The Christmas Letters Read online

  The Christmas Letters

  A Novella

  LEE SMITH

  Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill

  For my family

  Contents

  1. Letters from Birdie

  2. Letters from Mary

  3. Letter from Melanie

  Also by Lee Smith

  Praise for The Christmas Letters

  1. Letters from Birdie

  Dec. 24, 1944

  Dear Mama and Rachel,

  It is the day before Christmas and though I know I should be so happy with my own sweet angel baby Mary who lies right here beside me as I write this letter, I will tell you the truth. I am weepy, and cannot hold back my tears. Why do you reckon this is so, when Mary and me have everything we need here?

  Why, we have got a room of our very own nestled up under the eaves of Bill’s parents’ house, it is a nice little room too, with a low roof that slopes up to a point at the top and the prettiest wallpaper featuring a trellis design covered all over in the most beautiful morning glories you can possibly imagine. They are a deep purply blue, and the trellis is white, it is lovely beyond belief. You know I have always been partial to morning glories. Also in this room there is a big iron bed painted white, a rocking chair, a night table with a funny green lamp that has a yellow lampshade with ball fringe all around it, and a little homemade desk where I now sit to write you this letter. There is also a washstand with a Blue Willow pitcher and bowl and an old black-painted trunk where I can lay my Mary down when I change her diapers. She has a little bassinet as well, very old, it has been in Bill’s family for years and years though nobody knows where it came from.

  So Mary and I are well equipped, and should not want for a thing in the new year of our Lord 1945, not a thing in the world except to come back to West Virginia, which we cannot do.

  It is so different here, all flat brown fields which stretch out from this farmhouse in three directions as far as the eye can see. But in the fourth direction, South—now this is the view from our little round window—there is the wide dark Neuse River moving slowly and mysteriously toward the Ocean which I have not yet seen and can scarcely imagine though Bill has promised to take us when he comes home. And way across the river, there’s the town. I can see it better at night when its lights make a pretty reflection in the water, like jewels. In fact the name of the movie theater in town is the Bijou which means jewel if I am correct. It is the colored lights of the Bijou which twinkle in the water come dark, how I love to look at them.

  Still I wish I could have come back up home to have my baby, and stayed with you all until Bill gets out of the War, but he would not hear a word about it, not a word, saying that “No,” his own parents would take good care of his wife and baby. Well, it is the other way around, if you ask me, since Bill’s mother is sick so much. Mrs. Pickett is a woman who was beautiful once upon a time, I know it is true for I have seen the pictures. I need to remember that she got spoiled because she was the only child of wealthy parents, and had her way in everything, that this was her parents’ house and farm which Bill’s father is fast running into the ground, according to all. Come to mention it, I’m finding out that Mr. Slone Pickett has got a reputation around here as a lifelong ne’er-do-well, and a gambler and drunkard besides.

  I must say that Bill did not breathe a word of all this to me, and in fact I wonder if he even knows the extent of his father’s Reputation. But it may have been that Mr. Pickett minded his P’s and Q’s better when Dennis and Bill were here working with him, and has only hit this new low since their departure for the War.

  I hasten to add that Mr. Pickett does not bother me in any way, in fact he is charming to a fault, and seems devoted to little Mary. He likes to bounce her on his knee and sing aloud, “This is the way the Lady rides,” etc. But he is seldom here, always gone off “seeing to business,” as he puts it, which means sitting around with the other old fellows at Bryce’s Tavern across the river, playing cards and talking, or out in his car visiting people. Mr. Pickett loves to go visiting, and I must say I cannot blame him too much, as Mrs. Pickett is not very good company. But this leaves it all up to me, for Mrs. Pickett is quite demanding and it takes both me and old Lorene working double-time just to pacify her.

  Mostly she lies in bed reading magazines and romance novels, with her teeth took out and laid on the bedside table. First she wants one thing then another. She eats about 8 little meals every day instead of 3 like normal people, because of an ulcer, she says, and everything has to be just so. For instance you have to cut all the crusts off the bread or she will not eat it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever described Bill’s parents to you. In appearance Mrs. P. is tall and thin with arms and legs like pipe cleaners, an unusually large head, big blue eyes, and skin so white it looks like milkglass. By contrast, Mr. Pickett is still a handsome man, with thick white hair and eyebrows, though his belly hangs over his belt making him look a little like Humpty Dumpty. He dresses up every day fit to kill, he is quite the dandy. He would die if he knew he looks like Humpty Dumpty.

  I must say it is a surprise to me that my Bill ever issued forth from this unlikely Union, as Bill is such a plain and straightforward fellow, so likable and easy-going, or so it seems to me, though I swear I have nearly forgot his face now as he has been gone already for longer than I knew him before the War.

  I have thought and thought about that day we met, until I wonder if I really remember it at all, or if it is merely a story I made up and now play again and again in my mind like a movie over at the Bijou. I don’t know if I have told you all the particulars of it or not, but I would like to, and I hope you will not mind me going on at length, for I miss you so much, and love to think of you reading this long letter from me.

  You remember that I had come down to North Carolina on that trip with Adelaide Harper to visit her Aunt and Uncle who planned to travel down the Neuse for five days on their new houseboat, and Adelaide was to come with them, as the trip would be Educational. Remember how much I loved Adelaide, Mama, and how I begged to come? Do you ever wish you had said “No,” I wonder now, and do you ever think about where I might be instead, and what I might be doing? Instead of nursing a baby, I mean, on a lonely farm in the middle of brown fields gone to seed down here in North Carolina? For I do wonder about these things. I have time now to wonder, and think on everything, and I find myself thinking, “Oh, but if—” or “If only—” as it has struck me that our whole lives may be so determined, in the twinkling of an eye. Oh but I cannot imagine my life if I had never met Bill at all, this is the Truth.

  I will never forget the day the houseboat ran against the bridge, that sudden awful Storm, almost a hurricane they said it was, and we were forced to seek shelter in the empty barn not a mile from where I now sit to write you this letter, and before we could properly get our wits about us, here came Bill to save us and bring us home. I remember that it was almost dark and we were so scared, Adelaide and me all hugged up together as tight as you please and crying to beat the band, when Bill appeared in the barn door with a smile as bright as the lantern he held in his hands.

  “Now, girls, it can’t be all that bad!” he said. “Isn’t that right, Ma’am?” Now he was addressing Adelaide’s Aunt. “For here you are, safe and sound after all, and the storm has passed, and you’re to come along home with me and get some supper and dry your clothes.”

  And so we followed him out across the great dark flooded fields, sinking to our ankles in water, which mattered not a whit at that point as we were soaked through and through already. Bill talked to Adelaide’s Uncle on the way, telling all the particulars of the Storm and the havoc it had wrought all up and down the river, while Adelaide and I held hands and strained t
o see Bill’s shape in the gloom ahead. I have to say, I was pretty much taken with Bill from the get-go, as you used to say, Mama. Still, I thought that if he were to take notice of either of us, it would be Adelaide of course, for she was the pretty one with the curly blond ringlets admired by all.

  When we finally got to Bill’s house, it quickly became apparent that his grand invitation was ill-considered, for there sat his Mother wrapped up in a shawl by a sputtering oil lamp, and no supper either visible or forthcoming. I saw the situation and took charge, since Adelaide’s Aunt had to go lie down immediately and Adelaide herself did not know how to do anything of that nature. And you know how I have always loved to cook.

  “Do you have any cornmeal?” I asked Bill’s mother, who had not the foggiest notion.

  But Bill found the cornmeal for me, and some Bourbon Whiskey for Adelaide’s Uncle, and then the lights came back on and I set to work in earnest, wearing by now an old flannel nightshirt belonging to Bill’s Father, and going barefoot in the kitchen. By and by Adelaide and her Aunt reappeared, wearing some of Mrs. Pickett’s clothes, and her Uncle cheered up under the influence of the Whiskey, and the whole evening began to take on a festive aspect. As for myself, I could scarcely cook, for I kept stealing glances at Bill.

  “Ah, now he will fall in love with Adelaide,” I thought, when they two fell into conversation, for he had not said one word directly to me. Anyway I boiled potatoes and fried up some corn dodgers the way you taught me, Mama, and then I asked for ham and was told to go down to the cellar to get it, and did, still barefooted. I recall how cool and damp the bricks felt to my feet. But what a surprise when I turned around to find Bill right there, right behind me, he had followed without a word.

  “Now what is your name again?” he asked without preamble and I said, “Mary Bird Hodges,” though I scarce could talk, and he said, “And are you spoken for?” and I said, “No,” forgetting all about William Isley in that instant, and Bill said, “Well, then,” and picked me up and kissed me hard, and I saw Stars, I swear I did, before my very eyes, and could not breathe when he set me back down. Then all of a sudden we fell to laughing, we were both of us laughing like crazy, for no reason at all, and on and on until we had to sit down on the floor, we were so out of breath. Then Bill leaned over and kissed me again, just a little kiss, and by the time we had got ourselves back together and gone upstairs with the ham, we had an understanding, or I felt we had an understanding, and both Adelaide and her Aunt later said it was plain to them as well, that we were glowing, and apt to break into giggles when nothing was funny that anyone else could see.

  So this is the exact circumstances of how we met, which I take great pleasure in remembering over and over alone in my little room with my little Mary, and in writing to you. For it is my fondest hope, Rachel, that you will one day meet a man as fine as Bill, and fall in love as I have done.

  You know the rest, how he came up home to call on us, and stayed a week, and then came back and talked me into eloping, which I know you have never forgiven me for yet, Mama, I reckon I cannot blame you. But I had to have Bill, that was all there was to it. And there was problems with Mr. and Mrs. Pickett, Bill did not say what at the time, but now I see that she would have opposed the match, thinking nobody in this world is good enough for her or hers. Well, be that as it may, I could not have done otherwise. I would have followed Bill anywhere on the earth. I hope you have come to understand this, and are thinking about me more kindly than at first. This course has not been altogether easy for me either, as I am trying to tell you. It is not a bed of roses by any means.

  And now I fear that this farm is teetering right on the edge of Ruin, though no one has discussed it with me of course, nor will they. But Mr. Pickett is evading certain creditors, of this I am sure. With Dennis God knows where in the Pacific and my own poor Bill off in New Guinea, both so far away.

  Oh, who can know the Future? Who would have ever thought to find me here, or my best friend Adelaide dead of pneumonia, all these long months? It breaks my heart to think of Adelaide, as it breaks my heart to think of the mountains, and all of you.

  I just know that Granddaddy will shoot off the gun on Christmas morning, that you will cook a hen for dinner, Mama, Daddy will make the eggnog, and Great-Aunt Lydia will give everybody those awful-looking crocheted placemats again that she has been making for years and years. It makes me laugh to think about them! I send a special hug to the little Twins, and love to Daddy, and to everybody. I trust you are all well, and have a fine holiday, and that you miss me too, at least a little, and think about me down here in North Carolina so far from home. Oh, now I am crying again. But I have made my bed and I will lie in it the way I was taught, you may rest assured of that. I will do you proud.

  Bill writes that it is real hot in New Guinea, and that he has bought some little carved wooden animals from the Natives, for our Mary, and that he loves me. I know this is true, though it fills me with fear too, for Bill does not really know me, nor I him. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible for any person to know any other, I mean to really know them? Often I sit in this rocking chair by my little round window nursing Mary and looking out across the big slow river at the lights of town twinkling so far away, and I feel lonesome beyond words. But I will put my faith in God and trust him to take good care of me and my baby while we all wait for sweet Bill to come home.

  So, Happy New Year 1945

  From Your Loving,

  Birdie

  P.S. This is just about the only thing I can get Mrs. Pickett to eat, so I try to make it as often as I can, in spite of rationing.

  BIRDIE’S BOILED CUSTARD

  3 eggs

  3 cups milk

  ½ cup sugar

  ½ teas. vanilla

  Beat eggs, add sugar and milk. Cook in double boiler until mixture will coat a spoon. Add vanilla when cool.

  Dec. 22, 1951

  Dear Mama and Rachel,

  First, good luck on Robert Tipping, Rachel! He sounds perfect, though I should think it would be a big responsibility to be a minister’s wife. Both of you, please keep me posted. I promise that I will be a better correspondent than I have been lately. My excuse is that I have been saving up my thoughts and news for this annual Christmas Letter, though it is worth my life to write it, as baby Ruthie is already walking and into everything, she leads me a merry chase! My little Mary is still as good as gold, however, playing nonstop with her brother Joe, they are not a bit of trouble but rather a blessing to me. It may be because they are scarcely two years apart in age—Joe was Unexpected, shall we say—that they are so close in temperament as well, acting more like Twins than like Brother and Sister. Mary has always been a serious child. I think the circumstances of her birth, plus all that time alone with me when I was so homesick in the beginning, have made her grave beyond her years. And then her daddy’s homecoming was bittersweet at best, with the whole family mourning Dennis, so recently fallen at Corregidor. Mary never saw her Uncle Dennis, but she took all these events to heart, I believe, the way children will—for children do know everything happening in a household, whether anyone tells them or not.

  But Joe’s birth brought Mary back out into the sunshine, affording her the greatest Joy. She did everything for him from the first, and as he’s grown, you cannot pry them apart. Everybody has marveled at it, the sweetness of brother and sister, their grave concern for each other at all times. Why, they even have a little language all their own, which they have had ever since Joe learned to talk, and sometimes they will still fall into it, especially if others are present and they want to speak privately to one another. It used to worry Bill, he is so down-to-earth. But I said, Where is the harm? As long as they are capable of speaking plain English when they need to?

  And they are capable, they are smart as a whip, both of them, and doing fine in school. While at home they race through their chores in order to have more time for these endless games of “Pretend” which they never tire of, games which com
e right out of their heads, where they are knights and ladies or Robin Hood or saints of old or the Hardy Boys or whatever. I swear, you can’t tell what they will come up with!

  Ruthie by contrast is not reflective at all but very Active, she reminds me of a little puppy. I have had to go through the whole living room, putting everything breakable up where she can’t reach, something I never worried about with either Mary or Joe.

  But concerning children, the big news is that Bill’s sister in Richmond has died of a fever and now his nephews are coming to live with us too. Bill invited them for the remainder of the year, he says they can help him farm. I just about died when he told me. For I have not got enough hands as it is, now that Mr. Pickett has disappeared and I am taking care of Bill’s mother full-time, and I have to say, she is the most Demanding woman in the world. She just lies in bed wanting first one thing and then another, for instance I have to keep her well supplied with snuff and ice water at all times. Of course Bill takes up for her, saying she is brokenhearted at the death of Dennis, not to mention Mr. Pickett’s desertion. Bill believes that his mother really is sick, too, saying that she has “congestive heart failure,” which I think she has made up out of whole cloth, having read about it in a magazine. Oh, I know better than to say a word. Though secretly I think she is healthy as a horse, and will outlive us all.

  But my Bill is so generous, he does not even have anything bad to say about his Father, which astounds me. He says his father had a run of hard luck, that’s all, and that Dennis’s death pushed him over the edge. I did not mention the grocer’s daughter who is rumored to have left town at the same time as Mr. Pickett. When I asked Bill what he would do if Mr. Pickett should just show up on the front porch one day, Sober for a change, and ask to come back home, why Bill said he would take him in of course, and chided me for feeling otherwise. “Birdie,” he said, “where is all that famous Christian charity I have heard so much about?” Bill was just grinning ear to ear, for he knew he had me there.