Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  Walking across the fields, dry with cracked lines etched across them, I couldn’t help but think how like Granddaddy’s face the fields were. Mama used to say her daddy was born in the fields and he’d die in the fields. And now he was starting to look like the fields. But even with the lines plowed into his face by weather and work, he was a right handsome man.

  As we walked, he held the pumpkin pie in one hand and my hand in his other.

  The sound of the steady crunch of our footsteps was interrupted by a screech in the sky that sounded like a scream. I looked up and spotted a hawk circling overhead.

  “Look there.” Granddaddy nodded. “That hawk’s trying to get one of those fat rabbits for a meal of his own.”

  I gasped and shook my finger toward the sky. “Shame on you, hawk! Go away—leave that rabbit alone!”

  “But what about the hawk?” Granddaddy pointed out. “Can’t blame him, Pixie—he’s hungry too.”

  I didn’t want the hawk to stay hungry, but I really didn’t like thinking about him making a meal of the rabbit. “Why’s it have to be that way?” I asked.

  “Well, Pixie, that’s just the way it is around here. The circle of life.”

  Granddaddy watched the hawk fly away—giving the rabbit something to be thankful for. “Life sure is funny sometimes, ain’t it?” he said. “Every day’s a lesson in beginnings and endings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Now Granddaddy held my hand tight as he explained. “Two years ago, your mama and Charlotte both sat with us at our Thanksgiving table. I know you been thinking ’bout that too. And back then, we had no reason to think that’d be the last time we’d all be around that table.” He spoke matter-of-factly, not complaining. “You never know when this time is actually the last time.”

  We walked on over the fields until we came to a clearing where we could see a small white house a few yards away. By then, I’d come to a conclusion about Grand-daddy’s observation. “When you think of it that way, life’s not funny—it’s downright mean.”

  Granddaddy gave a half laugh. “Ah, Pixie. Life’s not mean. It’s just sometimes too short. It’s up to us not to forget that.”

  “I won’t forget,” I told Granddaddy. “But it sure is hard.”

  He stopped and turned to me. “I’m with you on that, Pixie. Sometimes it feels like all we can do is take a deep breath, pick ourselves up, and push on.”

  Right then, a big dog came charging at us as we walked into the orchard that led to the little house. I’m not afraid of dogs, but from far away, this one looked more like a wolf. A hungry wolf. Granddaddy stopped in his tracks too.

  But as the mutt got closer, we could tell he wasn’t much to be afraid of. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while, and when he got wind of the pie Granddaddy was holding, he tried to jump up but toppled over.

  I reached out to pet him. “Now, that’s funny!” I told Granddaddy.

  He smiled, keeping the pie out of the mutt’s reach. “See, Pixie, not deciding who someone is before they have a chance to show us who they really are must work for dogs too.”

  I laughed as I petted the funny dog, who started drooling on my mittens.

  “His name’s Mud.”

  That was a voice I knew without looking up. Ricky stood so close to us that I was surprised I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “What kind of a name is Mud?” I asked.

  “Well, Ma says I named him when I was four,” Ricky told us. “Said me and him got in the mud a lot. From what my big brother tells me, I reckon I’m lucky they didn’t change my name to that too.”

  Granddaddy laughed. “Reckon Ricky suits ya better, son.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnston. What ya got there?”

  Granddaddy held the pie higher, making Mud jump and fall again. “Had this extra pumpkin pie just sitting over at the house. The missus wanted us to bring it over to see if you folks might kindly take it off her hands.”

  Ricky’s eyes got bigger as he looked at the pie. He looked over his shoulder at his house before turning to speak again. “That’s mighty neighborly of you, but Ma says we can’t take charity.” He didn’t stop looking at the pie as he spoke.

  “Well, I can certainly understand that, young man, but this here pie is gonna go to waste if you don’t take it. Or it might go to Mud here. Could you maybe take it to your ma and tell her she’d be doing us a favor by taking it off our hands?”

  “Guess I could do that, Mr. Johnston.” Ricky reached for the pie like he was reaching for a first-place trophy. He turned around and started walking away before he remembered his manners. “Thank you, Mr. Johnston. And Prudence. Thanks. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  With that, we turned to go. And somehow the way home wasn’t near as cold as the way there had been.

  CHAPTER 11

  By the time we got back home, the turkey—which turned out to just be a chicken this year—was ready. Granddaddy finished saying grace right as Daddy pulled in the lane. I jumped up to greet him after Grandma made a show of putting down her fork and said, “How nice your daddy got back early—we can wait for him and then have our meal together.”

  The minute Daddy sat down at the table, Granddaddy asked the question we were all thinking. “Did you get to see Charlotte?”

  “Sure did,” Daddy told us. “From the window again. But she looked . . . good.” He moved his head up and down.

  I doubt if Grandma and Daddy knew I saw the look they gave each other after he said that—but I saw it, and I didn’t like it. Daddy’s mouth didn’t have to say what his eyes already did: Charlotte didn’t look good at all.

  That took my appetite away.

  Grandma noticed I wasn’t eating much and took it as a reflection on the meal not being as wonderful as past Thanksgivings. “Prudence, I know we’re doing without some things this year, but I think it’s worth eating, don’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. It’s delicious. I’m just thinking of . . . Charlotte.”

  And then Grandma said the strangest thing. “I know. I miss her too. Especially on days like today. I miss Charlotte being here, and I miss Katherine. So much . . .”

  At the mention of my mama’s name, Grandma looked down, and I wasn’t sure what I would do if she started to cry. My eyes stung already.

  Granddaddy’s face was sad, too, as he watched Grandma. “Thelma—remember Katherine’s first time of cooking a pie for Thanksgiving? If I recall, she forgot something she needed to put in it?”

  “Sugar and flour.” Grandma looked up, smiling, her eyes glistening as she cleared her throat. “She mixed up the amount of sugar with the amount of flour for an apple pie she wanted to make.”

  Granddaddy laughed. “And the apples were so tart that year! But she was so proud of that pie.”

  “You ate it anyways?” I asked.

  “’Course I did. My daughter made me an apple pie for Thanksgiving, and we all ate it—even if it wasn’t the easiest thing to get it down. We laughed about it with her a few years later.”

  And the four of us laughed about it again. It wasn’t a big belly laugh kind of laugh, since it wasn’t that kind of day. But it felt good just the same.

  * * *

  * * *

  Halfway through our own perfectly baked pumpkin pie, Daddy pulled what I’d been waiting for out of his pocket.

  A letter.

  I was hoping with all my hope I’d get another letter. I’d read Charlotte’s last letter so much I knew it by heart. And my heart needed another one to read and memorize.

  “Did you give her my letter, Daddy?”

  He nodded. “Gave it right to the nurse—your letter, Grandma’s letter, and a letter from Miss Beany. Nurse promised she’d take ’em right to her.”

  I asked to be excused from the table as soon as my hand touched the new letter. Grandma started to say someth
ing about the dishes but stopped herself. “Go on,” she said. “But I want you back down here in twenty minutes to help.”

  “Thank you, Grandma!” I jumped off the chair so fast it tottered backward.

  “The letter’s not gonna disappear—no need to run.” Grandma tried to make her voice stern-like, but I saw her smile a little, and I walked as fast as I could walk without running to my room.

  Our room.

  Again, I climbed up to her top bunk and sat on the wood board where her mattress used to be.

  I studied the envelope like it might start talking to me, telling me what my sissy was doing when she held it in her hands.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to picture her, but the only picture that came to mind was Charlotte looking sad in her wheelchair the last time I saw her.

  I didn’t want a sad Charlotte’s face in my mind while reading her words, so I shook my head like something was stuck in it and I wanted to loosen it.

  I clenched shut my eyes and tried harder.

  Then I pictured Charlotte in the henhouse reaching under Teacher to get her egg like it was nothing at all.

  That was the strong face of Charlotte I wanted in my head.

  I inhaled slow, hoping each breath might help me cement in my heart the words I was getting ready to read.

  I exhaled.

  Dear Pixie,

  Happy Thanksgiving.

  I’m sitting in my hospital room but pretending I’m home with you in our room, getting ready to walk downstairs and help Grandma make the pumpkin pies. If I shut my eyes and try really hard, I can almost smell the cinnamon and see Grandma’s good china dishes on the table. But then I open my eyes and the only smell is the alcohol they use to clean everything that touches us. And the only thing I see is an empty bed where a girl close to my age used to be.

  She’s gone now. They won’t tell me what happened to her, but I know she’s not home celebrating Thanksgiving with her family either. I just know it.

  I miss school. Nurse Margie brought me some books to read. Remember that one book I was supposed to get from the library before we moved, Little Women? That’s one of the books she let me borrow. I’m only a few chapters in, but it’s good. The sister named Jo reminds me of you, especially after I read your letter about almost getting into a fight at school with Ricky! Plus, Jo hates to wear dresses. I’d probably be Beth, since she always tries to be nice but is a little boring.

  I’ve been writing in a journal, too, mostly poems. I’ll put one of my poems at the bottom of this letter. I know you won’t believe it, but I miss going to school and having homework. I even miss chores and that rotten old hen! Bet even you would miss her if you were in here.

  Nurse Margie tells me I’m getting stronger. She even lets me go see the little babies that have polio. I hold them and sing songs I remember Mama singing to us. It’s nice to have little ones to take care of, but it would be nicer if they didn’t have polio too.

  One little girl, Nancy, is two years old. Sometimes she won’t stop crying for anyone but me. Yesterday, I gave her a ride on my wheelchair. I spun us around as fast as I could go, and she clung so tight to my neck I could hardly breathe. But we had fun!

  Guess I’d better close this letter now. Be sure to write me everything that’s happening at school and home. I miss you so much, but I know I’ll be home soon, the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.

  Love,

  Charlotte

  My Poem

  Starched white sheets remind me

  Of answers I’ll never know

  Sadness now sits on your bed

  Constantly asking, “Where’d you go?”

  And sitting there on Charlotte’s bare bunk, I read her poem again, wondering how my sissy peeked into my heart and wrote down words I didn’t realize were stuck there.

  I was still reading it when Granddaddy came to the door. “Look what I got here,” he said as he held out a bone from the chicken. “Remember, whoever gets the bigger half of the wishbone gets their wish. Wanna give it a try?”

  We both pulled on that old bone till it popped. Hard to say if Granddaddy’s half was bigger or if it was mine that won. But it didn’t matter. We both knew we’d wished for the same thing.

  CHAPTER 12

  Seemed like the Thanksgiving dishes were barely washed, dried, and put away before people started planning for Christmas. The first Sunday of Advent, the preacher man began talking about needing volunteers for the Christmas Eve Nativity pageant. When Grandma nodded at me like I knew what she was thinking, I nodded back, since for once she wasn’t shaking her head at me like she usually does in church.

  But I shook my head after the service, when I found out what she was thinking. “I don’t want to be in any stupid Nativity show!”

  “Now watch your tone, young lady,” Grandma warned me. “It’s good to volunteer for the church. And it’s not good for you to have no friends your own age. This is a chance to meet more people.”

  I wanted to tell Grandma that me not having friends was good for everybody. Get close to me, and you’ll regret it. But before I thought of any reason I could share with Grandma as to why I shouldn’t be in the Christmas program, she stopped my words with more of her own. “Plus, you have a lovely singing voice.”

  Well, butter my biscuit! This was a surprise since Grandma rarely hands out compliments. But when I thanked her for her nice words, she mistook it for me agreeing to be in the Nativity program. She hollered, “Got another volunteer for you!” and pulled me over to a group of kids gathered in the back of the church.

  As the crowd parted to let me in, my eyes landed on Betsy, who waved like we were old friends. She was with her brother Ricky, and standing as close to him as possible was Big-Mouth Berta.

  Guess the grocery business was better than most businesses during the war, ’cause Berta always had the best dresses. Her pigtails were two perfect sausage curls, tied with ribbons that matched her dress. She always looked nice—and then she’d open her mouth to ruin it all.

  I turned to walk away, but that’s when the lady who plays the piano at church called over the crowd, “Welcome! Prudence, isn’t it?”

  That’s the thing about small towns. If you want to, you can get to know everyone. And if you don’t want to, too bad.

  Betsy weaved her way through the crowd of people to stand next to me. “Last year, I was too little to be in the Christmas pageant—but I’m bigger this year.”

  When she said that, she stood as tall as possible, so I had to agree. “I can see you’re definitely bigger,” I said.

  The piano lady began. “I am Mrs. Evans. I know most of you participated in the Nativity last year, so you already know me and what we’ll be doing. To you new folks, we are going to be acting out the story of Mary and Joseph and the birth of baby Jesus. We’ll have costumes and some lines to remember, as well as a few songs we will sing together.”

  “I’d be happy to sing a solo,” said Big-Mouth Berta, as if she was doing Mrs. Evans a big favor.

  Mrs. Evans smiled at her—with a smile that I didn’t think was too sincere. “Thank you, Berta. You do have a pretty voice, but there aren’t any solos in the Nativity pageant. Just group singing.”

  “Can I be the angel, then?” Big-Mouth Berta asked, persisting. “My daddy can get new material for a costume. I remember last year the angel looked dingy yellow instead of pretty white.”

  I looked around the crowd to see if last year’s angel might be there, taking offense at being called a dirty angel, but since I didn’t know who that would have been, I didn’t notice anything but a few rolling eyes.

  Mrs. Evans really did smile this time. “Oh, new material would be lovely . . . It’s been so many years . . . I guess that would be okay. Yes, Berta, you can be the angel this year.”

  That made Big-Mouth Berta beam from
ear to ear, right up till me and Ricky both got assigned the parts of shepherds. The sour look on her face at that news made me grin.

  I might’ve still been grinning in the car heading home from church. Grandma and Granddaddy were having a conversation, but the motor was so loud and their words were so soft, I only heard bits and pieces and it didn’t make much sense.

  “Ethel . . . those children . . . boy in the war . . . daddy gone . . . Ricky . . .”

  While I didn’t hear that very well, I did hear Granddaddy the next day when he announced, “That young friend of yours, Ricky, he’s gonna be helping out around the farm every day for a bit.”

  “He’s not really my friend,” I blurted out.

  Granddaddy’s eyebrows scrunched up, letting me know that wasn’t the response he’d wanted.

  “Now, Pixie.” He squinted to make sure I was paying attention. “Our neighbors are going through a hard time. Their pa left to go find work last year and hasn’t been heard from since. The older boy is fighting in the war. Maybe we don’t have much, but what we do have, we gotta share.”

  I wanted to point out that Charlotte having polio and Mama dying might make some people think we didn’t have too much either, but I knew better. And even though I swear I didn’t open my mouth, Granddaddy seemed to hear my thoughts nonetheless.

  “Some might say we haven’t been dealt the best cards in the game of life, but it’s not about bellyaching over what happened and what we don’t have, Pixie,” he told me. “It’s about remembering what we do have. Let’s not be forgetting that.”

  I didn’t answer Granddaddy, ’cause I didn’t want to admit to him that when it came to being without Mama and Charlotte, my biggest fear was forgetting.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ricky started working the next afternoon after school. Shook Granddaddy’s hand and only gave me a quick glance before him and Granddaddy headed into the kitchen.