The Christmas Pearl Read online

  No one makes garlands today. Or wreaths. Everything is ordered from the florist or a catalog or bought on the side of the road from the same fellow who sells fireworks in the summer. Or even more terrible, people use plastic fake things that give your home no fragrance at all. I find this very disappointing. You have to understand that the real fun of the season was in the preparation. The preparation fueled our frenzy of anticipation.

  Naturally there were gifts. Gordie and I would construct bookmarks for our mother and grandmother. They loved to read. Our home was well stocked with books of every kind. We’d draw a flower or a bird on a long skinny piece of stiff paper, color it carefully, then fringe the bottoms with manicuring scissors. The other side was then signed and dated. The bookmarks were enclosed in handmade cards. We hid everything under our beds until the tree went up.

  A crisp morning would find us walking up King Street to Kerrison’s Department Store hand in hand with Pearl. With what little money we had earned by performing small chores like sweeping the steps or folding towels, we would argue and finally settle on a linen handkerchief or a necktie for our father. Later a card would be made for him, too. What to give Pearl was always a huge dilemma. Gordie or I would pester someone into shopping with us to find her a nice pair of gloves, a sweater, or a pretty scarf that would be from us. It seems to me now that way back then, the other adults made us work for their attention and affection. Pearl freely gave an abundance of both. Maybe there was a lesson there—a pearl of wisdom?

  Anyway, the whole business took weeks to accomplish! When it was over, the house was festooned to a fare-thee-well and we were ready to be fattened up with all the goodies we had made to eat. By the time the Christmas tree was up and decorated, Gordie and I were bug-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of anything that might resemble a reindeer and our ears were peeled for the jingle of any kind of bell.

  We had a beautiful crèche set that was carefully arranged on the ancient mahogany entrance-hall table with votive candles nestled in more greens. In retrospect, it was probably a fire hazard! No one seemed to worry about those things then. You might ask why a Protestant household had a painted plaster crèche set. It had been given to us by a Catholic friend of my grandmother. She said it was a beautiful reminder of what the entire holiday was about. She was right! There was just Joseph, Mary, an ox, and a donkey in a humble stable. On Christmas morning we added the Baby Jesus, the shepherds that night, and then we took them away at the beginning of January when the kings arrived. The shepherds had to go back to work, didn’t they?

  The family Bible was opened on another table to a beautiful artist’s rendering of the Nativity scene. Greens surrounded it just so in an Advent wreath of four candles, three purple and one rose-colored. They stood solemnly in shining brass candlesticks around the Bible, lit only at supper. One the first week, two the second…all leading up to the big event.

  We were regular churchgoers, staunch believers in the true meaning of Christmas. Gordie? At his age? Be assured that he was in church and his eyes were squeezed tight while he petitioned the Lord for cowboy guns or a catcher’s mitt. I was right next to him, hands folded thumb over thumb, fingers pointed toward heaven, fervently pleading for a doll that said “mama.” Since we finally had peace on earth and there seemed to be a lot of goodwill toward men, surely it was okay to ask God to help you out with Santa?

  That’s just how the holidays were. We cracked nuts, we made our own decorations and most of our gifts, we went to church, and we waited for Santa. Everyone baked for the holidays—sweets usually. Most people didn’t decorate nearly as much as we did. I’m not sure if we tackled the season with such gusto because my grandmother, mother, and Pearl thought it would keep us busy and out of trouble or perhaps because they just couldn’t stop themselves. It didn’t matter. The house smelled delicious and looked gorgeous from all the greens and baking. Just the fact that we did these things together made us happier than I have ever been since.

  Those days are long gone. Gordie, Pearl, my parents, and grandparents are all gone. My poor sweet husband, Fred, went to glory about ten years ago and I still miss him every day. Life surely is lonely without my darling Fred.

  Gordie, who grew up to be a soldier and was every girl’s sweetheart, died in Normandy, the French shores of the world’s next terrible war. None of us ever recovered. How could we? We were proud and took some solace in the fact that our family had produced someone who died a heroic death, defending our Allies in Europe. Still, the loss of Gordie cut a hole in all of us. We bore invisible punctures of grief forever. My grandfather died when I was just barely out of diapers. My grandmother went to heaven and then we lost Pearl. My beautiful mother died suddenly when I was thirteen. If my father were alive today, he would be one hundred zillion years old, so I’m not being morbid to speak of his demise. I mean, I miss them all. However, I’m not the kind of woman who gets maudlin, most especially over things I can’t control.

  It’s just that things were vastly different then. I’ll tell you this much. Pearl, even my mother, would be appalled by the fake trees and wreaths, inflatable Santas, and that the pecans are so astronomically priced, sold half cleaned and in ugly cellophane bags. Pearl would be deeply disappointed that no one seems to make, eat, or exchange cakes or candies or that handmade gifts are almost unheard of in today’s world. Knit someone a sweater or crochet an afghan? Not anymore! They would be especially horrified that people give gift certificates via the Internet—whatever that is—that they think the fact that they spend a few dollars with a couple of clicks is an actual exertion. A great personal sacrifice! Priorities are hugely different in today’s world. I imagine all this technology is useful in many endeavors. But like private education and small business, as you might have guessed I would have greatly preferred a handmade bookmark to a free meal at some chain establishment posing as a restaurant.

  This is just me. Even though I feel as spry as I did, oh, thirty years ago, the fact is that I am an elderly lady. It was Christmastime again, everyone was here, and as I have pointed out, our crazy old house was giving us a dose of continuous holiday live theater, a protest from beyond the grave.

  The walls were moaning, the pictures were askew, the lights were switching from dim to bright for no good reason at all except that the house itself or the ghosts in it didn’t like the way my daughter, her husband, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren were running their cockeyed show. I was just trying to stay out of their way.

  Lying in bed at night, I privately admitted that a lot of the blame was mine. I was plenty vexed with myself for not encouraging Barbara the way Pearl pushed us to create holiday thrills. Here was something else I had been thinking about lately: I missed Pearl more than I missed my mother.

  My mother loved the holidays, but she had Pearl to do everything while she saw to her social commitments. Yes, she would begin the season with us and liked to decorate, but as the parties rolled around, we seldom saw her. Sometimes I thought I hardly knew my mother at all. Losing her at thirteen was so traumatic that I struggled for years to remember the details of her face in my mind, and so photographs of her were that much more precious to me. I took an oath that I would always be available to my children.

  Later on, when I married and took over the house, I never had someone like Pearl to work for me. I only had Barbara. I made my share of cupcakes, but I wasn’t involved in activities outside the home. Barbara and Fred were easy enough to care for, and my father, who lived with us until his call to heaven, helped, too. Barbara was a quiet, understanding child who always seemed to find ways to amuse herself.

  Now, don’t go telling this, but there was a time when Fred and I worried that Barbara would never marry. It was around that time that the house started to moan. The house and its spirits wanted a guarantee that another family would take my place and Fred’s when Saint Peter knocked on our door.

  Poor Barbara! She had unfortunately inherited my grandmother Dora’s pronounced nose and some other qui
rks and personality traits that would never make her the belle of the ball. Thank all the stars in the sky that there truly is a lid for every pot because when Barbara was about twenty, Cleland Taylor appeared on the scene with his boyish but patrician looks. Cleland was from a nice family, but was an unspectacular scholar who demonstrated a startling lack of ambition. However, he held a degree in political science from the University of Virginia and a job in a bank here in Charleston, rising to the position of manager—which in those days meant something more than it does today.

  Privately, I would worry with Fred that Cleland’s proposal of marriage to Barbara was based on financial security. Not love. He said I was a skeptic. My Fred, ever the diplomat, never missed an opportunity to point out any evidence of affection on Cleland’s part. They finally made it down the aisle with our blessings. After a short honeymoon in San Francisco, they moved in with us, in the time-honored tradition of my family’s history.

  On the surface, Barbara’s early years of marriage looked like mine—simple, quiet, orderly. The need for her to engage full-time help was never there, as I cooked and Fred was handy. More importantly, satisfactory talent never appeared on our doorstep. Women like Pearl didn’t exist anymore.

  When Barbara and Cleland’s children came along, George then Camille, sibling rivalry soon reared its ugly head. Barbara couldn’t control their arguing, Cleland began to withdraw, and discontent became the order of the day. It was some sour pickle! The house had its next generation of tenants, but it was not satisfied with the temperature of their waters. So, no surprise to me, the house moaned and rattled, using Thanksgiving until well after New Year’s Day to state its grievances.

  By the grace of heaven and herculean struggles, Barbara brought George and Camille to adulthood then marriage. Each marriage has thus far born one grandchild. None of them are much to brag about so far because they have all sucked the life from my daughter. In my family, I love in order of birth and Barbara was there before all of them.

  Even now, Barbara is plain-looking, not terribly fashionable, and painfully shy, but she has a heart of gold. Has that been enough to keep a petulant husband in line and to guide two difficult children? No.

  It was my fault. I was the mother bird who never taught her hatchling to spread her little gray wings and fly. I had captained a rudderless ship, bound for the Land of Ennui. It was true. It was my mother’s death and Pearl’s shortly afterward that sabotaged my skills to imbue Barbara with what she needed. I knew what a mother was supposed to do up until a daughter was thirteen or so, but after that I was lost.

  Enough of that! You can’t get from ninety-three to ninety-four sloshing around in self-recriminations, can you? And Cleland is not without merit. He certainly held enough chairs and doors for me to satisfy anyone’s definition of a gentleman. It’s just that Fred and I had such high hopes for Barbara and Cleland and their children. I knew there was a basic goodness in them all; it was just that it seemed, well…what could I do to bring it out?

  To preserve my sanity and bolster my spirits on a daily basis, I had developed my own routine to keep me not just young at heart, but also young at mind. I made it a point to inquire about Barbara’s well-being and how things were at the bank for Cleland that day. I read the newspaper every morning so that I had something to discuss at the table that evening. Each night after supper, at precisely seven o’clock, I indulged myself with a moderate measure of bourbon over shaved ice mixed with a little sugar syrup, garnished with a sprig of fresh mint. Yes, a mint julep in my favorite cut-glass tumbler, which is so well used it seems to me the edges are finally wearing away. You could set your wristwatch by its arrival.

  Eliza, who was our modern-day version of a part-time partner in crime, as Pearl had been to my grandmother and mother, brought it to me with a small linen napkin and two cheese straws on a tiny silver tray, the one Eliza and I liked best. It had been passed down to me by my great-grandmother. While it wasn’t elaborate, it reminded me of more gentle days. Eliza liked the ceremony as much as I did. For me, it marked another victorious day aboveground. For her, it was the beginning of her evening at home away from us.

  No one could make mint juleps like Eliza, who had prepared one delicious meal after another for our whole family for the past twelve years. After eighty-something years in the kitchen, I hired Eliza as a treat for all of us. I could take it easy. My sweet Barbara had never been terribly imaginative or successful in the kitchen, even with shelves of cookbooks at her disposal. Like the younger generations say? Not happening. Barbara was a dear and we had Eliza to keep us nourished. It wasn’t that we couldn’t cook; it was just that Eliza was a trained chef. When Eliza was there, the house was a happy place. Besides, let’s face it. My social life was thin. My generation had been diminished to almost zero by the general calamities of living. I am probably one of the oldest people in Charleston! Can you imagine how very peculiar that is? Some days I can feel death all around me, so I feel some urgency to enjoy myself as much as I can within the boundaries of propriety of course.

  Holiday decorations were not in Eliza’s job description. We accepted that. She did the grocery shopping, prepared dinner and supper, and cleaned up the kitchen. On occasion, Barbara used a cleaning service for the laundry and other general housework. But Eliza really gave the house the atmosphere we wanted.

  Sometimes it seemed that I shared more secrets with Eliza than I did with my own daughter. She knew I valued her friendship and discretion enormously. Sometimes I would sit in the kitchen with her, but I wasn’t working. Frankly, the last thing I needed was to fall on a wet floor. What if I broke my hip? So for that reason as well, I was very glad to have Eliza in my employ. Every day she came to work she might have been extending my life.

  Between us? For some peculiar reason she was the only one of our entire congregation who recognized and agreed with me about the general dissatisfaction and antics of the house. Maybe that extrasensory sensitivity was a side benefit of being an authentic Lowcountry resident. Who could say?

  So these were my thoughts and it was Christmas Eve again. I was alone in the dining room, dressed in my favorite green knit dress and jacket that I wore during the holidays. On my left shoulder was the little emerald-and-pearl circle pin that had been Fred’s last gift to me. I touched it, remembering how he had smiled when he saw how thrilled I was by it, and how he pinned it to my shoulder. I waited for Eliza to arrive with my treat. I had to admit, I liked order and ritual more than ever. Habits surely contributed to keeping my beans together. The mint julep did not impair my tolerance level. In fact, it helped.

  To be brutally honest, on this night of this particular year, everything was worse than ever. My heart was so troubled.

  My family bickered across the hall in the living room as they decorated their so-called Christmas tree. I hesitated to join them. I simply didn’t want to be a party to their shenanigans. At least not without some fortification, as they were almost intolerable. I had dreamed about their attitude, had I not? Yes, I had. So many nights, I would see Pearl’s face in my dreams just shaking her head and wagging a finger at me.

  There was my conundrum. I knew that the odds were that the Good Lord was going to call me home soon—no one lived forever. Except, I did not want to leave the earth with my family in its present state. What could I do? Who cared what an old lady thought?

  “Here we are, Ms. Theodora! Just the way you like it!”

  “Oh my! Thank you, Eliza!” I took the drink and the napkin and put the dish of cheese straws on the table. I motioned to the living room, where my family’s voices cackled like crows above the beautiful music of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker. “Listen to them, will you?”

  We stood together, watching the lights flicker. Picture frames tipped to the east and west as we listened to them.

  “They all need a good switching!” I said.

  “They have always been like this,” Eliza said. “At least, since I’ve known them.”

  “I think the
y’re worse.”

  Well, there were a few blessings to count. Barbara and Cleland’s son, George the Complainer, was finally delighted about something. Nine months and two days after they married, his third bride, Lynette, who is from an unfortunate family of greatly lesser means and manners, had given him a daughter.

  Their child, Teddie, had been strategically named for me in hopes that when I went to my great reward, theirs would be greater. She was barely ten years old, a little devil, and had been right from the cradle. George spoiled her absolutely rotten and rarely corrected her.

  I’m sorry to say, Lynette was too intimidated by George to be an effective disciplinarian. In addition, she was so thin she could blow away in a strong wind. I think that Lynette’s weight was a direct result of George’s vigilance about every crumb that traveled to her mouth. The world would say he was a very shallow man and excessively concerned with her appearance. Ah, well. Poor Lynette. George just had to have something to control and poor Lynette was it. Lynette wore what George liked, vacationed where George wanted to go, and George had the pitiful wisp dripping in diamonds. Their Teddie would probably have been an adorable child if she weren’t the weapon they hurled at each other when the winds between them blew foul. George was a wildly successful real-estate broker. On top of everything else, I was certain that his success caused some jealousy between him and his father.

  Camille, at thirty-six, was separated from her husband, Grayson, and was patently jealous of Lynette’s jewelry and grander possessions. Their little boy, Andrew, who was a darling child, had suffered horribly from the separation. I would venture a bet that Andrew had a tutor for something or other every afternoon! Every time Grayson tried to exercise his right of visitation, Camille lit angry fireworks. It was very upsetting to everyone. She called Grayson such terrible names and said such vile things about him that I believed Andrew thought if he showed affection for his father, he was betraying his mother. And Camille really did baby him too much. It was just all so convoluted and wrong.