photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
The Nice Drawer
by Jane Bell Goldstein
It must have been the second Christmas after Daddy died, because Grandma, my great-grandmother, really, had already moved back to Nana’s from the cottage up on Depot Hill that she’d shared with her second husband, Glenn McKay. After fifty years of marriage, Glenn died in the spring of 1964, not quite a year after my dad.
Though the two men had little in common—my father an erudite young doctor with a refined Southern charm; my step-great-grandfather an unschooled old desert rat, who could build, grow, or cook most anything, but likely never read a whole book in his life—they had a deep affection for one another during their six years of acquaintance. After our midday Sunday dinners in Capitola, they would retire to the back room at Nana’s house, where Glenn, recumbent in his oversized La-Z-Boy recliner, puffed on his pipe as he retold a handful of stories about his life: prospecting in the Mohave Desert, driving with Grandma in a Model T over Tioga Pass, and their truck farm near Las Vegas, not far, he said, from where The Strip is now. My father, in an upright chair by Glenn’s shoulder, as though he were his psychoanalyst, would interject only an occasional murmur of assent or appreciative chuckle in the long intervals between drags on his menthol cigarette. Several years after we moved to San Jose, maybe 1960, Dad even took Glenn, then 84 and, as he described himself, “blind in one eye, deaf in one ear, and lame in one leg,” on a car camping trip to Death Valley. One might question my father’s sanity for embarking on the 1,000 mile drive with Glenn alone, much less with my 10- and 11-year-old brother and sister in the backseat, but a pioneering spirit, that quintessential American trait associated with their common Scots-Irish heritage, was something the two men shared. As we saw them off, Dad at the wheel of our sky blue Rambler station wagon with Glenn riding shotgun, the old man was as excited and happy as I’d ever seen him. Even his habit of alternately lodging the rubber tip of his cane under the gas pedal, slowing the car to a crawl no matter how much pressure Dad applied, then bringing the cane down on top, causing the car to suddenly accelerate on the narrow and windy roads, did not spoil their enjoyment. Despite Glenn’s advanced age, I believe the deep sadness that seized him after my father’s suicide was a proximate cause of his death. The authority structure of my family was grounded in my grandfathers’ Scots‑Irish heritage on both sides. For centuries their ancestors’ survival, as “unruly clans” of reivers on the Anglo-Scottish border, before fleeing en masse to the Ulster Plantation and then the Appalachian frontier, depended on competent, loyal wives. They needed women who could manage and defend the homestead while the men were off rustling cattle, fighting native insurrections (Irish and American Indian), or, later, on military and mining expeditions that sometimes lasted years. Though formally patriarchal, their tradition, by necessity, afforded greater status and power to their matriarchs than was typical of societies with more settled histories. During the lull before Christmas in 1964, I ached for my lost father, but I was not frightened for my future. I trusted that the women left behind would carry on. At the time of Glenn’s death, I hadn’t thought at all about how Grandma felt. Besides being at the self‑absorbed age of twelve, my own incomplete mourning intensified my insularity. Not until I was much older did I recognize the impression her presence made on the formation of my character, especially during those first fatherless years. Fifty years later, however, I can still picture her standing at Nana’s front door seeing out a group of old ladies who had come to pay their respects. “I am just happy for fifty wonderful years with Glenn.” Her small sturdy figure stood resolute against the chill of evening fog. “Yes, I will be happy. That is all there is to do.” She offered a stoic smile, and the ladies clucked their approval. She was 90, and happy she remained for the remaining eight years of her life. Grandma was not Scots-Irish or even American. Born in the West Riding of Yorkshire in 1873, she was English through and through. Though she hadn’t set foot in England since she was shipped off to Canada at eleven, she clung to her national identity. Every afternoon, for example, she served tea. Though the fare and decorum strayed considerably from the traditional English meal—scoops of Carnation ice cream drowned in Hershey’s syrup, which she allowed us children to beat into chocolate soup—her insistence on observing the custom speaks volumes about her yearnings. Likewise, she never fully lost her North English accent, and, at 92, she prepared to go to a Beatles press conference in San Francisco, part of a plan hatched by my sister and a friend to meet the Fab Four, by memorizing “God Save the Queen.” “The boys won't think I’m proper English if I can’t sing the anthem,” she worried aloud. The old beach resort of Capitola was quiet in winter. My brothers and I normally spent our Christmas breaks there roaming along the railroad tracks and trail to China Beach, or downtown to the landing on the far side of the sewer pumphouse, where we’d press our bodies against the galvanized pipe guardrail to face icy spray from breakers hitting the concrete wall, then walk to a deserted beachfront arcade to play skeeball while we warmed up and dried off. In 1964, the few days before Christmas were too wet to go outdoors. I mostly passed the time curled up on my grandmother’s damask sofa reading, opaque and oblivious to those around me, while the white noise of pounding rain pushed me deep into Ray Bradbury’s stories. Especially, I remember the one about a young girl locked in a closet on Venus while, for the first time in seven years, a break in the perpetual downpour allowed the sun to come out for two hours. “Jane,” Nana called from the kitchen. “Go help your little grandmother with her wrapping . . . now, please.” Though put out by the interruption right at the climax of the story, I marked the book and obeyed. Nana, unlike her mother, had no patience for dawdlers. Rising from the sofa, I headed down the hall. Grandma, her back to me as she bent over the open top drawer of the dresser opposite the door, didn’t sense my approach. Even so, her startle seemed extreme. She was not a jumpy person, trained in part, no doubt, by a game we used to play when I was eight and she 87. As she puttered about, I would wait in ambush to sneak up for a stealth tickle. If successful, meaning she didn’t see me coming before my fingers touched her back, she’d let out a small oooh, then reach behind to grab my hand. I never tired of her reaction. As she turned to face me, her eyes still bright with surprise, she’d bring an index finger to her closed-lip smile. It was our secret. That was four years ago. Today, she rose rigid to her full height of 4’10” and wedged her body in front of mine, as if to block my view. “There you are.” She smiled but did not budge. “I still have a few things for you to do up.” She motioned to a card table by the window with paper and ribbons set out on it. “The boys’ things . . . if you’ll wrap them, please.” She watched me cross the room before turning back to the drawer. I found the boys’ things on the table, a Duncan yo-yo identified with a taped tag for my older brother, Lewis, and a rubber ball for my younger brother, Herbie. Wrapping spheres had always been a favorite of mine, in tissue paper cinched with a ribbon at the top. I was good at bows. Just as I finished, Grandma was at my side. “Here, dear.” She shoved a box toward me. “I need you to wrap this,” she paused before releasing her hold, “but you needn’t look inside.” I stared at the flimsy rectangular carton, the kind department stores slip flattened into your shopping bag, the right size for a wool muffler or summer nightie. This one had a bit of old tape stuck to its side that told me it had been used before. Across the top, neatly written with a blue ballpoint in Grandma’s shaky Victorian script, it read, for Jane. “Thank you, dear.” Grandma exhaled a sigh. “I’m going to brew a cup of tea now. Just leave everything here when you’re done.” With that, she left the room, stopping on her way out to close the drawer. I held the box for a moment, then, to resist the temptation to look inside, I set it top‑down on the table and taped the sides shut. With meticulous care, I chose a piece of paper with images of evergreens laden in snow and folded hospital corners to fit it to the box like a smooth sheet on a bed. Fully absorbed in the task now, my artistic ambition rose. After cutting several lengths from a wide spool of ribbon, I looped and snipped the white satin into a giant snowflake of a bow, which I secured to the package with tiny knots that did not show. I inspected my handicraft. Satisfied with the result, my thoughts drifted back to the contents. Had Grandma planned for me to wrap the present, knowing it was my own? I supposed I’d never know. Certainly she meant for me to know the gift was from her nice drawer. I smiled. When relating memories of Grandma, I’ve often used the term “nice drawer” without explanation. Recently, I realized that others misunderstood its meaning, thinking it a place to store finery used only on special occasions. Grandma’s nice drawer was not that. It was filled with gifts that she never intended to use, not because she disliked them, or held a perverse belief that they were too nice for her. To the contrary, she stored them there in their pristine state to preserve their perfection. Grandma’s standard for consignment to the nice drawer, though high, had nothing to do with monetary value. Expensive silk scarves sat alongside dime store bottles of lavender water and tins of talcum powder. To risk a cliché, it was the thought that counted. If a person used a well‑chosen gift from a loved one, she once told me, it became just another thing. Better to keep it in the nice drawer and take it out occasionally to admire and relive the joy you’d felt when you received it. When an occasion arose to give a gift of joy, Grandma found it in her nice drawer. The rain subsided on Christmas Eve, but my brothers and I had no time to roam. Nana put us to work. While she cooked, we cleaned the silver, snapped beans, and peeled potatoes; then I set the table while the boys brought in logs and laid a fire. Grandma puttered around, filling bowls with salted nuts or M&Ms, setting out the meat platter, serving dishes, and gravy boat, and occasionally slipping into her room to carry out a present. When my mother, who’d had to work that day, finally arrived with my sister from our home in San Jose, I had only enough time before dinner to help them slide their presents under the tree. “You’re awfully quiet, Jane.” My mother’s tone was casual as she cleared the dessert plates. “A penny for your thoughts.” She smiled and searched my face. “Nothing. I’m fine.” I was sorry to undermine her attempt at good cheer, but I didn’t want to talk. “Genie, just leave those dishes in the sink, please,” Nana called to her. “They’ll sit there all night and won’t say a word. Let’s have our Christmas now.” I felt relieved, rescued almost, as we retired to the living room and settled into our seats. “Now where has Mother gone?” Nana’s annoyance subsided when Grandma scurried into the room. I watched her tuck a final present under the tree, and, though she tried to obscure it, first carrying it inside her cardigan and then pushing it behind a larger gift, I spotted the snowflake bow in the transfer. Our gift opening, as always, progressed in an orderly fashion at a leisurely pace. Lewis, in his new role as eldest male, passed out the gifts one or two at a time, staggering them so we all had a chance to ooh and aah before proceeding to the next. Even so, and despite many snapshot memories of the evening—giggles and guffaws, the crackling fire, and Nana’s Why you extravagant little wretch! exclamation whenever she opened a present—I have no specific recollection of any gift exchanged, except the one Grandma gave to me. Since it had no tag, Lewis passed it over until the end. Finally, he held it up. “Anyone know who this is for?” Grandma didn’t speak. Instead she jumped to her feet and hurried across the room to him. As if passing on a great secret, she whispered in his ear. She returned to her seat, and Lewis brought the package to me. With my curiosity piqued, I started to pull away the wrapping, but carefully. I wanted to preserve the paper and snowflake bow. As I wedged my thumbnail between the box bottom and top to cut the tape, I tempered my expectations of what I might find inside. What could my great-grandmother have pulled from her nice drawer for me? An embroidered handkerchief, I speculated, or an organza bag of sachet? Perhaps even a wool beret, though that would be a long shot, I reasoned. Who would give an old lady a hat like that? Finally, I finished undoing the package, and opened the box. How wrong my guesses had been. In the bed of white tissue paper lay a pair of gloves. As I lifted one from the box, its long, deep purple sleeve unfolded. Comprehending what it was, I shoved my bulky poor-boy sweater sleeves up as far as I could, baring my arms to the biceps, then slid my hands into the slender finger openings and smoothed the elegant fabric to just above my elbows. I surveyed the room. I responded to my brothers’ smirks with a haughty toss of my head and my best starlet-on-the red-carpet smile, then fixed my eyes on Grandma. I held my hands high for her to see and grinned. With her eyes still bright with surprise, she brought an index finger to her closed-lip smile. I never had occasion to wear the purple opera gloves in company again, and I never learned how Grandma had acquired them. They disappeared at some point, probably when my mother cleared out the clutter I left behind when I went away to college. Throughout my teens, though, I kept the gloves folded in their box at the bottom of my lingerie drawer. Every once in a while, I would take them out to try on and admire, and remember our Christmas of 1964, when my 91-year-old great-grandmother taught me, at age twelve, that we can always choose to be happy, as she helped me to do then, when I was caught in that rainstorm on Venus. |