IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE: LIVE IN CHICAGO! BACKSTAGE GUIDE 19 while George cautiously walked past. He could see that his father did not know him. “Is the lady of the house in?” he asked. His father waved toward the door. “Go on in,” he said cordially. “I’ll chain this dog up. She can be mean with strangers.” His mother, who was waiting in the hallway, obviously did not recognize him. George opened his sample kit and grabbed the first brush that came to hand. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m from the World Cleaning Company. We’re giving out a free sample brush. I thought you might like to have one. No obligation. No obligation at all...” His voice faltered. His mother smiled at his awkwardness. “I suppose you’ll want to sell me something. I’m not really sure I need any brushes.” “No’m. I’m not selling anything,” he assured her. “The regular salesman will be around in a few days. This is just— well, just a Christmas present from the company.” “How nice,” she said. “You people never gave away such good brushes before.” “This is a special offer,” he said. His father entered the hall and closed the door. “Won’t you come in for a while and sit down?” his mother said. “You must be tired walking so much.” “Thank you, ma’am. I don’t mind if I do.” He entered the little parlor and put his bag down on the floor. The room looked different somehow, although he could not figure out why. “I used to know this town pretty well,” he said to make conversation. “Knew some of the townspeople. I remember a girl named Mary Thatcher. She married Art Jenkins, I heard. You must know them.” “Of course,” his mother said. “We know Mary well.” “Any children?” he asked casually. “Two—a boy and a girl.” George sighed audibly. “My, you must be tired,” his mother said. “Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea.” “No’m, don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll be having supper soon.” He looked around the little parlor, trying to find out why it looked different. Over the mantelpiece hung a framed photograph which had been taken on his kid brother Harry’s sixteenth birthday. He remembered how they had gone to Potter’s studio to be photographed together. There was something queer about the picture. It showed only one figure— Harry’s. “That your son?” he asked. His mother’s face clouded. She nodded but said nothing. “I think I met him, too,” George said hesitantly. “His name’s Harry, isn’t it?” His mother turned away, making a strange choking noise in her throat. Her husband put his arm clumsily around her shoulder. His voice, which was always mild and gentle, suddenly became harsh. “You couldn’t have met him,” he said. “He’s been dead a long while. He was drowned the day that picture was taken.” George’s mind flew back to the long- ago August afternoon when he and Harry had visited Potter’s studio. On their way home they had gone swimming. Harry had been seized with a cramp, he remembered. He had pulled him out of the water and had thought nothing of it. But suppose he hadn’t been there! “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I guess I’d better go. I hope you like the brush. And I wish you both a very Merry Christmas.” There, he had put his foot in it again, wishing them a Merry Christmas when they were thinking about their dead son. Brownie tugged fiercely at her chain as George went down the porch steps and accompanied his departure with a hostile, rolling growl. He wanted desperately now to see Mary. He wasn’t sure he could stand not being recognized by her, but he had to see her. The lights were on in the church, and the choir was making last-minute preparations for Christmas vespers. The organ had been practicing “Holy Night” evening after evening until George had become thoroughly sick of it. But now the music almost tore his heart out. He stumbled blindly up the path to his own house. The lawn was untidy, and the flower bushes he had kept carefully trimmed were neglected and badly sprouted. Art Jenkins could hardly be expected to care for such things. When he knocked at the door there was a long silence, followed by the shout of a child. Then Mary came to the door. At the sight of her, George’s voice almost failed him. “Merry Christmas, ma’am,” he managed to say at last. His hand shook as he tried to open the satchel. When George entered the