“Don’t ever say that, Bluebird. Don’t you ever say that again, you hear?!”
He’d scared her, and her big blue eyes—Grace’s eyes, both the children had Grace’s eyes—grew wide and round as supper plates. Her pretty little lip quivered and pushed out, and Jonah’s heart cracked a little as she began to cry.
He pulled her into his arms, pressed her little head to his chest. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak so harsh. But don’t ever hope to die. That’s a bad thing to say or think. Where’d we be without you?”
She didn’t understand what he was saying, he knew she didn’t, but she held onto him until her burst of tears spent itself. When she squirmed in his arms, he set her back and pulled his kerchief out to wipe her face dry.
“Do you forgive me?”
Sniffling, his little girl nodded. “I wanna feed the goats.”
“Why don’t we go ‘head and do that now, and I’ll put Petal out after.” When she nodded, he kissed her forehead and stood. She took his hand, and they went to open the goat pen and feed the goats.
Since the book woman had first knocked on their door in the fall, no amount of weather seemed to deter her from her route. She’d shown up in torrential downpour, in snowfall so heavy the air had gone white, in whipping wind, in cold so bitter one’s breath puffed out and froze in place. On those bad weather days, she stayed a bit longer, until she was warm or dry again, but she always left after an hour or two, mounted up on that big bay, whose coat had gone shaggy and thick, tromping off back down the mountain.
Over the months of her visits, every two weeks, on a schedule he could track, Jonah had come to respect her. She was skinny, seemed hardly more than a frail little city girl, and talked like one, too, but she was tough as old leather under that pale, delicate, freckled exterior.
He’d come to respect her, and his children had come to revere her, but Jonah had yet to say more than a handful of words to her or spend more than a few brief minutes in her company. He stayed close to home on the days he expected her—and except for that one day when she’d surprised him, she came every two weeks exactly—but he didn’t get too close. She was there for the children, not for him. He didn’t want her, but they did.
They counted the days, too, and waited at the windows to see that mare emerge from the front of the holler. Elijah fussed all morning, making sure there was enough firewood, and the front room was tidy, and there was food and drink to offer her. They both stacked the books they’d borrowed neatly on the table, ready to hand back to her before they selected something new. ‘Mizz Ada Day’ was their favorite day.
Mrs. Ada Donovan was her name. He’d only heard her say her name like that once, but he remembered it. She was a widow. He remembered that, too. But he thought of her as ‘the book woman.’ He felt a strange flare of emotion, something faint and far from his understanding, when he thought of her as anything else.
So he stayed close to home, but away from her. He tried to keep busy, but sometimes he simply stood in the shadows of the hallway and listened. She made the children happy, and he was glad of it. But it worried him, too. When she came to them, she brought with her a kind of loss.
Since that day Jonah had come back from Red Fern Holler and found the book woman in the front room with Elijah and Bluebird, Grace disappeared when the other woman was in their house. She stayed away most of the day after the book woman left, too, not returning until the children were asleep and Jonah was alone with his thoughts and his need.
On this day that the book woman was due, the weather was good. It had been nearly a week since there’d been more snow, and the temperature had risen high enough to loosen the ice from tree branches. The sun shone brightly, making a world of crystals, and melted ice and snow plashed lightly all around. Jonah had spent the past couple hours chopping trees down, and then turning them into logs to restock the woodshed, and he’d grown warm enough in his exertions to cast off his heavy lined coat.
He was behind the house, carrying a load of rough logs into the shed, when he heard his children cheer. The woman had arrived. Jonah stacked the logs and went out, grabbing his coat and pulling it on as he went around to the front. As had become her custom, she’d pulled her horse—Henrietta—up at the corner of the porch, on the side closest to the barn, and looped the reins around the porch rail.
As had become his custom, he loosed the reins and led the docile girl to the barn, where he relieved her of her bridle, fixed her with a halter and tied her to the wall. He filled a bin with some of Petal’s favorite dried grasses and hung a bucket of water beside it. She nickered appreciatively and dug in.
She was a beautiful horse, nearly big enough, and powerful enough, to be a draft breed. Jonah suspected at least there was some draft horse in her bloodline somewhere. Honestly, it wouldn’t have shocked him much if there were mule, or maybe mountain goat, too, considering how well, and how often, she got around this high up the mountain.
Her saddle and tack were well used but well cared for. When the weather was bad, Jonah would unsaddle her and get her some relief from the wet tack, but today, he left her saddled. After spending a moment offering her some affection and sweet talk, he went back to his work.
She’d stayed surprisingly long today, considering that the weather was good. Jonah finished chopping wood, checked on the animals, checked the fence line on the pen, and ran out of outdoor work for the day. He finally went in the side door and stood in the hallway, as he often did, listening.
She was reading them a Christmas story. Was it Christmastime?
The children didn’t know about Christmas, or birthdays, or any holiday. Jonah hadn’t celebrated a day since the last one he’d celebrated with Grace.
That strange flare of unknown emotion struck him, and he went to the doorway. As usual, they were seated together by the fire, the woman in the rocker, Bluebird on her lap, Elijah seated on a stool at her side.
Bluebird wore a bright red knitted cap with a big white puff atop it, like a snowball. Elijah had a red and green striped scarf wrapped several times around his neck. The woman had brought them gifts again.
“Is that Santa Cows?” Bluebird asked, pointing to the page.
“Santa Claus,” the woman corrected. “Yes, that’s him. In some places of the world, he’s known as St. Nicholas or St. Nick.”
“Saint? Like a Bible man?” Elijah asked.
“Exactly. He’s a holy man, too. ’Santa’ means ‘saint’ in some languages.”
“Why doesn’t he come to our house?” Bluebird asked.
Jonah’s insides heated to a boil. He didn’t know if he was angry or sad, if this was offense or regret he felt, but something was wrong. This was wrong.
“We live too far from people, Blue,” Elijah explained to his sister, with the accidental wisdom of a child trying to understand for himself. “He can’t find us.”
“But you come, Mizz Ada. You find us. Can you bring St. Santa next time?”
Just then, the book woman saw Jonah in the doorway. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and he saw something go through hers—guilt, maybe? No, he didn’t think so. The opposite of guilt. Condemnation. She was judging him.
He came all the way into the room, asserted his position as the master of this house. “It’s late. You need to go.”
“No, Pa!” Bluebird protested. “We need to finish the story!”
“It’s time, girl. She needs to get home before it’s dark.”
“I can leave the story with you, Bluebird. Then you can practice re—”
“No. Take that book away. Children, you can pick different books.”
Three sets of eyes—two blue, one green, all large with shock—stared at him. He held his ground. “We got no need of Christmas here. Santa can go where he’s wanted.”
“I want him!” He’d made his little girl cry again, twice now in one week, but he couldn’t give her this. Not this.
He looked to the woman. “It’s time for yo
u to go.”
She cleared her throat and nodded her concession. To Bluebird, she smiled. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. I’ll help you pick a better book. And Elijah, how about that book about airplanes?”
Jonah couldn’t watch his children’s disappointment any longer. He strode to the front door. He went out and around the house to get her horse ready.
She came around the house before he could lead her horse forward. Fully swaddled in her heavy coat and gloves, her neck wound with a scarf much like the one she’d brought for Elijah, except this one was pink and purple, she marched up to him like she had a motor. She was angry. Her eyes flashed with it, and her face was flush with—
She was bruised. Her cheek was discolored near her mouth, and her bottom lip was split. The bruising was fresh, a day old at the most.
He knew what he was seeing. Though his life was quiet isolation now, he’d grown up in a community and had been in, and seen, his share of fights and beatings. She’d been hit. Punched in the mouth. Who in tarnation had punched this small woman?
There were men who hit women, he’d known a few, but nobody was lower in his mind than that.
His hand came up without a thought, aiming to cup her cheek, and she flinched from his touch.
“Who did that to you?”
Ignoring his question, she heaved her packs over her horse’s rear and then spun to face him and lashed out with the thing that had driven her so emphatically to him. “How can’t you tell your children about Christmas?”
Her outrage had blunted the crisp edges of her refined way of speaking, and he heard the mountain in her words. She’d had schooling to polish up her shell, but she was like him down deep.
He could ignore her just as well as she could him. He reached for her face again, and this time she didn’t duck away quickly enough. He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb over her lip. She gasped and quivered under his touch, and her clear-water green eyes softened, losing some of the heat of their anger.
Jonah felt a long-dead urge cramp uncomfortably inside him, low in his gut. He turned his mind from it at once and dropped his hand.
“Who hit you?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern.”
“And my children are none of yours. Bringin’ ‘em books don’t make you they momma.”
She blinked, and for a second Jonah thought he’d hurt her feelings. But then she said, “Of course not. But pretending the world doesn’t exist doesn’t mean you and they aren’t in it. Christmas, Mr. Walker. Christmas. The birth of Jesus Christ. Your children deserve to know the love of the Lord.”
His bitterness flared out in a harsh laugh. “Why? What love’s he showed us?”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Why not?”
“You named your son Elijah Moses, Mr. Walker. Two of the Lord’s greatest prophets. And your daughter is Bluebird Hope, a name that positively sings His love. If you have no care for the Lord, why name them with so much faith in Him?”
“They momma named ‘em. Do you see her here with us?”
Again, her attitude cooled, and she dropped her head a bit. “No. They told me she passed on. I’m sorry.”
Jonah grunted. He didn’t think he’d said so many words in one exchange to anyone but his children in years, certainly not words so full of feeling, and he was running out of them.
“I lost my husband, too. It hurts every day. But the Lord doesn’t forsake us in our grief. He sustains us. He gives us hope. You have your children. His love for you is in them.”
Again, Jonah had nothing to say. All he could do was stare. And hurt.
When she realized he meant not to answer her, she sighed and relented. “I’m sorry, Mr. Walker. I didn’t mean to overstep. I love Christmas, and I was excited to share it with the children, but of course it’s your right to teach them about the world as you see fit. I hope it’s alright that I made them each a gift.”
Surprise loosened his tongue. “You made them?”
“Yes. Just the hat and scarf.”
“That somethin’ you do for all the young’uns you see?”
She blushed and didn’t answer. No, then, she hadn’t made gifts for all the children on her route. Only his.
The notion sent a painful spasm of guilty pleasure through him, and the befuddling pang made his words harsh. “You ain’t they momma.”
He’d hurt her again. “No, I know. I’m sorry to have offended you.”
It bothered him to see her humbled like this. That fire she’d stormed up to him with was completely doused now. “I ain’t offended. Jus’—they momma’s special.”
A tenuous smile perked up the corners of her pretty mouth. “Yes. I know she was, because you and she made such wonderful children together, and because ... because you still miss her so.”
Feeling as if he’d done, or was doing, something shameful, Jonah shot his gaze sidelong toward the house. There was no one watching from the windows. They were empty.
“You won’t be safe if you don’t leave now,” he said when he looked again at the woman. “The way’ll freeze again when the sun drops.”
“You’re right. May I come again as usual?”
He nodded. “The children count the days.”
She smiled fully then, so wide she winced a bit when the stretch pulled at her wounded lip. An angry ember kindled in his chest for the man who’d done that to her. The worst kind of man, who’d strike a woman. Jonah’s hand lifted again, seeking to touch her mouth, but he caught himself and forced it back down before he did.
She mounted her horse with grace and ease. “Until then, Mr. Walker.”
Before she could turn, Jonah grabbed the bridle and held her horse in place. “When’s Christmas?”
Her head tilted to the side. “You don’t know?”
He stared up at her and didn’t answer. If he knew, he wouldn’t have asked.
“The day after tomorrow. Today is December twenty-third.”
Two mornings later, his children woke to gifts under the little tree they’d brought in the day before. There wasn’t much, Jonah hadn’t had the time or the resources to do much, and he didn’t tell them the lie that a fat man had snuck into their house in the night, but Elijah had a new slingshot, and Bluebird had a little birdhouse for her bluebird to live in. That day, they made a pie from pumpkin he’d canned in the fall, and that evening, Jonah pulled his children close by the fire and told them what he remembered of the story of baby Jesus and the three wise men.
That night, after the children were asleep, Grace finally came back to him. She’d been away for two days, since the book woman had told their children about Christmas. Never in all the years since her death had she left him alone so long.
“I thought you went away for good,” he whispered when she sat on the floor beside him. He slept in the front room with the children now, on the floor near the fire, since the winter had set in hard.
I’m here, my love. As long as you need me, she said in his head.
“I’ll always need you, darlin’.”
She smiled, but no more words in her voice came to him.
Chapter Eight
“Papa, I wanna feed the goats. That’s my chore.”
Jonah tucked the quilts more tightly around his ailing little girl. He set his palm on her forehead and worked hard to keep the frown from his. Three days now, she’d been feverish.
His children didn’t get sick. They’d been hurt once or twice, a bruise or a cut, but they’d not been truly ailing all their lives, and now his little girl lay listless on the floor before the hearth.
Three days.
Her mother had lived four days with fever before it had overcome her.
Jonah hadn’t felt this twisting terror since, but it was keenly familiar, known to him as well as any sworn enemy would be.
For his girl, he shaped a smile on his face as he used his big kerchief to wipe her nose gently. “Today, you get to be a princess like in the stories th
e book woman tells you. Jus’ lay by the fire whilst Elijah and me do your biddin’. Ain’t that nice?”
It was the woman who’d made Bluebird sick, he was sure. She’d sneezed daintily a few times when last she was here, two weeks ago, and dabbed at her nose with an embroidered handkerchief. She’d brought sickness up the mountain with her.
Sickness had taken all his kin, all his folk, but these two children, while he’d been hale and hearty all the days of his life. His children had both been just as strong, until the book woman had come and carried up the poisonous world below with her.
If sickness took his children, too, he’d grab that woman and throw her off the mountain before he cast himself off as well.
He knew just where he’d do it. He often sat on that cliff edge when he was lonely and despairing, and needed some time to let himself feel it. He’d sat there near the whole day after he’d buried Grace, leaving their two little babies alone in the cabin for hours while he pondered jumping and following her to whatever waited beyond.
When some kind of instinct, strong as a shake, had stirred him to remember them, he’d returned to find them both squalling, soiled, and hungry. Their two-year-old boy and newborn girl. He’d nearly abandoned them to die in agony and terror.
Grace had first appeared to him the next morning.
Bluebird’s little lip pushed out, and she shook her head. “It’s lonesome. I don’t like to be alone.”
He brushed his hand from her forehead over her soft golden hair. “You ain’t alone, baby girl. Brother and me, we’ll keep close to the house, jus’ do what we gotta, then we’ll be right back to give you sugar milk and biscuits. Elijah can read to you from your book.”
“Can you read it?”
“I don’t read, honey.” For the first time, that truth shamed him. The children had never asked him to read before, or made mention that he didn’t, and he didn’t consider it a fault that he’d never learned. Most people he’d known in his life couldn’t read, and in his life he’d rarely felt the need for it. The few times he had, Grace had been there to read for him.
Carry the World Page 9
