by DiAnn Mills
I threw back the covers. “Sorry, Mother. I was daydreaming.”
“What’s that box?”
I shoved it under the bed. “Just some old letters. It’s nothing important.”
“Here’s your plum-colored dress.” She spread it on the bed beside me. “Please hurry. Esther’s in a dither. I’d best get back to the stove before my creamed onions burn.” She trundled away.
How could I manage my hair without Millie? I wanted to clip it back with the pearl barrettes Dad had given me last Christmas.
Twenty minutes later, the aroma of sugar-cured ham from our smokehouse made my mouth water. Esther greeted me with a sniff. “I could swat that Millie for running off this morning and leaving me with all the work. Here’s the biscuit dough, Miss Julie. I floured the board for you, and the rolling pin’s beside the bowl.”
Mother wrapped a wide apron around my middle. I felt the floured board, used a wooden spoon to scrape out the dough, and sprinkled more flour on top. “Don’t blame Millie, Esther,” I told her. “Millie doesn’t have much time for fun.”
“Seems to me that’s all she does have time for.” The cook thumped a pan to the worktable. My fingers found the biscuit cutter, and I punched it into the dough with practiced rhythm.
The front door groaned.
“I wonder who that is,” Mother said, heading for the hall. “The young people aren’t due until lunchtime.” Her voice drifted back. “Why, Jim, are you hurt? You’re limping.”
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Simmons. I broke my ankle while playing tennis last summer, and it’s still weak. I’m afraid I tried to do too much today. Don’t worry. A little rest and I’ll be good as new.”
“Here, come into the library. I’ll pull an ottoman near the fire for you.”
“That’s very kind.”
I dropped the last limp circle to the pan and dusted my hands as Mother hustled into the kitchen and straight to me. “Julie, go and entertain Jim. He’s hurt his ankle.”
“Me? What will I say?”
“He’s a polite young man. Ask him questions, and let him do the talking.” She untied my apron. “It’s the least we can do for Honey’s young man.” She sighed. “I wonder why Honey didn’t come back with him.”
“It’s her party, Mother,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “She has to stay with the group to keep everything organized.”
“You have a flour smudge.” A soft towel touched my cheek. “There. It’s gone.”
“Is my hair okay?”
“You look fine,” she said quickly. Had she checked?
I walked the ten steps down the hall, trying to think of an interesting question. I’d already asked about his schooling. It wasn’t polite to ask too many personal questions, was it? My brain filled up with limp cotton.
“Good morning, Julie,” Jim said when I reached the door. “Do you feel like playing something with a poor cripple?”
Suddenly I was glad I’d agreed to spend time with him. “Do you mean a game or music?”
“You choose.”
I stepped inside the library door. “I play a mean game of checkers.”
“You’re on. Where’s the board?”
“In the cupboard under the window seat. I’ll get it.” I knelt before the cupboard and reached inside. “My father carved these for me. One side is domed, and the other is flat. The pieces have the bottoms indented so they can hold a king, and the board has wooden strips between the squares to hold the pieces secure.”
Holding the game, I crossed the room to a square table against the wall near the piano. “We’ll have to play here. Can you walk over?”
“Sure. I’m not an invalid. I just need to rest the old ankle for a while. Most likely I’ll be able to skate again before we leave, if I take it slow.” He paused. “It’s not easy to accept one’s limitations, is it?”
I turned toward his voice. “No. It’s not.”
In a moment, I felt his presence across from me. It’s strange the sixth sense God gives to those who need it most.
His chair scraped the floor. “Which set would you like?”
“The flat ones. I always win when I play with them.”
He chuckled. “Quite the competitive type, aren’t you?”
“It’s in my blood, I guess.” I set my pieces on the board. “I used to enter tons of sporting events: tennis, gymnastics, figure skating.”
The pain must have shown in my face. His voice changed to a soft pitch that made me want to answer his next question. “Why didn’t you accompany us this morning?”
“The last time…” I drew in a breath. “Last time I skated on the river, I had a dreadful accident. I can’t bear to go out there again.” He didn’t speak, and wanting to explain, I hurried on. “The last thing I ever saw was gray sky and a white snowbank as my feet flew out from under me.” I shivered. “The very thought of going back there makes me shaky.”
I felt the gentle drumming of his fingertips on the table. Without missing a beat, he said, “You get the first move.”
We played until we had three pieces left on the board—two of mine and one of his, all kings.
“You must play frequently,” he said while I studied out my next attack.
“Millie and I play most evenings. But it’s Dad who taught me all the good moves. He’s the only one I can’t beat.” I set the left king forward three spaces. “I don’t like to pry, but…”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
He was laughing at me. I hesitated.
“I was teasing, Julie. Ask me anything you like.”
I plunged ahead. “If you don’t want to be a lawyer, what do you want to be?”
“You’ll laugh. Honey does.”
“I’m not Honey.”
“I knew that the first time I met you.” He moved his lonely king, and my hand reached out to find it.
He said, “I want to work with city children. To lead them to Christ and give them hope for the future. With proper encouragement they can become useful citizens. Without help, they’ll almost certainly end up in trouble. I’ve spent the past two summers volunteering at a Brooklyn YMCA. I love it.”
“You’re a Christian.” It was a statement, but a surprised one.
“Dave Yancy, one of my roommates, made a big impression on me. He had a gentle strength that I’d never seen before. And he wasn’t afraid to talk about God. Dave had me primed when William Jennings Bryan spoke at the university. I asked God to save me right there in my seat at the end of Bryan’s speech.” He paused as I made my move. “Dave went to seminary last year. I miss him. My life’s been sort of unfocused ever since.”
Wood bumped wood. “Your turn,” he said.
“I received Christ in the same Sunday school class I’m teaching now. When dear old Miss Susan went to heaven three years ago I took her place. I don’t know how I’d get through a day if I didn’t know the Lord…especially now.”
“What about Honey?” he asked.
“Honey’s a Christian, but she doesn’t think much about it.”
He said wryly, “She calls my YMCA work slumming.”
I made a sweeping move. “Got you. I win!”
“Well, what do you know? Beat by a girl.” He chuckled. “Don’t tell the fellows. I’ll never live it down.”
“Don’t tell the fellows what?” Tubby boomed from the hall. The cold from the open door reached the back of my neck. I drew my arms closer to my body.
Tubby went on without waiting for an answer. “Look at you, Jim. We’re out there turning into blocks of ice while you’re roasting your toes by the fire and playing checkers with a pretty girl.” He stamped and called, “Hurry up, slowpokes, or I’ll shut the door on you.”
The hall filled with gasps and groans about the cold. Millie called over the noise, “I’ll bring hot cocoa to the parlor. Esther has some ready for us, I’m sure.”
Honey swept into the library, out of breath with exercise and excitement. “Jim, Julie, I have some
wonderful news. The parson stopped me on the way home and asked me to organize a Christmas pageant. It’s sort of last minute, but he said we can practice with the children Sunday afternoon and—since school is out—several times next week. We’ll perform it at the church on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s great,” Jim said. He seemed pleased.
I froze, dreadfully certain that her next statement would involve me.
“We’re doing The Byrd’s Christmas Carol. Julie, you can be Carol Byrd. All you’ll have to do is sit in bed and look adorable. It’s perfect!”
Chapter 4
Honey’s announcement confirmed my worst fears. How could she do this to me?
Full of plans and brilliant ideas about props and costumes, Honey scurried to the parlor, where the others had gathered around the fire. My heart beat heavily against my ribs as I dropped the checkers into their box.
“What is it, Julie?” Jim asked.
I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t or I’d burst into tears. I shook my head and didn’t answer.
Mother used to read the old classic about Carol Byrd every Christmas Eve until we got old enough to read for ourselves. It was about an invalid girl who tried to help a poor family have a merry Christmas. I always cried when she died at the end. I loved the story, but I did not want to play the part of Carol Byrd.
Since we had only one copy of the play, the girls spent the evening taking turns typing extra copies of the short script while the others played mah-jongg and talked about the pageant. I heard them from my room, where I lay with my cheek on the goose down pillow.
“Well what’s this?” Millie demanded. “I missed you after dinner so I came to see what’s up. You sick or something?”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“Oh, pouting, huh? You should be down there playing mah-jongg and beatin’ the socks off them, Julie.”
I turned my face away.
When the chair creaked, I said, “You don’t have to babysit me, Millie. Go down and have a good time.”
“Not with you in a fret. I want to know what’s wrong.”
“If you must know, it’s the pageant.”
“Is that all? I looked over the script. You only have a dozen lines. You’ll be the first to memorize them, Julie dear. I think you’ll make a lovely Carol Byrd.”
“With everyone staring at me like some sort of wax museum figure? I hate to be on display like that, Millie. And I can’t even read the script myself.”
Honey called up the stairs. “Millie, Julie, we’re ready to get started. Come on down.”
“Come on, love,” Millie encouraged with a resigned sigh. “Let’s go face the lions.”
“I’m not going.”
“Well suit yourself, but your mother will have something to say about that. She’s always talking about how you hide away too much.” She went out with her usual flounce and bounce.
I gnawed my lower lip. Was a ten-minute delay worth a fifteen-minute lecture from Mother?
Taking my good old time, I eased downstairs.
“Sit on the sofa by me, Julie,” Mother said. “I was just about to come for you.”
Honey stood in front of the fireplace. “I’m going to assign parts tonight,” she said, “so everyone has time to look over their lines before practice tomorrow morning.
“Alice is Mrs. Byrd; Jim, Mr. Byrd; and Millie is the cook. Tubby can be Uncle Jack. Bob is Peter Ruggles.”
“What about me?” Lucy asked. “I don’t want a long part. My head aches if I have to memorize too much.”
“You’ll be Mrs. Ruggles.”
Jim spoke from the window seat. “That accounts for everyone except you, Honey.”
She laughed. “I’m the narrator, silly.” Her papers rustled. “Besides playing Mr. Byrd, Jim, you’ll lead the children’s choir. Julie will play for you.”
She spoke louder. “The pastor will make an announcement Sunday morning, and we’ll have our first full practice Sunday afternoon. Tomorrow we’ll practice here. On Sunday, I’ll recruit children to play the rest of the Ruggles family. They won’t have much to memorize.”
“What about costuming?” Mother asked. “That could turn into quite a job.”
“I’ll dig through Grammy’s trunk in the attic,” Honey said, her pencil scratching as she made a note. She shoved some pages into my hands. “Here’s the script, Julie. Get Millie to go over it with you tonight so you can be ready for practice tomorrow.”
“Honey, I can’t learn my lines in one night. It’s already eight o’clock.”
She waved aside my protest. “Millie will help you tomorrow.”
“Now that the play’s all settled,” said Bob, “how about another game of mah-jongg? The night’s young.”
“You’re on,” Tubby said. They moved to the game table; Alice and Lucy joined them.
A few minutes later, I escaped upstairs and dropped the script to the floor. With angry fingers I tore at my buttons. I was wriggling into my nightgown when Millie came in.
“Don’t get yourself in a stew, Julie,” she scolded. “Honey gave you the best part. I’ve got to borrow one of Esther’s dresses and stuff it with pillows.” She giggled. “I’ll be a sight.”
“I don’t appreciate the way she manages me. Like I’m a checker piece.” My voice grew shrill. “Julie will play piano for you.”
Millie sat beside me on the edge of my bed. “She thought she was being nice by including you. I wish you wouldn’t take on so.”
I didn’t sleep well that night. I knew I was being stubborn and unkind, but I couldn’t shake my grumpy mood. By morning I had a headache.
Honey was in high spirits. She woke me with cheerful singing that made me want to stuff my handkerchief in her mouth. She buzzed between the adjoining rooms, chattering like a spring blue jay. As soon as she finished dressing, she and Alice scampered upstairs to dig around in the attic.
Lucy strolled in to borrow Honey’s lipstick and stayed to chat about her boyfriend. I didn’t want to socialize. Finally, she climbed the attic stairs to find the girls.
I didn’t feel like eating breakfast, but I went to the table anyway to keep Mother from fussing over me. When Honey clattered down the stairs, I could hardly swallow my eggs.
She swept into the dining room and cried, “Guess what! There’s an iron bedstead in the attic that will be perfect for the pageant. You fellows must haul it down. We’ll make it up, and Julie can sit in it for practice this morning.”
I stiffened. “Can’t we put some pillows on the sofa and pretend?”
Honey bore down on me. “C’mon, be a good sport, Julie. The bed will give atmosphere to the whole room.”
Her tone told me arguing was useless. If I called attention to myself, she might get inspired and make me go upstairs and change into my nightgown for “atmosphere.” Millie squeezed my hand beneath the table. I couldn’t tell if she wanted me to keep quiet or if she was sympathizing with me.
Play practice was agony. Millie read my lines for me while I sat in the middle of the library on a lumpy cotton mattress with a quilt over my legs. Worse, I started thinking about the thousands of spiders living in the attic. What if one had gotten on the mattress? I’d always been terrified of them, but since my accident the idea of a creepy thing crawling on me was unbearable. Somehow I held on and didn’t make a fool of myself.
I was tired enough to cry by the time Mother called us for lunch. Afterward, I took a nap and woke up to a quiet house. The gang had gone out for another skate-fest.
I dragged a brush through my hair and went down to the library for some time alone with my piano.
“There you are,” Jim called, when I reached the bottom step. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I touched my curls, wishing I’d taken more time with them. “You didn’t go skating?”
“You forgot my bad ankle. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my company again this afternoon.”
I went to the piano and flicked fingers along the keys.
“Would you like to hear anything in particular?”
“Play the one you did before.”
“ ‘The Skater’s Waltz’? It’s my favorite piece.” As I swept through the melody, I said, “You haven’t told me where you’re from. Do you live in Vermont?”
“Connecticut. Just outside New York City. My father’s practice is in New York, but Mother always hated the city. Ten years ago, we moved to a hundredacre estate named Thornton’s Hill.” He leaned against the baby grand. I could almost feel his breath when he spoke. “It’s a rambling place with wide fields on each side of the house and white fences dividing the horses’ paddocks. Two tennis courts. A small lake on the west side. The house is a three-story Victorian with massive pillars in front.”
“Sounds frightening.”
He chuckled. “It’s a museum, not a home. Especially since my mother died. To be honest, I’d rather be at our bungalow on Long Island. No stress, no neighbors, no telephone for miles. It’s lovely, especially in the fall.”
I struck the last notes of the song.
“Say,” he said, “would you like to practice your lines with me? It’s a shame to waste this quiet while the gang’s outside. A person can hardly put two thoughts together with Tubby’s singing and the girls’ chattering.”
“If I translated my lines into Braille, I could read them during practice.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“I’ll get the slate from my room.” My heart felt curiously light as I came back down, the metal rectangle and stylus in one hand, two sheets of stiff paper in the other.
I sat at the table. “Please read me the words, and I’ll punch them.”
“ ‘I want to tell you all about my plans for Christmas this year, Uncle Jack,’ “he read, pausing every few words until I got them down.
Before I knew it, the gang was back and we were drinking cocoa in the parlor. Honey could talk of nothing but the pageant. As usual, her enthusiasm wore everyone else to a frazzle, and she was still going.
That evening, practice went much better. I still felt stupid sitting in the bed, but the covers hid my hands, and I didn’t miss a word.
