The Root Cellar (27 page)

“You’ll see,” was all Rose said. But the baking was not going well. Every night after dinner
Rose sent everyone from the kitchen so that her pies and cakes would come as a surprise. She measured and mixed everything carefully, but pie dough (for the bought mincemeat) was not as easy to roll as Susan had made it appear. Nor was shortbread as simple as the recipe suggested. It was sticky and went into holes and lumps faster than the rolling pin could smooth it out. The expensive ingredients for plum pudding were stuck together into a thing that looked like a ball of cement with pebbles in it. Rose hoped fervently that Uncle Bob’s brandy sauce would soften it up.

The day before Christmas, Uncle Bob and the boys went out to the woods and brought home a spruce tree smelling of fresh snow and winter. It fitted perfectly into the corner of the kitchen by the fireplace. Rose and the boys decorated it with St. Nicholas bells, bright balls, and little shining figures that came out of the old wooden box from the attic. Rose had never trimmed a Christmas tree before. Her grandmother had only had a small, artificial silver one for the table.

“Here.” Sam handed Rose two china cherubs. “Mom said they belonged on our great-grandmother’s tree, so that’s your great-grandmother, too. You put them on.” Rose hung them carefully on the ends of the branches where they could be easily seen.

After lunch the neighbors came in—Mrs. Yardley from across the bay with candies, Mrs. Heaton from down the road with a big red and white cake, three Colliver children with cookies. They had all heard that Aunt Nan was sick. Their warm generosity made Rose think of Min Jerue.

On Christmas Eve Rose put the presents she had bought under the tree. On Christmas morning she was up even before the twins. She had a book on fishing for Uncle Bob, kaleidoscopes for the twins, a deck of cards for George. She had found a wooden recorder in an antique shop in Soames for Sam. Her present for Aunt Nan was to be the kitchen all decorated for Christmas and, of course, the old-fashioned dinner. There was no light outside, although the blackness of night had softened and the stars had become dim. A sliver of moon stood over the old maple trees, and there was in the air that sense of quiet expectation that lies over the land just before dawn and that always seems so much stronger in midwinter. Rose sat down in the rocking-chair with her hands in her lap. She kept a stillness inside her, feeling that expectation, feeling—before she could see it—the dawn edge over the horizon, then reach across the earth toward the window where she sat. She felt happy and at home.

The twins got up and Christmas began. They took their stockings down from over the
fireplace and crowed delightedly over every treasure they brought forth. Then they went to wake Sam and George and everyone went into Aunt Nan and Uncle Bob’s room.

In Rose’s stocking, along with an assortment of small treats and the apple and orange and nuts everyone had, there was a miniature toy car. Some of the paint had worn off and it looked old. When Rose looked up and caught Aunt Nan’s anxious expression, she knew it must have belonged to her father, and she put it carefully into the pocket of her bathrobe and kept her hand tightly around it.

Then everyone opened their presents. George had bought Rose a trick bar of soap that squirted water, the twins had made her a scrapbook with pages for her to write down their favorite stories in, Aunt Nan and Uncle Bob had given her a warm sweater and an apron with Christmas wreaths and bells printed on it, and Sam had found an old copy of
The Secret Garden
. Rose smiled tremulously when she said thank you to Sam, but she was happier still when she saw how he liked the recorder. He played Will’s song, and although it made her sad, she felt right about it.

They went to church in the morning. After a small lunch, Rose shooed them all out of the kitchen. She put on Louisa Jerue’s carefully washed and ironed, green and white striped dress, and over it her new Christmas apron.

Then she decorated the kitchen. Uncle Bob had saved some small spruce branches for her, and she put them in a glass dish in the center of the table on Aunt Nan’s printed, holly-wreath table cloth. She put out the big Christmas paper napkins, the good wine glasses and dishes. It felt like a wonderful game, and she was full of excitement.

The green of the spruce, the bright cloth, the twinkling lights of the tree, and the glow from the fireplace made the room look something like the old-fashioned Christmas pictures she wanted to conjure up.

“So what I have to do now is get the dinner,” she told Grimalkin, who was prowling and sniffing around the edges of his suddenly unfamiliar kitchen.

As she said it she became aware that possibly everyone who had ever lived in the house was making Christmas dinner. Pots clattered, dishes rattled. There was talk and laughter in cloud-like layers that moved together, separated, piled up, dispersed again. And there were odors, rich, inviting odors from how many years of how many Christmases!

With a blissful sense of being a part of all those other festivities, Rose peeled potatoes and got them ready, sweet ones and white, according to the recipe in
Home Cookery
. The tomatoes were in a can and only needed a few spices to make them right. She skinned the onions and
made a cream sauce. “A little lumpy”—she tasted it—“but not bad. I knew I could do this!” She took the goose out of the refrigerator and opened Aunt Nan’s cookbook. Because she was using a modern oven, Old Tom had suggested a modern cookbook for the goose.

“Roast goose,” said the book, “twenty to twenty-five minutes to the pound.” She read no farther. It was four o’clock. The goose weighed ten pounds.

“I never thought about the time!” Rose gulped. “Well, I’ll have to cook it hotter than it says. Then it will go faster.” She stuffed it with apples and onions, turned the oven temperature as high as it would go, and shoved in the goose.

Within five minutes, Rose’s goose was as aromatic as all the Christmas dinners in all those other times. Within three more minutes it had started to burn. She yanked open the oven door and pulled it out. It was black on top.

“Rose, Rose, how long is it to dinner?” The twins breathed through the keyhole.

“Not yet,” Rose’s voice quavered. “Go away. All of you,” she called.

“I know.” She sighed with relief. “You have to heat the oven first.” She sat down and waited until the temperature said 500 degrees, then shot the goose back in the oven.

This time it was almost fifteen minutes before the smell of burning goose was strong.
Rose jerked the roasting pan out of the oven with such force that she sat down on the floor with it in her lap. There was a great red burn on her arm and grease on her Christmas apron and her dress.

“It isn’t going to cook,” she said in a low hoarse voice. “And the potatoes and things are almost cold. It’s ruined.” After all that she had been through with Will and Susan, a ruined dinner might not have seemed very important. But all Rose’s longing to be a part of the family had centered on it, and she was sick with disappointment.

Old Tom arrived at the front door.

“Rose, shall I get Aunt Nan settled in the wheelchair?”

“No! No! Give me fifteen minutes.”

She picked the cat away from the goose. “No, Grimalkin.” She swallowed hard. “That’s Boxing Day dinner. Today we’re going to have sausages and mashed potatoes and cabbage salad.” She imagined George’s face as he saw what was for Christmas dinner.

“You can get ready, now,” she called. She felt much as she had the time she had made up her mind to work for Peter Maas. She went about her work with that same fatalistic calm. She put on a clean apron. She wrapped up the goose and put it back in the refrigerator. She put sausages on to cook and mashed the potatoes.

She ran to the cupboard and took down the cans full of rock-hard cookies and skimmed them out the back door like flat stones into a lake.

“Merry Christmas, rabbits and squirrels and chickadees,” she whispered.

She piled the sausages on the big turkey platter, with the mashed potatoes beside them. “They’re going to hate me for this,” she murmured. She walked slowly toward the door, opened it, slid through, and stood with her back to it as though she were protecting a hidden spy.

Everyone clustered around her, Uncle Bob pushing Aunt Nan in the wheel chair.

“Rose, you look like a Christmas picture!” cried Aunt Nan. “Where did you get that wonderful dress?”

Rose did not answer. She looked at Aunt Nan with pleading eyes. Resolutely she smiled.

“Well now,” said Old Tom, “this promises to be quite a surprise.” He winked at Rose.

“Yes, it does.” She bit her lip. “Well, merry Christmas everybody.” She threw open the kitchen door.

For at least a minute there was not a sound. In the soft glow of the firelight and candles the astonished gathering saw a room so bedecked and garlanded with cedar and pine it looked like a fairytale forest. On the mantelpiece, branches of green were twisted around a pair of
creamy white candles in tall candlesticks that Rose had never seen before. On the table in front of the window were lighted oil lamps. The dinner table was covered with a soft white linen cloth embroidered with wreaths in rose and green silk. At every place there were linen napkins that matched, and white plates with thin, green and rose flowered rims. The wine glasses were cranberry colored. In the center of the table candles in pewter candlesticks were circled by a wreath of cedar.

A large platter stood at the serving end of the table, and on it was a roast goose, brown and glossy. And there were covered serving dishes and relishes and pickles and hot bread and jellies.

Old Tom broke the silence. “You mean to tell me that little girl done all this?” Then everyone began to talk at once and their words were a jumble and a buzz in Rose’s head all through dinner. She ate, got up, cleared away the plates and brought over the candies and the dessert, a plump Christmas pudding which had been sitting on a trivet by the hearth. Only then did she begin to think. Had Susan brought it all? Had she made it all? Or had she spent the day swiping it from a hundred and fifty years of other people’s Christmases? Had she had to eat sausages and mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner?

Uncle Bob stood up and dinged his glass with his spoon. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “In the forces, at formal dinners, there are toasts to distinguished members of the company. On this occasion I feel sure there can be no argument that my niece, Rose Larkin, is the most distinguished member of this company. I’d like to propose the first toast to Rose, a young woman who performs miracles and understands Christmas. To Rose.” Uncle Bob lifted his glass.

“To Rose.” Aunt Nan smiled at her.

“And God bless,” said Old Tom. Selfconsciously the boys followed suit.

Rose looked at Sam, then at Aunt Nan. “It wasn’t me,” she said. “It was Susan. That one I made was awful. The goose burned and I made sausages.”

“I told you I smelled sausages,” George interrupted.

Rose continued. “I think I’d better tell you about it.” Once again she told her story. Then she got up and took the burned goose out of the refrigerator.

No one said a word, Uncle Bob cleared his throat a few times. George, to Rose’s great delight, looked flabbergasted. Finally the twins said, “Tell again about the girl in our room.” Aunt Nan said thoughtfully, “There’s Sam’s ghost,” and subsided into silence. Sam took
his recorder out of his pocket. He leaned over to Rose and said softly, “I think I would have liked Will.” And Rose said, “Oh, Sam, you would have.”

Old Tom, who had said very little all evening, nodded his head. “You remember, youngster, I told you about old Susan Morrissay living in this house and how her nephew used to come summers. I never saw no ghosts here, but there’s been talk about this place. Heatons used to try to keep hired men here, but there wasn’t none who’d stay.”

“I’d like some more coffee.” Uncle Bob held out his cup. When it came he lifted it to his lips and quickly put it down, the expression on his face saying plainly that he had suddenly realized where it might have come from. Everyone laughed and the spell was broken. Uncle Bob decided that no matter what they said, Rose and Old Tom had cooked up the story with the dinner, and George agreed with him. Aunt Nan was quiet and Rose knew, from having spent so many afternoons with her, that she was figuring out how to make the story into chapters.

When the last crumb of the maple sugar candies had disappeared, Rose announced, “They’re my ghosts. My friends. I’m going to do the dishes.”

Uncle Bob argued, but Rose was determined. Once more she closed the kitchen door
after them. Quietly and carefully she washed the old plates and glasses, folded up the napkins and the cloth. When she was finished she stood in front of the dying fire. “Susan, where will I put them so that you can get them again?”

It wasn’t from in front of the fire but from the old rocking-chair by the window that the voice came, and it wasn’t Susan’s, it was Mrs. Morrissay’s. “Just leave them on the table.”

Rose turned and faced her. “It was your present! I thought it was Susan’s. I really thought.…” As she said it she could hear Old Tom’s words in her head, words she hadn’t really heard when he had said them. “Old Susan Morrissay.”

“Susan?” said Rose doubtfully.

“That’s so,” said Susan. Rose walked slowly over to where she sat in the chair, old and white-haired, her eyes as bright and black as they had been at fourteen.

“But this isn’t—I mean wasn’t—your house. It was Will’s mother’s.”

“Rose, didn’t you figure? Will and me got married. After his ma died it was our house, Will’s and mine. I always loved this house.” She stroked the old wood of the window sill. “Then, after Will died, I lived here alone for a lot of years.”

“Did Will die soon? Did he die soon after we came back?”

“Oh, mercy no! He lived to be a good sixty years. He never did take to farming.” Susan laughed. “But we always made out all right. Will stayed with the flute and he took to fiddling. He used to fiddle for all the dances hereabouts. He swore this place wasn’t going to be so glum after his mother died and it never was. It was full of music. We never had no children—none that lived. We had a little girl.” Susan reached out for Rose’s hand. “We called her Rose, but she only lived a few weeks. We never had another. But we always had children around. We had a good life. I’m almost ninety now and it seems a long time ago.”