by J. J. Murray
“How can I make some money for the family?” Jimmy asks.
Jimmy is such a sweet boy. I hug him every day for no reason at all, and he hugs me back, despite the fact that students at his school tease him for having a black mama. At first, he would fight back with his fists. We’ve spent a few days together at home because of that. Now he fights back with smiles, using these very words on anyone who torments him: “You’re ... just ... jealous.”
It makes me proud to be his “black mama.”
“You can help us by staying out of the hospital,” Joe says. “All of you. Stay healthy.”
“We want you kids to concentrate on your schoolwork,” I say. “If you feel you can swing a job, even a weekend job, go on and do it. We’re not making anybody get a job.” I sit up a little taller since they’ve almost completely calmed down. “We just cannot waste a single penny until this baby is born.”
“What about Christmas?” Rose asks.
There’s that clock again. I’m worried about Christmas, too.
“What about it?” Joe asks.
“What will Christmas be like, Daddy?” Rose asks.
“It will be different, and that’s all I can say,” Joe says. “From now on, we will buy what we absolutely need, not want.”
More ticking. I am beginning to hate that clock.
“So ask for a raise, Mama,” Crystal says. “You’ve been working there long enough.”
“Yeah, Daddy, ask for a raise,” Rose says. “You worked all those Saturdays. That has to count for something.”
We will be hinting at raises from now on, but we’re not crazy enough to push it too hard. We need both jobs at our present salaries to make it through to June.
“Shawna and I aren’t counting on raises any time soon,” Joe says, “but we’ll be asking, when the time’s right.”
“How big will the tax refund be?” Junior asks.
We have played with those numbers so much my head still hurts, running it all through a tax program on Joe’s computer using last year’s tax laws.
“It should be sizable enough to cover the new baby’s arrival and maybe another vehicle,” Joe says.
“Yes!” Rose whispers under her breath.
“I said maybe, Rose,” Joe says.
“I know,” Rose says.
“Babies are expensive, y’all,” I add, and I stare down Crystal especially. I have a feeling that she and her thug man might be doing a little more than attending church with us.
And before she leaves for the night, she drops a huge bomb.
“Mama, I’m ... I’m pregnant, too.”
After I pick up my heart from the floor, I can only think to ask, “How far along are you?”
“I’ll, um, I’ll be a few weeks after you.”
Good ... grief. Mama and grandma within a few weeks of each other. Lord, Your mysteries are indeed incredible to behold. “Are you ...” I can’t think! “Are y’all thinking about getting married?”
She looks at her hands, and I see a tear fall. She shakes her head. “He, um, he wants no part of us.”
“Move back home,” I say.
“There’s no room,” she says.
“We’ll make room. There’s always room in a home. That’s what makes a home a home. There’s always room, Crystal. Come home.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to be here ... pregnant like that. I’m too ashamed.”
I can’t fault her logic, but ...
“And I want to see if I can make it on my own first, Mama. I mean, you’ve been on your own with three kids for eight years.”
I hold her hands. “Girl, I haven’t been on my own. I thought I was—at first—but then I realized that I needed other people. I have a good friend in Rema. A strong, caring church family. God. You.”
She sets her jaw. “If you can do it, so can I.”
So hard-hearted, this child. “Crystal, honey, please let me be your mother again. At least until the baby’s born and you’re on your feet again.”
“But you’ll have your own baby by then.”
“So I’ll take care of two. You and Junior are only a year apart. I’ve had practice.”
She looks down. “I’ll think about it.” She closes her eyes. “So you’re not mad at me?”
What a question! Of course I’m mad—at Tony, at her, at me for letting her leave. “I have to confess that I’m sad. You’re not going to college like your daddy wanted you to, you’re not living with us, and now ... this. I’m just ... sad.” I sigh. “I am a bit ticked at Tony. I will definitely remind him of his duties as a father. He will be around to help you, I can guarantee you that.”
“I don’t want him around, Mama. This is my baby, not his.”
My prayer list just got a whole lot longer. “Well, do you ...” No. I can’t ask that question.
“Do I what?”
Oh, well. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”
“Oh,” she says with a slight smile, “definitely a boy. Girls are so much harder to raise.”
And then ... the tears come, and after a few moments, I don’t know who’s crying more. “All in God’s hands and plans,” I whisper. “All in God’s hands and plans.”
Lord, I don’t pretend to understand Your will in all this, and I know I’m not supposed to lose my mind trying to figure it all out. Help me to accept this and go on.
And Lord, if you can bring my baby—and my future grandbaby—home, I’d really appreciate it.
73
Joe
The kids aren’t grumbling (audibly), but I’m sure our financial situation is finally becoming real to them.
But since Shawna and I keep them so busy with chores, they don’t have much time to grumble. There’s always something to be done with the yard: planting fall grass where the summer sun has created little dust bowls where grass used to be, pruning trees, planting bulbs, weed-eating, even painting the playhouse and staining and sealing the deck. And the interior of the house needs constant attention since it seems to rain dust everywhere, collecting in corners, behind doors, and under beds. Our windows have never been cleaner, our wood floors never shinier.
The house is coming back to life again.
Shawna decided that she wouldn’t make any major changes in décor right away, and for that I’m glad. It’s her house as much as mine now, but she also realizes that my kids will be more at home if we don’t change too much. We went through all the Canada pictures Mom sent down, choosing several nice family and action shots to enlarge, frame, and place over the fireplace mantel. “Shared memories,” Shawna calls them, “for them to look at every day.” Other than reorganizing all the shelves and drawers in the kitchen (“So I can find the doohickey I’m looking for,” Shawna says), she has left Cheryl’s kitchen as is. “I like it,” she says. “Cheryl had good taste.”
And our baby is coming to life, too. The ultrasound picture showed a little ... something. We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, and the girls are lobbying for Joshawna to even up the balance of power in the family.
“We have to have another girl,” Rose says.
“As if Joshawna will be able to vote,” Junior says.
Yes, they’ve almost forgotten about Crystal. But in my mind, she’s still a part of us, even if she isn’t here. I catch Shawna spacing out during meals or as she watches the kids leave in the morning. I know she’s thinking about Crystal.
I wish I could figure out how to get Crystal—and her unborn child—to come home to us. God will figure it out, I know, but I wish I could do something. And I also wish I could figure out how to have Christmas in style.
That’s yet another miracle I’m praying for.
74
Shawna
While Joe wishes the weather would change for the worse so he could “meet more people by accident,” I work as many shifts as I can. But that’s taking its toll because I miss my kids. I’m working these hours to give them a Christmas to remember, but if I keep working sixty-hour w
eeks, they won’t remember who I am and I might start forgetting their names.
“You have to slow down, Shawna,” Joe says. “The Lord will provide. Wait on the Lord, right?”
Wait.
Right.
I look down at the scale I’m standing on. I’ve been waiting on weight to come, too, but I’ve been rushing around so much that I haven’t gained but five pounds in the last month and only ten pounds overall. My doctor also says I need to slow down, take time to rest. And he doesn’t come out and say it, but he’s really telling me to fatten up for winter. I try to eat a lot, but I work it off so fast.
Of course, the doctor is responsible for giving me plenty to worry about. “Older mothers-to-be,” he tells me, “are generally in good health and have good health habits, but there is still a risk of high blood pressure, gestational diabetes, low birth weight, and Down syndrome.” Add to this that 20 to 25 percent of pregnant women my age miscarry and many need a C-section, and I am flat-out hurried and worried.
“C’mon,” I say to the scale, “give me at least a half pound more today.”
The needle doesn’t budge.
I come back to bed, snuggling up with Joe, who has been giving the calculator another workout. “No change,” I say. “I’m going to give birth to a skinny baby, a skinny, hungry baby.” I look at my little breasts. “I’m going to be in trouble.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. So, how do we stand?”
Joe holds up a spreadsheet. He prints out everything, when just a little notepad would do. He’s just being thorough. “We’ll have approximately ... three hundred extra dollars ... total ... to spend on Christmas.”
Only fifty dollars per child? My heart can’t sink any lower. “That’s not enough for a proper Christmas, Joe.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Our first Christmas together should be memorable, but not for what they didn’t get.” He shakes his head. “I guess we should take up one of those loan offers.”
“At those high interest rates? Forget it.” It is so weird that I am beginning to sound like Joe already. I never used to worry about money before—never. A loan would be a solution, and we could have a nice Christmas, but the entire time I’d be thinking about paying back that loan. Borrowing is like a wedding, but paying back is like a funeral.
He massages my back, and I relax a little. “My bonus will cover the loan.”
I bury my head in the pillow for two reasons: one, because Joe gives a much better backrub if I lie flat, and, two, because Joe won’t receive his Christmas bonus until early January. Why call it a Christmas bonus if you can’t get it until after Christmas? Drivers in Roanoke are not wrecking enough to give us a happy holiday. Shame on them!
In the midst of my grief over what is looking like a lean Christmas, I go back into that bathroom later that night and cry. It’s the first time I’ve wept since Rodney died. I feel so helpless. We keep a Bible in there for, um, longer visits, and I read a chapter or two once I’ve calmed down. I stumble when I read the verse “God loveth a cheerful giver.”
But Lord, I pray, we don’t have much to give! How can I be cheerful when these children, who have pulled together and sacrificed and done without ... so much ... how can I be cheerful giving them a few little presents under the tree? That tree should be surrounded by gifts, even buried by them. Lord, provide a way. And while you’re at it, Lord, I have three more requests. Please keep all those holiday catalogs from making it to our mailbox. They arrive by the ton and waste so much paper. You’re a recycler, aren’t you, Lord? The kids get the mail before I can, and by the time I get home, I walk into the house and see them reading those catalogs. Jimmy reads the Eastbay catalog as if it’s the best novel he’s ever read. Please ... give the mail carrier a hernia or something, I don’t know. Also, please make the folks who come into McDonald’s this holiday season cheerful. They all come in tired and cranky from shopping for their kids while I’m crying inside over mine. And last, Lord, bring Crystal home. Amen.
I know it is a selfish, whiny prayer, but it is from the heart. Neither Joe nor I need any gifts this year, since we have each other and six living, breathing gifts who love us. We may exchange some Christmas lust, but that doesn’t cost either of us a thing. Okay, it costs Joe a few scratches, but ...
Hmm. Maybe we ought to knock that off for a while. I might be losing the weight I should be gaining because of all that friskiness.
Nah. I need me some hot Joe in the morning.
But for the first time in my life, I think I’m depressed. I shouldn’t be. I have every reason not to be. I have a nice home, six smart, polite children, and the most loving of husbands. I know many single women with children out there who have none of the above. I thank God every day for His mercy on me, but the gloomy clouds hanging over our finances and Christmas make me so sad. Even the clouds in the sky seem to hang just over me, following me wherever I go, leading me to puddles only my feet seem to find. The Lord could at least give us a white Christmas, but the forecasters call for either clear and cold or unseasonably warm and rainy for the rest of December. Yet they’re rarely right. If I bring my umbrella, it doesn’t rain. If I wear my boots, it doesn’t snow.
I am a jinx, I guess.
A week into December, I have just about had it. I’m stewing and fussing inside about our general lack of money, customers are fussing and generally lacking manners, employees are wanting days and weekends off to go shopping, the weather is turning colder and contains no snow or sleet or anything dangerous, and the work schedule looks dangerously thin for such a busy time of year.
To top it off, employee contributions to the Angel Tree Fund are practically nonexistent. Since I became a full manager, I have set up a tradition with the Angel Tree. There are trees at the mall with little cards in the shape of an angel, and each card represents a child who wants to have a nice Christmas. On the card are the child’s age, gender, shoe and clothing sizes, needs, and wishes. I usually take two cards, one for a boy and one for a girl, the employees donate more than enough, I go shopping with Toni, and we wrap as many needs and wishes as we can. This year I chose six children, and so far, my employees have barely donated enough money for only half a child to have a nice Christmas. How am I going to help the other five and a half kids have a decent Christmas? I can’t just go around begging my employees or customers for money, and the gifts are due tomorrow to the Salvation Army. I don’t know what to do! And I especially don’t know how to pray about it. I want my own kids to have a nice Christmas, yet these Angel Tree kids have so much less than my kids already have.
I look at the pitiful sum of money in the Angel Tree envelope at the beginning of my shift. Lord, You did a whole lot with a little to feed all those folks. Please ... I’m trusting that You will do something for my kids, and, Lord, if it’s in Your will, fill this envelope today for these angels.
I immediately feel guilty.
I’m sorry, Lord. Help these angels first, okay? Help the last people folks think about at Christmas come first for a change. Amen.
I set the Angel Tree envelope in a prominent place near the back entrance and get to work, leaving God to control it all. I find myself drifting to the back to check that envelope every now and then, and it’s not getting any fuller. “Um, today is the last day for Angel Tree contributions,” I tell the crew as I work breakfast.
No one contributes a single penny.
This is weighing me down, and I can’t have this on me while I’m working the lunch rush. I give Joe a call. “I need to see you,” I say.
Ten minutes later, he arrives. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Physically, yes,” I say. “But mentally ...” I tell him about the Angel Tree Fund, and he nods.
“Our United Way contributions are way behind, too,” he says. “Folks just aren’t as giving anymore for some reason.” He smiles. “You know what we could do?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
He opens his wallet, an
d I see ... six fifty-dollar bills. “I went to the bank today to take money out of savings for us to go shopping this weekend.” He widens his eyes. “It’s Tuesday, Shawna. Why would I take out this money for the weekend when it’s Tuesday? You know I’d leave this money in the bank all the way until Friday for it to draw another few pennies of interest.” He laughs. “I think I took out this money today for your angels.”
“Oh, Joe, I don’t think ...”
He hands me the money. “It’s Christmas, Shawna. If we can’t have the merriest of Christmases, let’s at least help these angels. Our kids will understand.”
“But what about Christmas for our kids?”
“We’ll figure out something.” He kisses my cheek, right there at the counter in front of the crew and a few customers. “Or God will.”
I wish I had this man’s faith. “Are you sure?”
“About God? Always.” He winks. “I have to go. City bus versus Cadillac. No injuries, but with a Cadillac ...”
“I love you,” I say, squeezing the life out of that money.
“I love you, too,” he says.
As I’m walking that money to the back, I pray hard. Lord, You answered my prayer, and I thank You, but You only answered part of it. I put the money into the envelope. Answer the other part, okay? Please?
And for whatever reason, the Lord chooses to send every person in Roanoke to my McDonald’s right after that. I have no time to rest. The parking lot is full, the drive-thru line never seems to end, the only empty seats are outside in the play area, the ketchup dispensers are squirting in all the wrong directions, the milkshake machine goes on the blink again, and we run out of, it seems, a different soda at the self-serve every five minutes. In addition, one of the cash register drawers gets stuck, the dining room is an unholy mess, and we never have enough fries ready.
