fifth, please."
"Twenty pages!" I said. "But it's the holidays!"
"Very well. Whatever length the piece turns out is fine. But be sure you dojustice to each work."
#
By the time I got through with the assignment, it was thirty-eight pages long. Inever thought I could write that much but it kept on coming, new thoughts abouteach book, each scene, the different worlds Verne had built: the fantasticslopes of Barsoom, the sinister Island of Dr Moreau. . . Each one spawned a newinsight. I felt like the Verne's detective, Sherlock Holmes, assembling all ofthe seemingly insignificant details into some kind of coherent picture, findingthe improbable links between the wildly different stories the Frenchman told.
Mama was thrilled to see me working, papers spread out all around me on thekitchen table -- I could've used Pa's study, but it felt like an invasion,somehow -- writing until my wrists cramped. She let me get away without doing mychores, rising early to milk the cow, bringing in the eggs from the henhouse,even chopping the kindling. Just so long as I was writing, she was happy to letme go on shirking my responsibilities.
Even on Christmas Eve, I was too distracted to really enjoy the smells of gooseand ham and the stuffing Mama spent days preparing. I was still writing when shetold me to go change and set the table for three.
"We're having Mr Johnston to dinner," she said.
I made a face. Mr Johnston was the only one in town that I could have talked toabout my time in 1975, but I never did. He had a way of bossing a fellow aroundwhile seeming to be nice to him. He still ran Pa's store, using ladders to reachthe high shelves that Pa had just plucked things off of. I had to see him whenMama sent me on errands there, but I made sure that I left as quickly as Icould. Mama kept saying that I should ask him for a job, but I was pretty goodat changing the subject whenever it came up.
I put away my papers and changed into my Sunday clothes. I'd been hinting toMama lately that a boy just wasn't complete without a puppy, so I put an extrashine on my shoes and said a quick prayer that I wouldn't find socks andpicture-books under the tree.
Mr Johnstone arrived with a double-armload of gifts. Well, he _did_ run my Pa'sstore, after all, so he could get things wholesale. I took his parcels from himand set them under the tree. Then that dandified sissy actually _kissed_ my Mamaon the cheek, lifting a sprig of mistletoe up with one hand. When Pa and Mamastood together, she'd barely come up to his shoulder, while Mr Johnstone had tostand on tiptoe to get the mistletoe over their heads. "Merry Christmas, Ulla,"he said.
She took his hands and said, "Merry Christmas, James."
I wanted to be sick.
#
Mr Johnstone had a whiskey in our parlour before we ate, sitting in my Pa'schair, smoking a cigar from my Pa's humidor. Mama ordered me to keep him companywhile she set out the meal.
"Do they call you Jimmy?" he asked me, staring down his long, pointy nose.
"No, sir. James."
"It's a fine name, isn't it? Served me well, man and boy." He made a face thatwas supposed to be funny, like he'd bit into a lemon.
"I like it fine, sir."
"Are you having any problems adjusting, now that you're home? Finding it hard torelate to the other fellows?"
"No, sir."
"You don't find it strange, after seeing 1975?"
"No, sir. It's home."
"Ha!" he said, as though I'd said something profound. "I guess it is, at that.Say, why don't you come by the store some time? I just got some samples from anew candy company in Oregon, and I need to get an unbiased opinion before Iorder." He gave me a pinched smile, like he thought he was Santa Claus.
"Mama doesn't like me eating sweets," I said, and stared at my reflection in myshoes.
Mama rescued me by coming into the parlour then, looking young and pretty in herbest dress. "Dinner is served, gentlemen."
We followed her into the dining room, and Mr Johnstone took my Pa's seat at thehead of the table and carved the goose. Even though the bird was brown andjuicy, I found I didn't have any appetite.
"I have word from Pondicherry," Mr Johnstone said, as he poured gravy over hissecond helping of mashed potatoes.
"Yes?" Mama said.
"Who's he?" I asked.
"Your father's successor," Mr Johnstone said. "A British officer from New Delhi.A fat little man, and awfully full of himself."
I repressed a snort. For my money Mr Johnstone was as full of himself as one mancould be. I couldn't imagine a blacker kettle.
"He says that Nussbaum, from 1952 New York, has rolled back relations withextraterrestrials by fifty years. He sold a Centurian half a million defectiveumbrellas from his brother-in-law's factory. The New Yorkers are all defendinghim. _Caveat emptor_."
"I never could keep track of who was friendly and who wasn't," Mama said. "Itwas all Greek to me. Politics."
Mr Johnstone opened his mouth to explain, but Mama held up one hand. "No, no, Idon't _want_ to understand. Les used to lecture me about this from dawn todusk." She smiled a little sad smile and stared off at the cabbage-roses on ourdining-room walls. Mr Johnstone put one hand over hers.
"He was a good man, Ulla."
Mama stood and smoothed her skirts. "I'll get dessert."
#
I didn't get a puppy. Mr Johnstone gave me an air-rifle that I was sure Mamawould have fits over, but she just smiled. She gave me a beautiful fountain-penand a green blotter and a ream of creamy, thick paper.
The pen made the most beautiful, jet-black marks, and the paper drank it up likea thirsty man in the desert. I recopied my essay the next day, sitting with Mamain the parlour while she darned socks. Mr Johnstone had given her a tin ofcosmetics from Paris, that he'd ordered in special. I'd heard Mama say that onlydancehall girls wore makeup, but she blushed when he gave it to her. I gave hera carving I'd done, of the robutler we'd had in 75. I'd whittled it out of ablock of pine, and sanded it and oiled it until it was as smooth as silk.
Oly Sweynsdatter came by after supper and asked if I wanted to go out and playwith the fellows. To my surprise, I found I did. We had a grand afternoonpelting each other with snow-balls, a game that turned into a full-scale war, asall the older boys back from high-school came out and joined in, and then,later, all the men, even the Sheriff and Mr Adelson. I never laughed so much inall my life, even when I got one right in the ear.
Mr Adelson led a charge of adults against the fort that most of the Academy boyswere hiding behind, but I saw him planning it and started laying in ammunitionlong before they made their go, and we sent them back with their tails betweentheir legs. I hit him smack in the behind with one ball as he dove for cover.
Oly's mother gave us both good, Svenska hot cocoa afterwards, with fresh whippedcream, and Oly and I exchanged gifts. He gave me a tin soldier, a Confederatewho was caught in the act of falling over backwards, clutching his chest. I gavehim my best marble. We followed his mother around their house, recounting theadventures in the snow until she told me it was time for me to go home.
#
School started again, and I went in early the first day to turn in my paper. MrAdelson took it without comment and scanned the first few paragraphs. "Thankyou, James, I think this will do nicely. I'll have it graded for you in theafternoon."
I met Oly out in the orchard, where he was chopping kindling for the school'sstove, a job we all took turns at. "I hear you might be getting a new Pa forChristmas," he said. He gave me a smile that meant something, but I couldn'tguess what.
"What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"My Mama says your Mama had old man Johnstone over for Christmas dinner. And thewidow Ott told my Mama that she'd connected one or two calls between your houseand the store every day in the last month. My Mama says that Johnstone iscourting your Mama."
"Mrs Ott isn't supposed to talk about the calls she connects," I said, as mymind reeled. "It's like a telegraph operator: it's a confidential trust." MrAdelson had told me that, once when he was telling me stories about his li
febefore he went to sea.
"So, is it true?"
"No!" I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. "My Mama just didn't want himto be alone at Christmas."
Oly swung the axe a few more times. "Well, sure. But what about all thetelephone calls?"
"That's business. The store is still partly ours. Mama's just looking after ourinterests."
"If you say so," he said.
I shoved him hard. I drew a line in the snow with my toe. "I _do_ say so. Stepacross the line if you say otherwise!"
Oly got to his feet and looked at me. "I don't