by Leisha Kelly
FIFTEEN
Julia
Two days now till Christmas, and nothing but sorrowfulness in the house. It was almost more than I could take. Sarah and Rorey had already drawn some angels, and I started right in after breakfast to help them finish the rest. Franky and Harry and Bert came and joined us with some interest, but none of the older boys did. Joe had started cracking walnuts for me before, and now I set him and Willy at picking out the meats and Kirk and Robert at cracking the hickories. We’d make cookies, that’s what we’d do. I’d keep every one of these kids busy doing Christmas, whether they liked it or not. Surely that would lift the awful cloud off the place. Surely that would help.
I had Lizbeth help the little ones cut out their angels and arrange them all on the largest open wall space in the sitting room and stick them up with thumbtacks. She didn’t want to, I could tell, but she didn’t complain. I drew little pictures of Mary and Joseph, a cow, and a sheep, and Franky showed me the baby Jesus he drew.
“That’s very good,” I told him. “We’ll use yours.”
“His is too big,” Rorey complained.
“Big is good,” I maintained. “He should be big and easy to see because he’s so important.”
“But a baby ain’t as big as a sheep!” she wailed.
“He’s closer,” Franky tried to explain. “See, some a’ your angels is bigger. They’s jus’ flyin’ closer.”
That seemed to satisfy her, and she went back to playing with two of the paper angels, swinging them around with her arms as though they were flying over our heads.
“Do we hafta put ’em all on the wall, Mrs. Wortham? Can we keep some of ’em just for play?”
Her question lifted my heart immensely. Thank the good Lord for simple desires! “Sure, honey. We can make extras if you want.”
“Make me a horsey,” Harry asked. “A angel horsey with real wings.”
“There ain’t no angel horses,” his sister chided him.
“There is too!”
“There ain’t. Is there?” She looked at me.
“Well…” I had to consider that. “In the Book of Revelation it says that Jesus will be riding a white horse. At least I think that was talking about Jesus.”
“What’s Rebbalation?” Harry asked.
“Part of the Bible, dummy,” Willy said from across the room.
“Now listen here,” I said. “You need to speak respectfully to one another. No calling each other dummy or any other name, do you hear?”
“Yes’m,” Willy mumbled.
I turned my attention back to Harry. “I’ll make you a horse, if that’s what you want.”
“With wings?”
“All right. I don’t see that it would hurt anything. Would you like a cutout too, Berty?”
“Goats,” the little boy said.
“There ain’t no goats in heaven,” Rorey protested again.
“I don’t know about that one way or the other,” I said with a sigh. “But it would be fine having one in the stable near the baby Jesus. That’s a good idea, Berty.”
Rorey scowled at me. “You always do what the boys say.”
“Seems to me I’m trying to please all of you right now,” I answered her back, but then I wished I hadn’t said anything.
“How many nuts you need, anyway?” Kirk asked me.
“All of them. We’re going to make cookies today, and I need some for other things besides. But you can take a break when you want to. We don’t have to do them all right now.”
None of them stopped.
“Cookies?” Berty exclaimed.
“Yes. Two or three kinds. What are your favorites?”
“Snickerdoodles,” Willy answered immediately.
“Can we make shaped ones?” Rorey asked. “To look like angels and trees and stuff?”
“We’ll try,” I said, thinking of Emma. “We just got some red coloring a few weeks ago, to make red sugar.”
“Emma used to make us cookies every year,” Lizbeth suddenly added, almost whimsically. “Stars and canes too. The stars with all white sugar. That was before she ever went to Belle Rive.”
Silence fell over the room for a moment and had me frightfully uncomfortable. “Well, you all know just how they should look, then. You’ll be fine helpers.”
“I don’t want cookies,” Franky remarked quietly.
“I do,” Berty declared.
“Me too,” Harry agreed. “Can you make ’em look like horseys?”
“Oh. That would be much harder than a paper cutout. How about we stay with angels and stars and trees and canes? And maybe some plain circles or wreaths. Okay?”
I could imagine Emma over here in her kitchen, making cookies one after another, and all of them looking just right. Everything she made had to be right, or she’d do it over. Rows of them, stacks of them, she’d probably baked, for the Hammonds and more than likely other neighbors and friends too. Plus all the clothes and quilts and things she’d made for them, besides.
And here it was, already the day before Christmas Eve. I had to find that dress Emma was working on for baby Emma Grace and make Rorey’s doll and come up with something for Lizbeth and the boys. They might say they didn’t care, if I were to ask them. But they did care. It would matter to them, I knew that, even if it was years down the road before they thought it through. This might not be a good Christmas for them, it might even be the worst they’d ever have, but it would be the most important, nonetheless. Because they would either find paralyzing despair or enough of the hope and love of God to go on.
“I wish we had a piano,” I suddenly said out loud, surprising myself.
“Oh, me too!” Sarah agreed. “Just like in Harrisburg, so you could play and sing carols.”
Across the room, I could see Robert smile.
But Willy was shaking his head. “Don’t nobody get too excited. Ain’t no use none a’ us puttin’ out socks.”
Joe plunked a handful of nuts into the bowl I’d given him. “Pa got the Christmas candy a couple a’ weeks ago. I seen it. A piece for every one of us, even Emma Grace, an’ she can’t eat it.”
“You ain’t s’posed to tell stuff like that,” Franky objected.
“This year’s different,” Joe reasoned. “We might oughta know that he thought on us. ’Cause he ain’t thinkin’ on it now.”
There was a sound logic to that I appreciated. What George might or might not do in the next couple of days I could not predict. But his kids should all know that he cared, regardless of his behavior, that he’d had them in mind before being knocked flat through no fault of his own.
“Pa likes lotsa gravy,” Rorey remarked quietly. “On his potatoes and his sweet potatoes and his meat too, at Christmastime.”
“I thought we’d have you all over here, if you want,” I told her and the rest. “You can help me make plenty of gravy.”
Lizbeth nodded, but far from happily. She looked as if she was simply resigning herself to do what she’d have to do, no more or less.
But Joe nodded too, more brightly. “I’ll get Pa over here,” he promised. “Maybe then we can go home.”
“I don’t want to go home.” It was Willy who said it. His words put a hush over all of us. I could see his brothers and sisters all turn to look at him, just as surprised as I was to hear something none of us had expected any of them to say. I wanted to assure him somehow that he’d change his mind. But I couldn’t tell him a thing. He’d been over there, he’d seen his father’s despair. But more than that, he knew the emptiness of that house without Wilametta. And even when George came to himself, which he surely would soon, that part wouldn’t change.
“We’ll go home after Christmas,” Joe solemnly declared again. “Mr. Wortham’s talking to Pa about that right now.”
Samuel had gone to see George, all right, but there was no telling what he might accomplish. He’d taken cinnamon oatmeal and baked apples over there for George and young Sam. I was hoping that they’d both be back
with him, but I didn’t want to say so, in case it didn’t happen.
Suddenly Lizbeth sniffed and looked at me. “I have to go home before Christmas,” she said with tears in her eyes. “’Cause I know what Mama made for Pa, and I’m the only one knows where it is.”
Baby Emma, who’d napped right after breakfast, started to cry, and Lizbeth went to pick her up. The big boys went back to cracking nuts, and the smaller children turned their attention to the paper again. The silence was as hard as it’d been before. I just sat there, cutting out an angel and praying. For George and for all of us.
SIXTEEN
Samuel
The snow was beginning to melt, leaving a few bare brown patches of ground dotting the timber. Nothing moved around me, and nothing made a sound except for an occasional sliver of ice falling from a tree limb. I had ample time to think about what I might say to George, to encourage him toward getting his family together again.
But when I came in sight of the Hammonds’ porch, all the words I’d planned slipped away from me. George had been so miserable, lashing out at everybody. I knocked on the door, barely hoping for anything better.
I expected young Sam to answer. But it was George, looking haggard. It was a wonder he came to the door at all, as tired as he looked.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“Came to talk a minute, if it’s all right.” Strangely enough, the usually messy Hammond home looked far neater than the last time I’d seen it. “Where’s Sam?” I stepped past George to get inside.
“He took Teddy ’while ago an’ went to talk to Buzz Felder at the lumber mill. Wantin’ to see if Buzz’ll use him again afore long.”
Sam had helped Mr. Felder off and on before, and the little money he’d managed to make had been a real boon to the family. He was surely thinking of them now too, riding the almost seven miles on that old horse. And he’d left George alone to do it. Maybe George was doing better. At least he was standing before me, looking right at me, answering my question. That was a sight better than yesterday.
“Why’s ever’body think they gotta talk to me, anyway?” he asked. “Barrett Post was by here a while ago, snoopin’ around.”
“Neighbors are supposed to care. We’re just trying to be good neighbors. Are you hungry? Juli sent you some breakfast.”
I set the food on the table, but he didn’t pay any attention. “My boy Sam ain’t a neighbor,” he mumbled. “But he give me a earful this mornin’, he did. Said he was gonna see ’bout his work, an’ I could jus’ sit here an’ rot if I wanted to.”
I couldn’t picture Sam Hammond saying such a thing. He’d been fearing for George and what he might do, and before this had hardly left him alone because of it. He’d labored, that was for sure, trying to pull his father out of the gloomy pit he was in. But George wouldn’t be pulled, not even to talk to his children. And maybe young Sam had had enough.
“He’s pretty tired,” I said quickly. “And hit pretty hard himself lately.”
“Angry, that’s what he is. Blamin’ me that his mama’s gone. But it don’t matter.”
I’d been worried that the boy might blame himself. “It’s not either of your faults,” I told George. “I hope you both realize that.”
“Don’t matter whose fault it is. She’s gone and there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it.”
He sounded so hopeless. Why couldn’t he see all the life that was going on, with or without him? “You’re wrong. There’s an awful lot that has to be done. You’ve got nine other kids besides Sam that are wondering about the future, probably even more than he is. You have to tell them something. You got your house looking nice. You ought to bring them home and get things as normal for them as you can.”
He turned his face away, shaking his head angrily. “Sam done the house up. An’ I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do. There ain’t nothin’ for ’em here. Don’t you understand that yet? And you ain’t got no business in on it.”
“Yes. I do. As long as we’re seeing to your kids the way we are, I have every right to come and question you.” I knew I was just angering him worse, but I couldn’t help it. It needed to be said. “They need their father, George, and you need to take a look at your own responsibilities.”
“I am lookin’! That’s the problem! You an’ me may be throwed out in the snow soon as Albert gets here. He didn’t draw up them papers legal. He told me he didn’t. Said he wanted to wait an’ see what you done. And now both places is his, an’ he can do what he wants with us. We ain’t got nothin’!”
“He knows what Emma wanted.”
“That don’t matter. Not if he still figgers we been usin’ her. That’s what he thought last time I seen him, leastways ’bout me.”
I didn’t know how Albert felt. But I expected him to honor his aunt’s intentions, though I couldn’t know that for sure, one way or the other. “That doesn’t change what I’m telling you about your kids, George. It’s bad enough not having their mother—”
“Shut up! What’s the use bringin’ ’em back here? Better for ’em to get used to bein’ someplace else—”
“Even if that’s true, they still need their father. Especially now.”
“I ain’t got nowhere to go.” He looked absolutely broken and somehow terribly small. “Me an’ Wila used to talk ’bout this, what we’d do when Emma was gone. Maybe go t’ her sister’s place, but Fedora ain’t gonna have me around even for a visit without Wilametta. I knows her to be that much a shrew. Chloe might be the one to change her mind an’ take maybe two or three of the kids. Don’t know what the rest of us’d do, though, even if we was here.”
He sat down, shaking his head.
“You aren’t split up. You don’t have to be. And about Albert—”
“He ain’t gonna listen to me. Nor care nothin’ for m’ needs, neither.”
“Maybe not. But God can make a way.”
“Where would you go, Wortham, if he sold Emma’s place?”
“I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge if we ever get there. What you need to do right now is think of your kids and quit borrowing worry over things that haven’t even happened yet.”
He was staring at me with a frown. “Any of ’em sick?”
“No. Lonesome for you. Missing their mother. Needing you to be strong and be a father to them. When do you want me to bring them home?”
He didn’t answer. He got up and walked across the room to the fire, and I followed him.
“Julia and I would like to have you all for Christmas,” I told him, my patience wearing thin. “I’ll bring you the children this afternoon, and then I’ll be back to walk you all over to our place Christmas morning.”
“I didn’t say to bring ’em today.”
“I don’t care what you said. This has gone on long enough.”
“You ain’t—”
“I’m sorry for you, George. I am. But you have to go right on being a father. I can’t do it for you.”
He threw a log into the fire so roughly that coals and charred pieces of wood scattered down across the hearth. “Why not? You ain’t got but two! You might could take on at least a couple more.”
His words stunned me. Automatically I reached for the broom hanging next to the ash shovel, swept up the smoldering pieces, and threw them back into the fire. I could barely speak to answer him. “They need their own father.”
“Maybe they think so. I dunno. They’d be better off someplace else. You know that. I ain’t never had much to give ’em.”
He was serious, and I could scarcely believe it. “You giving up, George? What are you going to do?”
“Don’t much matter to you, that I can see. If you don’t want ’em all, you’ll send ’em where you have to send ’em.”
“No. George—”
“Shut up an’ go home, will you? I’m tired a’ talkin’.”
He was ashen-faced, standing and staring at me. And it was no wonder his boys hadn’t wanted to leave him alone. I cou
ldn’t go, not while I was seeing what I saw in his eyes. A dark and dead determination.
“George—”
“I said shut up.”
“They need you.”
“You can say that. But I can’t give ’em nothin’. I can’t do it.”
“You have to.”
“Who says? God? Well, he makes mistakes, no matter what anybody says! He done this to me, an’ what he wants now, I don’t ’specially care! I can’t make it without Wila!”
I wondered when Sam would be back, or when somebody else would be by. I didn’t want to stay here, but this was the first time George had been really alone since Juli’d found him in the barn that morning. If I left, it might be one of his boys finding him after a while. Dead. In this frame of mind, he was capable of anything. Why had Sam left? Didn’t he know the kind of shape his father was in?
“George, I want you to come to the house with me.”
“Chloe’s most likely to take Lizbeth an’ the baby. I know her.”
“They’ll all want to stay together,” I said. “And with you.”
He was looking off toward the kitchen. “What did you say ’bout Christmas?”
I certainly hadn’t expected that change of subject. “I said we want you all to come over.”
“Wilametta was knittin’—” He stopped and shook his head. “I—I got sticks a’ candy for the kids. Why don’t you take ’em over to ’em?”
“Give them the candy yourself. Please. Christmas morning. And if Wila made them something, they’ll treasure it, George, sad as that’s going to be. You could have your own Christmas right here and then come over for dinner.”
“No,” he said, his face tightening. “You take ’em the candy. I can’t do that, Wortham. I know good and well I can’t.”
“You can. It’s your job. A man does what needs to be done. But if you don’t want to do it here, then bring everything with you when you come. It’ll mean a lot to them, George. Don’t make them feel abandoned. You’ve got to care.”
