After lunch, when the food was put away and G-Pa and Grancie left to take their friends home, I asked Dad if we could call Mr. Lafferty on the TTY. He resisted at first and suggested we call later. But when I reminded him the football game was coming on at four, he changed his tune. We went into his office. Dad dialed the number and let me type the message. It rang lots of times, and I was about to give up. But then H answered. This is HL2.
I quickly responded. This is Julia. Happy Thanksgiving.
Hi, same to you and to your family.
Finished our meal. I made green-bean casserole. Wish you could have been here.
Couldn’t leave Mrs. Schumacher alone. Early dinner at five. But thank you.
I said I was thankful for my new friend, Mr. Henry Lafferty the Second, because he’s teaching me sign language and how to carve birds.
Nicest message ever. Thank you for playing piano. Lovely memories. Pianos need playing. Grateful to be your friend.
You’re welcome, Mr. Lafferty. My dad says hello from our family and not to bother you any longer. So, goodbye.
Goodbye. See you Tuesday.
If Mr. Lafferty only knew what I was planning … I hoped he would still be thankful I was his friend after December twenty-third.
Friday was dress-the-Russell’s-house-for-Christmas day. Mom warned Dad and Jackson there’d be no leaving the house or games on television until the decorating was done. We morphed into the Russell brigade—Dad in the attic pulling out plastic bins of decorations and handing them to Jackson on the attic stairs, Jackson stacking them up in the garage, and Mom and me bringing them into the house. Mom had learned a long time ago about packing and labeling the boxes. She liked things organized.
The labels told us exactly where to put each bin. All artificial fruit to the dining room. All snow globes to the fireplace in the family room. Ceramic nativity, red ribbons, and garland to the entry hall. Wooden nativity to the hearth in the family room. Then came the box of framed family Christmas photos, which went to the kitchen. That was an odd place, but those framed photos were unpacked, unwrapped, and placed all over the house, even in the guest bathroom. Bins and boxes of Christmas tree decorations went into the corner of the family room awaiting the Christmas tree, which would arrive on Saturday.
When Christmas was out of the attic, the assignments started. Jackson and Dad had only to string the silk garland up the stairway and hang the big wreath on the front door. Mom checked their work and dismissed them. Then she began making things beautiful in the entry hall. She tied big red-velvet ribbons and attached them to the garland on the stairs. She cleared the big round table in the entry, spread a gold cloth over it, and assembled the nativity with one white pillar candle in the middle. I didn’t think Mom understood much about mangers, or there’d be no gold cloth; she’d be scratching up some hay from the neighbor’s barn. But she liked things neat and pretty. Once again I’d have to find another place for my backpack until January.
Then she went to the dining room. I helped her unpack handblown glass balls that she hung from the arms of the light fixture over the table. She removed everything from the antique sideboard and covered it in green velvet and sparkly fruit. She was careful to put the big pineapple in the center. She studied the colors and shapes and chose just the right place for the glittery apples, pears, oranges, lemons, bananas, and pomegranates. She worked to make them look like someone had just spilled them out of a bucket.
“I did this with real fruit and fresh greenery one year,” she reminisced. “Oh, it was so beautiful and smelled so fresh, but by Christmas it was ruined and smelled like a garbage heap. And, honestly, it bothered me a bit that I wasted fruit when there are hungry people in the world. So, after Christmas that year, I bought all this artificial fruit on sale, and it looks lovely. Later we’ll get your dad and Jackson to cut some fresh cedar for greenery to fill in around the fruit.”
“That will make it smell so good.”
Then Mom set the dining table just like we were having someone over for Christmas dinner that night. She had a Christmas tablecloth and napkins and special china just for Christmas. It was her mother’s. She even put out the glasses. I lost count of the little crystal candleholders, and red candles sprinkled the length of the table.
Then she sent me looking for the bin of red and green satin Christmas balls. Jackson didn’t read, so I knew where to look. It was sure to be in the family room with the tree decorations.
Mom put the satin balls in a big glass bowl in the middle of the table and then backed away to look. “Needs a bit of cedar stuck here and there, don’t you think?”
“It’s beautiful, Mom, but like I said, cedar will make it smell so good in here.”
“Why, thank you, Julia. I do hope you’re learning so that someday, when you’re all grown up, you’ll decorate your own house and make it lovely with all the things you love.”
Christmas was like the Thanksgiving Pilgrims. Somehow, after a few hundred years, the characters got all dressed up. Somebody cleaned them all up and put them in satin and velvet. I guessed we just didn’t like to think about how rough it was, and how hard it was when Jesus was born.
The dining room was done except for the fresh greenery. Mom sent Dad and Jackson to cut cedar and hemlock. “Cut lots, now. I need it for the dining room and the mantel.”
She asked me to unwrap the wooden nativity that always went on the hearth while she started unpacking the snow globes she had collected since she was a girl. She placed several on the mantel, and those that were left over she put all around the house with the family photos.
By the time the greenery was in buckets in the garage, snow globes lined the mantel, and the wooden manger scene was nestled on the hearth on leftover hay from last Christmas. Jackson and I had grown up playing with that set. It was safe and couldn’t be broken—except for the donkey’s tail, which Jackson had broken off years ago. Dad had glued it back on. Still, we’d be hearing a lot of “Jackson, be careful!” the next few weeks. Too many pretties around for a teenage boy who was mostly arms and legs and only a cupful of brains.
By the end of the day, everywhere I looked it said Christmas. Our house smelled like cedar and looked like something out of a magazine. The unpacked bins were stacked in the hallway. Dad breezed through the kitchen and asked, “Would you like us to get these back in the attic this afternoon?”
“If you’d like, or you could just stack them in the garage until after we decorate the tree tomorrow. Then it can all be put away at one time.”
Dad knew how to make Mom feel good, so he said, “Take a walk with me through the house, and show me everything you did.” They walked out of the kitchen holding hands.
I wanted to follow, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Instead, I went to the family room. Jackson was watching another ball game. I said, “Get up, Jackson, and do something. I need you to help me.”
“You’re not the boss of me, li’l sister. Besides, I’m doing something. I’m watching the game.”
“Okay, be a slob. Mom’s tired, and the bins have to be moved to the garage before she can fix dinner, but I’ll do it by myself.”
I stomped off, but to my surprise I had only carried one bin out when Jackson joined me. By the time Mom and Dad got back to the kitchen, the bins were stacked in the garage. Dad raised his eyebrows. “Wow, just like magic the bins are back in the attic.”
I corrected him. “Not in the attic yet, just in the garage.”
“Either way, it seems a shame to me to put Christmas in the attic. Your mom makes the house look so lovely at Christmas, and it’s only one month out of the year. Then it’s back to the attic for Christmas for another eleven months.”
Mom slipped around behind Dad and hugged him. “No, sweetheart, only the Christmas decorations go to the attic. Christmas is with us every day.” She kissed him on the cheek, walked to the sink, and washed her hands. “We ate Thanksgiving leftovers for lunch, and I’m too tired to cook. So, Ben, dinner is you
rs.”
“Wonderful, let’s take a vote. Zito’s pizza or burgers and shakes?”
We all shouted our favorite.
“Oh, no, it’s a tie, and I’m not going to both places. So, Jenn, you wanted pizza, and that’s what we’re having. I’ll phone it in and pick it up.”
I hugged Dad. “Extra cheese and green olives, please, and no Italian sausage.”
Jackson flipped my hair off my shoulder. “But I like the Italian sausage. You’re such a baby. You should try it. It’s good.”
“I can’t even look at it since you said it looked like rabbit droppings.”
Dad laughed.“I’ll order two pizzas, and tomorrow morning we’ll go cut our tree and get a bag of burgers for lunch. My treat.”
Old Man Winter had blasted in by Saturday morning. It was our tradition to have waffles, eggs, and sausage at home and then make our annual trip up to Brushy Creek Tree Farm to cut down our Christmas tree. We bundled up and squeezed into Dad’s truck. I had to sit in Mom’s lap during the hour-long drive. Dad turned on the FM station that played only Christmas music from Halloween until January. We sang along for a while.
The owner of the tree farm met us like he always did and gave Dad a map. Mom liked Douglas firs, but Dad liked the blue spruce because it smelled so good. This was Dad’s year to decide. After an hour of walking, looking, and sniffing trees, we had a truckload of a blue spruce, and I was bluer than the spruce from being so cold. I was the first one to climb into the truck.
“Turn on the heater in a hurry, Dad. My hands and feet are about to fall off.”
Jackson laughed. “You should have had hand and feet warmers like me. My hands and feet are as warm as toast.”
“What are hand and feet warmers?”
“This.” Jackson pulled off his glove. In the palm of his hand sat a warm packet. “Got something similar in my shoes. We wear them hunting. Something you didn’t know about.”
“Thanks for sharing, Jackson.” I put my hands up to the heater.
Perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps the excitement, but in no time the cabin of the truck was toasty warm and we were all laughing and chattering and singing carols for the return trip. And then, after cheeseburgers and fries, it was tree trimming time. Dad and Jackson brought in the spruce and secured it in the corner. Mom popped popcorn and gave it to Jackson to string—a necessary job since he couldn’t be trusted with anything breakable. She knew he would eat half of it, but it kept him busy.
Now, Mom had a thing about decorating, but Dad had a thing about Christmas music. He found his favorite Christmas CD, turned up the volume, and started unpacking the Christmas tree lights. That was his job and always first. Mom was organized about that, too, making certain the lights were not put away tangled. She helped Dad place them just right on the tree.
When there were no more strings of lights, Dad said, “Crawl under there, Julia, and plug them in, please.”
I eased behind the tree, and Dad handed me the plug. “Okay, here goes. Everybody, hold your breath.”
Yes. All the lights came on to a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Oooh!”
Mom unpacked the ornaments—the beautiful collectible ones that Jackson wasn’t allowed to touch, the ones we’d made with popsicle sticks and glitter to frame a Christmas picture, the handmade stuffed ones Grancie had made, and the ones that were souvenirs from family vacations. It seemed every ornament had a story, and Mom and Dad liked telling those stories as they hung them on the tree.
I lifted a shoe box out of the bin. “What’s this?”
Dad said, “Open it and see. I think you’ll like them, but be careful.”
I sat on the sofa and lifted the lid and a layer of bubble wrap. There were several small bundles of tissue paper. I unwrapped the first one. It was a hand-painted wooden cardinal. Mr. Lafferty. It had to be. “Did Mr. Lafferty give you this?”
“Yes, and every one of those in the box. I get a new one every year, and they’re always cardinals.”
I examined the detail. “This is beautiful, but he doesn’t paint his birds.”
Dad stopped what he was doing and sat down next to me. “He only paints cardinals.”
Mom, the artist in the family, spoke up. “It’s really more like staining them a deep red. Then he does some burnishing on the feathers for detail and paints the eyes, the beak, and the legs.”
I unwrapped six of them, each one different, perched on twigs or in flight. “They’re beautiful. Why haven’t I seen these before?”
Mom answered, “I don’t know. We hang them on the tree every year, but we never told you the story.”
“Oh, could I have just one to put in my box of ornaments?” Mom and Grancie had started making and buying ornaments for Jackson and me ever since we were born. We had our own bins with our names on them, and we would get them when we moved out on our own.
Dad picked up a bird from the box. “You’ve seen the cardinals out at Emerald Crest, haven’t you? They’re Mr. Lafferty’s favorite bird.”
“But at his house, he always carves two together.”
“There’s a reason for that. G-Pa told me this story when I started getting these for Christmas. Mr. Lafferty gave him cardinals too. You remember Mr. Lafferty’s mother was killed when he was just about your age?”
I nodded my head and kept looking at the cardinal, feeling the smoothness.
“Well, his grandmother told him to always think of his mother every time he saw a cardinal. His mother had red hair. I think he carves cardinals to remember his mother. And I think he carves the pair to remind him of his grandparents. They loved each other very much, and you know, cardinals mate for life.”
“I like that story, Dad.”
“Maybe one day I’ll take you out to the grave sites for his family. They’re buried out on a hill in a grove of chestnut oaks not far from the house. There are three large headstones with names and dates, and each one has an etched cardinal in the stone.”
“I’d really like to see that. Has Mr. Lafferty ever been out there? I mean, can he get there in his wheelchair?”
“Oh, yes, there is a brick path from the garden to the burial place. He goes out there frequently and feeds the birds right out of his hand, mostly cardinals. It’s very beautiful and peaceful there.”
“I really want to go out there with him to see that.”
Dad put his arm around me. “Maybe he’ll take you one day, but you’d have to sit as still and quiet as he does to see the birds.” Dad put the cardinal back in the box. “Choose the one you like, and you can put it in your bin of ornaments after Christmas.”
I chose the one I wanted—the one in flight—and hung it on the front of the tree where I could see it all the time. I wanted to keep it in my room after Christmas, but I would ask about that later.
Mom said, “Okay, it’s all done. Another beautiful Christmas tree. And, Ben, I really like the spruce. It does make this room smell good.”
Dad went over to Mom and hugged and kissed her. “Don’t need any mistletoe in this house.”
She giggled. “It’s time to put these boxes and bins in the attic. Hop to it, Jackson. You’ve been idle long enough.”
Dad and Jackson were in the garage hauling bins back to the attic and Mom was cleaning up his popcorn mess when the phone rang. But it was a different ring than usual. I looked around for Dad’s cell phone. Then I realized. The TTY.
I ran to Dad’s office. The lights were blinking. I answered. Hello, this is Julia.
HL2. ANOTHER WINDOW. MR. HORNSBY CHASING TWO. TELL BEN TO COME WHEN HE CAN.
H hung up. I looked at the clock. 6:38. I ran to the garage. “Dad, H just called.” I forgot I wasn’t supposed to call him that. “You must go, and you have to get there fast. He used all capital letters.”
“What? Julia, slow down.” Dad came down the attic stairs.
“It’s another broken window, and Mr. Lafferty wants you to come right now.”
“How do you know this?” Dad shuffl
ed the rest of the bins out of the pathway to the mudroom. “Oh, yes, the TTY. I forgot.”
“He just called. He said Mr. Hornsby was chasing two guys. He watched them from the window.”
“Two. One is vandalism. Two? That’s trouble.” Dad looked at Mom. “Could you get me the key to the mansion? It’s in my top right-hand desk drawer, and it’s labeled.” Then he looked at Jackson. “Son, get your heavy jacket. You’re going with me.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll get the big flashlight from the gun closet. You want me to get my gun?”
“No. Don’t need to shoot anybody over a broken window. Just the light, and let’s get going.” Dad looked at me. “Did Mr. Lafferty say anything else?”
“No, sir, just to get there as soon as you can.” I followed Dad inside. “I’m getting my jacket too.”
“No, you’re not. You’re staying here with your mom.” Dad grabbed his heavy coat and gloves.
“But Mr. Lafferty’s my friend, and Jackson doesn’t even know him. I can make him feel okay. And besides, you can’t even communicate with him.”
“Not happening, Julia. You’ll be more help here talking to him on the TTY. Come on, Jackson.”
Mom returned with the key. Dad and Jackson were in the truck and out of the garage in less than three minutes.
I stood in the driveway and watched the tail lights on the truck get smaller and smaller. I was no crybaby, but I felt like crying. I’d begged to go, but Dad refused. I was Mr. Lafferty’s friend, but Jackson got to go. Jackson could throw a ball and run fast, but I was a girl, a smart girl, so I got to stay home. Not fair—nothing about it fair. I’d be a lot more help than Jackson.
Mom tried to make it okay, but I went inside and straight to the TTY and called H. He answered quickly. I typed My dad and my brother on the way.
Silent Days, Holy Night Page 14
