Lillian was making out her Christmas list. Mary Jackson, her baby, Theresa, Hymie, Louise, Billy, Anna, Clifford, Hubert, too, of course, but she wouldn't put him on the list because he might look it over and see that she was planning to get him a bathrobe. He was sitting across the room from her, listening to the radio. She glanced over at him and wondered for the millionth time how he found comfort in that strange position of his. Always when he listened to the radio he sat with his body describing a straight line from his heels to the back of his neck. His bottom touched the edge of the chair in a most casual manner and his hands folded behind his head just where the top of the chair-back lent a trifling support. She looked away from him and back at the list.
Well, stockings were all right for Mary. They were useful but not insultingly so. She could give her six pairs in different shades. The baby was easy. No need to worry about his gift now. Woolly dogs and rubber lions and things like that were always displayed in the stores and she could choose one when she got there. Theresa was a bit of a problem. You couldn't give her underwear or anything like that because she sewed so darn well that nothing you could buy would be good enough for her. Maybe perfume or a handbag.
Lillian wrote both perfume and handbag beside
