An Irish Christmas Part 2

I slipped off the loafers and placed them back in the box. "Nope. Times are changing."

"How about some socks to go with them?"

I grinned at Henry, ever the salesman. "Sure," I said, going over to the sock rack and removing a couple pairs of crew socks.

"White socks with brown loafers?" He actually lifted his nose in the air.

"Like I said, times are a-changing."

He shook his head. "Brown shoes need brown socks."

I just laughed and handed him the socks.

"So, your mother really is serious about selling her house?" he asked for the second time.

"Seems to be the case." I followed him up to the cash register, wondering about his sudden interest in my mother's real estate deals. "You interested in buying it?"

He sort of laughed. "Afraid it's a little too rich for my blood."

"For hers too." I opened my billfold, feeling partially surprised to see actual money in it. My mom had been paying me for helping out these past few weeks, and for the most part, I'd been saving it. Amazing how it could begin to add up when your expenses were minimal.

Then Henry cleared his throat. "Jamie, I know it's not been much over a year since your dad pa.s.sed, but do you think your mom will ever be interested in, well, you know, in seeing other fellers and whatnot?" He picked up a stubby yellow pencil and fiddled with it, obviously nervous about this out-of-character inquiry.

I blinked, then stared at him, noticing how his smooth pale cheeks were starting to flush pink. Was Henry seriously interested in my mom? "I, uh, I don't know," I said. "We don't talk usually about things like that." The truth was I couldn't imagine, for the life of me, my mother going out on a date with any man, let alone someone like Henry.

"Well, I can understand that, Jamie." He licked the tip of his pencil. "But your mom is a fine-looking woman and a good person to boot. I expect it won't be long before fellers start coming a-calling."

I grinned at Henry. "Would you be one of those fellers?"

He blushed even redder now. "Well, I might just get myself in line."

I patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sure she could do worse, Henry."

He smiled as I handed him a ten. "Thanks."

I nodded, but the image of my mother with someone like Henry Ackley made my head hurt. Oh, sure, he was a nice enough guy and all, but the two of them would be like Gomer Pyle dating Audrey Hepburn. Granted, Mom was a little older than Miss Hepburn, but she had a similar kind of cla.s.s and style, and somehow I just couldn't see how Henry would fit into that picture. Of course, I'd be willing to bet there'd been those who'd said the same sort of thing about my dad. But then he'd been younger back when they'd gotten married. He'd been thinner and had a full head of hair in those days. I knew this was true because I'd seen the photos.

"So, what are your plans, son?" Henry was counting out my change now and sounding a little too fatherly, in my opinion. "For the future, I mean. What's next for young Jamie Frederick?"

I sort of shrugged, then quickly told him about Mom's plan to take me to Ireland next month. To be honest, that was about as far ahead as I could see anyway.

"An Irish Christmas?" he said with curious brows. "Interesting . . ."

"Yeah, something like that." Then I winked at him. "Actually, I think this little trip might be Mom's way of trying to talk me out of joining the Air Force."

Henry's pale eyes lit up now. "The Air Force? Are you joining the Air Force, Jamie?"

"Maybe so."

"Well, I'll be! That's the best darn news I've heard in weeks. The Air Force-now wouldn't that be something. I can just imagine you up there, flying high in one of those big old jets and serving your country with pride."

I stood a little taller. "Yeah, a buddy of mine joined up last spring, and it sounds like a pretty good opportunity for guys my age."

Henry slapped me on the back. "It'd make a man out of you, son."

Okay, I probably slumped some at that comment. I suppose I like to think that because I'm twenty-one, I'm already a man. But then again it might just be a matter of perspective. "Thanks, Henry," I said as I took the paper bag with my last name still stamped onto the side of it. "Be seeing you 'round."

"Tell your little mother h.e.l.lo for me."

"Will do." I waved as I walked away, and the bell jingled as I pulled the gla.s.s door toward me-a familiar sound, sometimes comforting, sometimes aggravating. Now I realized it was something I'd probably taken for granted. Like so many other things in my life. But today that little bra.s.s bell had the sound of finality to it. As if it was the end of an era. And maybe it was . . . times they were a-changing. Not that I wouldn't go back there to buy shoes again someday. I probably would. But this was the first time I'd ever been in Frederick's Fine Footwear when it hadn't belonged to my family. I think the whole thing just made me sad. Or maybe it was just something in the air that day.

I felt another wave of melancholy as I walked down the business loop, past other familiar shops, restaurants, my favorite bookstore . . . and although I'd walked this street hundreds of times before, I felt sort of like a stranger today. My family no longer owned the shoe store on the corner, my mother was selling the family home, and most of my old friends had moved on to jobs or had headed back to college to finish their degrees. Where did I fit in here now? Where did I fit in anywhere?

I gazed in the window at Harper's Cafe, trying to decide whether or not I was hungry since it was getting close to noon. But the window was grimy looking and uninviting, and their window display-a cluttered menagerie of crepe paper turkeys and cardboard pilgrims-wasn't particularly appetizing, although it did remind me that Thanksgiving was less than a week away. Mom had said that she wanted us to go down to Aunt Sally's in San Diego, which was fine with me since I had no other place to go anyway. Plus I hadn't seen my cousins in ages.

I continued walking until I reached Scott's Television and Appliance Shop, and that's when I observed several people cl.u.s.tered close to the large plate gla.s.s window out front. I wondered if Scott's had gotten in something new and amazing-maybe a color TV with stereo. But the small crowd was simply staring at an ordinary black-and-white television that was playing inside, and as usual, the sound was being piped through an outdoor speaker to the sidewalk. But I noticed the elderly woman had her hand clasped over her mouth and her eyes were wide with terror.

"Oh, no!" Mr. Garvey cried, the owner of the "No!"

"It can't be," a woman next to him gasped.

"What?" I asked, but the small crowd was rushing into the shop.

"The president!" the elderly woman called over her shoulder. "

He's been shot!" Mr. Garvey said.

I followed them inside, where we all stood in silent horror, watching the nightmare unfolding before our very eyes. President John F. Kennedy had been shot while driving in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. Everyone in the store was crying, including me. No one even tried to hide it. And I didn't care that I knew many of the people in the shop. I didn't care that I was supposed to be a grown man, a man who barely cried at his own father's funeral. I just stood there and openly sobbed with the rest of them. How could this have happened? In our own country? Our leader had been murdered, with his pretty young wife by his side. It was like a really bad movie.

I eventually left Scott's and spent the remainder of the day in a deep, dark depression. Tucked away in the gloomy warehouse, with my transistor radio blaring on an AM news station, I sat on a crate and listened to all the ongoing details of the a.s.sa.s.sination, the head wound, how long before JFK died, how Vice President Johnson was sworn in on Air Force One before leaving Dallas-I took in the whole works. And finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I started to play my piano. I played and played. And, although I knew it was senseless and would probably matter to no one but me, I dedicated my playing to President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and his two children and beautiful wife Jackie. My heart ached for all of them. How could something like this have happened?

It was about four o'clock when I finally remembered my own mother. I suddenly wondered how she would be taking all this-and realized that it might have hit her as hard as it hit me-and so I rushed home to find her sitting in front of the television with her hands in her lap and her big brown eyes all swollen and red from crying.

"Have you heard?" she whispered, clutching a white handkerchief in her fist and looking at me with a trembling chin.

Without saying anything, I nodded and sat down beside her. I draped one arm around her frail shoulders, and together we watched the news until finally she got up, went into the kitchen, and made us some supper. But neither of us felt hungry that night. We continued to watch the news on television, seeing that scene in the car again and again. Then we watched as they replayed the scene where Jackie stood by LBJ on Air Force One, watched as a new president was sworn in. We listened to the familiar newsmen, the ones who came on every evening at 6:00, but tonight they were discussing the terrifying events of the day and speculating over what would happen next, but it was impossible not to notice the sound of uncertainty, the uneasy caution in their voices, as if they too, like us, were afraid.

It wasn't until the next morning, Sat.u.r.day, that I remembered to ask Mom about the sale of the house and whether or not the third time really had been the charm. She had already turned on the small television that Dad had insisted on putting in the kitchen, and I'm sure it was the first time I'd ever seen that television on, but the volume was turned down low.

"Yesterday?" she said as if it had been a few weeks ago. "Let's see . . . as I recall Jane had just told me that the couple liked the house and wanted to make an offer." She handed me a cup of coffee, setting the cow-shaped porcelain creamer on the table. "But that's when Sally called and told me about the shooting. She was crying and she said to turn on the television."

"And you did?"

She sighed. "Yes. Then we all just stood there in the family room and watched it. It was the strangest thing, Jamie. I'd only just met this couple and suddenly we were all sobbing and holding on to each other, like it was the end of the world and we were all we had. And then just as abruptly, they left, they wanted to go and get their children. I doubt they will want the house. Who can think of buying a house right now?"

I nodded. "It sure makes you look at life differently."

"I still can't believe it happened, Jamie."

"I know."

"He's really dead."

"I really liked Kennedy . . . I think he was the best president ever. No one can ever replace him."

"I know."

"I wanted to vote for him in the next election."

"It's all so sad." She stared down at her coffee cup.

"It was so cool having such a young president. It's like he understood young people. He wanted to make this country better."

"He was too young to die."

I swallowed hard. "Man, it just really ticks me off. And I know you don't want to hear this, Mom, but it really makes me want to join the Air Force more than ever now. I'm ready to give back to my country. I want to do it for JFK."

She nodded slightly, then looked away. I sensed she wasn't too pleased with my newfound resolve, but I could tell she didn't plan to stand against me either. At least not today.

The next few days felt like the entire country was draped in this ominous blanket of heavy darkness. Everyone seemed to be in mourning, or if they weren't, they at least had the good sense to keep their thoughts to themselves. The house was quiet and both Mom and I moved silently through the days. I was extra careful not to leave any dirty dishes on the counter, and I kept my personal items picked up, even put my dirty clothes in the laundry hamper in my room. I wasn't sure if I was growing up or if life had just suddenly gotten serious.

Finally, it was Thursday and Thanksgiving Day. Mom and I drove to San Diego, and we all did our best to "celebrate" the holiday, but even my cousins were much quieter than usual, a cloud of sadness hovered over everyone. I think we were all relieved when the day finally ended and we could put our party faces aside.

"Will we see you before the big trip?" Uncle Richard asked as we stood around my mom's white Caddie. He paused to light up a Marlborough, then took in a long drag.

"I don't know . . ." Mom jingled her keys in one hand.

"You don't still want to go over there now, do you?" Aunt Sally asked. "I thought maybe you'd changed your mind, Colleen . . . I mean with all that's happened and everything. Are you sure it's a good idea to travel now?"

"I don't know why not," Mom said. "What do you think, Richard? Any warnings about international travel?"

He shook his head, then let out a puff of smoke over his shoulder. "Not that I've heard. But make sure you check with your travel agent a day or two before you leave."

"Kennedy was Irish," I said suddenly. Of course, I instantly felt stupid for making such a childish-sounding statement, except that it had just occurred to me.

"That's right," Uncle Richard said, crushing the cigarette b.u.t.t beneath the heel of his boot. "He was Irish-Catholic. First time ever in this country."

Then we all hugged and everyone said good-bye.

"They're okay," I said to Mom as she drove back up the freeway toward home.

"Yes, they are."

I decided it was some comfort to have family around at times like this. Especially since my dad was gone and he didn't really have much family still living, at least not around here. I know he had some relatives out on the East Coast, but they're like strangers to me. And the rest of my mom's family, except Aunt Sally, still live in Minnesota. I'd been out there once, back when I was about nine, before my Grandpa Johnson died, and although there were lots and lots of cousins to play with, along with tons of other relatives, I pretty much felt like an outsider. Maybe it was because most of them had Johnson for a last name, the same name as the big family farm, and I didn't really fit in too well there.

So on Thanksgiving Day, less than a week after Kennedy was shot, I was glad to have Aunt Sally and Uncle Richard and my cousins around. And I was glad to have my mom too. Maybe that was one of the good things about a tragedy . . . it made you appreciate what you had.

5.

Colleen I made my best effort not to feel sorry for myself as Jamie and I walked through Los Angeles International Airport in mid-December. The terminal was busier than ever with all the holiday travelers, and everywhere I looked seemed to be wrapped in the trappings and tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of Christmas. From the oversized Christmas tree near the entrance, dripping in silver tinsel and blue lights, to Bing Crosby crooning "White Christmas" over the sound system, it was obvious that Christmas was just around the corner. They even had a Santa Claus wearing a flight jacket who was giving out candy canes and airline wings to young travelers.

And I think I could've dealt with all of that, if it hadn't been for all the families coming and going and saying goodbye to or greeting their loved ones. That was what got to me. Whether it was college students coming home for Christmas break or grandparents arriving with arms laden with brightly wrapped gifts-all the jubilant greetings and embraces and heading off for a joyous family reunion somewhere, well, it just got to me. And, as much as I despised self-pity or feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge, all that sweet Christmas cheer was hard to swallow.

Needless to say, I was greatly relieved when we were finally loaded onto our big jet, cozily buckled into our comfy seats, and being treated so nicely it was almost like being family. After we took off, I even allowed myself to imagine that the pretty blonde stewardess named Cindy was a relative, a cousin perhaps. And when she smiled and offered me hot tea, I actually pretended we were sitting in a parlor with a fire burning and a small pine Christmas tree in the corner.

"Do you need a blanket?" she asked Jamie with a sparkling Colgate smile. I could tell by the way she looked at him that she thought he was a nice-looking young man, and I had to agree with her on that account. And although she was probably at least ten years older than he, I could tell he was enjoying the attention.

"Sure," he said, taking the neatly folded plaid woolen throw from her. "Thank you."

"I think Cindy likes you," I whispered to Jamie as the stewardess walked away.

He looked slightly embarra.s.sed, then grinned. "Maybe I should ask her out."

I made a slight face-a motherly expression meant as a subtle warning-then asked him what had become of his last girlfriend. "Wasn't her name Sh.e.l.ly?"

"Sh.e.l.ly," he said stiffly. "And that was almost two years ago, Mom."

I sensed a slight irritation in his voice, as if Sh.e.l.ly was an unpleasant subject, but since I also knew we'd be stuck together for some time and conversation topics might possibly get scarce, I decided why not persist a bit. Besides, I was curious about the girlfriend. He had even talked about bringing her home to visit at one time and then that was it-not another word on the subject. Of course, Hal had pa.s.sed away about the same time and life got a little stressful after that. Perhaps I'd missed something. And that made me feel sad . . . like a poor excuse for a mother. But now I really wanted to know. Not that I could force my son to talk. But I could try. Just as I was formulating my next question, Cindy returned.

"We have complimentary champagne," she said, flashing that brilliant smile again. I started to decline on her offer, but then remembered that this was going to be a long flight and perhaps a little champagne would make things more comfortable for both Jamie and me-might even loosen our tongues a bit.

"That sounds lovely," I said. "How about you, Jamie?"

He grinned and nodded eagerly. Although my son had been twenty-one for months now, it still felt strange to think that he was of legal drinking age and could casually drink a gla.s.s of champagne with me right now. Hadn't he just been learning to ride a two-wheeler last week? And when did he get his braces off? Suddenly everything about motherhood and raising my only son felt like a fast hazy blur-similar to the clouds that were pa.s.sing by the window at the moment.

"Here you go," Cindy said, handing us both a gla.s.s of champagne.

We thanked her, and then I held up my gla.s.s to Jamie. "Here's to a good trip."

"To Ireland."

We clinked gla.s.ses, and despite my lapse in matters of faith these past couple of years and particularly recently, I actually said a silent little prayer just then. G.o.d, if you're there, if you can hear me and you're not too busy, please, help this trip to turn out right. So much is at stake . . . please, please, help me. Amen.

"So . . . ," I said to Jamie, as we were finishing our champagne, "I'm curious as to what became of Sh.e.l.ly."

He downed the remainder of his drink. "She went her way . . . I went mine."

"So, it was a congenial parting?"

He shrugged in a way that suggested it was not. Then Cindy reappeared with her bottle of champagne. "More?"