Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

She’d written to Santa...now Carrie asked Debbie It was two days after Debbie had taken her to Bullock’s department store to see Santa that Carrie wrote the letter. She came into the warm rose and white living room with the paper clutched in her tight little fist. “Mama, I need a ’tamp.” “Stamp,” Debbie corrected automatically. She reached down for her little girl. “What for, lovey?” Carrie, who had more important things to do than stand around being hugged, wiggled away. “To mail my letter,” she said importantly. “Here!” Debbie accepted the piece of paper, started to unfold it, then stopped. “May I read it?” she asked politely. Five months ago, she would have read it, assuming it was readable, without a thought. Maybe it was never too early to teach a child about privacy, but if she’d slipped up once then, Eddie could have put in a word. She could almost hear him saying to Carrie, “We always ask before we read somebody else’s mail, honey.” But Eddie was no longer on hand. Anything Debbie failed to teach, Carrie might never learn. So she was being very careful indeed these days. Now, with Carrie’s permission, she studied the paper. Fourteen X’s, some wiggles, and then at the bottom, in a long, proud row, six big, scraggly E’s — the one letter Carrie knew how to print. And she had learned it last week, from Eddie. Debbie had found errands to do, on the day Eddie came for their daughter. By the time she returned, Carrie was back, too, rosy and contented on the living room rug. “Hi!” Debbie had called out, lifting Todd out of his carriage and into the playpen. Then, carefully, “How is Daddy? Did you have a nice time?” Carrie nodded vigorously. “Look! Daddy showed me how!” She was printing “E” across a pad. “Now I can write,” she announced. Her chubby little fingers gripped the pencil as if she were afraid it would run away. Her hand moved with infinite care. First a line down, then a bottom, then a top. Then a middle — well, almost in the middle. Her face glowed with pride. “That’s wonderful, darling,” Debbie had cried. “How did you happen to think of it?” But Carrie was too busy to answer. And suddenly Debbie’s, joy faded. Probably Carrie didn’t even know how. Only Eddie knew. Only Eddie. And now, forever, there’d be no more cozy talks at night, cuddled together in the great big chair — the chair they’d bought because that was the only way to sit in it, cuddled together — no more telling each other what each one had thought or had seen the children do. All that was in the past now. And so, Debbie had thought with sudden bitterness, all our lives there’ll be things I don’t know about Carrie and Todd, because Eddie will hold the keys. It was a hard thought, not calculated to help in what everyone kept calling her “wonderful adjustment.” She had pushed it away. Now, as she stared at Carrie’s scribble to Santa Claus, it came back. And with it came another thought, even Worse, because it carried so many memories— of wrapping paper and secret shopping trips, of presents hidden in corner closets, or whispering and laughter and surprise, of the first wonderful Christmas after Carrie was born. But Christmas was coming again, and she couldn’t put it off any longer. “Carrie,” she said slowly, “honey, have you thought what you want to send Daddy for Christmas?” Across the room, Carrie looked up, puzzled. Finally, she shook her head. “Well, you think about it,” Debbie said. “Maybe a nice sweater. Would you rather get red or blue?” You mustn’t give a child too many choices,