A Stockingful of Joy (35 page)

Twos. All around her was a world of twos.

She turned and bolted from beneath the awning. Rain pelted her face as she ran down the street and the cold water on the sidewalk splashed over the tops of her calfskin boots. By the time she made it to the stoop, she had pheasant feathers straggling in her face, and her coat felt like she was wearing a sandbag.

She was wet and freezing. Her shoes squished into the drafty linoleum in the foyer, and she closed the front door. Turning, she slapped the feathers out of her eyes and shook out her coat.

Mrs. Waverly was leaning against the wainscoted wall of the dining room and shouting into the shiny black horn on the wooden telephone box. "I heard you, Sally! The train is coming in at four o'clock on Thursday. I'll be there. Don't fret so."

She nodded at Eleanor and pointed to the table near the stairs, where she would put any mail that had come. Eleanor walked over and picked up the envelopes. She thumbed through the ones that were most important.

Every week she sent out a new batch of applications. And every week the responses said the same thing. No positions available at this time.

Mrs. Waverly hung up the telephone. "I swear that girl gets worse every day. If it isn't one thing, it's another. She's called me six times already today."

"I'm sure she's just excited to be coming home."

"I suppose you're right. A girl's wedding is the most important day of her life."

Eleanor stood stoically silent.

Mrs. Waverly retied her ruffled chintz apron with the print of cabbage roses and looked up. She nodded at the envelopes in Eleanor's hand. "Any luck?"

She shook her head and tucked the letters into her coat pocket. "I'm certain there will be something available soon."

"You know how very sorry I am, my dear."

"I know. You don't have to keep apologizing about the move." Eleanor gave her landlady a smile.

"If Sally wasn't coming, you could stay indefinitely and not have to pay one single penny."

"I know that. But Sally needs you. And it will be special to have her and your new son-in-law living here. Besides, which, I have a perfectly good place to go. Really."

"That horrid gymnasium?" Mrs. Waverly snorted.

"It's actually better inside than it looks. I'm certain I can find a position after the holidays. Then I'll be able to fix it up just the way Gramps would have liked."

"It's a hectic time of year for you to be looking for work. Nothing gets done during the holidays. People don't seem to pay attention. Why that daughter of mine wanted a Christmas wedding I'll never know."

"I think a Christmas wedding would be lovely."

"I suppose." Mrs. Waverly planted her hands on her rounded hips and asked, "Do you know why Sally called this time?"

Eleanor shook her head.

"That silly girl wanted me to make certain the florist had Christmas lilies. I told her it was Christmas. Of course they'd have Christmas lilies." The older woman sighed. "There's already enough to do at this time of year without having all this brouhaha. Oh, which reminds me. One of those Stadler boys came by this afternoon, and said they'd have the wagon here at seven Wednesday morning. They'll have your things moved out and into the new place by noon."

Before Eleanor could thank her, the telephone rang with a loud shrill ring.

"I wonder who this could be," Mrs. Waverly said in a wry tone. She grabbed the ear piece, tapped on the speaking horn, and listened for a second. "Yes, Sally. It's me." She glanced at Eleanor and rolled her eyes. "Yes, Sally. I'll check it. No, the florist is closed. I'll have to call tomorrow."

She was feeling her aloneness so acutely today. Why? Because she had chosen to face Conn Donoughue? Maybe it was because of the holidays. Maybe she was turning into a lonely old woman who did nothing but dream of what could never be.

Eleanor just felt all used up. After a moment she turned and trudged up the staircase to her rooms. She had her things to pack.

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Early Wednesday morning Conn awoke to the sound of someone singing Christmas carols. He groaned and rolled over, flinging his arm over his eyes to block out the shock of daylight.

To hell with King Wenceslas.

The ceiling thundered as if all the king's horses and all the king's men were having a melee right above him. He crammed a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.

It worked until something thumped down the stairs. Something heavy. Something big. Something loud.

Conn rolled his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. There was another loud thud. He buried his pounding head in his hands.

He glanced up, wincing. The banging around on the fourth floor was so loud the old gaslight in the center of the room shook. It sounded as if the whole building rattled.

Conn stood up, scowling at the ceiling. Who the hell was moving in? One stubborn pain-in-the-butt woman or New York City's mounted police?

He stepped into his pants and shrugged on a wool shirt. Grumbling under his breath, he tied his shoes and crossed to the room. He threw open the door.

There in the hallway near the stairs was a cumbersome oak cabinet rocking back and forth in midair. Two men, one under it and one behind it, were trying to move the cabinet around the turn in the third-floor landing and up the next flight of stairs.

One of the men swore. "Stop telling me how to do it, Jimmy, and just back up so we can get this blasted thing up the stairs."

"Yoo-hoo!" Nellibelle leaned over the banister and shook her finger at the movers.

One of the men groaned, "Not again."

Conn knew just how he felt.

"Don't scratch the wood please!"

The tallest mover shifted to get a better grip on the cabinet and leaned his head over to the side. "We got it, Miss Austen."

She started to say something else but her gaze flashed to Conn. For just an instant her face froze in a sick look; it was the same look he'd seen on people who had just swallowed a rotten oyster.

A second later she popped up quicker than his best punching bag. She stared at him the way she had when they'd first met and her face began to turn pink. Her chin shot up, and she spun around and disappeared into the doorway of the fourth-floor apartments.

Conn looked at the other men and shrugged, then pushed away from the doorway. "You want some help?"

The mover took in his size with a quick and rapt once-over. He had seen that look a million times.

"Yeah. We'd appreciate it. Jimmy, set down your end and take this other corner." He turned to Conn. "Thanks. It's been a long morning."

"I'll bet it has." Conn hunkered down and picked up the bottom of the cabinet.

Ten minutes later the cabinet was against the west wall of the fourth-floor flat. Nellibelle was hovering around it, trying to decide if they needed to move it a little to the right.

Again.

He watched her purposely ignore him. But he could see her nervousness—the wringing of her hands, the way she darted back and forth like a confused bee, and her stubborn determination not to look at him.

His immediate reaction was to think of things he could do to force her to look at him. Stand in front of her. Walk toward her until he had her backed against a wall. Grab her and kiss her like he had the night he walked her home.

He paused and made a big to-do of eyeing the cabinet, moving to stand in front of her and tapping one finger against his chin. "I think it's too far to the left. You should move it to the right, Nellibelle."

She stiffened and looked at him, her expression all pruny. He could almost hear her teeth grind.

He gave her an innocent look and casually pointed at the cabinet with his thumb. "It's too far to the left."

She turned back around and without looking at the cabinet nodded to the movers. "Move the cabinet more to the left, please."

He laughed to himself. Dealing with her was no different than maneuvering one of his opponents into taking a frustrated swing at him.

The movers picked up the cabinet again and began to lift it. The rope securing the doors closed slipped down, and the mirrored doors swung open.

Conn grabbed her under one arm, swung her off her feet and out of the way. She gave a shriek of protest and squirmed. A second later an iron bed frame unfolded from the cabinet and slammed to the floor.

He set her down while she was still muttering something about an oaf and walked over to the iron frame. He turned back to her. She was swiping back a hank of black hair from her red face.

He pointed to the bed. "What the hell kind of bed is this supposed to be?"

She raised her chin. "It's a folding bed."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would anyone want a folding bed?"

"For convenience of course."

"What's convenient about a folding bed? Looks damn inconvenient to me."

"It saves space."

He eyed the bed. "Who cares about space if it's too short to sleep in."

"It's not too short for me."

He let his eyes roam slowly from the top of her stuck-up head to her feet pressed together at the ankles in that annoying prim way she had. "Doesn't look to me as if you'd fit. Unless you sleep with your knees all drawn up."

"How I sleep is none of your concern, Mr. Donoughue."

"You'd never catch me in that bed."

"There is a God."

The movers laughed out loud. He wanted to laugh, too, but he didn't. Instead he stared at her long enough to annoy her. She gave him a smile that held no humor and spun around.

He waited until she was halfway across the room. "We could always use my bed."

She stopped as if she had run smack dab into a wall. She turned slowly, her jaw set and her words gritty. "Mr. Donoughue—"

Ignoring her, he strolled around some of the trunks and crates that separated them, peering inside. "So what other kind of contraptions do you have around here?"

"I don't recall inviting you in here."

"You didn't." He scanned the room. It was a huge cavernous place. It wasn't dark like his flat. Half the roof was glass. It let sunlight in, but it also leaked whenever it rained. He knew because it had leaked on some wooden boxes, damaging a shipment of leather elbow pads and knee guards.

"I think the movers will be able to handle the rest of my things.
Alone
." She walked toward him. "I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do."

"You're not." He turned his back on her and strolled over to an overstuffed chair, sat down, and made himself comfortable, then crossed his hands behind his head and propped his feet on a crate of dishes packed in excelsior.

She watched him from a face that was half offended and half frustrated.

He would have stayed there all morning if Lenny hadn't come running upstairs all in a panic. Beckman's Laundry Wagon had forgotten to deliver last week's load of towels.

A few minutes later Conn was walking down the street toward Beckman's. He stood on the corner, where a uniformed copper on horseback controlled the traffic.

Conn glanced back at the gym. He could see those old glass transoms on the roof. He watched them for a few lost minutes. He heard the police whistle and turned around just in time to catch the man next to him staring up in awe. Conn was used to it.

He glanced down at the man who tried to cover his embarrassment by quickly looking away. After a minute he turned back and caught Conn's eye. "Looks like rain," the man said.

"You think so?" Conn glanced up. The sky was turning a dull gray color that could mean rain.

"Yeah, with those clouds it'll be pouring by tonight."

The policeman's whistle blew again, and everyone began to cross the street. Conn was in the crowd but a head above everyone else. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair. He turned around, walking backward across the street. He looked back at those leaky glass windows on the slope of the roof.

Grinning, Conn turned back and stepped up on the opposite curb. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his pants and strolled down the street—whistling.

The first raindrop fell on Eleanor's forehead around midnight. Her eyes shot open. The second drop plopped on her nose and dripped down her cheek. After the third drop, she sat up.

Her roof was leaking.

She threw back the covers and got up. The rain outside was coming down harder, pattering a constant beat on the glass and the roof tiles. Drops of water splattered all over the floor and on what little furniture she still owned. She rushed toward the kitchen nook and took out her cast iron pot and a frying pan, then rushed back and placed them under the worst leaks.

Her china cups caught smaller leaks, and along with her few soup bowls, they were scattered haphazardly over the plank floor like croquet wickets. She rummaged through trunks and wooden boxes searching for vases and goblets, anything that could hold water.

By the time she found one new container, the smaller dishes were overflowing and rainwater was spreading over the floor and under the boxes of things she hadn't yet unpacked. She moved back and forth, trying not to panic. She would tuck a vase under one arm, and race across the floor to catch a cup or bowl or pan before it overflowed. She'd shoved the vase under the leak, and run back to the old porcelain sink drain or the narrow water closet and dump out the bowl of water, only to rush back and find five containers overflowing.

The rain came down so hard it hit the roof like buckshot. The leaks began to pour instead of drip. Still she raced back and forth. Water pooled all over the floor, and she tried to mop it up with towels and extra blankets, linens, anything that could soak it up.

Panicking, she spun around and started running. Too fast. She slipped. Lost her balance. Her ankle gave out, she went down, sliding across the wet floor like a duck on ice.

She hit a patch of dry wood and skidded to a stop. She gripped her ankle and groaned, her body curled like a comma. For a pain-filled moment, all she could do was lie there while the rain fell all over her.

I'm okay… I'm okay… I'm okay.