by Tamara Bundy
I’d just returned from gathering the eggs, so I wanted nothing more than to warm myself by the fire and read Sissy’s letter again.
And that’s what I was doing when Ricky interrupted. “What ya got there?”
I shoved the letter in my pocket way less careful than I wanted to, but it was too personal to share. “Just a letter.”
Granddaddy cleared his throat behind Ricky. “Pixie, would you take Ricky out and show him where the henhouse is and then bring him to the barn in a bit?”
My toes are finally starting to thaw, and now I’m supposed to give a tour outside?
After putting my coat, scarf, and mittens back on, I noticed that Ricky just had a heavy shirt on. “You really oughta wear a coat. And don’t you have any gloves?”
He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.”
We walked across the yard, and Ricky kept at least two steps behind me, even though he could’ve caught up if he wanted.
“This here’s the henhouse. But I already got the eggs today. Does Granddaddy want you to help with the eggs now?” I liked that idea.
“No, he said that was your job. He wants me to build some more nest boxes now—maybe build a hatchery later on.” He paused. “A hatchery is for hatching new chicks.”
“I knew that!” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what Ricky was talking about. He followed me into the henhouse, and right then Teacher let out one of her deep bellowing squawks.
“Wow,” Ricky said, and I could see he was impressed. “You are the biggest hen I ever seen.”
“Also the meanest. Her name is Teacher.”
“Why do you call her that?” Ricky asked.
“I don’t know. Most teachers don’t like me. And that hen doesn’t like me—so it seemed fittin’.”
Ricky looked like I’d insulted his best friend. “Miss Beany likes you. She ain’t mean at all. She’s the nicest teacher ever. She—”
“Yeah, yeah—I like her just fine. We had us a big talk. I think she’s nice now. For an old teacher.”
“She ain’t old. She’s the same age as my brother.”
I had no idea what made Ricky an expert on Miss Beany, but I was tired of talking about her. “I said I like her fine now. But still, this mean old hen’s name is Teacher.”
Ricky reached his hand toward the hen, like he wanted to pet it or something. “What’s so mean about this here hen?”
But before I could answer, Teacher answered by pecking his hand.
“Ouch!” He drew his hand back. “I see what you mean about this one.”
I wanted to laugh, but instead I couldn’t stop staring. His hand was almost purple from the cold.
He looked at me looking at his hands and put them back in his pockets.
“Speaking of names, why’d your grandpa call you ‘Pixie’ back at the house?”
“It’s just what he calls me . . . Him and Charlotte.”
He nodded real slow. “I remember Charlotte. She was always real nice to me. You miss her?”
“What kind of question is that? ’Course I miss her.”
Ricky leaned against the henhouse door, a sad look on his face. I felt bad I’d snapped at him like that. And even worse when he added, “Yeah. I know how you feel.”
Too late, I remembered his daddy was gone and his brother away at war.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I guess you know about missing people too?”
Ricky shrugged and looked down as he kicked the straw that covered the floor. I suspected my mouthing off had hurt his feelings.
Having Charlotte’s letter in my pocket must’ve been like having her over my shoulder telling me to try harder to be nice. I took a deep breath. “That letter I was reading . . .” He looked up at me. “That was from . . . Charlotte.”
He smiled, and I think he understood what I couldn’t say.
And right there was when I started to realize that Ricky and I had more connecting us than just the apple orchard between our two houses.
CHAPTER 14
The next two Sundays after church found me staying late to practice for that Nativity pageant. It wasn’t too bad, what with the singing and all.
Grandma was right—I was pretty good at singing—plus it reminded me of Mama. She used to love to sing and would make up silly songs all the time. With Mama, there was always music in the house. Being a part of the pageant was something Mama would’ve liked. She’d have probably even been running it with Mrs. Evans.
Mrs. Evans had us all in the order she wanted us to appear during the spoken part of the pageant, but as soon as she started to play the first note of “Silent Night,” Big-Mouth Berta ran from her angel spot over to the shepherds’ spot so fast she might’ve actually flown.
“I’ll stand here for the songs,” she declared as she wiggled her way beside Ricky, pushing me into the row with Betsy and the other little kids, who were going to be the farm animals. Mrs. Evans shook her head but kept on playing the song.
Big-Mouth Berta was so used to being the center of attention, it surprised me she didn’t insist on being baby Jesus himself. Ricky looked at Big-Mouth Berta and then at me like he understood what I was thinking right then.
When Joseph, Mary, and the big-mouth angel practiced their lines, I went to get some water, and Ricky followed me. I could tell he was acting funny about something, but I waited for him to tell me what it was.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“I got something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, but then he hid it again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to share it.
Finally, I could see it—an envelope addressed to Ricky from the US government. And then, he handed me the letter. I stood there looking at the envelope while Ricky watched me. I figured if somebody handed you a letter in an envelope, they either wanted you to mail the letter for them or read it.
Since the letter had already been delivered, I opened it up. The handwriting was the smallest handwriting I ever did see, but I could make out the words if I squinted a bit.
Dear Pip-Squeak Ricky,
I think it’s time I stop calling you Pip-Squeak, since you are the man of the family now. Seems only fair. Makes me feel good knowing you are there for Ma and Betsy.
Hope Ma is doing better. I know she struggled with Pa leaving—and now me. This is all so hard on her. I wrote her three times but haven’t heard back. Did she get my letters? We only get mail here once a month. We can’t even say where “here” is. It’s a security thing. They go through our letters to make sure we aren’t giving too much away. For example, if I told you we were in the XXXXXXXXXXX and headed to the XXXXXXXXXX, they would cross it out before they mailed it. Please tell Ma I’m sorry I can’t be there with you all. Tell her I promise I’ll come home.
How’s Betsy? Tell her I think of her laugh often. I think of her laugh mostly when things are rough and I get scared. (But don’t tell Betsy that part.) Please give her piggyback rides for me and tell her I’ll give her one as soon as I’m home.
Thanks for taking care of everyone. And remember to be extra nice to your teacher.
Love,
Bill
“Bill sounds like a great brother,” I told him as I handed back his letter.
“The best,” he answered, folding it as carefully as I fold Charlotte’s letters.
We didn’t say anything more right then. I’m pretty sure we were both thinking about the importance of holding on to a letter when you could no longer hold on to the person who wrote it.
CHAPTER 15
I found Granddaddy in his chair, listening to the radio with his eyes shut. I cleared my throat to get his attention before I asked, “If you made something for somebody but found out somebody else needed it more, would it make the first somebody sad if you decided to give it to the second somebody?”
Granddaddy opened first one eye and then the other. “Well, Pixie, I’d have to say I got no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind.” He patted his lap.
Even though I was getting too big to sit on Grand- daddy’s lap, I climbed on up, since this talk seemed to be one that needed a lap sitting to tell.
“You know Grandma’s been teaching me to crochet?”
He chuckled. “I caught wind of some of those lessons. Sounds to me like there’s as much scolding going on as crocheting.”
“Yeah, Grandma says I’m too impatient,” I told him. “But I’m getting better.”
Granddaddy gave me a squeeze. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“So for Christmas, I’ve been making you a scarf to wear when you’re working in the barn.”
“Thank you kindly, Pixie. But Christmas is still two days away. Isn’t that supposed to be a secret?”
“I know.” I looked up into Granddaddy’s dark-brown eyes. “Every day, Ricky comes over to help outside, and he only has that shirt that really can’t be called a coat.”
Granddaddy nodded. “I tried to give him an old jacket of mine, but he said he couldn’t accept charity.”
“Well, I was thinking—a person couldn’t turn down a Christmas present by claiming charity, could they?” I asked.
“I reckon they couldn’t do that.”
“And a person could always make another scarf for the person they started making the scarf for, couldn’t they?”
“Reckon they could do that too. Reckon that’d be a mighty nice thing to do.”
I looked back into his eyes, which were glistening now, and hugged him.
“You’re something else, Pixie.”
Grandma sometimes says that same thing to me, only when she says it, I don’t think it’s a compliment. But when Granddaddy said it right then, I just had to hug him tighter.
* * *
* * *
Ricky was finishing up the extra nesting boxes he’d been making for the henhouse. He was so busy hammering, he didn’t hear me behind him until I tapped him on the shoulder, surprising him so much he jumped a foot off the ground. “Don’t never sneak up on a man with a hammer!” he yelled.
“I wasn’t sneakin’. And you’re not a man.”
He cracked a smile at that, then asked, “What ya got behind your back?”
“Maybe it’s a Christmas present.”
He turned back to his hammering. “You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he said, and continued pounding a nail that had long disappeared.
When he finally looked at me again, I pulled the scarf, tied up in a ribbon, from behind my back.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, since I didn’t trust my voice not to crack if I tried to talk any louder than that.
He stared at the scarf like he was making out whether it was friend or foe. He must’ve decided it wasn’t that bad, since he reached out and took it from me and untied the ribbon. The scarf was uneven, and some of the stitches were bigger than the others. Ricky inspected it, nodding, like he knew something about crocheting. “You make this?”
I nodded, and he wrapped it around his neck. “It’s nice. Real nice.” And then he went back to his hammering.
I turned to leave, but I heard the hammering stop for a minute. “Hey . . . um . . .” I looked back. Ricky touched the scarf real gentle, like it was the prettiest scarf in the world, and then his eyes met mine. He cleared his throat, but still his words weren’t much more than a whisper. “Thank you, Pru—I mean, thank you, Pixie.”
“You’re welcome,” I told him. And I really meant it.
CHAPTER 16
“Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”
With the last bars of “Silent Night” echoing throughout the church, the congregation applauded and the Nativity pageant was over. I didn’t know you were allowed to clap in church, but right then it seemed like a fittin’ thing to do.
I looked out in the seats, surprised to see Daddy. Ever since Mama’s funeral, Daddy hadn’t set foot in church. That didn’t make Grandma and Granddaddy happy, but every Sunday—even in the frozen winter—Daddy claimed to have something on the farm that needed his attention.
But on Christmas Eve he was there.
Ricky stood beside me. Even though, like me, he wore a brown shepherd’s robe, I could see his new scarf peeking out underneath. For some reason, that made my cheeks get warm.
The preacher invited everyone to stick around for cookies, and as the congregation started chatting, Ricky said something I couldn’t hear on top of all the noise.
“What?” I asked pretty loud for a church voice.
He spoke again, but I still couldn’t hear over the crowd and shook my head.
This time he yelled. “You have a really pretty voice!”
And wouldn’t you know, at that very moment the noise in the church quieted down, so that everyone could hear him yelling a compliment to me.
Now Ricky turned as red as Santa’s hat, and I might have blushed a bit too. But before I could thank him, Big-Mouth Berta ran over to us in her angel costume and asked, “What do you think of my voice, Ricky? I mean, Mrs. Evans said my voice really is the voice of an angel.”
And in case he hadn’t heard her belting out all the songs right next to him, she started in again. “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed—”
“Yeah,” Ricky said, nodding. “You have a good voice too, Berta. You . . . you both do.”
Big-Mouth Berta put her hands on her heart like she hadn’t just forced a compliment out of him, and gushed, “Oh, thank you, Ricky—aren’t you just the sweetest!”
Then she looked over at me with a big fake smile. I tried to conjure up something that looked like a smile, since I was in the house of the Lord and it was Christmas Eve and all, but it was hard to pretend with the next thing she said. “It must be so difficult for you to be here, Prudence, singing songs and having fun, what with Charlotte being so terribly sick and in the hospital. Poor, poor Charlotte. I bet you feel positively terrible thinking about her, don’t you?”
Right then, any happiness I was feeling faded as her words echoed in my head. Charlotte . . . hospital . . . terrible . . . terrible . . . terrible . . .
She was right.
I was terrible. And how could I be happy?
Mama wasn’t here.
Charlotte wasn’t here.
Berta’s words reminded me of my guilt, and I remembered I had no right to be happy . . . today or any day.
I ran from the church, not even stopping to grab my coat.
CHAPTER 17
When I came to a stop behind the church, both the cold and the fact that Big-Mouth Berta was actually right smacked me in the face.
Truth be told—as thoughtless as she was, she wasn’t half as bad as me.
That’s when I looked down and realized I’d stopped in the church’s cemetery—by a grave I knew too well.
The wind whipped my shepherd’s robe around me with such force, I thought it might lift me up and I’d fly off at any moment.
Wouldn’t that be better for everyone?
I couldn’t look at Mama’s grave yet, so I looked to the left and saw the headstone of her grandma and grand- daddy. And next to them there was a smaller headstone, for an aunt I’d never know.
At least Mama wasn’t all by herself here.
But that wasn’t much comfort.
I shivered as I wrapped my arms around myself, wishing it was Mama’s arms that could still keep me warm.
Then, for the first time, I knelt down on Mama’s grave. My hand reached out to touch the coldness of the headstone like I was tracing the groove of each letter engraved there.
KATHERINE ANN DAVIDSON
July 1, 1910 – January 16, 1943
BE
LOVED DAUGHTER, WIFE, AND MOTHER
I left my hand touching Mama’s middle name, since it’s the one thing we still shared.
I held my hand there as my teeth started chattering, making my words come out in a stammer. “M-M-Mama. I-I miss you so much. I-I’m so s-s-s-sorry—for everything.”
As I wiped my eyes, something landed on my shoulders, making me jump. Turning around, I saw Ricky, putting the scarf I’d crocheted for him over me. “Shepherds need to stay warm.”
Unable to speak, I looked back at Mama’s grave.
Ricky knelt down next to me. “You okay, Pixie?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t go minding Berta. She just talks a lot, and—”
“No, she’s right. I am terrible. I shouldn’t be having fun—I don’t deserve to.”
Ricky reached his hand out to touch Mama’s headstone. “I’ll bet your mama would be the first to tell you you’re allowed to have fun even when you’re missing people so much it hurts.”
I tried to stare at Mama’s gravestone, but it grew too blurry.
Ricky continued. “I know how mad my brother would be if he found out I was doing nothing but moping around, being sad. He’d smack me from today clear into tomorrow.”
“I’m . . . sorry.” I was shivering so much it was hard to talk. “I know . . . you’re missing . . . your brother.”
“Yeah, I am. I miss him every day. And my pa too.”
I kept forgetting I wasn’t the only one whose heart hurt.
I’d started to ask Ricky about his pa when I heard Grandma’s voice. “Good grief, Prudence Ann! What in tarnation are you two doing out here in this weather without coats?”
And before I could answer, my coat was around me and I was in the car, with Grandma sitting next to me, even though she never sits in the back seat. And somewhere between the church and our lane, she wrapped her arms around me and I might have started to feel just a little bit better.
