by Diane Noble
Once he suggested sanding off the scars and coating the table with a new layer of shellac, but Abigail would have nothing to do with such nonsense. Unlike her neighbors, she did not long for newfangled tables and chairs and bedsteads from Sears and Roebuck in her small house. No sir. She was quite content with what she had, teeth marks and all.
Her children were furnishings enough for this thin-walled place. They looked enough alike to be six little peas fit snug in a pod, what with their freckled faces and strawberry blond hair, even the baby’s, whose fuzz was just beginning to curl. But each child was special enough to fill Abigail’s heart all alone. Curly-haired Violet with her giggle and lisp; Clover with pigtails that flipped and bobbed with each indignant sniff; pretty Daisy with her waist-long, swinging plaits and heart so caring that Abigail feared for the day it would surely break with disappointment, just as her own had.
And the boys…
Tears filled her eyes as she considered her earlier conversation with Orin about Alfred. How could her husband possibly be in a right state to consider sending the boy into the granite tunnels, plugging dynamite?
There would be extra pay because of the danger. That, she knew, was Orin’s reasoning. Biting her trembling bottom lip, she shifted Rosie to her left side, then settled back to rock once more. True, times were hard. But it was also true that with Alfred joining Orin in the tunnels, likely Grover would be next. She had hoped for a better life for her sons. Maybe even sending them to the city for higher learning.
Orin did not have the same dreams for his sons. He had worked in the mines in West Virginia before bringing his bride and their first three babies to California back in aught one. He had vowed to make a better life for them all than the bleak existence his family had known in the mines.
Abigail stared through the window beyond the fireplace. How much better was this? Not much, by her measure. Her husband had merely traded one hole in the ground for another. He had brought them all here—Alfred, Grover, and Daisy—only to have two babies born too soon because Abigail had scarce enough to eat. When she birthed the third baby she thought God surely would not take another little one from her. But Lily died from consumption two harsh winters later.
And now this. She looked out at the tall, bleak pines around the cottage. They held out the light. Their shadows lifted too late in the mornings and returned too early in the afternoons.
She did not know exactly when her fears began and her prayers ended. She supposed it was near the day Lily died. It seemed God did not hear her prayers at all, that He paid no mind to her begging for mercy. Oh yes, she had asked Him to send His angels to guard sweet Lily, to keep her from harm…
And her precious baby had died in her arms.
The day they buried Lily in the cold, hard ground, Abigail vowed she would teach the rest of her children to fend for themselves. She determined she could not allow Daisy to believe in fairy tales or angels—in reality, they were one and the same—for one day longer. There was no sense praying, though she bowed her head respectfully when Orin led the children in prayer. Her respect was for her husband, not God.
But despite her efforts, Daisy was being duped with a dream of unseen, make-believe beings. And it was all due to the interference of Percival Taggart. Abigail’s lips tightened and she choked back her anger as the rhythm of the rocker became clipped and jerking. Rosie fussed, her clear eyes steady on Abigail’s.
Strangely ashamed, Abigail felt her cheeks flush. She lifted Rosie to her shoulder and patted the tiny back until a small burp erupted. Glancing up at the Liberty clock on the wall, she estimated the time that Percival Taggart worked with the children for their music lessons.
She would wait until the children were dismissed, then she would give the drunkard a piece of her mind. She would put a stop to his lies.
Smiling for the first time that morning, she cradled Rosie in her arms while “I Saw Three Ships,” a song from her childhood in the Appalachian Mountains, played as if on a fairy dulcimer from someplace deep in her mind.
Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem
On Christmas Day in the morning…
And all the bells on earth shall ring
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day,
On Christmas Day in the morning…
And all the angels in Heav’n shall sing
On Christmas Day in the morn—
Abigail grimaced when she realized her voice had been about to take flight in song. Quickly, she pushed the melody, and especially the words about singing angels, from her mind.
Seated at a tinny, upright piano, Percival Taggart nodded to the group of children, ranging from third-level to sixth-level pupils, their faces barely visible above the metal music stands.
In the front row, Daisy James, Wren Morgan, and Cady O’Leary sat on the edges of their chairs and watched him intently, awaiting his nod so they could pull their fiddle bows downward.
He played a few chords of introduction to “Amazing Grace,” then nodding decisively, he struck the worn keys hard enough to show the children it was time to begin. Scratchy violins followed his lead, a few tentative horns wavered along, and a tuba blasted the wrong note a beat and a half behind the rest of the orchestra.
Flame-haired Cady O’Leary exploded with giggles. He gave her a scolding glare, but not soon enough. On either side of her, first Wren Morgan snickered, then Daisy James’s cheeks turned bright red as she attempted to keep her face straight and her fiddle held parallel to the floor, just as he had taught them all.
He continued to fix his warning glare on the three, knowing the entire eleven-piece orchestra would explode into gales of laughter if he did not. And Toby McGowan the tuba player—a boy who had sprouted skyward too soon and stumbled along on feet too big for his skinny legs—would never hear the end of it.
Percival let his fingers travel over the aged ivory keys with an interlude of chords. “At the top once more, boys and girls.” Another decisive nod at the downbeat, and the group was off and running again.
Except for Toby. This time his blasts bleated out three beats late.
Cady snickered more loudly than before, drawing the attention of the entire trumpet section and the single trombonist. Wren and Daisy, their shoulders quaking from silent laughter, stared at their shared music stand.
The blasts continued.
One by one the instruments drifted to a halt until the only one left playing was Toby, his cheeks puffed out, eyes closed.
Percival tapped his baton on the piano lid, then cleared his throat. “Boys and girls,” he called out sternly. He rapped his baton again.
Finally, he caught their attention.
Even Toby’s. The boy looked around bewildered at the now-silent room. Thankfully the children were now staring at Percival with worried faces, so he hoped Toby would not realize the laughter had been at his expense.
Just for good measure, he gave the three little girls and his other charges another warning stare. “We all need to work on our timing. I want you to break into groups of three or four and clap out the rhythm to the music.” He named the children he wanted in each group. Scooting chairs and picking up music stands, the group dispersed.
Percival sat down with the first group: Toby, Cady, Wren, and Daisy. “Now,” he said solemnly, “I want this group to beat out four-four time.” He demonstrated by clapping his hands together in a four-beat rhythm. The children followed his lead. When they had it right, he stood to leave.
Daisy stopped him. “Mister Taggart, we’ve got something to ask you about. Something important.”
Her expression tugged at his heart. He sat down again and pulled his chair forward. “About the music?”
She glanced at her friends Wren and Cady as if for support, then back to him. Toby just looked confused.
Behind them, the rest of the children were clapping merrily to imaginary beats. There was not a rhythm among them that Percival could recognize. Not four-four. Not two-four. Nothing. He sighed and turned back t
o the girls and Toby.
Daisy leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “We want to put on a Christmas drama show.”
“About angels,” Cady added. “Angels in heaven.”
He smiled at the hopeful looks on their faces. So as not to disappoint them, he nodded. “Tell me more.”
“Daisy wrote it herself.” Wren gave her friend a proud smile.
Toby frowned, apparently still confused.
Percival looked at Daisy. “Tell me about it.”
She colored a bit, her freckles fading into her flushed face. “It’s for something special. Something we’ve been thinking about for a long time.”
He nodded again to give her encouragement. “It sounds important.”
“Oh, Mister Taggart—” Cady nodded, her eyes wide—“it is. The most important thing we’ve ever thought of by ourselves.”
“Then tell me about it.” Behind him the clapping had nearly stopped. He held up a hand to the girls and turned to the rest of the class. “Keep counting, children. One-two-three-four.” He clapped hard on the first and third beats to get them started. “Now,” he said, turning again to Daisy. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve written?”
She smiled, and hope seemed to shine through her eyes from somewhere deep in her soul. “It’s called Come, My Little Angel.” She leaned forward and thrust a crumpled paper into his hands before rushing on. “It’s about a little child who dies and goes to heaven.”
“I-I’ve always wanted to p-play an angel.” Toby McGowan looked surprised when all three little girls turned to him, their mouths gaping open. It was as if they had forgotten he still sat beside them. He shrugged. “W-well, I-I have,” he stuttered. He immediately looked down at the floor, then reached for his left shoe with a grunt to fiddle with his laces.
“Your pa’s the tavern keeper,” Wren said with a haughty laugh. “What kind of an angel would that make?” She giggled and glanced at Cady, who rolled her eyes.
“Our angel has to be someone small,” Daisy said to him, though not, Percival was glad to note, unkindly. “I mean, much younger. One of the first-level little ones. That’s what I have in mind.” She looked back to Percival as if for approval.
With a smile, Percival encouraged her to go on. “I suppose you want to put on the drama for your parents?” He glanced down at the smudged words on the paper she had given him.
She leaned closer and whispered, “You see, I have it in mind that Red Bud needs a church. People would pay to see the drama show, and that money would go to build a little church. Not a big one, like in the city. But something small. Just the right size for Red Bud.”
She paused, and for a moment seemed so lost in thought he wondered if she might not continue.
“I want it to have a steeple with a bell and everything,” she said reverently. “Then maybe the bell could ring instead of the company whistle, because truly, we wouldn’t need the whistle anymore.”
He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “It sounds like you’ve been to such a place.”
She nodded. “A long time ago and a ways from here, it was.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “It was in such a place I last heard my ma sing. I was just a tyke, but I remember her voice was like the music of hundreds of angels’ harp strings. After our baby died, she never sang again.”
The child’s words nearly broke Percival’s heart. “A mighty big project, Daisy…” He cleared his throat, still moved by those wide, hope-filled eyes—eyes that told him Daisy believed such a church in Red Bud might bring her ma to sing again.
“I-I hate that ol’ c-company whistle,” Toby said. “At night it means my pa has to go to w-work ’cause all the menfolk stop by on their way home from the t-tunnels and such.”
And sometimes they never make it home. Percival remembered all too well the evenings he had spent in the tavern, all too willing to keep the raucous times rolling, all too willing to keep fathers from going home to their families. A sudden thirst made him swallow hard and moisten his lips.
“Tell us more,” he said at last. “About your play.”
As if sensing something out of the ordinary, the other children stopped their rhythmic clapping, and the room fell quiet.
Daisy looked at her classmates, her expression uncertain.
“If you’d rather tell me later…” he said, sensing her discomfort.
“I’ll tell you, if you’d like.” She sat a little taller. “ ’Cause we’ll all be working on it—if you agree to help us. I think it’s time to tell.”
He turned to the children, beckoning them to scoot their chairs closer. “Daisy has written a drama about angels,” he said on her behalf. “Is it a Christmas play?” He glanced at her and smiled at her beaming nod.
Then she took over, just as he had figured she would. “I have a book that I like to read to my little sister. It’s called The Littlest Angel.” Her round eyes shone. “It’s a legend about a boy who dies and goes to heaven. Only he arrives there just after Baby Jesus is born on earth. All the angels are worrying about what gifts to bring the newborn King, but the newest little angel doesn’t have anything he can give—only the dearest treasures of his heart.”
The children were as quiet as Percival had ever seen them.
“Th-that’s a humdinger of a p-play. I wanna be the a-angel,” Toby said. “The s-star angel.”
The spell was broken, and the children laughed at the boy’s declaration. The boys hooted, and the girls giggled.
Percival glared at his charges until they quieted down.
“I wrote a drama show about this little angel for us, for everyone,” Daisy said. “It’s called Come, My Little Angel. But I need Mister Taggart’s help to figure it all out. Figure out the parts and the music.”
Though something inside Percival told him not to get the little girl’s hopes up, he nodded. “I can do that. And we’ll need music. Songs for the children to sing.”
“An angel choir!” Cady bounced up and down on her chair. “Oh yes! That will be perfect! I want to sing the solo parts.”
“And an angel orchestra,” Percival added, thinking of the huge task ahead.
Sighs of delight met his words, and the children jumped in with ideas about songs and lyrics. Except for the small group of sixth-level pupils in the back row. They sniffed and snickered and threw superior looks at each other.
“It’s for Red Bud to build a church,” Daisy said during a lull. There was a stubborn set to her chin, as if she expected opposition. “The money we make will be for that.”
She wasn’t wrong. Wilbur and Dwayne groaned. Thaddeus let out a snicker. The sixth-level girls tittered again, with Brooke Knight-Smyth shaking her sausage curls and rolling her eyes at her friends, Emma Jane and Edmonda. The others stared, unbelieving, at Daisy.
“Red Bud needs a church,” she repeated. She clamped her lips and folded her arms as she settled back into her chair to stare back at the others.
Percival held up his hands. “Our class time is nearly over. Let’s get back to our—” Just then the schoolhouse door burst open. A disheveled and angry-looking Abigail James filled the doorway, holding a fussing baby on one hip. She glanced around the room, her gaze skittering across the children’s faces. Then narrowing her eyes, she turned to Percival.
“You, sir—” her soft voice quaked with emotion—“have no right to teach these impressionable minds anything other than fiddlin’ lessons.”
A shocked silence filled the room as she stepped closer. “I plan to speak to the school board. I’m sure they’ll agree it’s high time that you, Mister Taggart, be removed from your position before you can do any more damage to our children. With your drunken history in this community it should’ve been done a long time ago, if you ask me.”
The children gasped, then a sad silence fell upon them all. It almost seemed the children had lost the ability to breathe.
As had Percival. He ripped his gaze from Abigail James’s face and looked instead t
o her daughter. The grief in Daisy’s wet eyes threatened to break his heart.
THE HAIR ON the back of Daisy’s neck stood on end as her mother shooed the other children from the music room. A chill such as this surely meant something bad was about to happen.
“You too, Missy.” Her mother gestured toward the door with her free hand while bouncing Rosie on the crook of her other arm. The baby looked at Daisy with solemn eyes. “Go on now,” Daisy’s mother said. “Out you go with the others.”
Daisy hung her head and moved to the doorway. She stopped once to glance back, her gaze lifting briefly to meet Mister Taggart’s. He gave her a slight nod, and she noticed the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper and sadder than before. It struck her that his face looked like a balloon that somebody had let the air out of.
When she put her hand on the doorknob and hesitated, he said, “It’s all right, Daisy. You go on now, out with the others.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother plant herself squarely in front of Mister Taggart. With a heavy heart, Daisy stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
The children who had been in the music room were now clustered in the play yard between the one-room schoolhouse and the small frame shack that doubled as the music room three times a week and the lunchroom on wintry days. They whispered behind their hands and watched Daisy with curious expressions. She stared back at them, unwilling to think of the shame her mother had just brought upon her, upon Mister Taggart.
Finally, Wren and Cady came closer, almost shyly, and each took one of her hands.
“It’s gonna be all right, Daisy.” Cady leaned her head against Daisy’s shoulder.
Wren squeezed Daisy’s hand. “We’ll put on your drama show anyway. We don’t need Mister Taggart.”
