The Christmas Sweater (9 page)

W
hen I told Taylor that my grandparents only watched TV once a week and when we did
it was Lawrence Welk, he was shocked. His parents let him watch whatever he wanted,
as long as he finished his chores in the summer and his homework during the school
year. Every Tuesday night he taunted me by watching
Happy Days
and
Laverne & Shirley.
His parents even let him stay up to watch some show called
Soap.
Taylor said it was about a puppet and some guy who thought he was invisible. Sounded
pretty weird to me, but even puppets would’ve been better than Lawrence Welk.

But while television was a great excuse for me to sleep over at Taylor’s house, the
real reason I wanted to spend more time there was that the Ashtons treated me like
a son. I imagined living there, Taylor and I hanging out and doing whatever we wanted,
both of us so sick of Disneyland that we actually begged his parents to take us someplace
new.

“Grandma,” I said as I headed for the door late on a September afternoon, a green,
tattered army-surplus knapsack that Grandpa had given me slung over one shoulder,
“I’m goin’ over to Taylor’s for the night.”

“No, you’re not, Eddie. You have spent three of the last seven nights there and I’m
sure that you must be wearing out your welcome.”

“The Ashtons don’t mind. Really. Call and ask them if you want.” I was trying out
Taylor’s tactic of just telling them how it would be.

“They are just too polite to say otherwise.” Grandma wasn’t caving as easily as the
Ashtons did. “You need to stay here tonight. I’ll make Sloppy Joes.”

“I don’t want Sloppy Joes. Stan and Janice were going to take Taylor and me out to
eat. We had plans!”

My grandmother took a few moments to get over her shock at my casual use of the Ashtons’
first names. She didn’t like it. “I’m sorry that my cooking isn’t up to your new five-star
standards, but if you had plans, maybe you should have run them by your grandfather
or me first.” Grandma’s voice was kind but firm.

“But Grandma”—I had one final bullet left in my chamber—“school starts next week,
and after that I’ll only get to sleep over there on weekends.”

“No, Eddie. Not tonight. In fact, you won’t be sleeping over there until you are settled
in at school and we see how your homework is coming.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d had enough. I took my knapsack by one strap and threw it.
I only intended for it to go a few feet, but I’d given it a good swing. It flew through
the air and crashed against the wall, leaving a big dent in the plaster.

Grandma stared at me in disbelief for a moment. “You
are very lucky that your grandfather wasn’t here to see that.” The kindness had disappeared
from her voice.

“Yeah, I’m feeling
really
lucky lately!” The words escaped from my mouth as I stormed up to my room. My grandfather
had only laid a hand on me that one time, but I couldn’t even imagine how he was going
to react to how I’d just treated my grandmother. I was sure he would beat me with
some exotic farm implement.

Deep inside I also knew that I deserved whatever punishment I would get. That pushed
me even further away.

About an hour later I heard Grandpa’s pickup backfire as he pulled up the driveway.
The noise made me remember how much I hated that old truck. A few moments later I
heard the front door open and close and then my grandmother’s muffled, calm voice.
Grandpa’s voice answered and was not nearly as calm.

“He did what?!?” he yelled. Then more muffled Grandma followed by a slightly less
upset Grandpa.

I gradually relaxed.

He never came upstairs.

The next morning I showed up at breakfast expecting the worst, but nothing happened.
They were both quiet and said pleasant, if somewhat reserved, “good mornings” to me.

After breakfast I walked through the living room and saw that the wall had been repaired.
If it hadn’t been just a bit whiter than the surrounding area, it would have been
impossible to tell where I had damaged it. My grandfather must have vented his anger
with plaster and a trowel. A bucket of paint was sitting on the floor in front of
the wall.

“Eddie, it looks like you have some painting to do,” Grandpa said without looking
up from his paper. “Be careful not to splatter on the floor.”

“Yes, sir,” I said without an ounce of sarcasm. I think that might have been the only
time I called my grandfather “sir” in my entire life.

I wondered if they were as miserable with me living there as I was.

I was afraid to ask to go over to Taylor’s house until the knapsack incident was forgotten,
so instead he came over to our farm nearly every day for the next few weeks. My grandparents
treated him just like the Ashtons treated me.

It occurred to me that having Taylor over was almost as good as being at his place.
Grandma was so happy to have me close by that a simple “Aww, but Grandma, we were
about to go exploring” was all it took to get out of my chores. Grandpa was harder
to game, but at least Taylor was willing to help do whatever my grandfather asked
of us.

One day Grandpa asked us to walk the fence line around the farm looking for sections
needing repair. It was a crisp, late-fall afternoon, and Taylor and I had grand plans
that did not include trudging along what seemed like a thousand miles of fence.

“It’s a gorgeous day,” Grandpa tried to reason, “and the walk will do you two good.
Who knows, it might even turn out to be fun.”

Taylor always had a better outlook than I did. He ac
cepted the challenge as an opportunity to have an adventure. After all, our task would
take us to corners of the farm that even I had not yet seen. Grandma made sandwiches
for us, wrapped them up in waxed paper along with garlic pickles, and put them into
my knapsack. I was a little embarrassed by Grandma’s homemade bread and waxed paper,
since Taylor always had store-bought bread and plastic bags. I hoped he wouldn’t notice
how we lived. I filled my canteen with water, joking that we needed to rough it like
Lewis and Clark.

Our trip took us around the back of the property and into an area where the woods
were reclaiming part of the farm. The fence was doing its best to hold off the hordes
of bushes and saplings, but we discovered a few places where the forest had won.

When we were safely out of earshot of my grandparents, I decided to tell Taylor how
much I liked staying at his house. “Your parents are the best. Sometimes I wish I
lived with you guys.”

“Seriously?” Taylor seemed surprised. “To be honest, I’d rather live with you. Your
grandma is the best cook
ever, and your grandpa is hilarious. The other day when I was waiting for you to finish
your chores out back, he and I had a lot of fun playing cards together. It was weird,
though, cause your grandma kept shouting his name from the kitchen.”

I was shocked. I hadn’t played cards with Grandpa since before last Christmas. I didn’t
want Taylor playing with him if I couldn’t. “Taylor, he cheats,” I sneered.

“Oh, I know,” Taylor replied matter-of-factly, as if I’d been the gullible one. “That’s
what makes it to so great. He’s been working on a system for a while now. He said
that if we play just a few more times, he’ll have it down and then he’ll teach it
to me.”

The thought of Taylor playing cards with my grandfather really infuriated me. I wasn’t
mad at Taylor, I was mad at Grandpa. Taylor was
my
friend, and I didn’t like Grandpa talking to him. I tried a new tactic. “Yeah,” I
said, “he seems pretty funny at first, but once you get to know him he’s not all that
great. The jokes really get old after a while. But your family is
always
great. Your parents let you do whatever you want. You guys go on great vacations.
You can
watch any TV show you want, and your dad told me that you guys are getting a Betamax
soon so you can record shows and watch ’em over and over. What’s wrong with you, Taylor?
Your dad isn’t a failure. You guys are rich. You have it made.”

“Things aren’t always like they seem, Eddie,” Taylor muttered, almost as if he’d been
talking to himself. He shrugged and walked a few steps in front of me, a clear sign
that he didn’t really want to talk about it anymore.

A tree had fallen across the fence in a corner of the wooded area, creating a notable
breach and a place to sit and eat our lunch. It was also the only place where we could
be inside the fence and not see any other evidence that we were on the farm. I don’t
know if my grandfather had planned it that way, but the trek was turning out to be
one of our best adventures ever.

“Uh-oh,” Taylor said to the pickle he didn’t want to eat.

“What?”

“My dad’s going to kill me. I was supposed to be home by three, and it’s way past
that.”

“Just tell him you forgot. That’s mostly the truth, isn’t
it? Finish the walk with me, stay for dinner, and then walk in your house like nothing’s
wrong. Come on, I already know Grandpa’s system. You don’t need to play cards with
him, I’ll teach it to you,” I lied.

“I can’t. We’re going to my aunt’s house for some big family thing. I don’t even know
what it is, but my parents have been making a huge deal over it. Seriously, if I miss
it, they’ll kill me.”

I pictured Taylor blindfolded against the wall as his parents stood in front of him
with old-fashioned rifles. “Any final requests?” I joked, pointing a pickle at him
like a gun.

“You are so weird. Things that are serious aren’t, and things that shouldn’t be are.”

“Huh? What the heck are you talking about?”

“Never mind, Eddie. Your grandpa said that if we finished the fence today we could
go on some errand with him tomorrow, so just tell him we finished.” He stood up, brushed
the crumbs from his pants, and started along the only section of fence we had yet
to examine.

I ran to catch up with him, and we both jogged toward
the front of the farm, half looking at the fence. We could have overlooked openings
big enough for an elephant to walk through, but I guess I had a lot of experience
at missing what was right in front of me.

The front edge of the fence was made of new chain link attached to sturdy metal poles.
Rather then walk back to the driveway, Taylor climbed up and over the fence at the
corner. “See ya,” he said without looking back. He really
was
scared. I watched him run along the road, then noticed something going on next door.

There was a corral between the old house and the run-down barn on the farm next door.
The corral couldn’t be seen from the road. In fact, the fields around it were so overgrown
that it was only visible through the gap in the scrubby, unharvested crops in front
of me. I scaled the fence not far from where Taylor had gone over and made my way
close enough to see what was going on. I was pretty sure I could stay hidden in the
field for as long as I cared to watch.

The old man I’d seen before was standing in the center of the corral with his back
to a very unhappy horse. His grease-stained overalls were only slightly cleaner than
his face. “Shhh, sweetie, it’s all right. Come and get this apple.” His arm was extended,
and he held a quarter of an apple in his upturned palm. “Come on, come on, come on,”
he said, a little quieter each time. The mare snorted and tossed her head as she moved
cautiously toward the stranger. She pulled her lips from her teeth and gently but
quickly took the apple from his hand. Without turning around, he slowly reached into
the pocket of his dirty plaid work jacket and pulled out another piece. “Would you
like another one, sweetheart?” he asked in a voice that reminded me of my last encounter
with him. She took it; this time, she didn’t step back before eating it.

As he turned around to face her, he looked into the field directly at me, his eyes
stopping just long enough to tell me he knew I was there. He took another piece of
apple out of his pocket as he looked intently at the horse’s face. With one cupped
hand, he put the apple under her nose and gently stroked her head with his other hand.
“We’re friends now, aren’t we, darlin’, there’s nothing to be afraid of. No one is
going to hurt you.”

The horse actually nodded her head, as if to agree.

“Eddie,” he said without turning around. “Come out and say hello to my new friend.”

I took a few steps out of the field, then turned around to look at where I had been
crouched in the shadows. It was hard to imagine how he had seen me in there. I climbed
the four rails that made up the side of the corral and sat on the top one. The man
walked over and stood in front of me. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,”
he said. “My name is Russell.”

I was again struck by how dirty he looked. His beard was not really gray, as it appeared
from a distance. Instead it seemed to be naturally white, but covered with layers
of dirty brown and yellow. If a living human could be described as sepia, it was Russell.
He smiled, removed his cowboy hat, wiped the grimy sweat from his brow with an already
filthy handkerchief, and gave me a long look.

“Russell what?” I was sure my grandparents would want to know his last name.

“Just Russell.”

“Oh.” I paused for a few moments and turned toward the mare. “I didn’t think it was
that easy to break a horse.” I had never been this close to a horse that wasn’t moving
up and down on a pole and going around in circles.

Russell smiled. “I’m actually the third man to try and help this mare. Somehow I always
seem to find myself with the horses that everyone else has given up on.”

As a stranger who spoke cryptically about horses, Russell probably should have made
me more leery than I was. It’s hard to explain, but he gave off a warmth that made
me feel comfortable and secure. He had all the dirt of every farm on earth on him—yet
he felt clean, peaceful. Talking to Russell felt like talking to someone I had known
my whole life.