"Oh, Mommy," cried Jory, distress in his voice. "You've lost your hair!" He began to cry. "Put your long hair back on--you don't look like my mommy now!"
No, that was the purpose. I didn't want to look like me this Christmas--not this special Christmas when I had to duplicate exactly what my mother had been when first I saw her dancing with Bart. Now, at long last, my chance--in a gown the same as hers, with her hair style, her younger face, I would confront my mother in her own home, on my terms. Woman to woman and let the best one win! She'd be forty-eight, with a recent face lift--still I knew she was very beautiful. But she couldn't compete with her daughter who was twenty-one years younger! I laughed when I looked in the mirror after slipping on the new green gown. Oh, yes, I'd made myself into what she was-- the kind of woman men just couldn't resist. I had her power, her beauty--and ten times more brains--how could she win?
Three days before Christmas I called Chris and asked if he'd like to go with me to Richmond. I'd forgotten a few necessary items the little local shops didn't have. "Cathy," he said sternly, his voice cold and hostile, "when you give up Bart Winslow you will see me again, but until you do, I don't care to be near you!"
"All right!" I flared. "Stay where you are! You can miss out on your revenge, but I am not going to miss out on mine! Good-bye, Christopher Doll, and I hope all the bedbugs bite!" I hung up!
I didn't teach ballet class as often as I used to, but at recital times I was always there. My little dancers delighted in dressing up, and showing off before their parents, grandparents and friends. They looked adorable in their costumes for The Nutcracker. Even Jory had two minor roles to play, a snowflake and a sugarplum.
In my opinion there was no more magical way to spend at least one Christmas Eve than as a family attending a performance of The Nutcracker. And it was a thousand times more wonderful when one of those gifted, small, graceful children was your own small son, fifty-two days short of being four years old. The sweet babyness of him dancing on stage with so much passion drew applause time and again from the audience who stood up to cheer his solo performance that I'd choreographed especially for him.
And best of all, I'd made Bart swear he'd force my mother to attend that recital--and they were there; I checked by peeking through the curtains, front row center, Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Winslow. He looked happy; she looked grim. So I did have some control over Bart. It showed up in a huge bouquet of roses for the dance instructor, and a huge box for the solo performing snowflake.
"What can it be?" asked Jory, his face flushed, his happiness rebounding from the sky. "Can I open it now?"
"Sure, soon as we're home, and tomorrow morning Santa will leave a hundred gifts for you."
"Why?"
"Because he loves you."
"Why?" asked Jory.
"Because he couldn't help but love you--that's why."
"Oh."
Before five in the morning Jory was up, playing with the electric train Bart had sent him. All over the living room floor were the splendid wrappings from hundreds of gifts from Paul, Henny, Chris, Bart, and Santa Claus. Emma gave him a box of homemade cookies that he polished off between ripping open the packages. "Gee, Mommy," he cried, "I thought it would be lonely without my uncles, but I'm not lonely. I'm having fun."
He wasn't lonely, but I was. I wanted Bart with me, not over there with her. I waited for him to make up some excuse to drive to the drug store and slip over to see me and Jory. But all I saw of Bart on Christmas morning was the two-inch wide diamond bracelet he enclosed in a box with two dozen red roses. His card read, "I love you, Ballerina."
If ever there was a woman who dressed more carefully than I did that night it must have been Marie Antoinette. Emma complained it was taking me forever. I painted my face as if a camera was going to shoot me close up for a magazine cover. Emma styled my hair as my mother had worn hers long ago. "Wave it back softly from the face, Emma, then catch it high at the crown with a cluster of curls, and make sure a few hang long enough to brush my shoulders."
When she finished, I gasped to see I was almost an exact duplicate of what my mother had been when I was twelve! My high cheekbones were emphasized just as hers had been with this hair style. As in a dream I never truly expected to happen I stepped into the green gown with the velvet bodice and chiffon skirt. This was the type of gown that never went out of fashion. I spun around before the mirror, getting the feel of being my mother with her power to control men, while Emma stood back and flattered me with compliments.
Even my perfume was the same. Musky with an Oriental garden scent. My slippers were straps of silver with four-inch heels. My silver evening bag matched. All I needed now was the emerald and diamond jewelry she had worn. Soon I'd have that too. Surely fate wouldn't let her be wearing green tonight. At some point in my life fate had to be on my side. I figured it was due tonight.
Tonight I'd deliver the surprises and the slaps. She would feel the pain of losing! What a pity Chris wouldn't come and enjoy the ending of a long, long play, started the day our father was killed on the highway.
I threw myself one more admiring glance, picked up the fur stole Bart had given me, gathered up my faltering courage, took a last peek at Jory who was curled up on his side and looking angelic. I leaned over to tenderly kiss his round, rosy cheek. "I love you, Jory," I whispered.
He partial
ly awakened from a hazy dream and stared up at me as if I were part of that dream. "Oh, Mommy, you look so pretty!" His dark blue eyes shone with childish wonder as he asked quite seriously, "Are you going to a party to get me a new daddy?"
I smiled and again kissed him and said yes, in a way I was. "Thank you, darling, for thinking I look pretty. Now go back to sleep and dream of happy things, and tomorrow we'll build a snowman."
"Bring a daddy to help."
On the table by the front door was a note from Paul. "Henny is very ill. It's a pity you can't give up your plans to visit her before it is too late. I wish you good luck, Catherine." With a sigh I put that note aside and picked up the note Henny had enclosed with Paul's written on festive red paper, with the letters made rooked because of painful arthritic knuckles.
Dear Fairy-Child,
Henny is old; Henny is tired; Henny is glad own son is by her side, but unhappy because other children far away.
I tell you now, before I go on to better place, the simple secret of living happy. All you need do is say good-bye to yesterday's loves, and hello to the new. Look around and see who needs you most and you won't go wrong. Forget who needed you yesterday.
You write and say you have new baby inside you made by husband of your mother. Rejoice in child, even if mother's husband will stay married to her. Forgive your mother, even if once she did evil. Nobody all bad, and a lot of the good in her children must have come from her. When you can forgive and forget the past, peace and love will come again to you, and this time it will stay.