“The same to you, Elizabeth. Try to get a good sleep, you’ll need all your energy tomorrow.”
Was she saying more than the words themselves? Elizabeth was too tired to wonder. When Constance had gone she took a last slow look around the living-room, at the two fat red socks dangling from the mantel, the piled presents, gay with ribbon and seals and mystery. Maire’s sled, leaning against the wall beside the tree, threw a long shadow; a bell on Jeep’s fire truck caught the light winkingly. She said, “I suppose we’d better get to bed, the children will think it’s morning any minute now,” and stretched out a hand to her lamp.
“Right,” said Oliver. “Thank God we don’t have to leave by way of the chimney.” He turned out lights and locked the doors and folded a stubborn red ember under ashes in the fireplace. Elizabeth realized belatedly that he had finished and was waiting beside her chair. She said, “Oh—ready?” and stood up.
They were very close together. Oliver put his hands on her shoulders and gazed at her gently and examiningly. “Still thinking about this ‘oun’ business, aren’t you? That was a damned fool thing for Steven to say, about Maire seeing something down here to frighten her. You didn’t—” were his fingers tightening, or did she imagine it? “—take him seriously, by any chance?”
It might have been the dimness, or Oliver’s hands, or her own complete weariness that made her answer seem all at once important. Elizabeth stepped back, and was shocked at the sharpness of her own involuntary movement. She said, “It’s much too late to take anything seriously, except sleep. Coming?”
“Because,” said Oliver as though he hadn’t heard her and as though it had just occurred to him, “Noreen will be back tomorrow night, and chances are she knows all about this thing, whatever it is.”
Yes, thought Elizabeth; almost certainly she knows—but can she be made to tell?
. . . There was a crowd gathered, and a great deal of clamor . . . was it fire? When she started forward to see, something soft and cloaking was flung over her eyes. She was not meant to see, then, she was to be kept from ever finding out—but she must find out. Elizabeth fought grimly with the softness against her face, and opened her eyes and looked into Jeep’s, two inches away.
The clamor became Maire, crying, “Daddy, Mama and Daddy, come and look! Santa Claus came!” Jeep retrieved the slip she had flung off and put it on the pillow beside her face again and said, nodding his head earnestly, “You put this on, Mama.” He sounded cajoling and patient, as though he had been saying it for some time, and Elizabeth sat up sleepily against her pillow.
It was Christmas morning.
In the other bed, Oliver stirred. Maire said triumphantly. “He’s awake. Are you awake, Daddy? Santa Claus came!”
Jeep was making small trotting side trips; a stocking and one black pump joined the heap on Elizabeth’s pillow. With each delivery he said hopefully, “You put this on, Mama,” and nodded and went off for more.
Oliver lifted his head, glanced at the clock and looked wryly across at Elizabeth. “Ten of six. Good God.”
“Not bad for Christmas morning.”
“Don’t you think so?” Oliver struggled up on his elbows and took a wider survey of the situation. After a moment he said kindly, “Why don’t you children go back to bed for a while?”
Elizabeth couldn’t help laughing at the gaping faces. “Daddy’s joking. With tears in his eyes.”
“Worth a try,” said Oliver. “Oh well. Maire, hand me my bathrobe like a good girl. Look at Jeep, he’s got your mother practically dressed.”
The children finished opening their presents at last. Rubber animals and books and a Raggedy Ann, jack-in-the-boxes, Maire’s set of tiny dishes lay mingled and for the moment unfought-over in a sea of ribbon and paper. Elizabeth and Oliver, fortified by coffee, looked at each other and smiled briefly. The children’s Christmas had been a success, so much so that they were lost and far-away in delight, and unaware of being watched at all.
Constance came briskly in with a wastebasket, and Elizabeth said quickly, “Oh, let’s leave it for a while, Constance, it looks so lavish.” Constance sat down again with a faintly pained smile, but the wastebasket stayed there in a comer, waiting soberly to dispose of Christmas, to swallow up the festive litter.
“Shall we open ours?” Elizabeth always felt ridiculously shy and embarrassed at this point. When Oliver nodded she said, “You and Constance start. I’ll get more coffee for all of us.”
The morning was full of pale sunshine, the kitchen smelled pleasantly of coffee. Elizabeth groped for cigarettes in the pocket of her housecoat and waited for the percolator to heat. She was pouring the first cup when there was a bubbling shout from the living-room, Maire’s usual spilling-over of amusement, “Daddy, you look funny in that!”
“Well, I don’t know,” Oliver was saying solemnly. “Think it’s a little low-cut for me?”
Elizabeth put the percolator down and went inside to find Oliver eyeing a tumble of ice-green silk. She said, “That’s for Constance. How on earth did I—” and behind her Constance said mildly, “I think I’ve got something of Oliver’s here, haven’t I?”
She held up a pair of ivory-backed military brushes, and looked at the card in her lap. Elizabeth looked too, and saw her own slanting dark-blue hand: “Constance from E.” Just as the card with the nightgown had said, “Oliver from E.”
She had made a mistake, even though the boxes and the wrappings were so different. But she watched, wondering, vaguely disturbed, while Constance undid a long narrow package.
