Christmas with Tucker

by Greg Kincaid

  I was ready to spring my plan into action.

  First stop was our nearest neighbor to the east, Frank Thorne. After I bladed the ice right off his driveway, I jumped down and ran to his door.

  I was out of breath, but when Thorne came to the door, I blurted out, “I wanted to thank you.”

  “It was nothing, kid.” He seemed to be avoiding my gaze. “How are you doing? You were in pretty bad shape last time I saw you.”

  “I’m all better now. It was nice to have this guy around to keep me company,” I said, nodding at Tucker.

  “I had some things I needed to do and I couldn’t let him tag along—thanks for watching him again.”

  He reached down and patted Tucker on the head.

  “It was no problem.”

  “Hang on to him a little longer. I can see he’s enjoying riding around with you on that big machine. What do you want, George?”

  Excited, I struggled to get my words out. “I was wondering … could I get … your help on something?”

  He looked at me suspiciously. “A McCray asking a Thorne for help?”

  There was a lot of hurt in his words, but I pointed out to him an undeniable truth. “Mr. Thorne, you already helped a McCray the other day. You saved my life.”

  From the gleam in his eyes, I could tell that he was a little proud of himself—deservedly. “What do you have on your mind?”

  Once I had explained the problem, he looked at me in a curious way and said, “Stay here.” He shut the door and I waited in the cold morning air for him to return. When he did, he was dressed warmly, a chain saw in one hand and the keys to his old brown truck in the other.

  Chapter 34

  WHEN MY grandfather awoke from a nap later that afternoon, my grandmother insisted that he get up and out of bed and eat in the kitchen. He told me later how her mood had changed. One minute she’d exiled him to the bedroom, and now she wanted him up and about. Perhaps to make sure he stayed in bed, she had not shared with him that I had headed out of the driveway on the maintainer earlier that morning.

  Her hands on her hips, she hovered over the bed and said, “Bo, you’re a no-good lazy man. Get up out of that bed this minute and come into the kitchen for some food. Besides, there’s something I want you to see.”

  The look on his face when he came to the kitchen window and peered out into the barnyard must have been pure astonishment. He was looking out at the “army” he and Hank said we would need to clear the roads of Cherokee County: thirteen crews of men in trucks with chain saws and fourteen tractors with driveway blades or tow chains to haul off logs. Earlier that morning, Frank Thorne had helped me and Tucker spread the word from farm to farm, and now everyone was saying the same thing: Let’s get the roads cleared for Christmas. The McCray farm was headquarters for this effort. It was like a contest to see who could help the most. Each driveway that Thorne and I had cleared that morning netted us another volunteer road maintainer. Although it was still well below freezing, working conditions were decent. No more snow or ice was coming down, so it wasn’t getting any worse.

  The word eventually spread all the way to town and the phone and power company crews got into the spirit, too.

  My plan was to make the first priority clearing the roads of downed trees and branches so the utility trucks could make their repairs and the maintainer could pass through. Once the maintainer cut its initial eight-foot swath straight down the middle of the road, the much smaller farm tractors could find enough traction to take another foot or two with their driveway blades. In this fashion, the maintainer, in tandem with four or five tractors, could clear the roads in one pass. Without the maintainer leading the way, none of this would have worked.

  Tucker and I kept the maintainer going all day on December 22 and December 23. Thorne changed his mind and decided to take some night shifts on the maintainer.

  The road crews worked through the nights, as well. Along the sides of the roads of Cherokee County were stacks of wood and a foot-high pile of ice. On the third day, Christmas Eve, we were blessed with warmer weather that aided our efforts, and more houses, including our own, had their phone and power service restored. Things were just about getting back to normal.

  Frank Thorne seemed to naturally take over the job as manager of the auxiliary road crew. I was glad to hand over the reins. It appeared he had a better ability to manage others than he did to manage his own life. My grandfather said that during the war, by all accounts Thorne had been a good soldier. Perhaps he got a little of his pride and confidence back by stepping up and taking responsibility for the crew.

  Grandma Cora and other local women kept our kitchen busy with pots of coffee and massive amounts of food for the hungry workers. As I worked the maintainer, Tucker remained with me up in the cab, and I couldn’t imagine working a shift without him. It was fantastic having him back with me again—even if he wasn’t really my dog.

  In the early afternoon of December 24, I returned home from my last shift and more fell than got off the maintainer. Everyone had gone home. The parking areas where our road crew had assembled were empty. Instead of climbing back onto the maintainer to take over, my grandfather just put his arms around my shoulders and said, “We’re done. It’s good enough.”

  I started to protest that there were still roads to be cleared, so he repeated himself. “It’s good enough. I think you can take a lot of the credit for giving Christmas back to Cherokee County, son. Come inside. There’s someone who would like to see you.”

  There were no cars other than ours parked in the driveway, so I was surprised that I had a visitor. Tucker and I made our way up to the house. After kicking off my muddy boots, I opened the back door and walked into the kitchen, with my grandfather following right behind.

  Standing by the sink were my mother and my two sisters. They had decided to take the bus from Minneapolis to Crossing Trails. Thanks to all of our work the last two days, Hank and his wife were able to bring them the rest of the way in their car. My grandparents knew they were on their way, but they wanted it to be a surprise. It was the best Christmas present I could get.

  Tears streamed down my mom’s face. Not waiting for me to come to her, she quickly closed the space between us and held me in her arms, shifting her weight back and forth in a rocking motion. She held me so tightly I wasn’t sure I could breathe. She just kept saying over and over, “Oh, honey, oh, honey …”

  Her wet tears felt warm on my cold face. “George, you’re freezing.” She cupped my chin in her soft hands as if to warm me up, the way she’d done since I was a small child. “I just can’t believe what you’ve done! I’m proud of you. Your sisters and I missed you so much.”

  Her warmth flowed through my veins and invigorated my spirit, but the strong emotions I felt left me tongue-tied. “Thanks, Mom” was all I could manage. I reached down and hugged Tucker. “This is our dog!” It may not have been the truth, but that was how I felt. Tucker had become a McCray.

  Before I knew it, my two sisters, Trisha and Hannah, had their arms around me, too; I realized just how much I had missed the rest of my family. They kept looking at me and saying, “George, you look different.”

  My grandmother stood back and gave us the space we needed to reconnect. “Sit down and rest! Eat.” She herded everyone to the dining-room table, which was covered with food.

  For the first time since June 14, 1962, my whole family was sitting down together, laughing and feeling joy. The absence of my father still hung in the air, but it was not weighing us down.

  We sat at the table for a good long while, chatting and eating way more than we needed, as if we were making up for months of missed family dinners. Periodically, my grandmother would go into the kitchen, where she would make and receive telephone calls to and from friends and neighbors. We couldn’t hear much of her conversation from the dining room, but apparently there was a lot of catching up to do. She spent most of the afternoon chatting on the phone with our neighbors—though she acted
so secretive that I started to think it was her turn to be up to something.

  We enjoyed recounting the day-to-day, seemingly insignificant details that had made up our lives over the last few months—the unreliable gas stove in the new house; the day a kid at school flooded the boys’ bathroom; the traffic outside of Minneapolis; how I milked the cows without the help of the Babson Brothers, and much more. Of course, Mom wanted to hear every last detail of my fall into the frozen pond, and all about Tucker’s heroics. I made sure to also give Frank Thorne credit. As we talked, Tucker made his way around the room and took his time getting to know my mother and my sisters, with the help of the table scraps they slipped to him.

  As the afternoon came to an end and we finally began clearing the table and cleaning up the dishes, something wholly unexpected occurred. It started with a knock on the back door. It being a country home, no one ever came to the front door.

  When I opened the door, there stood Hank Fisher and his wife. “Well, if it isn’t the youngest maintainer!” Hank boomed, shaking my hand.

  Before I even had a chance to ask him in, our neighbors to the west, William Foster and his family, appeared at the door. Both the Fishers and the Fosters said they wanted to thank the McCrays for keeping their roads cleared. As they stepped into the kitchen, there were more knocks on the door and more cars arriving. One after another, nearly all our neighbors and many members of the volunteer road crew showed up.

  After six or seven cars arrived and no one left, it became clear to me that these were not random instances of neighborly gratitude, with the Fishers and Fosters and others just happening to show up at the same time. Grandma Cora’s phone calls! She was behind all this.

  Tucker wound his way through our now-crowded house, with overflow in the kitchen, the dining room, and the living room, where the Christmas tree that had seemed so bare only a few days before was suddenly now wrapped in bright lights, surrounded by packages decked out in Christmas colors of green and red. Mrs. Slater, most of the Rather family (Sherry was home with a healthy baby boy), and even a quiet but smiling Frank Thorne became part of the crowd. Most of the gifts that had materialized beneath the tree were presents from grateful residents of Cherokee County.

  Many of our neighbors recognized Tucker from the hours he spent beside me on the maintainer. Hank Fisher gave him an affectionate pat and then looked up at me.

  “George, if firemen need Dalmatians, I guess maintainers need Irish setters!” Frank Thorne, who’d been standing within earshot of Hank, caught my eye at that moment and nodded. I nodded back, though I felt a wave of sadness as I knew my time with Tucker was running out—as was my time with all the good people who surrounded me now.

  If Grandpa Bo was still feeling a little tired after his go-round with the flu and his night shifts on the maintainer, his energy was now revitalized by the crowd of well-wishers. While he may not have uttered twenty words to many of his neighbors before, tonight Grandpa spoke freely of how I had single-handedly saved his herd of cattle from certain death and how proud he was of me for organizing the emergency road-clearing efforts. He told everyone he could get to listen that it was my persistence that had cleared the roads of ice.

  My family allowed my grandfather his proud boasts, though I was a bit embarrassed at all the attention, as any thirteen-year-old boy would have been. Still, I like to think that my mother and I both realized that night that she had not left me “behind” in Kansas. Over the last four months, and particularly in the last few days, I had moved “ahead”—far, far ahead.

  Once the last guest had parted with his or her wish for a Merry Christmas, the evening milking was finished, and every dish was cleaned and put away, Grandma put on her coat and told us to bundle up. “We’re going into town.” It seemed there was one more surprise she’d cooked up.

  I couldn’t bear to leave my friend behind. “Can I bring Tucker?”

  “Sure, but he’ll have to wait in the car for part of the time.”

  When we did not move fast enough, she ordered, “Load up, now!”

  Driving into town in Grandma’s Impala, all crunched together, family and dog, we had no idea what she was up to. Apparently, my grandfather did not know, either. She issued directions as we went. “Left at the light. Now keep going. Go straight to the school.”

  The Crossing Trails Central School parking lot was full. When we got out of the car, my grandmother clutched a grocery sack so close to her that one wondered if the contents came from a bank vault. Before she got out of the car, my mother cracked open her window. We left Tucker resting on the backseat, burrowed beneath a warm wool blanket. He was glad to be included in our trip to town and seemed to understand that not all errands were dog errands.

  Within moments, it was clear what Grandma Cora had been up to that night. With a little organizing from the women in our community, the town of Crossing Trails patched together a spontaneous pageant to celebrate the holiday that almost was not. We collected at the Crossing Trails Central School auditorium.

  As the audience found their seats, some grade-schoolers on stage stumbled, rather than led us, through Christmas carols. Still, like most of the adults in the crowd, my mom and grandparents broke into wide grins at the sound of children singing. When we got ready to sit down, my grandmother, still holding firm to that grocery sack, grabbed my hand.

  “Not you, George. You are coming with me.”

  It was clear that she was on some kind of mission as she led me to the door of the boys’ bathroom and thrust the sack at me. “Put this on and go find your teacher—she’s waiting for you backstage. And hurry. We don’t have much time,” she said before she disappeared back down the hallway. I peeked in the sack and discovered that Grandma Cora had hurriedly sewn together a Santa Claus costume. I pulled it on, including a hat with a white beard attached, and then turned to the mirror. I looked absolutely ridiculous.

  “Hey, George—can you give me a hand?” I thought I was alone in the bathroom until I heard the voice of my classmate Eddie Sampson, who was trying to struggle into an elf suit. Suddenly, I felt less ridiculous.

  It turned out that the centerpiece of that night’s show was the production of a Christmas play by the sixth- and seventh-graders. Performing the lines that I had never bothered to memorize, while wearing my Santa ensemble, would take far more courage than driving a maintainer in a blizzard or rescuing a few cows from a frozen pond. Then Mrs. Weeks put me at ease as she handed me the script.

  “We’re only doing the last act, and you can read your lines.” She walked out onto the stage and the cast of Santa and the Lost Elves followed behind. Well, I thought as I shuffled out onto the stage with my heart pounding, if a tough guy like Eddie could wear red tights in public, then I could wear Grandma’s Saint Nick costume and read, a skill I had down pat.

  Mrs. Weeks stepped up to the microphone, summarized the first two acts for the audience, and then concluded, “With the school closing, our actors have not had time to memorize their lines, so their dramatic interpretation of Act Three will be read. Santa Claus is played by George McCray.”

  My sister Trisha embarrassed me terribly by whooping and hollering at the mention of my name. That actually was the worst part. In fact, with the summary of the first two acts inserted, and with all of us practically speed-reading our lines as kids tend to do, the play was bearable and mercifully short.

  As I offered my final “Ho, ho, ho and have a Merry Christmas,” we exited the stage to enthusiastic applause. My friend Mary Ann was dressed as an angel; her hair was pulled back behind her plastic halo, and when I looked at her, I thought she played the part well.

  She grabbed my arm playfully. “Good job, George! You didn’t fall asleep once.”

  “That’s only because you didn’t have any lines,” I shot back.

  With no warning, she leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “I am going to miss you.”

  Thankfully, she darted off and did not see me playing the part of
George, the red-faced Santa Claus.

  After I changed out of my costume and said some hurried but wistful goodbyes to a few friends—all of whom swore they’d be my Kansas pen pals forever—I found my family by the main door and we made our way out to Grandma’s car. I ran ahead to let Tucker out and then we circled back to the join the group. Suddenly, there was a shout from across the parking lot. I assumed it was just another neighborly well-wisher.

  “Hey, George!”

  It was Frank Thorne. He walked toward us, holding a package.

  My grandmother gave Thorne a big hug, which surprised me, until I remembered the role she’d played in helping Thorne shake off his old ways and take some steps forward—some very large steps, indeed.

  “Our George was in the Christmas play. He was the star.”

  Thorne looked at me approvingly. “I saw. A damn, I mean darn, good Santa Claus.”

  He reached out and shook my hand. “I want to thank you, George. What you and your family have done for me means more than you can imagine. I want you to have this.” He handed me the package he had been carrying.

  I took the package but did not know what to say or do.

  “Go ahead, open it.”

  The paper came off easily enough, but in the dim light of the parking lot, it took me a moment to understand what it was that I held. It was the picture of Thorne and my father that had hung on his wall. I swallowed hard and held out my hand to shake his. “Thank you, Mr. Thorne. I’m pleased to have a picture of you and my dad.”

  His words were soft and gentle this time, without the old edge I’d first encountered. “You can call me Frank. Your dad was a fine man. Best friend I ever had.”

  Thorne had taken many a wrong turn and made more than one bad decision, but in a few short weeks I learned how good a man he truly was. I had Thorne wrong, all wrong. He taught me an important life lesson that December—that rushing to judgment rarely worked in anyone’s favor.

  While I was grateful for the picture and the kind words, what he said next meant more.