She reached into the pockets of the robe for her two brown bobby pins and the three brown hairpins, pulled her hands out and saw them in her left hand and in her right...
Four rubber-tipped, black bobby pins!
Marian had to look twice to be sure.
Black pins.
Black
. Not brown.
How could black bobby pins get into the pocket of her terry-cloth robe?
This sort of thing happened to other women, not to Marian Melnik Cooper. Her husband adored her. She adored him and trusted him. There simply couldn't be another woman. It was just the empty apartment and the way the bed was made that was upsetting her.
She wanted to telephone someone — Elena at the office? Or Mamma? But Marian restrained herself.
"I'm being disloyal. When Ferris comes home, he'll explain everything."
There had to be some simple, obvious explanation.
...
Maybe he invited some of our friends over. One of them had spilled some thing on
her
dress and put on the robe while the dress was drying out and...
Marian could not continue the thought. She could not invent the rest of her story and explain to herself logically why some woman who was drying out her dress in the bathroom would also have removed four black bobby pins from her hair.
"Oh God, oh God, where is he? Make him come home right away," Marian prayed. Then, she stopped praying. With the will power and strength of mind and character she had inherited from her father, she forced herself to sit down. To pick up her comb and slowly, carefully, begin the chore of combing out the tangles.
++++++++++
Chapter
2
It was at Christmas time, when Marian Melnik was eight-years-old, that she had learned about praying.
The Melnik family was Jewish. They were not synagogue goers. They were agnostics. Marian's father had explained it all to her in a cherished moment of real grown-up conversation. "I'm an Agnostic my dear, not an Atheist. Atheism is something different." Anatol explained the difference to Marian carefully — that there was a God, but God wasn't necessarily Jehovah, Jesus, Buddha, or the Lord. You could make up your own idea of God if you were Agnostic.
Sometimes, when Daddy talked about things like Pharaoh and Ra, Thor and Vikings, Zeus and Hercules — it was very interesting. But sometimes when he was talking about "alternative philosophies" like
Ethical Culture
, or
metaphysics,
Marian could not help but let her mind wander. She would think ahead for big words to say, to show she understood. She knew Daddy loved her smartness. He would smile — not his small smile but his big one, when she surprised him with a new big word.
"I absolutely comprehend," Marian said when her father was finished. And she did understand. Christmas was for Christians, not for Agnostics.
Most all the children in her school were Christians. The school was filled with red, blue, green, gold and silver decorations. There was a Christmas tree with colored lights, colored balls and tinsel in her classroom. There was going to be a Christmas party with candy canes, grab bag gifts, and Christmas carols.
Uncle Milton and Aunt Paula lighted candles, sang Hebrew songs, gave her cousins each a Chanukah gift — last year a Mickey Mouse watch for Sammy, a locket for Natasha. Marian's best friend, Mary Ellen Warner was a High Episcopalian and she was going with her family to
Acapulco
for Christmas and New Year's. At Marian's home, the holidays only meant she didn't have to go to school.
But Agnostic was O.K., at least it made Marian one of a kind. Not "run of the mill" which was what Mary Ellen said about the Lutheran, Protestant, and Presbyterian girls in their class.
Marian tried to pray agnostically. She had been reading about Joan of Arc who had talked to God and heard voices. Marian tried talking to her idea of God in her mind. She wanted
HIM
to talk to her about her brother.
Three-years-old, her brother Ralph was fun to play with. He had a very sweet, nice smile but he couldn't talk at all. He couldn't drink from his cup. He hadn't even learned to go potty, so they'd taken him to a clinic for testing.
Mamma had said it was water in the brain. Then she had started crying and gone to bed with a headache.
Daddy said, "Marian, I want you to promise me you'll be brave and strong. And gentle with Mamma. You've got to be the daughter and the son, a very extra special child for a while."
In the bathroom with the door locked, Marian had looked it up in the Medical Book. She couldn't find out about water in the brain but she found out about Birth Control, Polio, Scarlet Fever, Sex, Spinal Meningitis, Whooping Cough, Syphilis, and T.B.
She was terribly worried about keeping the promise that she'd made to Daddy. She prayed agnostically, that she wouldn't get one of the diseases and a head full of water like Ralph.
All the girls in Marian's class expected dolls — the kind that wet themselves, or dolls with real human hair and wardrobes. One girl was getting a fur coat and the boys were hoping for radios or bicycles. Everyone knew it was parents who gave the presents, but the talk was still of Santa Claus and what Santa Claus might be bringing them.
"I know Santa's bringing me a pair of pink satin toe shoes, and a Punch and Judy puppet theater," said Mary Ellen Warner. Mary Ellen was taking ballet for grace, and elocution lessons for poise. "What about you, Marian?"
"Probably my parents are going to give me an Encyclopedia Britannica." An encyclopedia had already been ordered, not for Christmas but for the family's general self-improvement.
"An encyclopedia?" Mary Ellen Warner wrinkled her nose the way she did when a boy came over to play with them.
"Actually I think I'm probably getting a Longines watch and a string of cultured pearls and also probably a piano!"
That
impressed Mary Ellen Warner. When Mary Ellen got too snobby or stuck up, Marian had to invent ways of making her shut up.
"Couldn't we celebrate Christmas just this year, Mamma?" Marian asked her Mamma wistfully. Occasionally Mamma would say yes to things without a great deal of fuss, but Mamma just said the usual — "You'd better ask your father."
The thing about Christmas was not just the presents. It was the decorations and the music. All the children's voices lifted in song made Marian feel as if she were part of a huge family holding hands around the equator of the world, looking up at the same stars and sending notes of music up into the clouds like the ever widening smoke rings from her daddy's cigarette.
The shiny fragile balls on the trees — she wished she could have one of each color, just to hold them, look into them and see herself reflected. The icicle tinsel — she wanted that too — it was like the silver fringe on the ballerina's gown, at
Radio
City
.
Last birthday, Marian's Daddy had taken there. She never would forget the vision — the ballerina dancing with her Prince, her crown of diamond spires, her dress all glitter-gleam lace, and silvery sparkles.
And never ever would Marian forget the way the symphony orchestra came rising up from below — musicians like penguins in their black and white suits, the silver and gold horns, the BOOM of the kettle drums, the up and down bowing sticks of violins and cellos all moving together, all following their leader the conductor who made the music get bigger and bigger until it filled every inch of blue space on the stage and in the theater, which was one of the biggest theaters in the world — Daddy said.
"I am definitely going to be a musician when I grow up, a piano player or a conductor," she said to herself. You had to have
alternatives
, so if that didn't work out, Marian decided she wouldn't mind being a ballerina.
The Prince was part of it. Somewhere in the world, perhaps upside-down in
China
and growing up like her cousin Sammy was growing up, there was a boy who would someday marry her. Marian knew, quite definitely, her Prince was not going to be fat like Sammy. Her Prince would definitely be as tall, as handsome as Daddy. She liked to imagine whirling and gliding with him to the rippling music that was in her ears when she was swinging on the swings at the playground.
A few weeks before Christmas, though she realized it was childish, Marian began praying for what she wanted from Santa. She was tentative at first. "Please let me get
something
for Christmas." But as the time grew closer, her prayers grew longer. She began to do "Now I lay me down to sleep." Then, she added "God Bless Mamma, Daddy, Ralph," and onto that she added, "And could I have a string of pearls for Christmas. And a wrist watch. And could you consider a piano?"
Marian wrote out a list, put it in an envelope addressed to Santa and placed it on the table in the hall, figuring Sara the maid would show it to Mamma who would show it to Daddy. Probably they'd laugh, but maybe they'd open it, and maybe they'd pay attention to the items on the paper.
The next day the envelope was gone.
Nobody ever mentioned it.
A week before Christmas, Marian robbed her piggy bank. Using Mamma's nail file, she found she could scratch up into the slot and get out a few coins. In the locked bathroom, she managed to dig out two quarters, eight dimes, three nickels and seventeen pennies.
More money came her way unexpectedly when she helped Sara organize the kitchen drawers. There was seventy-two cents in loose change which Sara said Marian could keep. And on Sunday, when Marian got her Daddy his
Times
from the corner, he gave her a whole dollar bill tip.
The next day, at the 5 & 10, Marian bought a box of assorted balls and a pack of icicle tinsel. She wanted to have her own secret celebration of Christmas, her own private shrine. She knew even a small tree was out of the question, but she priced the miniature nativity scenes.
With $3.34 to start with, balls and tinsel using up $2.25, only $1.09 was left. It didn't take long to find out that even the least expensive "Little Town of Bethlehem" was out of the question, but on the other side of the counter there were other souvenirs —
Eiffel
Towers
, keys to the city, back-scratchers, windmills, and rickshaws.
The rickshaw was
IT
. Such a tiny teeny thing, all hand-carved wood — wooden wheels with spokes like toothpicks, tiny grips carved in the handles that pulled the carriage — it even had a teeny wood-carved cushion and the smallest of small little foot-rests for the royal lady who would hire the rickshaw to take her through the busy streets of Japan and China.
The price was 79 cents, so Marian bought it. She put the remaining 30 cents back into the piggy when she got home.
After stringing the colored balls on red yarn, Marian hung them in her window in a graceful scallop. She draped eight tinsel icicles between each ball. On the window sill she placed her green hair ribbon and some absorbent cotton. Once the royal rickshaw was carefully placed on the ribbon, it looked like a roadway surrounded by snow drifts.
Marian presented the shrine to her parents the way the guide at the museum had presented the Egyptian exhibit. She stood up very straight, gestured to the window sill, explaining that decorations were
traditional
, it was important to
conform
to traditions since she was going to become a
non conformist
when she grew up and celebrating Christmas was a way of
orientating
herself to the
heritage
of
mankind
.
Daddy did not say anything, but as he was examining the rickshaw, he smiled an extra big smile. Mamma said, "But darling, where did you get the money for all these things?"
"It's just leftover stuff from school. Some lady gave me the rickshaw. She didn't want it because it was made in
Japan
." Mamma was like Mary Ellen Warner. You sometimes had to invent things for Mamma. Little white lies were O.K. to tell, if you told them in order to be polite.
The explanation seemed to satisfy Mamma, and Daddy started talking about the boycott, the surplus inventory because of the War.
The night
before
Christmas Eve, Marian looked out up at a star.
"Please dear God, a pearl necklace, a watch and maybe a piano — I would certainly appreciate that, but I'd especially appreciate it if you would show me that
YOU
are there!" She was thinking of Joan of Arc and her voices. "Even if you can't give me those things, just give me a little sign that
YOU
can hear me."
Christmas Eve, she hung up a stocking and read a poem. So it would be a ceremony, she sang "Silent Night" and "Away in the Manger", then blew a kiss to the North, to the South, to the East and to the West. She thought long, hard, and prayerfully about her brother Ralph — checking the clock to be sure it was a full thirty-minutes. She did "Now I lay me down to sleep" ten times, very slowly. The prayer wasn't to Santa Claus, it wasn't for pearls, watch, or piano. Marian wanted to know if there was a God and this was God's chance to prove it.