by Scott Fowler
“How about M&Ms for breakfast?” I asked Georgia.
She looked at it. “Can-dee,” she said.
“That’s right,” I said. “Go ahead and eat it. We’re just all going to need a good teeth-brushing later.” Ugh – that sounded just like something Dad would say.
London changed Georgia’s diaper again – she held still because she had a couple of M&Ms to keep her happy. No one even asked her to share the candy. That never would have happened two days ago, when one kid getting a single M&M more than another seemed like a national emergency to all of us.
But Georgia shared anyway, putting several M&Ms in both London and Salem’s mouth and then laughing happily when they crunched them up. By 4:45 a.m., we were back on the road, cold but determined. We split the Cheetos while we walked. That meant we didn’t have any more food at all, but I tried not to think about that.
CHAPTER 11
We walked for three hours straight that morning. We walked as the sunrise slowly lit a path for us. I’m sure it was beautiful, but we hardly noticed it. It was cold and we were hungry. But we kept walking. About an hour into our walk, we realized we had left Georgia’s helmet behind at the mobile home, but it was too late by then to go back. To pass the time – and to keep our minds off the fact that it had now been about 16 hours since we had left Mom and Dad at the van – we started telling stories about things that had happened to our family.
We talked about other Christmases and the presents we had gotten and the parts we had played in the Salem Methodist Church Christmas play. Usually you could count on at least two of us being wise men each year, and on none of us being too hot about being the wise man who had to hold the myrrh. We talked about our pet tree frog we had once, which we had named “Mojo Stickypants.” We talked about the two pet lizards we had one time. We talked about our dog Ringo, who was at home with our neighbors but who would have loved all this walking in the woods, except the part with the bears. He would have been terrified about that. We talked about our cousins – Davis, Jackson, Banks, Sawyer, Kyler, Korbin, Tristan, Paige, Brittany, Jason, Ellis, Eden, Brennan, Levi, Ronnie and all the rest of them. We had a lot of cousins.
And we talked about our dreams.
“Remember that time you had that dream, Chapel?” Salem said. “It was your 10th birthday party?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “For some reason it was at a roller-skating rink, and every girl in fourth and fifth grades came. And not a single boy. It was horrible.”
When we got thirsty, we would scrape some snow off of a tree limb or a bush and eat that. London made himself a snowball and carried it in his gloves for awhile, munching on it.
“This is my snowcone,” London said.
“What flavor is it then?” Salem said, a challenge in his voice.
“Plain,” London said.
That was such a good answer that Salem decided to make himself one, too.
We all started talking about food after awhile. It was hard not to because we were all so hungry. We talked about the diner we loved to go with Mom and Dad on Saturday mornings, where we got scrambled eggs and bacon and pancakes piled high and served with all the butter and syrup you want. Mom would usually get a vegetable omelet instead of all that stuff, which was crazy. She’d always want asparagus in the omelet, which London still called “despair-agus.” Given how it tasted, I thought that was a good nickname.
“Remember that time you were in a hurry to wash your hands at the diner and get back to the table because you knew the food was coming?” I asked Salem.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Dad asked me if I washed my hands and I said, ‘I washed one of them.’”
We went on like that for awhile. I told them the story of what I had said when I was five, Salem was two and Mom and Dad had asked me what I thought about getting another baby.
I had started crying. “What’s wrong?” Mom said.
I had pointed at Salem and moaned: “But I don’t want to take this one back!”
It wasn’t the kind of story I usually told – too sappy – but it was Christmas after all.
All of us can remember all kinds of stuff – tiny details that our parents always say they’ve forgotten about things that happened to us. Mom says that’s because our brains aren’t all filled up yet with boring stuff like grocery lists and which bill needs to be paid next.
“Remember that joke you made up about the kitchen, London?” I asked. I was still trying to be nice, and he looked like he might be getting tired again.
“Yes,” London said, brightening at the thought. “I’m going to tell it again. What does the kitchen counter say?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and when Salem started to say something, I gave him a warning look. “What does it say?”
“It says ‘1-2-3,’” London said. “Get it, Chapel? The kitchen counter counts!”
“I get it,” I said.
“OK,” London said. “Now I’m going to tell it again….”
And he did tell it again. And again. And even once more after that, enough times that Georgia was able to say, “One-two-free” the last time he asked the question.
“That’s right, Georgia,” Salem said as we reached the top of another small hill. “You counted to three!”
And then we all looked down and were totally speechless for a second. There was a small house directly below us, with a short driveway. There were lights on in the windows. And there was smoke rising out of the chimney.
CHAPTER 12
This time we didn’t send Salem down first. We all ran together as fast as we could – up the driveway, then down a short sidewalk and then up two steps to the front door. The door had a Christmas bow on it just above the door knocker. There was a small lighted reindeer in the front yard, and the lights were on. Salem arrived first and started banging on the knocker. London, Georgia and I got there a couple of seconds later. I saw a doorbell, lit by a pale orange glow, and pressed that once.
“I want to press it, too!” London said. He always liked to press elevator buttons, too.
“OK,” I said happily. “It won’t hurt anything.”
Somebody lived here. That was obvious. I felt like we were a few seconds away from getting help for Mom and Dad. Georgia felt as light as a feather on my back.
But no one came to the door. No dog barked. Salem knocked again. London rang the doorbell again. Still, we didn’t hear anything.
“Ope,” Georgia said. That’s how she said “open.”
“Good idea, Georgia,” I said. “Let’s try.”
I reached for the doorknob and turned. It wasn’t locked. I gave the door a small push and it opened with a lingering creak. Even from the doorstep, the house felt warm.
“Hello?” I said. And then, a little louder, as I stepped through the door into a small hallway: “Hello?! Excuse me? We need help!”
The boys followed right behind me as I took a few more steps inside. It was so hot. It was like the warmth was inviting us inside, even though nobody else was. I thought I smelled coffee.
I looked behind me and saw everybody was inside. “Shut the door,” I whispered to Salem. “We shouldn’t let the cold air in.”
I was about to say “Hello” again when Georgia beat me to it. She had something different on her mind, however.
“Ma-ma??” she said. “Ma-ma?”
And this time… this time, we heard a reply.
“Who’s there?” someone said. “Did you forget something, Arthur?”
The voice sounded like it belonged to an old woman. It came from down the hall. Maybe she hadn’t heard us the first time. Maybe she was hard of hearing.
I looked at London and Salem. They looked at me, wide-eyed and mute. I knew I was going to have to handle this one.
“Umm, no ma’am,” I said. “It’s not Arthur. It’s….”
“Come in here, child,” the voice said. “I can’t hear you.”
And so we did. We shuffled down the hallway, single file. I don’t
know why we felt scared after all we had been through, but we were. We had time to see framed pictures on the hallway wall – old family photos, I thought. There was a man, a woman and a boy in most of them – the child first as a baby, then as a kid about my age, then as someone much older than me.
It was 10 steps down the hallway until we entered the room where the voice had come from. We walked into the room one at a time until we were all standing there, silently.
There was a couch with two multi-colored afghan blankets on it. The walls were wood paneling. There was an ancient TV in the corner. There was a small fire in the fireplace and a Christmas wreath hanging above it.
There was also one rocking chair, and in that chair sat the oldest woman I had ever seen. She was a black woman, and there were so many lines in her face it was hard to see where the wrinkles stopped and her eyes began. She was tiny. I’m five feet tall and weigh 95 pounds, and I think I may have been a little bigger than she was.
The old woman had glasses perched on her nose and what looked like a cup of coffee beside her on a small red table. I could see two cups sitting on the table – one was half-full, the other completely empty. The table also held a lamp and a Bible, which was open and had print so large I could make out what chapter she was reading from where I was. She had been reading Luke, which made sense because it told the most famous version of the story of Jesus’s birth. I knew that from Sunday School and from what Linus says in that old Charlie Brown Christmas special that still comes on every year, the one that always makes my Mom sad because the other kids are so mean about the tree Charlie Brown picked out.
The old lady wore a faded dress and purple house shoes, the kind you can slip on and off without bending down.
Georgia, maybe sensing our nervousness, started to whine a little. I don’t think the old lady could see too well, because it didn’t seem like she had noticed Georgia in the backpack behind me until she heard that noise.
“Oh, Lord,” she said to me. “Is that a baby on your back?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and then the words started tumbling out of me like a waterfall. “We had a wreck and we need a phone and our parents are trapped and we’ve been walking so long and…”
“Hold on, child,” she said, raising one hand. “Hold on. These ears don’t work so good anymore. Slow down. But before you do anything else, bring me that baby.”
I hesitated. I loved Georgia more than anything else in the world. Surely this old lady didn’t mean to harm her, did she?
I decided to bring Georgia to her but then stand beside her while she held Georgia. It might get us going faster.
Salem helped me unstrap Georgia from the backpack. Then I held her on my hip and walked across the room to the ancient lady. Normally, Georgia doesn’t go to any stranger without a fight – instead, she will lean her head back down onto the shoulder of the person she’s familiar with.
This time, though, Georgia put out her arms and let the black lady take her. When Georgia settled onto the lady’s lap, looking intently at the pattern on her dress, the lady beamed with delight. Georgia often has that sort of effect on people.
“Oh, if you aren’t the sweetest thing,” the lady said. “I’ve been waiting so long to meet you.”
That sounded weird. To meet her?
“Her name is Georgia,” I said. “Can we use your phone? We have to call 911, right away. Our parents are hurt, and we’ve been walking forever.”
“Oh, honey!” she said, smiling even more broadly. “Her name is Georgia? That’s my name, too. Georgia Abigail Swann. Most people just call me Miss Swann.”
“OK,” I said, figuring I could save the talk about strange coincidences for after the ambulance was called. “Miss Swann, can you tell me where the phone is?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, jiggling Georgia gently on her knee. “I don’t have a phone.”
My heart sank. She didn’t have a phone. How could a lady who had to be about 200 years old live way out here with no phone?
“Even a cell phone?” I asked, knowing the answer but asking anyway.
“A what?” Miss Swann said.
“Who takes care of you?” asked Salem. He and London had moved close to the fire and were standing there with their backs to it.
“Oh, that would be Arthur,” she said. “My son.”
“Is he here?” Salem asked.
“No, honey,” Miss Swann said. “I live here all alone. I like it by myself. But Arthur comes and checks on me every day at 6:30 a.m. Drives all the way out here from town, then drives right back in to go to work at the Mini Mart. He built that fire this morning. He made this coffee. You didn’t miss him by much. But the Mini Mart is the only store open around here on Christmas Day. He just left.”
He just left. The words rattled hollowly around in my head. What if we had started 15 minutes earlier this morning? That must have been Arthur’s coffee cup – the other one on the table. Couldn’t he have stayed just a little longer?
“How far is town?” London said. He had been paying attention to the conversation, too.
“Oh, not that far,” Miss Swann said. “Not more than five miles to the center of it. When I used to be able to drive, it took me no more than 10 minutes to get there.”
Five miles. What was that? Another two hours of walking, at least? I pride myself on never crying, but suddenly my throat felt tight. I felt tears start to well up in my eyes. I had thought this was it, that this house was going to be the beginning of our rescue. And now we were still five miles away.
“How old are you, son?” Miss Swann said, peering at me through her eyeglasses.
“Eleven,” I said.
“I don’t reckon,” she said, “that you know how to drive a truck?”
CHAPTER 13
My heart thudded in my chest. Me, drive a truck? I had never driven anything except a bicycle and a scooter.
“Eleven years old,” Miss Swann said, stroking Georgia’s hair lightly but looking at me. “You’re probably a little too young. You may be a little short for it, too. Arthur’s got the seat adjusted for him – he’s six feet, four inches tall – and it won’t rise up for short people anymore, I believe. But you can try it if you want.”
“Can’t you drive us?” I asked.
“Oh no, honey,” Miss Swann said. “I haven’t driven for 10 years – I gave up my license when I was 75 years old. I can barely see anymore unless you’re right up in front of me.”
“But you have a truck?” Salem asked.
“Yes,” Miss Swann said, tilting her head in Salem’s direction. “Never did get rid of it. It’s out back under the carport. Arthur uses it sometimes when his own car is in the shop.”
She paused for a second. “Now, wait a minute – how old are you?” she said to Salem. “And tell me all your names.”
“I’m Salem,” he said, rocking from one foot to another, “and I’m eight. Chapel is the big brother. I’m the middle brother. This red-headed kid is London. He’s five. And you know Georgia – she’s 19 months old.”
“Oh, yes,” the woman said, rocking. “I know Georgia. I’ve been waiting for Georgia.”
There she went again. Miss Swann sounded a little strange, but then again, she was 85. More importantly, she had a truck. We told her quickly about our accident and what we had done since then. She nodded without speaking, taking it all in. When we quickly went through the part about the bears, she smiled at London and said, “Now you’re a brave little thing, aren’t you?”
After we finished the short version of the story, I asked: “Where are the keys to your truck?”
“They’re on the TV,” Miss Swann said. “So your name is Chapel? Like a church?”
“Yes,” I said. “Like a church.”
“OK, Chapel,” she said. “I think I know how you might be able to drive the truck – with some help. Here. Take your sister back for a minute and follow me. We’re all going to go with you.”
I took Georgia back from Miss Sw
ann, and she slowly rose out of her rocking chair. Then she slowly took a cane I hadn’t noticed – it had been leaning on the back of her chair. Then she slowly walked toward the hall. She did everything so slowly. I tried not to be impatient, but it was hard. I grabbed the keys off the top of the TV and motioned to the others to follow her.
We put on our coats again and zipped them as we walked behind Miss Swann out a back door. That back door had another sidewalk that led to the carport. The carport pointed straight out toward the road we had been walking on for so long. Underneath the carport was a dark blue truck, facing out toward the driveway. I took that as a good sign – at least I wouldn’t have to back up.
Miss Swann stopped a few feet from the truck. “I’m going to catch my breath,” she said. “The little boy, Georgia and I are going to ride in the back. You and your brother – Salem, that’s right, isn’t it? You two can get up front.”
We walked in front of her, opened the truck door and started climbing in. I gave London a boost to get him into the back seat and Salem easily vaulted into the passenger seat. Then I lifted Georgia up to London to hold – “Londy, Londy!” she said joyfully. Miss Swann caught up after a few moments, and I put an arm under her elbow to help boost her up, too. She got right behind the driver’s seat, breathing hard.
“OK,” she said. “Now you climb in, Chapel, but don’t put the key in yet.”
I did as she said and sat in the driver’s seat. And I realized quickly this wasn’t going to work. I could barely see over the top of the steering wheel. I saw the sky fine, but I wasn’t going to see the road at all.
“Can you see the hood of the car?” Miss Swann said.
“No ma’am,” I said.
“I didn’t think so,” Miss Swann said. “Here. Sit on this.”
From underneath the driver’s seat, she dug out an ancient quilt that smelled like old shoes. I took it from her and bunched it up under me. It raised me up enough so that I could see the hood if I sat up completely straight.
