by Greg Kincaid
Thorne stared down at his boots for a few seconds and then looked up at me. There was a glint in the eyes that I could only describe as profound determination. Tucker pulled on his leash and whined. I let go and he made his way over to Thorne, who bent down to pet the dog, then buried his face in his fur. When he stood up, there were small tears in his eyes.
“George, I’ve got a job. First job I’ve had in years. It’s at the plant, putting together Fords in Kansas City. That’s why I asked you to hang on to the dog a few extra days, because I had to make some arrangements. Red here needs to be on the farm. I wonder if you and your grandparents would mind taking him for me?” Before I could answer, he continued, “For good, this time.”
I was leaving for Minnesota in a few days, but I was counting on my mom letting me take the dog with me, if not on this trip then at least on the next one. I looked to my grandfather with every ounce of want I could muster, but it didn’t take much convincing.
Before I could say a word, my grandfather nodded his head approvingly. “Frank, we’ll do it. We could use a good dog.”
Thorne nodded too, as if to reassure me. “Go ahead, George. You’d be doing me a favor.”
I knelt down to scratch Tucker. He cocked his head at Thorne, then looked back at me. It seemed that Tucker understood. He looked at Thorne one more time and barked.
“Stay,” Frank said to him, with a little smile. “It’s all going to be okay—Tucker.”
As I felt Tucker’s cold wet nose and warm fur on my face, I did not understand what rule allowed us to have this dog, but I felt a gratitude that seeped into the very marrow of my bones. As excited as I was to get Tucker one step closer to being mine, it was going to be very disappointing if I couldn’t take him with me.
“Mr. Thorne—Frank …,” I stammered, looking up to thank him, but he was already walking away, heading back to his truck. The old engine turned over and with a final wave he drove off, leaving me stunned. I held Tucker like I would never let him go. As I got to my feet, I tried to think of a thousand ways to thank Frank Thorne, but I didn’t get the chance. The next morning, his worldly possessions were loaded into his truck. He got in it and drove off without saying goodbye, never to be seen again.
Chapter 35
WHEN WE got home, Mom kept hugging me and asking for more details about everything I had been doing the last few weeks. Sitting on the living room floor, I answered her questions as best I could.
“Weren’t you scared of driving that big old maintainer?”
“At the beginning. But I got used to it after the first few days.”
“Tell me again about the ice.”
Tucker chose that moment to offer a friendly bark at Mom. She ran her hands through his fur. “I know just how you felt, Tucker. Some days I was so worried about George, too.”
My sisters and grandparents joined us in the living room to open a few presents, as we’d always done on Christmas Eve. It was quite late, but this was a McCray family tradition. I didn’t feel the urge to unwrap anything, though, since to me Tucker was the best package under the tree.
It was hard to believe that he was mine. Every few minutes I hugged my beautiful red dog and let him know how pleased I was to have him back on the farm for good.
My mother sat in the chair closest to the fireplace and stared at all of the packages. Even though there was a smile on her face, her eyes still looked sad. I think we all had the same hollow feeling in our stomachs. With all the commotion surrounding our impromptu open house, followed by the excitement of the Christmas pageant and then Thorne’s “gift” to me, I’d managed to avoid confronting the reality we all now faced together: the first Christmas we would share without my father.
She caught me looking at her and said, “You have a lot of thank-you notes to write, young man.”
Around midnight, with yawns and droopy eyes, we opened the packages from our neighbors and friends, saving the more personal family gifts for Christmas Day. My sisters played the roles of Santa’s helpers and read each gift tag aloud, all of us chuckling at how many packages were for Tucker. “Here’s another one—For the Big Red Dog!” There were many presents for me, as well.
Of course, I can’t remember all of the gifts that showed up that night, but there were a few that stood out, including a thank-you note from Mrs. Slater with a picture of Tucker she had drawn and a little red plastic dog Christmas ornament that I still hang on the tree.
With the fire burning warm and the gift opening behind us, I felt very content with Tucker and the rest of my family all in one room. As I became even more relaxed, I remembered how comforting it was to just experience family conversation, without listening to individual words. What they said didn’t matter. It was like a symphony—the sounds of the particular instruments were lost to the larger pattern and movements of sound. Although it had been a very long time since I had heard it, and one important instrument was missing, it was still an old familiar concerto that played through our home once again that night.
I drifted off listening to my sisters and my mother sitting around the table struggling to find the shapes that would fit into a still unknown pattern. The last words I remembered were “Grandma hasn’t touched last year’s puzzle.”
Chapter 36
ON CHRISTMAS DAY, while Grandma and my mother made breakfast, Trisha and Hannah gave the McCray men their first present for Christmas day—helping with the chores. Even with electricity, it still took us over two hours to do the milking. Watching Trisha and Hannah try to strap the Babson Bros. automatic milking machine onto a cow not only made me feel like an old pro but kept me laughing for most of the morning. Grandpa and I could knock our routine out in an hour and a half, but I doubted with as much cheer.
Breakfast was served in the dining room. Special occasions, like Christmas morning, usually brought forth the same menu of warm buttermilk biscuits, smoked bacon, and scrambled eggs piled high on an antique dish. Our appetites were intact and before long we pushed away from the table content.
We were all trying very hard to be thankful for what we had and not dwell on what we had lost. But try as we did, the excitement from yesterday wore off and we were all faced with the difficult realization that John McCray, our father, son, or spouse, was gone. It was one of many firsts that we had to get through.
With a wet dish towel in my hand and the breakfast dishes almost behind me, my mom took me aside. She handed me a sack and whispered into my ear, “Merry Christmas.” I opened the bag to find that it was full of my favorite oatmeal cookies.
“Thanks, Mom.”
She gave me a big hug and said, “George, you’ve turned into such a nice young man, but I still think I am going to miss my boy.”
Of course, I beamed when she called me a man.
“Your dad and I are both so proud of you.” She held me tightly a minute longer before she took my hand and said, “I’ve missed you. It’s going to be good having you home with me again.”
I didn’t know what to say. There was no use telling her that I was torn in two about leaving. It would have broken her heart. Still, she could tell that something was bothering me.
“Come on, George, we’ve got family presents to open. It’s Christmas!” She wiped her eyes quickly and headed for the living room.
We were about to gather around the tree, but we could not find my grandfather. Grandma Cora yelled for him several times, but he did not appear. She went to the bedroom to look for him. When she returned, her energy seemed drained and she asked us to be patient; Grandpa Bo would need just a few more minutes. When he finally came into the living room, he looked so worn-out that I thought he must have journeyed a hundred miles from that back bedroom. In some ways, I suppose he had.
Before he sat down, he placed under the tree a package wrapped in brown paper, cut from a grocery sack.
Typically, we unwrapped presents in a frenzy, but this year we took our time, offering polite thank-yous along the way. Hannah handed the gifts out o
ne at a time. Eventually, the presents dwindled down to that little brown package.
Hannah cried out, “We forgot this one!” She held the last little brown paper package in her hand. “It says, ‘To Tucker, from the McCray family.’ ”
She passed it over to me. “Here, George, you open it for Tucker.”
We were all excited to have something to offer our newest family member. His brushed red coat was perfect for Christmas and his fine figure adorned the living room floor with as much flare as any ornament on the tree. I pulled the simple wrapping off the package. I gasped.
My grandfather had carefully sculpted the most beautiful dog collar I had ever seen. It was made of soft brown leather and he had burned in the words TUCKER MCCRAY. There were brass rivets to hold the buckle in place. I put the collar around Tucker and it stayed there for many years to come.
As everyone dispersed about the house, Grandma called me into the kitchen. She and Grandpa were standing by the sink. Grandma spoke first.
“Your grandfather has another gift for you. It’s a going-away present.”
“George, I want you to know how much I appreciate all of the help you’ve given us these last few weeks. You’re going to be a tough hand to replace.” He then handed me a box wrapped in red paper. There was a handwritten note that went with it, scrawled with words in my grandfather’s old-fashioned handwriting:
To: The best maintainer this family ever had!
From: Grandma and Grandpa McCray
I unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. It was my grandfather’s tin cup that had sat by that kitchen sink for so many years. It would have gone to my father, but instead it came to me.
I stared at the gift for a long time, strangely touched by the simple tin cup that had been handed down from father to son for four generations. My grandfather must have been holding two very different thoughts in his head at the same time. He was glad to pass this piece of family history to me, but how sad he must have felt to skip a generation.
Trying to break the solemn mood, I put the ancient tin cup to my lips, drank the imaginary contents dry, and let out a long “Ahh.”
The moment touched Grandpa. The cup was not valuable to anyone else, but it signified something important to him. I drew nearer to give him a hug. “Thank you, Grandpa.” He held me tight in his still strong arms. Of course, I was thanking him for much more than a cup.
Many years later, my mother told me something that had never crossed my mind. Losing my father had broken Bo’s heart, but on that Christmas day, the thought of me packing up and leaving just about finished him off.
My grandmother spoke up. “Now that you’re an official road maintainer, you’ll need a good cup to drink from. That cup has sat by our sink for sixty years; now it can sit by your sink in Minnesota.”
Chapter 37
EVEN ON Christmas day, there were chores to do. We trusted Tucker around the cows now, but I still kept him tethered with his new collar and long leash in the barn while I milked. I insisted on taking both shifts that day, but I had a new partner that afternoon.
“You didn’t think I knew how to do this, did you?” My mom swung the Babson Bros. milker into place.
“You’re good, Mom, but I think you need a little more practice.”
She looked up from the milker. “I’ve got two more days to learn, before we leave.”
I tried to smile. “That’s right.”
She seemed to be testing the waters with her next comment. “I am looking forward to being your mother again.”
“You don’t need to worry, Mom. Grandma has been taking good care of me.” It didn’t occur to me how it might hurt her to hear this.
“I’m glad for that …” Her words trailed off and she worked quietly until we were finished and walked back to the house.
The day’s activities and a dinner of turkey and dressing made us all tired. That evening, I just read and once more enjoyed the presence of my family and my dog. My sisters gestured to the puzzle table. “Grandma, why don’t you help us?”
Grandma Cora stood in the dining room with a pained look on her face. I don’t think she knew how to go back to that table, where she had passed so many hours with my father, without feeling his absence. It was safer to avoid it. When she didn’t answer, it was clear to me that the idea of puzzling was causing her discomfort.
“I don’t think she wants to do the puzzle,” I blurted out.
Apparently my observation did not help matters. She turned and walked away. My sisters realized what they had done and raced after her into the kitchen, with my mother close behind.
There were tearful sobs and apologies. It was quiet for a very long time, and I began to wonder what they were doing and why it was taking so long. My grandfather set down his newspaper and was shifting his weight nervously.
Suddenly, my grandmother’s clear-as-a-bell voice echoed through the house. “Come on, girls.”
Seconds later the McCray women emerged from the kitchen, composed and determined. They stopped for a moment, and with a measure of strength and beauty that I would never forget, my grandmother spoke just two simple words. “It’s time.”
They sat down at the puzzle table, grasped hands, and closed their eyes. They were silent for a few moments and I felt a knot form in my throat. When my grandmother opened her eyes, they were clear and alive. An unclaimed joyful presence seemed to flow in the room like a refreshing spring breeze.
She tucked a stray white hair behind one ear, smiled, and said, “We have work to do.”
With eight hands they made fast progress.
Around 11:00 that night, with the last embers of the fire pulsing with a warm dry heat, Hannah calmly observed, “Finished.”
I was half asleep on the sofa, but I smiled from my daze.
Grandma Cora motioned to me. “Come see, George.”
Rolling off the sofa, I went over to the puzzle table. What I saw took me by surprise. It was an aerial photograph of our farm cut into a puzzle.
Grandma grabbed my hand and said, “You know, George, your father liked to give me puzzles that were darn near impossible to put together. This time he almost did it.”
It was late, so I just leaned over and kissed each of the four women I loved most in the world on the cheek and went to bed. Within a few minutes, my sisters and Tucker followed behind. It seemed that he, too, needed a good night’s rest. Tomorrow I would have to finish packing. Again, it seemed that some rule was strangely off-kilter. Young men should not have to leave the homes they love—nor should they be separated from their parents.
I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight, I heard voices coming up through the floor grate. Like me, they were all wondering what would come next.
My mother’s voice was agitated. “He is just playing at packing. He hasn’t asked about his new room, our house, or his new school. Don’t you think if he wanted to go, he would say something?”
My grandmother tried to reassure her. “Sarah, this is the only home he has ever known. He can be both sad to leave and happy to be back with you at the same time.”
My mother seemed to know exactly how I felt. “I don’t think that’s it; it’s clear to me that he doesn’t want to go.”
“Of course he wants to be with you and his sisters.”
“Has he ever said anything about not wanting to go?”
My grandmother was silent for a few moments before she did something I never thought possible. She lied. “No, honey, George would never say that.”
Finally, my grandfather asked in his to-the-point way, “Is he old enough to decide on his own?”
My mother’s voice cracked. “I won’t do that to him. It puts him in an awful place: choosing between people he loves. This isn’t about me and my needs. It’s about what’s best for him.”
I heard the old kitchen chairs being pushed away from the table. Tired, weary, and familiar-sounding steps creaked on the staircase. I closed my eyes, the way kids do when they pretend to be sleeping and a p
arent comes into the room, just as my mother pushed open the door.
I felt her weight on the bed as she came and sat beside me. She ran her hands through my hair for a few moments. Tucker got up from his resting spot on my bed and walked over me to get to her for a pat, which gave me the perfect excuse to “wake up.”
I sat up and my mom took me in her arms like she was just giving me a big goodnight hug. She held on to me for a very long time. It was a hug she knew would have to last for many years to come.
“George, I want to talk to you. Are you awake enough to listen?”
Chapter 38
MY MOTHER’S winter visits back to the farm in the years to come were some of the best times of my young life. Even after my sisters were married and had families of their own, Mom faithfully returned every December for the holidays. I spent Thanksgiving and six weeks of the summer in Minnesota. In between, we exchanged endless letters, spoke regularly by phone, and made extra trips when we could. There may have been some distance between us, but there was no lack of connection.
It’s been a long time now since she made her last Christmas visit to our farm in Kansas. A very long time. That’s what makes today so special.
She should be arriving any minute now. I have Tucker’s collar, my grandfather’s tin cup, and the last puzzle my father gave Grandma Cora, all sitting here beside me. Mom’s memory is fading. The doctor encouraged us to show her objects when we recount the past to her. It was up to me to be the curator for this exhibit, to put together just the right pieces from our family museum.
When the time is right, I want her to sit by the fire, hear our stories, and be comforted by our history—to know how important her place is. There are things I want to tell her, things I want her to understand. I don’t know what she remembers, what is lost, and how much more time I have to let her know how I feel. I practice the story one last time.…
Grandpa was the road maintainer for Cherokee County. His name was Bo McCray and my grandmother’s name was Cora. After Dad died, I stayed here on the farm, with my dog, Tucker, to live with my grandparents. They helped bring me up. Of all the courageous people from that period in my life, my mom was one of the bravest. She let me stay here because she knew it would have hurt me too much to leave.
