by Tamara Bundy
By now both Granddaddy and Grandma stood next to the car too.
Holding Charlotte’s hand, I just couldn’t hold on to my broken heart anymore. I still missed Buster something fierce, but for the first time in a long time, I had hope—honest-to-goodness hope.
Finally, I let go of Charlotte’s hand so I could give Daddy a hug. I think his arms held me tighter than they’d ever held me before.
Granddaddy and Grandma both hugged Charlotte before Grandma scolded everyone by saying, “Lands’ sakes! We gonna keep this child, fresh out of the hospital, standing in the lane all day long? Or might we get her inside like civilized people?”
Charlotte smiled. “Grandma, I missed you too.” And then she laughed a laugh that sounded better to me than any song I’d ever heard.
CHAPTER 46
“Now, Charles, be careful,” Grandma hollered out the window as Daddy pushed Charlotte in the wheelbarrow, heading toward the orchard. “She’s just home from the hospital a week. If that thing tips over . . .” But even Grandma’s worries couldn’t overshadow the happiness that seemed to glow from that wheelbarrow.
I sat on the porch steps watching Daddy zip through the orchard and listening to Charlotte laugh when they scared a rabbit trying to nap in the nook of a tree. I worked hard to plant it all in my memory—the warm heat on the porch step, a dove cooing somewhere in the fields, that look on my sissy’s face—I needed to store it all deep down.
I was so caught up in cementing my memories, I was surprised when Granddaddy sat next to me. “That’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
Granddaddy leaned closer to me, like he was going to tell me a secret, even though we were the only two people on the porch. “Just heard an interesting story.”
I turned to him. “What?”
“This here story was about a certain girl who had a lamb she loved a lot—but when her daddy gave her the money she earned from raising it, she took that money and put it smack-dab in that coffee can on the counter. Did I hear that right?”
My eyes stung a bit at the mention of Buster, but I took a deep breath and nodded. “You heard right.”
“What made you do that, honey? It was your money.”
I nodded. “I know that money was my money, Granddaddy. But I also know the piggy bank money is for . . . our farm.”
Granddaddy’s eyes sparkled. “You’re something else, Pixie.”
I leaned against him, and together we listened to the sweet sound of Charlotte’s and Daddy’s laughter.
But I was also trying to figure something out.
By the time I spoke, I had to clear my throat so my words could be heard over my emotion. “Granddaddy, do you remember when you told me every day’s a lesson in beginnings and endings—the circle of life thing?”
He nodded. “Sure do.”
“You said life was funny that way—but I said life was downright mean.”
He turned to face me. “Reckon I remember that too.” Then, smiling, he added, “Still think that?”
“I don’t know. I still don’t like endings. But sometimes . . . if I focus on the beginnings enough, I can start to see life’s not so mean after all—at least not all the time.”
Granddaddy nodded slow, and I could tell he was really thinking about what I said. Finally, he spoke. “I get that. It’s natural to not like endings—especially the life-changing ones. It’s okay to be sad about what we’ve lost—as long as we don’t get so caught up in our feelings for the ending that we forget to look for the new beginning. And we know that to do that, we have to—”
“Push on,” I said.
He winked. “Push on.”
At that, the screen door squeaked open, and I looked up to see Grandma holding the egg basket. “Pixie, could you fetch me some more eggs? I’m making angel food cake.”
Since I knew angel food cake was Charlotte’s favorite dessert—and maybe one of mine too—I didn’t even mind visiting the hens for a second time that day. I headed to the henhouse, where Ricky was finishing up the new addition with the hatchery, which meant a rooster would be joining us soon.
“Looks good,” I told him as he sanded down the new section of the coop.
He smiled. “And it sure sounds good out there in the orchard. So glad Charlotte’s home.”
I nodded. “It’s the best.” He followed me into the henhouse, where the rest of his tools were sitting by another new row of nesting boxes. “Any word from Miss Beany—or Bill?”
“Miss Beany—or Adelaide.”
I giggled and shook my head. I just couldn’t think of my teacher having a boyfriend—or a first name.
Ricky grinned and went on. “Adelaide sent us a telegram saying she made it to New York City just fine. Promised they’d both be back where they belong soon.”
It was so hot in there, sweat was beading up on Ricky’s forehead. And the smell of the hens was even worse when warmed by the summer heat. Still, right then I felt a cool happiness inside that didn’t seem to belong in the stinky henhouse. I think Ricky felt it too.
“Is there a party in here?”
Charlotte stood at the doorway, leaning on her crutches.
Seeing her back where she belonged, the smile on my face got bigger. “You can’t tell me you honest-to-goodness missed this, can you?”
I wasn’t sure if her eyes were sparkling due to tears or just plain being happy when she answered, “You have no idea how much.”
I started to tell her I had a pretty good idea, but before I could say anything, my sissy walked over to Teacher, leaned against the nesting box for support, and balanced herself so she could let go of her crutches. And right there, in that special way that only she could, she put one firm hand on Teacher’s head and reached under that old hen with her other hand, grabbing the egg like no day had passed with her not being able to do that very thing.
And while I’m pretty sure neither of us would forget all the painful days that had passed since she last stood there with me like that, it didn’t really matter.
All that really mattered was that we were, indeed, back where we belonged. Where we planned to stay—with that mean old hen and all.
The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my amazing agent, Steven Chudney, for always pushing me to be the writer I hope to be. Thank you for your wise guidance in this career I once only dreamed of.
To Nancy Paulsen. Your superpowers of publishing are legendary. I would be grateful to simply read a book you found worthy. But to be able to call you my editor once again on this, our second middle-grade novel, is a gift. Thank you to you, your wise associate, Sara LaFleur, and all the other skilled and incredibly kind people who worked on this book.
To my writing “twin,” Laura Smith, for every draft you are willing to read and every comment you are thoughtful enough to give, I thank you. But more than that, I thank you for being the type of friend we all need and want to be.
Special thanks to all the teachers and librarians who get books into the hungry hands of readers. Truthfully, thank you isn’t enough for the job you do. I just hope you have a sneaky feeling about how awesome you are and how very much you are appreciated.
Thank you to my wonderful family and friends, both in person and online, who helped fill in the missing pieces of farm life in the 1940s for me, especially after my dad passed. Your details helped me see this place like I lived there.
Thank you to my incredible (adult) kids, Megan, Katey, Scott, Ryan, and Evan. Having a book come out into the world is magical and amazing and wonderful. But watching all your dreams take shape and begin to fly in this world is a blessing that brings me even more joy.
To my husband, Brad, thank you for walking this publishing journey with me—as well as this journey called life. There’s no one on this great b
ig earth I’d rather walk this walk with.
And to my first storyteller, my mom, Joan McNutt, who told me the heartbreaking tale of her very own special lamb named Buster when I was growing up. Thank you for allowing me to share a piece of your childhood with the world.
Finally, to my dad, Tom McNutt—I will forever treasure the precious hours we passed in your hospital room as you and Mom recalled and revisited the farms of your youths. Though you are no longer here in person, you will live on in the details of my written words and, most importantly, forever in my heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tamara Bundy also wrote the middle-grade novel Walking with Miss Millie. She is a high school English teacher with a Master's degree in writing, and is a former columnist for the Cincinnati Post (her regular column on being a mom also appeared on EWTN global Catholic radio). She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.
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