A Shiloh Christmas (21 page)

Mr. Kelly asks if anybody wants to read his paper to the class before we turn them in, and David Howard reads his. He writes how his family was visiting relatives in Wisconsin once when he was six years old—all the cousins splashing around in the lake—and he steps in this hole and goes under. Don't know how to swim. He remembers green bubbles floating up from his nose and mouth, and finally he's rescued by a cousin. And because of that he takes swim lessons, and gets up to Shark, and even gets a diving certificate.

Laura Herndon writes a really funny essay. She titles it “My First Rodeo,” and says when she was four, her dad took the kids to a carnival. Only thing she was big enough to go on was the pony ride. A teenage boy lifts her onto a pony and starts around the ring, but he gets to flirting with one of the girls leading another pony, and somehow Laura starts sliding to one side of the saddle, a little at a time. When the boy finally looks around, he sees just a foot up there on the saddle, Laura dangling down the other side of the horse, hanging on to the mane.

We really laugh about that one. We spend the rest of the class period talking about perspective. Mr. Kelly tells us to imagine how our essays would have been written different if we could have wrote them back when they
happened. David Howard said he would have still been so scared his hand would be shaking. But his essay was about how his fear got him to learn to do something important he might not have done if it hadn't happened.

Laura says if she had written her essay back then, it would have been almost too embarrassing to write about. But now it's funny.

I know that if I had written an essay about Judd Travers when I had to return Shiloh to him that first time, it would have been pure hate. H-A-T-E. Can't say it's love now—more like . . . understanding? Respect, maybe, for how a man can change.

Christmas falls on a Tuesday this year, so Friday's our last day of school till after New Year's. Our house sure has the holiday spirit. First off, coming up the lane from the school bus, I can smell the wood smoke coming out of our potbellied stove in the living room. It's snowed again, just enough to cover the ugly brown that was beginning to show up on old drifts along the road. Then, when I open the door, I smell the last batch of cookies Ma's baked to give away. And finally, if I go into the living room and get up close to the tree, I can smell the fresh scent of a balsam pine. A whole lot better than the fake spray they're selling at the dollar store, with a
recording that every ten seconds says, “Balsam pine—it smells so fine.”

Saturday, Dara Lynn and Becky spend the morning wrapping up their presents for the family, telling Ma and me not to look. Guess a person can't have too many macaroni necklaces or red-and-green pot holders made out of loops. That afternoon they go off to a birthday party at a neighbor's down the road, and I take Shiloh for a hike, using the long leash Dr. Collins give me for helping out so much during the year. This way Shiloh can trot off into the bushes and sniff to his heart's content, but can't never go far enough I can't rein him back to me when it's time to move on.

Now he's plumb tuckered out, stretched out there on the rag rug in front of the stove, so when Ma asks me to go along with her and deliver all the Christmas cookies she's baked, I'm glad to do it. She's made trays out of the lids of boxes, each one covered every inch with Christmas wrapping paper to look all fancy, with a card on top. Every tray's filled with the same cookies she makes each year: chocolate drops, almond crescents, butterscotch swirls, pecan bars. . . . Just saying the names make my tongue ache.

One tray goes to the preacher's; one to Mrs. Sweeney, who comes over sometimes to take care of Becky when
Ma gets a ride to town; Mr. and Mrs. Wallace at the store for putting our groceries on charge, they get one; another goes to Doc Murphy; and Ma always has a few more trays for any folks need cheering up.

Mrs. Sweeney, in fact, is so eager for those cookies that she tells Ma we can use their car to make deliveries. Then we don't have to wait till Dad's off on Sunday to use the Jeep. She drives her car over, and we make our first stop at her place.

“I can taste these cookies just by looking at them,” she says as she gets out, holding the tray Ma made for her. “You folks take your time. I'm glad to help.”

I slide back into the Sweeneys' car while Ma checks her list, and we're off to the Daweses' house next. Preacher's car is gone, so Ma steers the car right up the driveway. I take a tray from the backseat, go up the steps, and ring the bell.

Mrs. Dawes opens the door, and I can tell I come at a bad time, 'cause she looks even more tired than usual, and Ruthie is standing next to her, tears on her face. That girl ever stop crying? I wonder.

“Well, for goodness' sake, Marty, how nice!” Mrs. Dawes says, looking at the cookies there beneath the plastic wrap. “Please come in.”

The wind's blowing right hard, so I'm glad to step
out of it for just a minute, and don't want to drop the tray.

“Don't tell me your mother baked all these herself !” she says.

“Yes, ma'am. She just wanted your family to have some,” I say.

Ruthie's on tiptoe, looking at the cookies, but it don't stop the tears. Mrs. Dawes puts one hand on her head.

“Ruthie's so disappointed that—”

Suddenly Ma's at the door, and Mrs. Dawes opens it for her.

“Hi, Judith. Marty's helping me with deliveries this year, and your card just blew off the box. I chased it across the lawn,” Ma says, laughing, and hands it to her. Then she sees Ruthie. “Oh, sweetheart! Why the tears?” she asks.

“Ruthie's disappointed because we can't go to her grandmother's for Christmas,” Mrs. Dawes says. “This is something the girls really look forward to each year, but my mom just came down with the flu that's going around Parkersburg, so we've had to cancel our plans.”

And now Ruthie's bawling all over again, and I see Rachel standing back in the hall.

And in two shakes, Ma says, “Then you're coming to
our house for Christmas dinner. That's all there is to it. We'd be delighted to have you, really!”

I stare at Mom.

Ruthie's face goes from sad to celebration in three seconds flat.

Mrs. Dawes looks all flustered. “Oh, Lou. I—I don't know—”

“Oh, Mommy, can't we go?” Ruthie begs, tugging at her arm.

“I just—Jacob's not here, and—”

“Judith, you know he has the day off already. Please do this for your girls,” Ma says. Then she sees Rachel back by the stairs and says, “Rachel, wouldn't you like to come?”

Mrs. Dawes turns around. “Would you like that, Rachel?”

And Rachel gives her shy little smile. “Yes,” she says.

Mrs. Dawes turns back. “All right, then. And thank you so much for the cookies. They look delicious.”

“One o'clock, Christmas Day,” Ma says. “We're casual. And of course we'll see you at the Christmas Eve service.”

When we're back in the car, Ma says, “I can't believe I got her to say yes. Did you see the look on Ruthie's
face when I invited them? You know the girls want to come.”

“Ma . . . ,” I say.

“And I think Rachel would enjoy it, don't you?”

“Ma,” I say again. “Did you remember Judd Travers will be there too?”

And suddenly Ma gets that blank look on her face, and her hands go limp on the steering wheel. But she recovers and starts the engine. “Marty,” she says, “we'll deal with it.”

A
S WE HEAD TO
D
OC
Murphy's, Ma and I are trying to remember all the different jobs I did for him this past year to pay him for stitching up Shiloh. I washed his windows, dug up an old fence and filled the postholes, weeded his garden, scrubbed his kitchen floor, cleaned out his garage, and finally put up his Christmas tree.

He's so glad to see those cookies that he slips a finger under the plastic wrap and slides one out that very minute, taking a bite of the butterscotch swirl.

“Tell your mom they get better every year,” he says. And then, “Got something for you.” Goes to his desk and comes back with an envelope. “Here you go.”

I wish him a Merry Christmas and get in the car. While Ma's driving on to the next house, I open the envelope. Then I choke.

“Ma!” I cry out.

She almost slams on the brakes. “Marty!” she says.

Sounds like we're just getting introduced.

I am staring at a check for five hundred dollars! Then I read the note out loud:

Marty: For a year I've watched you work off your debt to me. You never complained. Never asked how much longer you'd have to work, or said you'd expected it to be paid off by now, though you must have been thinking it. You have the qualities to become a good veterinarian, and if that's what you decide to do with your life, I hope this check will be the start of your college fund. Doc Murphy

Ma turns the car around, drives back up the road a piece, pulls in the driveway, and invites Doc to Christmas dinner.

Our happiness carries right over into supper, and even though Dad's bone-tired from delivering Christmas mail, he's feeling pretty proud of me. Proud of his whole family, right then. That's the way happiness is, you know. Contagious. Dara Lynn and Becky got the giggles, and Ma's so happy about getting her cookies delivered, and
about that check, that when she realizes she had some stewed tomatoes on the stove top and forgot to serve them, she just laughs and says we'll eat them along with the cookies, and sets 'em both on the table. Shiloh makes his way from one of us to the other. Figures he might as well get in on the celebration, we got any crumbs to spare.

Since we're all going to church Monday night, Christmas Eve, Dad stays home from service the next day and heads over across the creek to help put up the frame of a new house for one that burned down. Belonged to the Keegans, a young couple expecting a new baby, their second child, in February. Judd goes over with him, and Sunday afternoon a number of men from church arrive in their work clothes, including Brother Hatch, everybody wanting to help this family that probably needs a place to go more than anyone.

I'm there too, doing whatever anybody needs—pound a board in place, look for a different kind of pliers, pour somebody a cup of coffee, lift a concrete block. Couple women arrive in the afternoon with ham sandwiches and apples and more of Ma's cookies. Nice to see Judd working right alongside the rest. Never had no mechanical training, but they say he picks up the
work fast at Whelan's Garage, and he seems to know the basics of building a house.

I'm feeling real good about being there with all these men, helping build a new home for a new baby. Being treated like a man too—handed a cup of coffee just like everybody else.

We work until it's getting so dark we can't see much, and my hands are stiff from the cold, even though I got work gloves on. So finally we all pack up our tools and cover the unused lumber, everybody in a good mood, Christmas just two days away. Dad's whistling “O Come All Ye Faithful,” and when Brother Hatch hears it, he starts to sing.

And then, wouldn't you know it, another voice joins in, and then another, and here's this pack of tired men, singing together in the frosty air, smiling at one another as first one, then another, climbs in his car and drives away.