Night Bird Calling

by Cathy Gohlke

  Reverend Willard called the church to order and we sang the last hymn, “Amazing Grace.”

  “Amazing grace! how sweet the sound—that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see”—in that moment the words spoke to my inner being, were written for me in ways I’d never understood before. I could barely choke back the gratitude that threatened to overflow.

  We’d just sung the “amen” when Celia tugged on my arm and beckoned me to lean down to listen. “It was me—my fault. I forgot. I meant to tell you, but I didn’t want to bring it out and make you sad. There was so much going on—and then I just forgot. I’m real sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?” I was swiping away tears, trying to get hold of my emotions, of the swirling in my brain.

  “A letter came for you, from an attorney-at-law in Philadelphia. I reckon that’s the papers he was talking about.”

  Celia’s eyes widened as if she was afraid I’d be mad. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t anything, and that was a wonder. I hugged her tight. “It’s all right. Whatever it is, it’s all right. It will be all right.”

  There wasn’t time to think of what that meant, of what not seeing or signing Gerald’s papers meant for the future. Gladys and Celia flanked me, each taking an arm, and walked me out of the church, Fillmore walking before me and Chester behind as my rearguard, armor for my body and spirit, and a force to reckon with.

  We walked past Gerald and his attorney, waiting in Gerald’s heated car. They appeared to be arguing. I saw the anger and mounting threat in my husband’s face, the man who’d once vowed to love and cherish me but who I’d nearly allowed to destroy me. People walked past him, either turning away or pointing as they would point to a caged animal in a zoo.

  I realized he no longer held sway over my spirit. Neither Gerald nor my father claimed hold over me now. I didn’t feel dirty or guilty or afraid. I felt nothing at all, except the swell of my heart for the family and community that had claimed me as their own, and the joy that perhaps God loved me after all, that perhaps I, Lilliana Grace, was worthy to be loved.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  CELIA SAW THAT LIFE AT GARDEN’S GATE took on new joy after Sunday’s drama. The excitement of Christmas coming and hopes of the worst being behind lifted each heart. Finally it was the afternoon of Christmas Eve, the day Celia had called for a dress rehearsal in the church.

  During the solemn procession of the kings, Rob Taylor dropped his box of marbles that he’d brought for the baby Jesus and everybody chased them on all fours up and down the aisles and between the pews. Tommy Tuttle didn’t want to give back the cat’s-eye shooter he’d found, but Rob yelled that it was handed down from his pa and Tommy’d better give it back or there’d be war worse than Pearl Harbor.

  The fight was in full swing when Reverend Willard walked in and broke it up. He gave Celia a withering look. “I don’t know what will happen here tonight, Celia, but I’m holding you responsible. You said you could handle this. You told Ida Mae you have it covered, and I backed you up.”

  Celia sighed. She’d already decided that directing plays wasn’t the glory she’d imagined. But it was Christmas Eve, and the show must go on. That was before Janice’s mother showed up to collect her children and dropped the bomb that changed everything.

  “No, my sister is not coming and will not be donating her baby to play baby Jesus or anybody else! The idea!” she huffed. “Janice, Coltrane, come on—we’re already running late. I don’t know why you insisted on coming here when you know—”

  Janice near pushed her mother out the door but whispered to Celia, “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll just bring a doll.”

  Everybody went home to eat supper and change into their costumes. They promised to meet back at the church fifteen minutes before the Christmas Eve service began.

  Celia stayed behind to spread straw for the manger scene. When everything was in place, she pressed her nose against the cold windowpane of the church and sighed. It had been a trying December, what with the barn burning and Olney’s beating and Marshall’s near hanging and Troy Wishon going to war and her slipping food over to Clay and Charlene and all the bickering of the cast, not to mention Granny Chree’s passing and that Gerald man showing up and her daddy and the hooch.

  At least there was still some snow on the ground from the week before. A real Christmas Eve snowfall would give the pageant just the right touch, but there was not a cloud in the sky and dusk was falling fast.

  She’d just turned out the church light when she glimpsed somebody through the window, a form slipping out the back door of the parsonage with a jug wrapped in tea towels. She knew the preacher was sitting down to supper at Garden’s Gate before the service. It was common enough for ladies to drop food off in the kitchen of the parsonage, but nobody took it out. And this was no lady.

  Celia peered out the church door, following the form back through the cemetery. “Clay,” she whispered. With all that was going on the last few days, she’d all but forgotten them, except to slip little bits of food over now and again—not enough by half.

  “Charlene must be like to bust any minute. They must be near starving.” Celia grabbed her coat and ran for the church shed.

  A crack of light peeked round the frame of the partially open door. She pressed her ear against it. Low moans rose from inside. Human moans. Gently Celia pulled open the door. “Jiminy!” She whistled. For there, on a pile of dirty blankets and clothes, lay Charlene, in full labor. Clay crouched beside her, with what appeared to be a jug of water.

  At the sound of Celia’s voice, both faces shot toward her, Charlene’s eyes wild with fear.

  “Is it time?” Celia saw that it was, but what could she say?

  “We need a midwife or a doctor,” Clay pleaded, “or anybody who knows about birthing babies.”

  “Jiminy!” Celia repeated. “Granny Chree up and died and Doc Vishy’s tending Marshall. Ida Mae’s the only other one that busts babies, but she ran you out of the store.”

  “The baby’s coming now!” Charlene cried, groaning in pain.

  “Then it’s got to be Doc Vishy. I’ll get him!”

  Clay grabbed Celia’s wrist, his eyes pleading. “He won’t run us out, will he? We can’t leave now. My wife needs help. I saw what they did to your barn.”

  Celia shook her head. “Not Doc Vishy. He wasn’t part of that. He don’t even come to this church, but he’s friends with the preacher. He’d never run a soul out, and he’ll make sure the preacher knows you need to stay.”

  Clay released her wrist. “I’m trusting you, Celia Percy.”

  Celia straightened. “You can.” She slipped from the shed and ran on winged feet to bang on Doc Vishy’s door. Breathless, she explained as best she could while Marshall helped gather blankets and basins and sheets. Celia and the doctor rushed through the dark to his car and drove as fast as they could toward the church. The thin layer of gravel crunched as they pulled into the parking lot and jerked to a stop.

  “You’re sure to find the surprises, Celia Percy!” Doc Vishy panted as he hurried along beside her.

  By the time they reached the church shed, the woman’s pains came unbroken. Doc Vishy greeted the couple solemnly, hung a lantern on a nail above them, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

  The baby’s head crowned before Celia realized the time. She clapped a hand to her forehead. “I’ve got to go! I’m the angel of the Lord!”

  Doc Vishy chuckled without looking up. “I expect you are.”

  Warmth spread from Celia’s head to her toes as she reached for the shed latch. At last she’d done something right, something good. But she knew she couldn’t claim the timing. That was something more.

  She fled, her heart too full for words, and raced home, the lusty cries of a newborn baby ringing in her ears.

  “Celia Percy!” her mother exclaimed. “Where have you been? It’s time to leave for the church and you haven’t even eaten your sup
per!”

  Celia didn’t answer but wolfed down corn bread and pinto beans while her daddy helped pull the redeemed Klan robe over her head and stick her arms through. Miss Lill straightened the tulle wings Joe Earl had made from Pearl Mae’s never-used wedding veil, and Celia jammed a crooked baling wire halo on top of her head. All four Percys and Miss Lill raced down the hill to the church, catching up with Reverend Willard at the steps.

  There was still no camel, but Farmer Hanson and Mr. Brenner, true to their reluctant word, had tied their sheep and Jersey cow outside the church along with the jackass belonging to Hayford Bell’s uncle. The town’s few motorcars and pickups sat in the churchyard, and harnessed horses nibbled hay near the shed. Celia wondered if they had any idea what was going on just beyond their heads.

  The strains of Joe Earl’s fiddle cried, “O Come, All Ye Faithful” through the door and out into the starry night. Shivers ran up Celia’s spine as she tripped up the stairs in her costume. Her parents and Miss Lill slipped into a pew near the front, next to Ida Mae and her husband.

  Everybody was there in full costume except Janice and Coltrane Richards. “Where are they?” Celia hissed, not wanting to break the mood of Joe Earl’s fiddling.

  Ralph Brenner spoke up. “Janice said to tell you they left tonight for their grandmother’s house in Asheville.”

  “Asheville!” Celia shrieked.

  “Yeah. She said to tell you they’ve been planning it since Thanksgiving. Said you’ll just have to make do and wanted you to know that your play will be ruined without Mary and Joseph. She said you shouldn’t have given them so many lines. Said she took her doll with her.”

  Celia was too mad to cry.

  Ralph nodded. “What ya gonna do?”

  Celia had no idea. The church was nearly full. Joe Earl played “Away in a Manger” and everybody sang. He played “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” and everybody sang. Celia started sweating beneath her redeemed Klan robe. Reverend Willard began to speak.

  Chester said, “I got to use the john.”

  “You’re just nervous, Chester. Sit still,” Celia ordered, wondering if she could hide in the outhouse till everybody went home.

  And then it was time. Reverend Willard motioned to Celia to begin the children’s pageant. Celia panicked. None of the angels were big enough to say the lines she’d written for Mary. All the bigger boys were already wise men and head shepherds.

  She pushed Chester, more solemn and nervous than lordly and humble, to the front of the church. In the high, sweet tones of childhood he began to read, “‘And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.’”

  The manger at the front of the church remained empty. Celia pushed forward the shepherds with their crooks. A troop of tiny angels made their way to the front and stood in a crooked line behind the empty manger. The wise men strode up to the front with their presents of marbles in a box, red currant jelly in a jar, and a cut-glass bottle of clover leaf honey, all of which had seemed far more practical and pleasing to Celia than gold, frankincense, or myrrh, which they didn’t have anyway.

  Folks began to whisper. “Where’s Mary and Joseph? Where’s the baby Jesus?”

  Celia felt like crying.

  Then, from beyond the church door, she did hear a cry—a baby’s cry. It dawned on Celia that she didn’t need Janice Richards or her cousin’s baby or her doll or her annoying little brother after all. She had the real thing right out there in the church garden shed!

  Celia swiped hot tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and rushed to the front of the church. “Fear not, ye citizens of No Creek! For behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to everybody! For unto you is born this day a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. You’re gonna find Him wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Come on! Follow me, and see this thing which has come to pass!”

  “Hey!” Rob Brenner yelled. “That’s my line!”

  Celia ignored him.

  “Come on, ye citizens!” Celia poked and prodded until she’d led the puzzled congregation out the door, down the church steps, past the cow and three sheep and jackass, past the smattering of motorcars and trucks, and to the shed, where the horses stood sentinel, chewing hay.

  “Well, I never,” huffed Ida Mae.

  “Celia,” Reverend Willard whispered a little too loud, “this is going too far!”

  But Celia ignored him, too, and threw open the shed door. There, through the steamy breath of tethered horses, lay a startled young Mary, a protective Joseph, and a screaming baby Jesus wrapped in an old coat. The glow from the lantern light above their heads cast a warm halo about the new family. Kneeling before them with his open medical bag of gifts and sleeves rolled high was Doc Vishy, the wisest man Celia knew.

  A chorus of “Well, I’ll be!” echoed through the crowd. “A baby! They’ve got a real baby in there!”

  Ida Mae broke the spell. “It’s that thievin’ Yankee I told you about! Look there—isn’t that your missing quilt, Gladys?”

  Farmer Brown stepped up to examine the pile of goods beside the young father, but Celia rushed forward. “It was me took those things—everything y’all are missing. Clay and Charlene McHone needed help, but there was nobody here to give it, nobody willing.”

  Clay stood. “I’ll pay back every penny. I swear it. Soon as I can earn the money. I’ll do any work you need . . . for as long as you need.”

  “Celia Percy—you mean you stole right under my nose?” Pearl sounded mixed—incensed and in awe.

  “Celia!” Her mother shook her head, but her daddy laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Everything I took from you, I earned, Pearl, and it was Clay unloaded those crates for you. It was Clay swept up the leaves outside the store and in the churchyard by night. He’s been choppin’ wood for us when nobody was home. Clay helped put out the fire at Garden’s Gate—the fire that could have killed us all—the one the Klan set.” The fire in Celia left her as she stared into the faces looming around her. Her voice came quieter now. “Anything you think different you can deduct from my pay to come.”

  But Pearl looked again at the young couple and backed down. “Reckon I’ll leave that to Mama.”

  Doc Vishy stood on stiff knees and stepped between the new family and the church members, rolling down his sleeves and raising his voice over the baby’s wailing. “I imagine it was something like this that cold night in Bethlehem, don’t you, Reverend Willard? Two young and lonely travelers far from home, looking for a place to stay the night, looking for something to eat, a helping hand—forced to a place outside because there was no room in the homes of citizens?”

  Reverend Willard nodded in wonder and answered from the crowd, loud enough that everybody heard, “Mary brought forth her firstborn son, wrapped Him in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in a manger. He, too, was surrounded by gentle beasts while all the hosts of heaven sang. Yes, Doctor, I expect it was very much like this.” The reverend laid his hand on the head of one of the tiny angels. “Like tonight, His birth brought out the wisest of men. His life and death and resurrection brought people of all nations together—to reconcile, to heal, to save.”

  Everybody, it seemed to Celia, held their breath, starstruck. Only the snorting of the horses could be heard—that and the screams of the McHones’ new miracle. Every eye stuck on that baby.

  Softly, like a mist rising, Gladys Percy, Celia’s own mama of whom she was so proud, began to sing until her rich alto voice filled the night around them. “‘Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.’”

  Celia realized it was calm, even with the baby’s wails. She saw her daddy’s chest expand as he watched her mama sing.

  Hats slipped reverently from heads. Stars shone brightly, almost close enough to touch.

  She heard Farmer Brown say, “I reckon I could use some help on my upper forty. Need plowin’ come spring. Nothin’ till then, but I could send ov
er a bushel of apples and a smoked ham—for the baby.”

  Reverend Willard laid an appreciative hand on Mr. Brown’s shoulder. “Thank you, brother.”

  “‘Round yon virgin mother and Child. Holy Infant so tender and mild.’”

  The new mother looked so young, so fragile and frightened and weary. Celia glanced at Ruby Lynne and couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking in that moment.

  The baby wriggled, all wrinkled and red, its tiny fists groping the air, but didn’t scream so loudly. It seemed her mama’s singing calmed even the newborn. Celia puzzled if it was a boy or a girl and was amazed that her own wonder of a baby had overshadowed even that.

  Mrs. Brenner said, “I have some baby clothes our Myra has outgrown and more diapers than two babies need. I’ll send Rob over with some in the morning.”

  “‘Sleep in heavenly peace.’”

  Ida Mae offered “a whole bushel of sweet taters, a jar of jelly, and just a little candy to perk up the new mother.” And an admonition: “Why on earth didn’t you tell me your wife was about to birth?”

  “You called him names and swung a broom at him. What was he gonna say?” Celia couldn’t keep quiet.

  Ida Mae clamped her lips together, embarrassed, but still worried and tender-eyed over the baby.

  Celia’s daddy stepped up behind her and, bending her angel wing just enough to get close, whispered in her ear, “I’m proud of my girl.”

  Through her own tears Celia heard offers for help and promises of a little of this and a little of that fly thick and fast through the last lines of her mother’s hymn.

  “‘Sleep in heavenly peace.’”

  Gifts for the baby. Gifts for the family. Gifts of love poured over strangers and friends alike this Christmas Eve—another suture, Celia figured, in No Creek’s deep wounds.

  Chester nudged Celia’s side and the two grinned. She caught her brother’s hand and held tight.

  Epilogue