Spring's Gentle Promise (16 page)

It should have made me feel great. Here I was coming in late without having accomplished my errand and chores still ahead of me, and I found them half done already. But it didn’t make me feel great. It made me even madder.
Don’t they think I can
even do my own work?
I fumed.

I put Barney back in the barn and fed him. No soft words or appreciative pats for him tonight. I pushed a barn cat out of my way with a heavy-booted foot. He was lucky. I felt like kicking him.

On the way to the house it hit me. I was acting like a spoiled child, not a married man—and certainly not like a Christian husband who had promised to
love
and
cherish
, with all that it meant. Mary had done nothing to deserve my wrath. She was trying to make Christmas special. For me, for Grandpa, for Uncle Charlie. She had wanted a special tree. Had tried hard to help with the work of getting that tree. It wasn’t her fault I couldn’t find my way around my own woods.

But she had been right, she would likely—likely look at me with I-told-you-so in her eyes.
If she does—

But I stopped right there beside the woodshed and prayed, reminding myself of all of my promises and asking God again to help me keep them. It didn’t change my circumstances any, but it did make me a better supper companion.

The tree was not mentioned or the tree ornaments that sat waiting in the parlor either. Nor did Mary look at me as I had expected her to. She found something to busy herself with that Saturday evening and chatted away as if everything was just fine.

I loved her for it. It seemed that Mary was doing a much better job of keeping her promise to “cherish” than I was.

On Monday morning I hooked Barney up again. I still didn’t know how I was ever going to find that tree, but I’d find it if I had to spend the whole day looking.

Then Mary complicated things. She came from the house, all bundled up, and smiled sweetly at me. “Thought I’d ride along,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

My head was spinning.
I’m going to be humiliated again.
I’d boasted of knowing my own crick bottom, of having a nearperfect memory. Both statements had proved to be false. I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and directed Barney to head for the woods.

Halfway there I got this brilliant idea. I gave Mary a big grin and motioned for her to scoot up beside me.

“Wanna drive?” I asked her. Her face didn’t brighten as I expected. For a moment I feared she might turn me down. Mary had her own little code of what rights belonged to the man of the family. But when I passed Barney’s reins to her, she grinned and accepted them without further comment. I inwardly sighed with relief.

I was afraid as we neared the brush that she might pass the reins back to me. I had to do something to prevent that. I leaned over and lifted the axe to my lap.

“You drive,” I said as casually as I could, “an’ I’ll cut any little shrubs that get in our way.”

Mary just nodded.

We reached the woods, and she began to “snake” her way through with that stoneboat. Not once did she get hung up on anything, so I never got a chance to use that axe.

And would you believe it, she drove straight to that tree.

I made no comment as I loaded it. It filled up the stoneboat, so Mary and I had to walk back. She didn’t seem to mind, and I sure didn’t. On the way home she left the driving to me. I never even thought to share it. I was too busy wondering just how she had done what she had done. I mean, dead on! Right to where that tree stood waiting.

When we got back to the farmyard Mary went in to finish the washing. I put Barney away and went to do up a few odd jobs. I knew that in the evening we would be decorating the tree in the parlor. I looked forward to it now that we finally had the thing home.

We ran into another snag the next day. I didn’t see it coming, though I should’ve been smart enough to sort it all out beforehand. You see, ever since Lou and Nat had married, we had always spent our Christmases with them. Lou had made the arrangements, cooked the dinner and everything. All we fellas ever did was show up.

Well, that’s not quite true. We did our own shopping, wrapped our own gifts—in a manly sort of way—raised the turkey that we chopped the head off and plucked. But other than that, Lou took care of everything. I have no idea why I expected it to just remain that way.

Anyway, I should have been alerted when Mary said one morning as Christmas neared, “Do you mind if I invite Pa and Lilli for Christmas dinner?”

Of course I didn’t mind. It sounded like a good idea to me, and Lou always cooked plenty of everything. We ate leftovers for days after Christmas was over.

So I heartily agreed to the arrangement. I even rode over to the Turleys and extended the invitation myself. I stayed awhile too. Just to chat with Pa Turley and to play a couple games of checkers. He didn’t have much male companionship now that Mitch had left home, and I guess he missed it. Mary was happy when I returned with the news that they would be glad to come.

The next day Mary spoke about Christmas again. “I think you can bring in the gobbler now,” she informed me. “I want to get it dressed and out of the way so everything won’t need to be done at the last minute.”

That made perfect sense to me. We men had always left it to the last minute simply because nothing else needed doing then for us. I had no idea what Mary’s many tasks were going to be, but she was always powerful busy with something.

I killed the gobbler, plucked off the feathers and carried him to Mary’s kitchen. She took over from there and soon he was ready to be hung outside in the shed where he would be kept frozen until needed further.

That night as we retired, Mary spoke again—and this time the truth of her Christmas plans finally got through to me. “Would you like to invite Nat and Lou?”

At first I couldn’t understand the question at all.

“Invite—to what?” I asked innocently.

“For Christmas.”

“We don’t bother none with invitations,” I said to Mary, tossing another sock in the corner. “We’ve done it so long now everybody just knows without invitations.”

I figured in my ignorance that Mary had just reversed the order without meaning to.

But Mary hadn’t reversed the order. She had known exactly what she said. “What do you mean?” she asked, stopping in the middle of pulling the pins from her hair.

“Well, I suppose the first few Christmases Lou invited us. After that—well, we just knew that every Christmas we would go there. Oh, not always ‘there.’ A few Christmases Lou’s packed everything up and had the Christmas out here at the farm. But mostly, unless it’s planned beforehand, we go on into town.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Mary started to slowly unpin her hair again. “That was before you had a wife,” she said softly.

I looked up then. Something in her voice was sending me funny messages.

“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if I should have caught it already.

“That was before you had a wife,” she repeated slowly as though I was dense or something.

“What does that have to do with it?” I dared ask.

Mary’s voice raised a bit and she answered rather quickly, “It has a good deal to do with it, I should think.”

“It hasn’t changed the fact that we are still family—that Lou—”

But Mary swung to face me and I could see a stubborn set to her chin and a hurt look in her eyes. I didn’t get any further. At least not just then.

The silence hung heavy again.

Finally Mary broke it. She fought to keep her voice controlled—even.

“Josh,” she ventured, “what do you think has been goin’ on around here for the past several days?”

I shrugged. I couldn’t follow her.

“The bakin’? The plannin’? The tree? The turkey?” Mary went on.

I shrugged again. I had the feeling that no matter what I said I was going to be in trouble.

“Christmas, Josh. Christmas,” Mary said with emphasis. “I have been gettin’ ready for our first Christmas. Now, if I wasn’t going to be allowed to
have
Christmas—why’ve I been allowed to
prepare
for it?”

“It’s—it’s not that you aren’t allowed,” I stammered.

Mary ran a brush through her hair. “Good,” she said simply. “Then we will have Christmas as planned. Do you want to invite Nat and Lou?”

Oh, boy! Talk about not communicating. We were running full circle.

I stood to my feet and crossed to stand in front of her. Somehow I had to get things cleared up.

“Mary,” I said in exasperation, “we always—Grandpa, Uncle Charlie and me—go to Aunt Lou’s each Christmas. Every year. We—”

But Mary had turned her back on me. It made me angry. I wanted to reach out and turn her around again. Make her face me.

“That was before,” she insisted.

“Before? What does that have to do with it? Before! It doesn’t change Christmas. We are all
still
family. Families are to be together at Christmas. Not just—just little chunks of them. All of them. Can’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

Mary wheeled around then. There were tears spilling down her cheeks. “No,” she stated with a sob, “
you
don’t see. I’ve worked for days, Josh, no—
weeks
, to get ready for this first Christmas. Always before I’ve had to leave you at Christmas and go home to my family. Well, now
we
are family, Josh. You and me. I wanted this Christmas to be ours. To be special. I thought you wanted it, too,” she sobbed. “But now—now you say that Christmas is to be a trip to town—to Lou’s to have dinner together. Well, I care about the family as much as you do, Josh. I love Lou and Nat—and the kids—but that’s—that’s not the way I had planned our first Christmas.”

Mary was crying hard by the time she finished her speech. I found myself wondering if Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were hearing every word. The walls certainly were not soundproof. Well, let them hear. This was our business.

I tried one more time.

“It’s not that I don’t want our Christmas to be special,” I argued. “To me it is always special to be with Nat and Lou.”

Mary reached for a corner of her nightgown and wiped away her tears. She didn’t cry any further, and I thought I had won. That she had finally listened to reason.

She didn’t say “very well,” or “fine,” or anything like that. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. She just laid her brush back down on the dresser and walked around the bed to slip into her side. She even allowed the customary good-night kiss after I had put out the light.

It was some time in the middle of the night that I awakened. I had the feeling that I’d heard something, but as I lay there in the darkness, straining to hear whatever it had been, there was total silence. And then it came again. Just a shaky little sob from Mary’s side of the bed.

I rolled over then and reached out a hand to her.

“Mary?” I questioned in a whisper. “Mary, is something wrong?”

“Oh, Josh,” she sobbed, slipping her arms about me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have been so insensitive. I—”

“What are you talking—?” I began, not understanding, completely forgetting our little tiff at bedtime.

“Of course you want to be with your family, like always. I’m sorry that I—”

So that was it.

I held Mary and let her cry. All the time I thought on what had transpired. For the first time I began to see and understand Mary’s thinking. We were family now—Mary and I, and with the years we might be blessed enough to have other family members join us. We had the right and the responsibility to make our own traditions—our own Christmases. Sure, the rest of the family would always be dear to us—and we could share and be with them—but not
lean
on them. Not depend on their traditions anymore.

My hand patted Mary’s shoulder, and I lay staring into the dark thinking and praying a bit, too.

I had slipped again. I had failed in cherishing Mary. I had not been sensitive to her needs, had not nurtured nor supported her. Would I ever learn?

“Mary,” I whispered against her hair, “you were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

There was silence again. I dared to continue.

“We should have our own Christmases.
We
are family. It’s important to—to both of us.”

Mary tipped her face in the blackness. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind. Really.”

But I wasn’t turning back now. “I’ll go see Aunt Lou tomorrow,” I informed Mary. “Grandpa and Uncle Charlie can still go. We’ll have Lillie and Pa here.”

“No,” said Mary. “We’d be splitting up family. That wouldn’t be right.”

“I’ll talk to Lou,” I insisted. “She’ll understand.”

“
I’ll
talk to Lou,” said Mary. “We’ll work it out.”

“But—” I began. Mary reached one finger out in the darkness and placed it on my lips.

“Trust me?” she asked simply and I nodded my head against her finger to assure her that I did.

C
HAPTER
17
Adjustments

G
RANDPA DROVE
M
ARY IN to see Lou the next day. He was looking for an excuse to go into town anyway. I figured he had some more Christmas shopping to do.

Everything worked out just fine. It was decided that Christmas would be at our house with Uncle Nat, Aunt Lou and family, Pa Turley and Lilli, all around our table. Mary would take care of all the arrangements for the dinner. Grandpa confided to me that he felt Lou was a bit relieved. The new baby was still keeping her up nights a good deal.

Lou and Mary also agreed that in the future each would take turns having Christmas dinner. That sounded like a sensible arrangement to me. It gave both women a Christmas “off” and yet allowed each to have Christmas just her way on the Christmas when it was her turn.

I was proud of Mary. She had been sensitive and caring—and yet had shouldered her share of family responsibility.

That Christmas turned out to be the best I had celebrated up to that point in my life. Mary did a fine job with the dinner—just like I’d known she would. The turkey was cooked to perfection, the potatoes fluffy and the gravy as smooth as silk. All the good things she had been baking over the previous days appeared on the kitchen sideboard—right along with the honored silver tea set from which she served the tea and coffee.