The first Christmas that Beatrix was back, the Christmas of ’45, she’d bought presents for all the Gregorys and shipped off the box to America at the start of December, thinking that she sent it with plenty of time. Instead, Mrs. G wrote that the box arrived sometime in mid-February, looking as though it had traveled around the world. Half the gifts were gone, the box having been opened and resealed multiple times. By the time the next Christmas rolled around, Beatrix thought about it, even bought a few things, but ended up only sending a card.
This year, seventeen years later, she adds them to her Christmas shopping list. She hears from Gerald every few months now. Lately, he wrote that Mrs. G’s ankle was still bothering her, after the fall, and she finds an antique cane in a shop, beautifully painted with wildflowers. For Gerald, a small chess set for his office at school. He started up a chess club, and he wants the boys to feel free to come into the area outside his office and play whenever they want.
William’s gift is the one that she most wants to send and yet she’s having trouble writing a note to go with it. When she was in New York with Mum in July, they had gone to a baseball game, the first game of a doubleheader. She had the travel agent look up the schedule months earlier, when Robert suggested it, not sure whether she really wanted to go to a Yankee game, but then, when she learned that the Red Sox were to be in town in late July and there was a day game, she planned the trip around it. She even persuaded Mum to go. It was a beautiful July day, too, and when they got there, when they emerged from the dark hallway, when the stadium light and noise opened up around them, the blue sky above it all, even Mum stayed quiet.
It wasn’t an easy trip. Mum tried but she didn’t like New York. She found it dirty and loud, the people pushy and hard to understand. Once they were inside somewhere—a museum, a theater, the hotel—it was mostly fine, but moving about and being outside was awful. And all Beatrix wanted to do was to be outside, to walk and walk and walk. She didn’t want to be on the subway or in a taxi or on a bus. She wanted to walk until she became part of the city, until her feet simply gave out.
They found their seats in the upper deck and settled in. Hot dog? Beatrix asked, and Mum scrunched up her face. Disgusting, she said, but then ate half of Beatrix’s. Not bad, she said grudgingly. The Red Sox beat the Yankees, much to the dismay of the crowd, but Beatrix cheered under her breath every time another ball was hit, another base reached, another run scored. They got to see Mantle hit a home run, which was something indeed, and Beatrix loved the new star on the Sox, who was playing in left field. She’d forgotten the feeling of sitting in the stands, the game unfolding below, the clouds shifting above. The sun, marking the movement of time, as they moved from shade to sun and back again. The smell of beer and mustard. The crowd. What did you think, she said to Mum on the subway ride back downtown, feeling lighter than she had in months. Well, Mum said, it wasn’t as long as I thought it might be.
Later, without Mum, she stopped off in a gift shop in midtown and saw a Mantle doll, his head bobbing back and forth when touched. Beatrix laughed out loud and couldn’t stop making him dance. She bought two: one for herself and one for William. A joke of sorts. She knew he would hate anything that was connected to the Yankees. But she also knew that he would love it. That he must secretly enjoy watching Mantle play. He had adored Bobby Doerr. His room was plastered with pictures of him, torn out of the newspapers and magazines. He would listen to the game on the radio, holding a bat in his hand, and when Doerr was up to bat, he’d swing at the same moment, copying his stance that he knew from photos and from games, turning his back foot in just the same way. William Gregory, Mrs. G would shriek when she saw him. How many times do I have to tell you? No bats in the house.
But how could she tell him that she’d been in the States and hadn’t come to Boston? They stood in that big open space of Grand Central Terminal, the enormous clock suspended by the ticket window, and Beatrix heard the Boston train announced. Big Ben, Mum remarked. Can’t these Americans create anything by themselves? Beatrix ignored her. A part of her wanted to run away from her mother, to jump onto that train, to watch the changing coast on the way north, to arrive at South Station, to burst into that kitchen in time for dinner. Just as she had wanted to do so many years before. Let’s go, Mum, she said instead. We have theater tickets tonight, and I want to change before we go.
Dear William, she writes finally. I couldn’t resist. He’s a marvel, isn’t he. Mantle, I mean. I bought one for myself, too. I liked the thought of that: these two bobbleheaded Mantles, on either side of the Atlantic, nodding at each other across the pond. (Remember that?) So, yes, I was there, I was in New York. Don’t hold it against me. You almost did the same. I miss you, my friend. Love to you and your family, and have a happy, happy Christmas, Bea
She wraps up the gifts, carefully tying each with ribbon, and cradles each gift in scrunched-up pages from the newspaper. She has no address for William. So she puts all the gifts in one big box addressed to Mrs. G and takes it to the post office. America, the clerk says, running his index finger along the address. You have family there? No, she starts to say and then changes her mind. Yes, she says. Yes, I do.