughter had to eat and run because she was
caroling with the junior class of Westlake high.
The younger daughter "believed." The older
daughter did not. We were torn between the two; we had to promise the
younger that the fire in the hearth would not hamper the arrival of Santa,
and he would be favorably impressed if
he found cookies and milk by the Christmas tree -- he might even leave an extra
present or two. Reluctant to relinquish the enchantment of Christmas Eve, and
yet knowing, with a woman's cunning, that unless she took to her bed, the magic
of Christmas morning would never come, she would, at long last, unwillingly say
good night.
But, she had to be read to first ....
something seasonal to keep the juices flowing, and in the midst of the reading
of the "Grinch," or was it "The Little Drummer Boy," the carolers arrived to
fill the house with song. We had to go down to hear them. The girls voices were
pure as temple chimes, but the boys sounded gritty and unmusical -- like elderly
drunks singing barely remembered school songs at a class reunion.
The older daughter was not with them. She
was singing with a group on the posh side of Westlake Village where the take
would be considerably greater. With the last strains of "Deck the Halls" ringing
in our ears, a bright eyed soprano displayed a basket already primed with dollar
bills. "For music books," she explained, "We need new music books." It is
Christmas, after all -- only a Grinch could resist a request for new music books
on Christmas Eve.
We're on our own now. The work of the night
would now begin. Younger daughter asleep and the older one back from caroling --
already on the phone and smelling faintly of cigarettes.
"Where did we hide the Easy-Bake oven?"
"Where is the new tricycle?"
"What did you do with the wrapping paper?"
"I told you we needed Scotch tape!"
The round-up began amid urgent whisperings
and stifled accusations. We alternated between panic, frenzy and dismay -- with
long periods spent reading obscure assembly instruction sheets written in
translation. A large sherry calmed the storm, and at last we were alone to
admire the tree and the package filled living room. There was peace, a hush and
a stillness so profound that it almost convinced us there might once have been a
night like this long ago. The mother, the father, and the dog, mesmerized by the
lights, the smell, and the memory of Christmases past.
There would be no believers under this roof
next year, the younger daughter would discover the hoax at last and from
that moment on there would always be a touch of disbelief in our solemn
word. Little by little the magic of life had slipped away from her. The Easter
bunny did not leave colored eggs in the living room, and the moon was not made
of green cheese. Life was real, life was earnest, and a tinge of skepticism
would make a woman of a little girl.
"I suppose this will be the last year she
believes." I ventured.
"In Santa Claus? You're funny."
"Why? What makes you say I'm funny?"
"She didn't believe last year -- I thought
you knew everything." She said. "You remember the record player we got her last
year?"
"Yes, the damn thing wouldn't work."
"You had to go back the next day and get a
replacement, didn't you?" She smiled at me tolerantly. "You took her with you,
didn't you?"
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