by Jane Smiley
Chapter 8
I WAS READY FOR THE WEEKEND TO BE ALL CHRISTMAS. AFTER Barbie left, I went upstairs to change clothes and wash up. When I came down, the cookie factory was set up. The dough was made. We buttered the pans, and then Mom’s job was to press out the little trees, the little snowflakes, the little stars, the little wreaths. My job was the sprinkles. When the sprinkles were on, we put them in the oven, and started on another set of pans—Mom had lots of pans. After not very long, the kitchen table was covered with baked cookies cooling, and Mom was getting out the cookie cutters for the gingerbread men. This dough was made also—it had been chilling all day, and once she got it out, she had to work fast to roll it and cut it. My job was to butter the pans, put red hots on the gingerbread men for eyes and a row of buttons down the front, and then take a spatula and very carefully put the little men onto the pans. While the gingerbread men were baking, we put the spritz cookies in boxes for the brothers and sisters, and then, after the gingerbread men had cooled, we set a few of them in each box as well.
Always on the twenty-third of December, Mom had us eat leftovers so that there would be plenty of room in the refrigerator once she started cooking, both for church on the twenty-fourth (turkey and stuffing) and for our own Christmas dinner on the twenty-fifth (Danny was coming, so she was planning pot roast and pecan pie). Some of the leftovers were from the back of the refrigerator—old meat loaf, a wrinkled baked potato, nine string beans, two pieces of fried chicken (a wing and a leg), six Brussels sprouts, stuff like that, but we did get to finish the apple pie, because she needed the pie plate. After dinner, we washed all the dishes and set out the pots and pans she would need to start cooking, and Dad even defrosted the freezer, which he hadn’t done in six months. I brought my stereo down from my room and set it on a table in the living room, right outside the kitchen doorway, and we put on an album of Christmas carols. Mom and Dad sang along, and I did, too, once in a while. In the meantime, Dad was breaking ice out of the freezer, the water was running in the sink, dishes were clattering, and the teakettle on the stove was whistling, because Dad was using hot water to help his defrosting. The only thing we could hear was ourselves, until the record came to an end and Mom realized that Rusty was barking.
As a rule, Rusty was a quiet dog. She had her business keeping an eye on things, and she had her other business, following Mom around, hoping for a scratch around the ears or a stray scrap. She had done some pretty amazing things—bring us a kitten, chase away coyotes, kill a young bobcat that was in the horse pasture—but she almost never barked while performing them. So when we heard her barking and barking and barking, all three of us stopped what we were doing and listened. Dad said, “It sounds as though she’s out back.”
I opened the back door.
There were horses everywhere.
Dad turned on the porch light, but that made it hard to see into the yard, so he turned it off again. We could hear Rusty barking out in the dark somewhere. And then my eyes adjusted. Blue and Lady were the nearest. They were about ten feet from the porch, nosing the ground for bits of leaves or grass. They looked up when I said their names. Behind Blue was a dark-colored horse, who I realized was Lincoln, and not far from Lincoln, maybe halfway to the barn, was Marcus, who snorted when Dad went down the steps. Very dimly, off in the distance, I could recognize Oh My from her white parts. Gee Whiz was standing behind her, also white in the starlight (the moon hadn’t risen yet). Dad moved smoothly over toward Marcus, who snorted and backed up, but let himself be caught. Dad took hold of his forelock, then eased a piece of baling twine out of his pocket and wrapped it around Marcus’s muzzle and his poll as a makeshift halter. He then led him back toward the barn. I had no trouble catching Blue—he just followed me—while Mom used a twisted dish towel around Lady’s neck to lead her. At the barn, we put those three horses in stalls.
Rusty had prevented Nobby and Morning Glory from getting out—she was sitting in the gate opening, barking at them. They were staying far from the gate, but Rusty seemed to think they would storm her if she gave them the chance, and it is true that horses like to be with the other members of their herd. Dad ran to the gate and closed it, and Rusty stopped barking. Then we took some halters and approached Gee Whiz and Oh My. They curvetted away from us and trotted off. I stood still—it wouldn’t work to chase them—and Dad went into the barn. He came out with two little buckets, and he was already shaking them to show the horses that he had some oats. I wasn’t sure it would work—they had gotten their hay only a couple of hours before, so I didn’t think they were hungry. However, oats were always interesting, since they were sweet and the horses didn’t get many oats (the sleek ones didn’t get any oats). I didn’t see Beebop anywhere, but he was a dark-colored horse with no white markings. I told myself not to worry, at least until the current problem had been taken care of.
Gee Whiz had been on the far side of Oh My, but while we were doing things, he’d come around so that he was between us and her. When Dad said, “Come on, kiddos, look at this,” and shook the bucket, I could swear that I saw Oh My’s ears prick (“Oats!”) and then Gee Whiz coil his neck and nip her on the shoulder, pushing her back. Dad stopped moving. Gee Whiz was maybe twenty feet away, looking at us, his head pale, his eyes dark, his ears flicking.
I said, “I don’t think he’s going to let us catch him. I think he’s got to come to us.”
Dad let out a fed-up sort of sigh, but nothing that might excite the two horses. Mom said, “Apples? Carrots? Cookies?”
Dad said, “Do you have any apples? Those are the most fragrant.”
“There are some in the larder.”
“Well, go in and cut a couple into pieces and sprinkle on some sugar to make them juice up. If they can resist that, then they are superhorses.”
Mom went inside, and Dad stood quietly, shaking the oats. I did what Jem Jarrow would have suggested—I half turned so that I was looking away from the horses. Sometimes they’re more likely to come if you aren’t confronting them. Jack, for example, always wanted to know what I was doing if I was paying attention to something other than him.
Mom came out with the pie plate heaped with apple chunks and brought them over to Dad. Dad said, “Give them to Abby. She’s spent more time with him than we have.”
I took the pie plate and lifted it toward my nose, and said, “Mmm. Those smell good.” And they did, fresh and tangy. I rattled them around in the plate. Gee Whiz snorted and Oh My stuck her nose out underneath his neck. Without moving toward her, I held one out to her, and I think she would have taken it if he hadn’t bumped her with his shoulder and pushed her away. She certainly didn’t like it—she pinned her ears at him—but she also didn’t come for the apple. I took one small step toward them.
Mom said, “Eat one.”
I picked a piece up and made a big deal of putting it in my mouth, then slurping it down. Gee Whiz’s nostrils twitched. But when Dad shifted position, Gee Whiz backed away. Mom said, “Let Abby do it. I think he likes her.”
Dad set his bucket down where the horses could see it and moved away. I stood quietly, only occasionally shaking the pan, not for the sound, but for the fragrance—horses have good noses, and they use them a lot, not only for deciding which little plants to eat, but also for deciding who their friends are, and what other horses are up to. They sniff noses when they meet and only then offer to be friends or enemies. Uncle Luke said a horse could find his way home with his sense of smell—if the wind was blowing from home to the horse—but I had never seen that. However, the breeze was blowing, gently, from me to Gee Whiz and Oh My, and if I could smell the apples, they could, too. I could see by the look on his face that Gee Whiz was making up his mind, and furthermore, that Oh My had already made up hers—she wanted some apples, and maybe some oats, and probably to go back into her pasture with her friends—but he wasn’t going to make it easy for her. He pushed her again, and nipped her, and she jumped out of the way. Then she trotted off, and he spun ar
ound and went after her. I shouted, “Oh My! Oh My!” and shook the pan. She pivoted to avoid him, kicked out at him, and came trotting up. As she did, he came after her, but Dad jumped out at him and waved the halter and lead rope in his face. He backed up, and I caught Oh My and gave her about half of the apples. Dad slipped the halter on her and led her into the barn. Now it was just us and Gee Whiz. He kept snorting, so Dad and Mom sort of faded away, and it was just me and Gee Whiz.
I turned and walked away from him, slowly and ostentatiously leaning down and picking tufts of grass and putting them in the plate with the apples. I told myself that I didn’t care whether he came or not—after all, he couldn’t get out of the property, because the big gate was closed, and so what if he ate a few marigolds and some rosebushes and the grass in the front yard. I took some deep breaths. I did this because he reminded me of some of the boys at school—as soon as someone told them what they were supposed to do, well, that was exactly the last thing that those boys would do. Why they were that way, I had no idea, and Dad would have said that horses aren’t people, and it’s always the carrot or the stick, but sometimes the carrot didn’t work, and maybe that was because the horse really was reading your mind. When the plate was full of nice, moist grass and sugared apple chunks, I set it on the mounting block near the barn and walked away from it (not forgetting to take a few apple chunks with me).
Gee Whiz waited maybe two minutes after I walked away, and then he walked toward the plate, sniffed it, and ate what was on it. While he was doing that, I moved slowly toward him, holding out an apple chunk. When he took it, I turned and walked away. After several very long seconds, he followed me. I walked. He walked. I halted. He walked a step or two. I walked. He walked. I halted. He came up to me. I gave him an apple chunk and walked away. Now I had one left. At this point, we were about halfway between the house and the barn. I could see Dad and Mom looking out the kitchen window. I went back to the mounting block and sat down on it and pretended to be minding my own business. I did have a rope with me, but not a halter.
I sat there.
It was breezy and cold. I bent my knees and wrapped my arms around them.
Gee Whiz came up to me and nuzzled me.
I ignored him.
He nuzzled me again.
I said, “Yup!” and while he was eating the apple chunk, I slipped the rope around his neck. I sat up, and he didn’t pull away. I petted him down the neck and tickled him under the forelock while he sniffed me for more apples. Finally, I got to my feet and led him into the barn. He didn’t pull away. I put him in a stall.
All the other horses were staring at him. I would have liked to know what they were thinking.
Beebop turned out to be in the front yard, which made perfect sense, since that’s where the good grass was.
We put the horses back in their respective pastures, and when Dad walked away, I looked as best I could at the latch of the mare pasture. It was in much better shape than the latch of the gelding pasture—the slot that the bolt shot into was deep, and the bolt moved more easily. If a horse leaned on the gate, nothing would happen. But maybe it worked too well. Maybe a smart horse could take the handle of the latch between his lips and slide it back. He wouldn’t have to then open the gate—any mare who leaned against it would push it open. I then went to look at the gelding latch. I had been the last one to close the gate, after Barbie and I put Gee Whiz away. I remembered making sure to push the bolt as far into the slot as I could, and I had then tried it. It seemed secure to me.
The geldings had walked deep into the pasture—farther than I could see them, but I could hear them moving around under the trees. I took one of the lead ropes and tied it around the gate and the post, making a square knot. Rusty was sitting on the porch when I got there, and I talked to her while I slipped off my boots. I said, “You know what happened, don’t you? You know everything that happens, but we can never get you to tell us a thing.” I patted her on the head.
Back in the house, we went on with Christmas preparations. I could see that Dad was annoyed, but he didn’t say anything, only that I’d done a good job catching the horse, and thank the Lord. I just said, “Maybe I didn’t work the latch properly and they pushed the gate open or something. I tied a rope around it for tonight.”
Dad said, “I have been meaning to whittle that out a little.” Mom kissed me on the cheek. Pretty soon, everything was clean and it was time for bed.
We put the Christmas tree up in the morning—no riding. Dad liked to put the Christmas tree up on Christmas Eve and take it down on New Year’s Day so that we “wouldn’t get tired of the celebration of the birth of the Lord.” When we got to church before four, everyone was there—Sister Brooks had brought Brother Abner, and even Ezra Brooks, who never said anything, was sitting in his usual seat in the back of the room. We were all wearing nice clothes. I was wearing the black-and-white dress Mom had bought me when we were looking for school clothes, plus a black satin headband and pumps. I thought I looked pretty good, and Carlie Hollingsworth did, too—she said, “Oh, that look is so sophisticated!” Carlie’s dress was bright red, and she had a sprig of holly pinned to her shoulder. She looked like she should be in a departmentstore window. Mom wore her best navy-blue dress and she also had a corsage—a beautiful white gardenia that smelled like heaven. Dad had on his favorite shirt, his best boots, and black trousers that weren’t jeans.
Sister Larkin was already setting up the candles—a hundred of them—and everyone helped her. Then we set out the food for an early supper. Mom had taken the turkey out of the oven just as we left the house so that it would have its required rest on the way to church. While Dad carved it, the other brothers and sisters put out what they had made, and it was quite a feast—shrimp with cocktail sauce, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, three or four vegetable casseroles, two kinds of rolls, Mom’s pie, Sister Brooks’s pie (pumpkin), cupcakes frosted in red and green. I was glad to see there was no Jell-O. Once it was all set out, Mr. Hollingsworth got out his camera and took a picture, then we helped ourselves. I watched Carlie—she took small helpings of everything. I did, too (though a little extra of the turkey and the shrimp), because that’s what wearing a nice dress does to you. I also took three napkins.
At exactly six o’clock, even though some people were still eating their main course, Dad, Mr. Hollingsworth, and Brother Larrabee began lighting the candles. When they were all lit, one of the sisters turned off the lights. By this time, we’d finished with our food, and taken our plates to the table at the back of the room. Now we went to the front of the room and sang “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” the first carol. We always sang six carols in a row that told the story of Jesus’s birth—“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” was about the Israelites wishing for the advent of their Savior, “The Cherry Tree Carol” was about Joseph and Mary going to Bethlehem (this one always made me cry for some reason), “Joy to the World” was about Jesus being born, “Angels We Have Heard on High” was about the angels announcing the birth, “Away in a Manger” was about Jesus waking up in his manger, and “We Three Kings” was about the three wise men arriving with their gifts. The brothers and sisters knew these carols as well as they knew their own names—they had been singing them, often together, for years, and they knew all the tunes and all the harmonies. Even when their voices were old and shaky, they knew how to make this music very pure and beautiful. I knew my parts, too—I had been singing them my whole life.
Everyone was smiling and pleased after the carols. We sat down and got comfortable. Brother Brooks stood up and opened his Bible to the first Christmas story, the one in Luke. Then Dad got up, and opened his Bible to Matthew, and read that one. The two stories are kind of different, and I preferred the Luke one, but Dad said that it was important to know, from Matthew, how hard it was for Jesus to find his place, and that hardship was often a gift, if you could get yourself to see it that way. However, Christmas wasn’t a time when the brothers and the sisters looke
d in the Bible for advice and guidance—they just read the passages and celebrated what happened. After the reading, we sang more carols—“It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Then Sister Larrabee, who had a beautiful voice and had once sung in a professional choir, stood up and sang “Lo, How a Rose E’re Blooming,” which I thought was the most beautiful. After she was finished and sat down, everyone was silent for a while, and most people bent their heads. I prayed for Danny first of all, and then for all the horses.
After we prayed silently, Mr. Hollingsworth got up and said a long prayer for all of us, that we should ask the Lord for his help in avoiding temptation, in loving our friends and our enemies, in knowing what was right, in facing up to trials with strength and joy, in following the path of Jesus in everything we did. He thanked the Lord for his word, which we could turn to anytime we felt we had to or wanted to. He kissed his Bible, and sat down. We all said, “Amen!” Right next to me, Dad let out one of his grunts—he didn’t like anyone kissing the Bible, because that made it into an idol. But he didn’t say anything. He had pretty much learned to keep his opinions to himself.
Now there was dessert. Mom and Mrs. Hollingsworth cut the pies into small slices, and set one of each onto every plate, along with a cookie. Carlie and I carried the plates to each of the brothers and sisters, and Erica Hollingsworth handed out napkins and forks. Some of the brothers and sisters started chatting about Christmas treats when they were children—mincemeat pie, which had raisins, apples, and candied orange peel, but also suet and minced beef. It made me gag to think of it. Then someone remembered plum pudding, which had not only suet, but also treacle, brandy, and beer. Brother Abner remembered something called a clootie pudding, which was made with bread crumbs, raisins, and currants. It was full of spices, and even though his mother had a range in her kitchen, she liked to steam it, then dry it in the traditional way, by hanging it in a bag near an open fire. He said, “Half the time she was in the kitchen making Christmas supper, she had to run out and stop us boys from hitting the clootie with a stick to make it swing. Ah, it was so tempting.” He laughed.
