Come, My Little Angel

by Diane Noble

  The pines above her rustled, and leaning back on stick-straight arms, she looked heavenward. The trees stood tall and strong, like giant sentinels, unwilling to bend in the wind but willing to sing.

  Daisy had changed, but they had not.

  She tried to ignore their music, but it sailed above her, swirled around her, caressed her, comforted her. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the sounds of slender branches as they lifted their needles into the breeze. But try as she might to think otherwise, their soft rustling reminded her of angels’ wings, as though the magnificent beings hovered above her, watched over her, delighted in her.

  At last she gave in to their song, though as the sentinels’ highest branches sang in the wind, the sound was full of sorrow, as if echoing her lost dreams. As if they felt every squeeze and ache in her heart.

  She bowed her head and wept.

  Daisy did not know how long she sat there, her arms circling her knees and her eyes squeezed shut. But the scrunch of feet on the hard, rocky soil behind a stand of pines interrupted her. She turned to see who had followed, surprised at the figure that loped awkwardly toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” She frowned at the boy, truly not wanting to be disturbed until her cry was finished.

  Toby McGowan looked sheepish, his shoulders a thin droop, his stumbling feet the size of snowshoes. He reminded Daisy of a praying mantis, all big gray eyes and long legs.

  “I-I felt bad about what happened with your, ah, y-your drama show.” He sighed heavily and shrugged. “I-I wanted to see if you were all right.”

  At Toby’s stutter, Daisy suddenly felt sorry she had been so curt. “I’m all right,” she said, her voice softer. “Truly.”

  He gave her a quick nod and turned to go.

  “You don’t need to leave. You’ll likely get bawled out if you’re going back to the schoolhouse.”

  “H-home, too.” He met her gaze, then laughed. “B-bawled out there worse’n Miss Penney c-can dish out.” He grinned and stepped closer, almost losing his balance on some slick pine needles. “If it’s all right, I’ll stay.” He sat on a rock several feet away, as if afraid to get too close. “So you got a letter back from the Ringling Brothers?”

  Daisy nodded. “Yesterday. But I don’t care.” She let her gaze drift over his shoulder.

  “You got a real letter from the circus?” His stutter had disappeared, replaced by a tone of awe. “A real live circus.”

  Daisy had been so concentrating on her disappointment, she had not considered that it was truly a wonder that a Mister Ringling cared enough to write back, even if it was not the right Mister Ringling. She nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “Could I see it?”

  She laughed and pulled the wadded-up, wrinkled page from her pocket. She tossed it across the distance between them. Toby missed the throw and turned an embarrassed shade of plum as he reached to retrieve it from the ground.

  He read the letter slowly, mouthing the words. “Th-that’s pretty great,” he finally pronounced. “It’s got a picture of a circus train and everything. Can I show it around?”

  “Since Mister Ringling said no, it’s not good enough to show around,” Daisy said with a shrug. “But I suppose you can if you want to.”

  Toby turned an even darker shade. “I’d be obliged.”

  They sat in silence for a bit. A blue jay scolded from one of the pines. Three others joined in, hopping from a top branch of the tallest pine to a nearby oak.

  “I was a-wonderin’ something,” Toby said by and by. He poked a leafless stick at a pinecone and looked over her shoulder as if studying something in the distance.

  “If it’s about being an angel in the drama show,” Daisy said, making a joke, “the answer’s no.”

  But Toby did not laugh. “Why don’t you put on the show anyways?”

  Her laugh came out a snort. “If I can’t get folks to help out now—not even to come to tryouts—I sure can’t get folks to come see it.”

  He was looking straight at her now. “It’s a good drama show, Daisy. I’ve been listening every day when you and Wren and Cady talk about it in music class. You made up a good story.” He looked away again.

  “Thank you.” His words touched her, though she could not figure out why.

  “I think you ought to go ahead. P-put it on, I-I mean.”

  Daisy started to laugh, then stopped. “You mean just for fun?”

  He nodded. “D-don’t worry about who comes or who doesn’t. Or even who’s in it or who isn’t.” He leaned forward, his large eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Let folks try out. It wouldn’t matter if they aren’t perfect for the part.” He busied himself examining a hole in the toe of his shoe.

  “Like for the littlest angel?”

  He nodded, still worrying with his shoe.

  “I always had it in mind that one of the youngest children at school might play that part. Maybe even my sister Violet.”

  “Y-you especially don’t want someone too t-tall,” Toby said. “Or someone who trips all the t-time.” He poked at his shoe with the stick. “Or someone who stutters.”

  “You still want to be the star angel?” The words fell out of Daisy’s mouth before she could retrieve them.

  He looked up and nodded vigorously. “I’d be the best angel ever! Honest, I would.”

  For a minute Daisy just stared at boy across from her. She had pictured a much different angel to star in her play, someone dainty with a bell-like voice; someone who could sing. Why, heaven only knew what Toby’s singing voice was like! She let out a deep sigh. For all she knew he might screech like a cricket.

  She felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the first beginnings of a smile. If Toby was the only one who cared about her drama show, then he should definitely have the starring role.

  “You can be the angel,” she said at last. “The star angel.”

  He looked at her, mouth open, eyes wide. “Really?”

  “Really. But nobody else will likely be in the play. And worse than that, nobody may even come.”

  He was standing now, grinning ear to ear and looking more awkward than ever. She thought he might clap his hands and dance a jig, so she was glad when he just let his big gray eyes dance. Likely he would have tripped on his snowshoe feet and tumbled head over heels down the hillside into a thicket of poison oak.

  Percival Taggart was packing up his music, placing books and stands in boxes, when a tap sounded at the door. His letter of resignation was written, signed, and tucked in his breast pocket. As soon as he cleared the music room of his things, he planned to head to the home of Lester Knight-Smyth, the director of Red Bud’s schoolhouse board. He did not have peace about his decision, but he was too tired to fight any longer. He planned to leave Red Bud as soon as possible and not look back.

  The tap sounded again, and Percival rose from the piano bench to answer it. Before he had taken three steps, the door pushed open, slowly.

  “Toby?” He was surprised to see the boy.

  “I-I have a qu-question, M-mister Taggart.”

  “Come in, come in.” He smiled to put the child at ease and nodded to a folding chair. Toby headed toward it, stumbled a bit, then settled onto the seat with a sigh. The chair tilted precariously then righted itself.

  Percival sat opposite the boy. “What can I do for you?”

  The boy thrust a wadded-up page toward him, biting his lip nervously as he dropped it onto Percival’s palm. “I-I thought maybe you ought to see this.” Immediately, Toby looked down at his feet.

  Percival smoothed the paper, then held it to the light of the window. He frowned as he read, then looked up to meet the boy’s gaze.

  “This is what prompted Daisy to cancel her play?”

  “Yes, sir. Sh-she had hoped for the Ringling Brothers to help with the tent. Maybe even bring some o’ their circus animals to help bring f-folks to her drama show. Everybody at school’s been talkin’ about it. That’s what made the letter so h
ard. Now folks are teasin’ and makin’ fun of Daisy.”

  Percival’s heart twisted at the thought of such cruelty heaped on Daisy’s shoulders, especially considering the disappointment she had already borne. He handed the letter back to the boy.

  Surprisingly, Toby did not take it. “I-I wondered if maybe, well, ju-just maybe you might help us.”

  Percival shrugged. “Toby, there’s not much anyone can do at this point. I’m leaving town at the end of this term. I’m sorry. I won’t be here if you’re asking me to help with the music, with the play’s production.”

  “You’re leavin’?” Toby looked at him squarely in the face. “You mean, for good?”

  Percival did not answer.

  “Because of the things that Red Bud folks are sayin’ about you?”

  “For a number of reasons.” It was impossible to explain it to a child. How would he explain about his disappointments in himself and others? About the fears that plagued him. About stumbling worse that even Toby could imagine. About falling and never getting up again… “It’s just for the best.”

  Toby’s lower lip trembled. He tried twice to speak, then finally sat there in sad silence, biting his lip and looking at the floor. “Okay,” he finally said with a sigh. “But we’ll miss you, Mister Taggart.”

  Percival stood to gently dismiss the boy. “I’m sorry, Toby.”

  Toby looked up at him and nodded. “But who will teach me the tuba now?”

  “I’m certain a new music teacher will be found.”

  The child was making his stumbling way to the door. “But not as good as you. You’re the only one who ever taught me anything.”

  Percival thought of the off-key bleats, the sad lack of rhythm in the boy, and felt his own tears threaten. He would like nothing better than to spend the rest of his days listening to Toby’s music. And all the others’.

  Toby reached the door and hesitated a moment before stepping through. “Ab-bout what I-I was going to ask you…”

  Percival leaned against the doorjamb and looked out across the play yard to the schoolhouse and the pines beyond. He sighed… how much he loved this place and its children! His children.

  “I-I was gonna ask…” Toby was still gazing up at Percival.

  “Yes?”

  “You see, I-I asked my pa if’n he and my ma might donate some money for the Ringling Brothers’ tent. They said they had a little bit put away and that they would be happy to help out.”

  The tavern keeper and his wife? Paying for a tent that would bring in money for building a church? Percival grasped a stronger hold on the doorjamb, thinking he might surely fall to the floor in surprise.

  “W-what I was a-wondering was if you might help me write a letter to that ol’ Mister Ringling.” Toby pointed to the letter still in Percival’s hands. “That’s why I got it—though it took some finaglin’ to get this away from Daisy!”

  “You planned this all along?” Percival finally croaked.

  “Y-yes, sir. So now we know where to send a letter back with the money.” Toby’s large eyes held a look of gentle pleading even as his cheeks flushed plum. “Couldn’t you help us get that t-tent?”

  Something inside made him want to tell the boy that maybe it was not too late after all, that maybe dreams did not have to die as long as someone kept them alive. Dreams such as drama shows and circus tents and angels and God’s care for them all…

  But before he could get the words out, Toby McGowan turned and walked away, his thin shoulders in a slump, his gait slow and awkward, and his nose pointed to the ground.

  Percival did not have the courage to call after him.

  Besides, what did it matter? He was leaving town. The children, the drama show… none of those things were any longer his concerns, no matter how much his aching heart wanted them to be.

  PERCIVAL WATCHED TOBY slump from the schoolyard and disappear down the dirt road. Turning back to the music room, he pondered all the boy had said. Sadly, Toby’s parents stood to lose money if they mailed it to the Ringling Brothers circus. Who knew if the Ringling nephew, Orville, was a reliable sort? Might be a flimflam artist, for all they knew. Granted, there was no time to write for verification and get the tent to Red Bud in time for the Christmas play. But neither was it wise to send off a sum of money in the mail.

  Besides, the money the McGowans were contributing, though a large sum in their thinking, likely would not cover the cost of sending a single railroad car one hundred miles. Let alone a half-dozen cars, which was what such a massive tent with all its posts and poles might take.

  He sat heavily on the piano bench again and plinked at the keys absentmindedly. Without realizing what he was doing, his fingers—almost as if unattached to his hand or his heart—began to play “Come, My Little Angel.”

  As he played and hummed, he remembered the first time the melody had entered his thoughts. It had been the same day that Abigail James first came to visit.

  Abigail James. He considered her now. How would she feel to know the tavern keeper’s family was trying to make her daughter’s dreams come true? A dream based on Daisy’s memory of the time her ma sang in church.

  He hit a dissonant chord, then threw back his head and laughed out loud.

  Was this not the way of the Lord? To use the most unlikely people to see His plan to fruition?

  Had God not chosen a young peasant girl to bear his Son? Chosen her to bear and raise the child who was God incarnate, the One who would turn the world upside down?

  Had God not used a rough-hewn shed for the place of his Son’s birth?

  And the shepherds on the hillside! Did only the shepherds deserve such a privilege hear the angels? Or did the angels sing to all people on earth that night?

  He pondered the amazing thought. Could others have heard if their hearts had been tender enough? Open enough?

  Almost unable to bear the glory of the thoughts that rushed like a wild and gentle river into his heart, Percival stood and walked to a window. In the waning light of day, the glow of lights in Red Bud shone through the windows of the plain unpainted houses perched on the hillside and inside the tavern to the side of the square.

  His gaze moved to the small shed behind the tavern, then to the bare land next door where Daisy wanted the church to be built, where she planned to set up the circus tent.

  She was a simple child with a heart tender enough to hear the whisperings of angels in the trees, a heart big enough to dream big dreams that only God could bring to reality.

  Had Daisy been among the simple shepherds that night nearly two thousand years ago, Percival had no doubt that she would have heard the angels’ triumphant shouts of joy, their songs of praise, at the birth of the Savior.

  Oh yes! And likely, she would have lifted her voice in song with them!

  If God could use these simple folk of long-ago to bring about His eternal plan, surely He could use Daisy, the McGowans, and a broken-down old music teacher to set this rough and tumble town of Red Bud on its ear.

  Who was Percival Taggart to try to block God’s mysterious ways?

  He had made it this far without slipping into the gutter again, had he not? Suddenly he felt like laughing.

  Oh yes, my Lord and God! I’ve been so busy looking down and worrying about falling that I haven’t noticed how it was You who kept me upright all along.

  Miss Penney made Daisy stay after school one hour for three days in a row and write on the blackboard 150 times each day:

  I will never leave school again without permission.

  After that, Miss Penney made her scrub the blackboard clean, wash the children’s slates, and stack all thirty-seven blue-backed spelling books neatly on the corner shelf. Last thing before leaving every day, she clapped together Miss Penney’s erasers outside the front door of the schoolhouse until white dust drifted like smoke into the surrounding pines.

  But all along, Daisy’s heart was fairly bursting with song. She chattered with Miss Penney, who did not see
m to mind as long as Daisy kept working while they talked. And she dreamed of her little drama show coming to life.

  By the end of the third day, after so much thinking and singing to herself, it truly did not matter if only a few parents were in the audience, or if only a few children turned up for tryouts and rehearsals. It did not even matter that tall, gangly, stuttering Toby McGowan was the star angel. All that mattered was that her heart was soaring to the heavens once more.

  She fairly danced out the door when her detention ended, heading down the road to the hillside where the drama show would be held.

  Cady and Wren were waiting, sitting on a big boulder, elbows on knees, chins in their hands.

  “You’ll never guess what Toby’s come up with,” Cady said with a grin.

  “What?” Daisy settled onto the boulder beside Wren. Nothing Toby came up with would surprise her anymore.

  Wren nodded toward the whiskey shed behind the tavern. “He’s thinking if we work hard to clean that old place out, we could use it for a stable. That’s where Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus will be in the final scene.”

  Daisy’s heart caught and she frowned. “But it’s got whiskey bottles in it. I mean, we’re talking about the place Jesus was born. It seems, well, sacra… sacra…”

  “—ligious,” Wren finished for her. “Jesus was born in a stable with farm animals.” She wrinkled her nose. “Think about the stink!” With a small grimace, she went on. “Besides, we can clean out the shed and spread hay around. Make it smell nice. No one will ever remember what it’s been used for by the McGowans.”

  Cady’s voice was hushed when she spoke. “There’s something about the drama show that seems… well, different than anything else we’ve ever done.” She knitted her brow in thought. “Everything’s gone wrong. First your ma getting so upset like and bursting in to bawl out Mister Taggart, then him saying he can’t help.” She sighed. “Then the final straw was that the Ringling brothers can’t lend us a tent.” She fell quiet. “But since Toby’s started helping, it’s like he’s a… well…” She looked embarrassed and nibbled her bottom lip. “Well, like he’s a real angel. Always hovering about trying to watch out for others. Especially little tykes in the schoolyard.”