Chapter Text
December 28, 1921
I no longer feel at ease in this house. The crucifix is yet again nailed above the frame of my bedroom door, and this time it is fixed in such a manner that I cannot remove it. The only result from all my pulling was a deep scratch on my index finger where a sharp corner pierced my flesh. Surely there is some religious irony in that, though I do not perceive it.
Truly I am to the neck in religiosity in this house. Yes, I have complained to you at length, dear journal, but before it could be dismissed by the reminder that all this is how Uncle John has carried on, decades after the events that forever changed his outlook upon the world. He survives on the strength of his faith, believing that he, Quincy, Arthur, my parents, Abraham, and Lucy have gone to God as good servants to His will. Mary complements him, in that regard, solidifying his faith beyond doubt. No unbelief has he to pray away.
We attended Christmas Eve Evening Mass, the church packed with the ever-faithful and sometimes-faithful (those who believe but for many reasons can only seem to go to church around the holiest holidays). We were crushed in the pews between unruly children (were Quincy and I always so dramatic?), elderly couples holding Bibles so worn they seemed ready to drop from their covers, and the occasional young person (myself included). I searched for faces the same age as mine, but the result was meagre. Another reminder that the Church has lost some of its sway with the young in the wake of the War. We have already seen Hell on Earth, and God was silent.
I don’t know how Millicent stands it, how she remains faithful when so much of life is so terrible. How does she sit still when the man on the cross looks down on her with such disappointment and revulsion? How is her skin not constantly crawling, her bones not blackened with holy heat? I sit in that church and every time I want to run, scream, shout obscenities at the deacons, spit into the chalice and turn the blood of that Nazarene into something repellant.
Is this how Mother felt, all those years sitting next to my father? Is this what drove Quincy off the rooftop?
The Communion burned, and burned again at the Christmas Day morning service (yes, I was subjected to both sermons, both bouts of Christmas carols). None of the Christmas Eve dinner we shared with Aunt Mary’s daughters, sons-in-law, and friends made it beyond my stomach, and I could barely stomach the sight of fruitcake and the smell of tea the next morning after Mass. I left for my room and pondered how I might explain this sudden illness to my hosts, but Aunt Mary stated later that same day that she was remaining vigilant for anything “else” that might sicken her daughters or guests. Her presumption then is that I ate something undercooked, and for all I know that may be the cause of my frequent trips to the toilet.
Uncle John was kind enough, and even proceeded to purchase some journals, that I may continue writing once this precious diary of mine has run its course. In turn I gifted him with some of the later works of Doctor Freud, as well as some of the more recent compiled publications by Jung. He seemed to appreciate the thoughtfulness of my gift and placed it alongside the new smoking jacket from Patricia and Henry, a Wilkinson Safety Shaver from Elizabeth and Duncan, and a new printing of Summa Theologica from Aunt Mary. (He gifted her an equally impressive tome, Of the Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity.) I expected no gifts, and did not receive any from Patricia or Elizabeth, but Uncle John did gift me with something quite lovely: a copy of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. We each took turns reading from the book until we had completed the entire tale in just a few hours.
For a while I forgot all the events of the past few days. In reading I saw clearly the story of Scrooge and his ghosts, his memories of the past softening his heart while the scenes of the present warm his spirit. Each of us wrote in a different way: Aunt Mary gentle but firm when going over the scenes of the Cratchit family, Elizabeth thoroughly enjoying the moments of horror with Marley and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, Patricia singing where she thought it may be appropriate in the text, and Uncle John conjuring a wonderful impression of a ruthless old man. I think my better readings came when Scrooge was wandering through his childhood, seeing himself and his sister before death could rend them asunder, before greed overcame his purer intentions.
Damn tears. But these days are the hardest. Mother and Father left me not of their own volition, and the grief I feel for them in the late night, sitting by the Christmas tree, is mostly of regrets. I could have shown my affection for them more often, but I expected there would be more time. There would be years and decades of time, whole life stages during which I could ask them what to do next, where to go, how to make decisions. I am left instead with what they wrote, what pictures they took, what letters and journals and legal documents they saved over the years.
Quincy, though - I get angry when I think of him, and then sad again, and the wound left by his passing is torn open once more. He was my best friend. He and I understood each other so well it was like we were twins, even though he was several years older and blessed to be a boy in a world where boys can do much more of what they please. We would sit together on Christmas Eve in his room and try to stay up all night to listen for Saint Nicholas, and inevitably we would fall asleep together in one bed and wake the next day to all the presents waiting under the tree. Even when we were teenagers and had our own rooms we often sat together late into the evening, reading books in each other’s presence or trying to beat each other at the latest fashionable card game.
He left me all alone, and I hate him for that, and I cannot truly hate him. He was my brother. He was the only soul who understood what I am going through now. The others understand a part of it, but they did not grow up in the shadow of that man - no, that creature - the way our household did.
These morbid thoughts do me no good. Better to go downstairs and try to be friendly to Elizabeth and Patricia while they are visiting - the last I saw them before this recent trip was perhaps five years ago, well before they were married. I will note just one last thing before I close you, dear diary: I saw Uncle John speaking with the church pastor after the service, and again at our Boxing Day lunch with friends. He saw me watching him and turned aside, so I could not make out the movements of his mouth. Whatever he was discussing with the pastor, he wanted it kept secret.
That unease creeps up again, like bile in my throat. Whatever Uncle John thinks, what I need is for him to think that my aloof demeanor is changing as I enjoy his hospitality. I'd best go get back into Uncle John's good graces. In a week or so I shall be on my way north, and the last thing I need is trouble following behind.
December 31, 1921
The last day of the year, and the clock hovers around 9 in the evening. I have told my hosts of my plan to travel north on 3 January via train. The tickets are purchased and the luggage is being packed. Aunt Mary initially offered Kunwar's assistance with packing and moving my bag, but Uncle John reminded her that Kunwar has taken leave and will not return until at least a week after New Year's Day. A pity, since I had hoped to offer him some sort of small Christmas gift before I left. I don't even know if he celebrates Christmas.