SALLY BENSON
Margaret Cummings lifted the large copper bowl, filled with unopened Christmas cards, from the living-room table and carried it over to a bridge table that stood in front of the couch. “Now, then,” she said, setting the bowl down.
Mr. Cummings, who was sitting on the couch, put aside a copy of the Saturday Evening Post and sighed. “Are you going to check them with your list?” he asked.
“Certainly I’m going to check them with my list. I always do. At least, you can check them as I read them to you. There’s no sense in keeping people on your list when they don’t remember you. And if we find we’ve forgotten someone, we can still get a card in the mail tonight. The list is on my desk.”
Mr. Cummings got up and went over to the desk. He was a small, slender man who was untouched by the gaiety of the season. And although, after dinner, he had helped his wife trim their tree, he had done so with a sort of mathematical precision, interested only in the technical details of the business. He had fastened the tree firmly in its stand, tested the lights, straightened the wires on the ornaments, and unwound the tinsel. The twenty Christmases he had lived through since his marriage had left him with a mild distaste for red and green ribbons, tissue paper, Christmas seals, and the smell of spruce trees.
“It’s under the blotter,” Mrs. Cummings said. She pulled a straight chair up to the bridge table and sat down. “You might bring that letter-opener, too.”
Mr. Cummings brought the letter-opener and the list and sank back on the couch again. “All set?”
“This looks like an ad,” Mrs. Cummings said, holding up a square white envelope. She slit it open and her face fell. “It’s from Chris. Chris Panagakos. Why, I feel terribly about it. I haven’t bought a thing there for months, not since I decided to pay cash and go to the A. & P.” She ran her finger lightly over the card. “It’s engraved, too. And in very good taste. Really, in very good taste. It just says ‘Compliments of the Season’ and ‘Panagakos Brothers.’”
“Well,” Mr. Cummings said, fingering the list, “do you want to send them a card or don’t you?”
“Of course not. I’ll just stop in and buy some little thing. Here’s one from the Archer girls. You know, Bobby Archer’s sisters. I suppose that’s intended to be Mattie Archer carrying that boar’s head. Any of the Archers would drop dead on a mouthful of boar’s head with their stomachs. Why, Mattie Archer is ridden with ulcers. Ridden with them.”
“O.K.,” Mr. Cummings said. “They check.”
YULETIDE SPEAKEASY SCENE
Policeman enters, goes up to bar, and says heartily to owner: “Merry Christmas.” Owner punches “No Sale” key on cash register, takes out bill, hands it to policeman, and says, not quite so heartily: “Merry Christmas.” Policeman exits to continue his rounds.
—HAROLD ROSS, 1930
“Goodness!” Mrs. Cummings exclaimed. “This one’s written all over, like a letter. It says, ‘Angus is in high school and Barbara is continuing her studies at St. Mary’s. We all hope to go East next summer.’ Why, it’s from this girl I went to college with. This girl was a girl—I hate to say this, but—well, she was crazy. Not exactly crazy, but odd. And why she would ever think I would give a hoot about what her children are doing I’m sure I can’t say. Helen Smosely was her name. Did you ever hear of anything like it? And it’s a good thing she signed it ‘Helen Smosely Martin,’ because if she’d signed it ‘Helen Martin,’ I wouldn’t have known who she was from a hole in the ground. Put her down for next year, Bill, because she’s in Detroit and if I send her a card tonight, she’ll know I just did it because I got one from her.”
Mr. Cummings took the card and copied the name and address from it carefully.
“I can’t get over it,” Mrs. Cummings said. “Helen Smosely. She probably got my address from the Alumni Quarterly. Here’s a card from those friends of yours in New Mexico—the Ryans. I sent them one on your account. Look, their card has a swastika on it. Not very appropriate, considering. You’d think they’d realize how people might feel about swastikas, although I suppose, living in New Mexico, they still think of them in the old way.” She shook her head. “Helen Smosely. Here’s one from the Burchells. It ends, ‘There is laughter everywhere, And the shouts of little children fill the wintry air.’ Although I don’t see how they would know when they haven’t any little children and never did have. I don’t believe people can read the verses on the cards they buy or they’d never buy them. I thought ours looked nice this year, didn’t you, Bill?”
Mr. Cummings put one hand to his forehead and frowned. “Let’s see—”
“Oh, Bill!” Margaret Cummings laughed. “You’ve forgotten. If that isn’t too funny! Wait until I tell Frannie. You just about slay her anyway. It was the photograph of our fireplace that we took last Christmas. Remember how pretty the fireplace looked last Christmas? And I must say I think it was smart of me to have it photographed and plan so far ahead.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well, I never told you, but after the cards were all done I had a better idea. Next year, I think it would be cute to have my stocking and your sock hanging from the fireplace and to have my head coming out of my stocking and your head coming out of your sock.” She put her head to one side and looked at him speculatively.
“Might be hard to do,” he said.
“Nonsense! They do all sorts of things nowadays with photography.”
“You’d better step on it,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
ON THEIR WAY
One person to whom the Christmas season brought unusual discomfiture is the wife of a Princeton professor, who dillydallied through most of December and found herself without any Christmas cards at the last moment. She put on her things, dashed into New York, and discovered that the stocks of most of the cards she liked were hopelessly depleted. She came upon one design that she liked, however, and that could be had in quantity. Buying three dozen of these cards in pleased surprise, she hurried home, hastily signed them, addressed the envelopes, and mailed them out—all but one. On Christmas Eve, for the first time, she had a really good look at this card, and she came sharply and fully to her senses when she discovered that what she had taken to be merely the outline of Kriss Kringle’s greatcoat was also the edge of a folded flap, which, when lifted, revealed the legend:
This is just a note to say
That a little gift is on its way.
—JAMES THURBER, 1943
“I’m going to plan on it for next year.” She fumbled in the bowl and opened another envelope. “Here’s one addressed to you. Signed ‘Frances Swett.’”
“Swett?” Mr. Cummings repeated. “Never heard of him.”
“Never heard of her,” Mrs. Cummings corrected. “It’s spelled with an ‘e.’”
“Well, never heard of her, then.”
“It’s a nice little card,” Mrs. Cummings said sweetly. “A five-cent card, but very neat and in good taste. Just a holly wreath, and it says, ‘A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.’ The signature is in a woman’s handwriting.”
“Let’s see it.” Mr. Cummings held out his hand.
“You must have heard of her,” Mrs. Cummings insisted, and handed him the card. “There it is. S-w-e-t-t. Could it be somebody in your office?”
“Nope,” he answered. “There’s nobody in our office named Swett.”
“Someone who was in your office, then?”
“If she was, I don’t remember her.”
“Well, she remembered you,” Mrs. Cummings said. “Not that it matters. We’d better hurry.”
She began to open the envelopes, calling off the names to Mr. Cummings, who checked them with the list. Soon the table was covered with cards and the bowl was empty.
“All through?” Mr. Cummings asked.
“Yes, that was the last,” she said. She got up and, going over to the tree, switched on the lights. “That is, everybody is accounted for except for the girl who sent you that little card.” She reached up and began draping the tinsel more loosely on the branches.
“No ‘Ho-ho-ho’ at all, Mr. Reynolds, is better than a ‘Ho-ho-ho’ that doesn’t come from the heart.”
Mr. Cummings watched her as she stood with her back to him. Even in the soft-colored light from the tree he could see that her hair was very gray. And, although her dress was a becoming color, it pulled slightly across her hips and shoulders. Underneath the tree lay the packages that she had arranged so they would give the best effect. She was really very young, he thought. He looked through the cards on the table until he found the one addressed to himself. He opened it and looked at the name Frances Swett. Suddenly he had a vague and pleasant recollection of a girl who had come to his office with a letter of introduction. He remembered that he had been helpful and almost courtly. He tore the card in half and, getting up, he walked to the fireplace and threw the pieces in.
“Probably a mistake of some kind,” he said. “Must be more than one William Cummings in the telephone book.” He went over to Margaret and put his arm carelessly around her shoulders. She stopped arranging the tinsel and turned her head toward him so that she could look into his eyes.
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and looked up at the tree. “Smells good,” he said.
1940
“Do we have any anti-Christmas cards?”