by Diane Noble
Wren coughed and choked at the same time. “Toby?” Her voice came out in a squeak. “Toby McGowan?”
Cady nodded. “Now that Daisy’s made him the star angel, it’s like he’s trying to act like one for real.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “He’s got a long ways to go. I can’t imagine anyone more unangelic.” She leaned forward. “There are the real angels who are majestic and filled with light. And there are the baby cherubs painted on Christmas cards. Neither type resembles Toby.”
Daisy pictured the boy, all gangly legs and gray eyes. She held up her hand. “It doesn’t matter. He’s playing the part. That’s all. It means a lot to him.”
Wren frowned again. “So far we’ve got Toby as the star angel and the three of us in the choir. No music or instruments.” She glanced across at Daisy and waited.
Daisy tried not to dwell on the fact that nobody seemed to care. She smiled gently at her two friends. “We’ll hold tryouts tomorrow after school. Whoever shows up will get a part.”
Cady leaned forward, looking worried. “What if they’re terrible? What if people laugh at us… especially at Toby?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Daisy lifted her chin. “We’re putting on the drama show anyway. They can laugh if they want, even Brooke Knight-Smyth and the others.”
“And they likely will,” Wren said. “Get prepared.”
“I just don’t want them to hurt Toby’s feelings,” Cady said. “I feel sorry we laughed at him that first time he said he wanted to be the star angel. It’s a mighty fine thing to see someone as excited as he is over a part in a drama show.”
Daisy stood and reached her hands out to her two friends. “Now,” she sighed, turning with Cady and Wren in a slow circle until they stopped and faced the front of the pretend theater. “If we hold our play here just as we’d planned before, we’ll put the stage over there.” She nodded toward the whiskey storehouse. “Most of the story takes place in heaven, but we’ll need the shed for baby Jesus, the manger, and the animals at the end.”
“Animals?” Wren’s laugh came out a snort. “The only kind we’ve got up here are mule deer and grizzlies. That would hardly be fitting for something that happened in the Holy Land.”
“They’ll go right along with an angel that’s no more fitting than the wildlife then.” Daisy laughed. “We’ll just use some cardboard cutouts of sheep and cattle.” She pictured it and smiled, looking up into the tops of the tallest pines. “And we’ll pray for an Indian summer so’s the paint won’t run.”
“And the audience won’t freeze,” Cady added.
Wren scrunched her brow. “If we hold the play in the daytime, it will be warm enough to seat everyone out here in the forest. And it’s not so farfetched to pray for warm weather. Our nor’westers don’t usually hit till after Christmas. That’s a well-known fact about California.” She took a few steps forward. “We’ll put the stage right where we’d planned to before. And the rows and rows of chairs.”
“And we’ll fill them, you’ll see.” Cady’s voice did not sound as confident as her words. “We’ll have everyone in the play sell tickets. They’ll have to promise.”
“Twenty-five cents apiece,” Wren said. “I’ll be in charge of the money, if you like.”
“Maybe that’s too much,” Daisy said. She thought how much flour and yeast that would buy for her ma’s bread. “Since we’re not planning to use the money to build a church, maybe we should let people come free.”
“You don’t want to build the church now?” Wren knitted her eyebrows tight.
“It just wasn’t meant to be. You said so yourself. If we can’t get anyone to be in the play, how can we get anyone to come watch?”
“Let’s leave that to decide until after tryouts.” Wren grabbed Daisy’s left hand, and Cady grabbed the right.
Hand in hand, the three girls marched up the mountainside toward Red Bud square. “Come, my little angel,” they sang in unison, “put your halo on straight… boy of one bird egg, of some puppy hair… Come, my little angel…” Almost as one, they straightened imaginary halos and raced along the dirt road called Main Street.
Percival heard the murmurings around school the next morning about the tryouts long before Daisy stood to announce the event in music class.
“This is your last chance—” she tipped her chin—“today following the spelling test. Right out here in the school yard.”
“Who’s in it so far?” Brooke Knight-Smyth looked innocent enough as she asked, but Percival knew the meanness that was likely behind the question.
“We’ve got three in the angel choir so far,” Daisy said. “And our star, the littlest angel.”
“Who are they?” Brooke’s tone was demanding and lofty at the same time.
Daisy lifted her chin higher. “Cady O’Leary, Wren Morgan, and me in the choir.”
The music class all chattered and sighed and spoke at once. “Who’s the littlest angel?” was finally called out by one of the big girls in back.
“Who is it? Who is it?” someone else yelled.
Percival finally cleared his throat and raised one hand. “Let Daisy finish, class! Please! Let’s have it quiet.”
Daisy’s cheeks flushed, but she kept her head held high. “It’s Toby McGowan. He’s our star angel.”
A moment of stunned silence fell over the room, then Brooke snickered. “C-co-come, m-m-my l-l-lit-tle a-a-ang—”
“That’s quite enough!” Percival shouted above the laughter.
Toby’s head was down, and he looked ready to cry.
“Class, you are dismissed. Brooke, I want you to stay after. The rest of you may wait in the school yard. You will be needed again shortly.”
Subdued, his pupils marched toward the door then exited to the play yard. Except Brooke, who stood by the piano, waiting.
He strode across the worn oak floor and looked down at her. “That was mean and uncalled for.”
“What was?” She raised a brow and tossed him a haughty look.
“You know what I’m talking about—making fun of someone else’s malady.”
The girl gave her curls a toss and narrowed her eyes.
“I expected better from you,” he continued, ignoring her look of challenge. “You have two choices.”
“My father won’t stand for this! Especially coming from you, the town dr—”
“Your father will not be happy to hear about your behavior. From me or from Miss Penney.”
She stared at him without so much as a single blink. “So what are my choices?” Her tone was insolent, but he let it pass.
“You can help Daisy with her play, or you can write a ten-page composition about the feelings of others when they are humiliated with teasing remarks. And you will read it in front of the class.”
She stared at him for a moment, then her shoulders sagged. “I’ll help Daisy James… but it’s not because I want to.” She gave an offended sniff.
“That’s not all.”
Now she was glaring again. “There’s something else?”
“You will apologize to Toby. Right now, in front of the others.”
“I have to do both? Apologize and help with the play?”
“Take it or leave it.” When she looked down, he knew he had won. “Let’s ask the class to return.”
“I suppose you’re going to make me do that, too.”
He smiled. “That’s not a bad idea. Please invite your school chums to come in. And do it nicely,” he added when he saw her fresh glare.
She marched to the door and flung it open with a bang. “Mister Taggart requires that you all return at once,” she said in a lofty tone. “And no dillydallying.”
Percival swallowed another smile. “Thank you, Brooke.”
The children filed in and stood before him in small silent clusters, looking uncertain. Toby’s eyes were red-rimmed, and he sniffled loudly.
“We have two announcements to make,” Percival announced solemnly. “Miss Knight
-Smyth will make the first.”
Brooke stood without speaking for a full minute, nibbling her bottom lip until it turned white. Finally, she stared at the children, keeping her gaze from Toby. “What I did…” She blinked, looking like she might cry from humiliation. Percival had to wonder if she had ever been made to apologize before. She cleared her throat and began again. “Well, what I said to, ah, Toby McGowan a few minutes ago… well, actually I didn’t say it to him. I was, ah, what I did, I mean…” Her shoulders sagged again, and even her curls seemed to droop.
Percival did not want to help her out of her stew, but he said, “Go on,” keeping his voice somewhere between stern and gentle.
With a long sigh, she finally glanced toward Toby, whose cheeks had turned a few shades beyond their usual shade of plum. He stared at the floor.
“I’m trying to say I’m sorry.” Now big tears welled in her eyes, and a few sighs of amazement rose from the children standing in front of her. “Toby, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” Without waiting for the boy’s response, she marched to the door, threw it open with another bang, and ran from the music room.
Utter silence reigned. All the children stared at the open door, then slowly, one by one, turned toward Toby.
But he did not seem to realize he was the center of attention. Mouth gaping, he looked after Brooke, who was howling theatrically on the play yard.
“Well, then.” Percival smiled at the children as if Brooke’s scene were as ordinary as any other they might witness during their school day. “Let’s continue, shall we?” When they seemed too stunned to answer, he added, “Now, where were we?”
Daisy raised her hand.
He nodded. “Daisy?”
“You were about to tell us the second thing.”
He chuckled. “Oh yes, that.” He waved a hand at the chairs. “Please, sit down. This may take a while.” He walked to the piano and picked up some papers, shuffled them a bit, then sat on the piano bench and again faced the children.
Still surprisingly quiet, they watched him, openly curious.
“As you may have heard, Daisy James has written a play titled Come, My Little Angel.”
Daisy’s eyes grew round, and she exchanged a glance with her friends Cady O’Leary and Wren Morgan.
A few of the children acknowledged that, yes, they’d heard about Daisy’s drama show.
He shuffled the papers again, then met Daisy’s curious gaze.
“We have only a few weeks until the day of the play.”
“We…?” Daisy squeaked. “We?”
“I have written out the parts, based on Daisy’s story. We have a dozen major roles, all speaking. Some are angels, some shepherds, the wise men, Mary, Joseph…”
“And the Christ child…” Daisy breathed softly. “Don’t forget Him.”
Percival smiled at her again. “I haven’t.” He turned to the children. “We have songs to learn, ladies and gentlemen. Beautiful lyrics composed by Daisy James. And music I’ve composed that I hope will live up to her words. We haven’t much time, so you will need to practice hard, starting tonight. Tryouts for the speaking parts will begin tomorrow.”
Now the children were whispering behind their hands, gazing at him with huge eyes.
“There’s one more thing.” He waited until he had their full attention. “You may have heard rumors that I am leaving. That a new music teacher will be taking my place at the end of the term.”
Their quick nods and worried expressions confirmed he was right.
He turned on the piano seat and, letting his fingers travel over the keys, he settled into the first few chords of “Come, My Little Angel.”
Grinning and still playing, he let his gaze rest on his pupils. “That, my children, is simply not true.” Throwing back his head, he laughed. “And it won’t be true anytime soon.” He nodded once, hard. “Now, sing with me please.” He nodded again to the beat. “One, two, three… ‘Come, my little angel…’”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Abigail saw Orin and the boys off to work with a quiet anger that simmered to the point of boiling. They were too young, Alfred and Grover, to be kept laboring from dawn till dark. She wanted them in school, so they could better themselves. That had been her agreement with Orin. Now this. One blunder and their lives were forever changed. How could Alfred better himself with a pick in one hand and a stick of dynamite in the other? And how could Grover do anything with his life if he spent it sweeping filings in the machine shop?
She stood at the picket gate and watched until the three figures faded into the ashen dawn.
The boys were restless, too. Each night it seemed worse. Last night Alfred had little to say, he just sat sullen and silent, staring into the popping fire. He brightened briefly when Grover suggested they play a trick on their foreman and trade places. With Alfred’s protective mask, Grover had pointed out, no one would be the wiser. Besides, he could hammer sticks of dynamite into the tunnel as well as the next man.
After Orin lectured the two on the ridiculous nature of the jest, they had again fallen into moody silence. Something needed to be done. And quickly.
Abigail turned from the gate to head into the house. Lately it seemed the burden of caring for her children pressed so heavy on her shoulders she scarce could make it through her days.
Reaching for the worn handle at the back door, she pulled the door open and stepped into the kitchen. Daisy stood at the stove measuring coffee into the top of the blue-speckled pot. She smiled at Abigail, all mussed and rosy with sleep, waiflike in her hand-me-down chenille robe and worn nightgown, with a pair of her father’s woolen socks sagging around her ankles.
“Use a scant amount, child,” Abigail said, nodding toward the coffeepot. “The can is getting low.”
“I know, Ma.” The child stirred in another half tablespoonful as she adjusted the damper on the old stove.
“Your sisters are still asleep?”
Daisy nodded. “Even the baby.”
“You’re up early, honey,” Abigail said. “Not that I’m unhappy to have your company.”
Daisy turned from the stove to join her mother at the table. “I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.” There was an expression akin to fear in the child’s face, and it surprised Abigail.
“What is it, child?”
Daisy met her gaze and nibbled on the tip of her braid, as if considering what to say next. The only thing she seemed willing to let out was a long, soft sigh.
Abigail’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “What is it you have to tell… or ask?”
“It’s about Mister Taggart…”
Abigail held up a hand. “I really don’t want to talk about Mister Taggart. He’ll be leaving Red Bud soon anyway.”
Daisy let the plait fall to one shoulder, but she kept her blue-eyed gaze fixed on Abigail’s face. “I need to tell you what’s in my heart, Ma.” The child’s voice was soft, and Abigail could not find it within herself to stop her.
Daisy leaned forward earnestly. “He’s helping with my drama show. He’s not leaving Red Bud. He told us so.”
“He may think his job is se—” Her tongue stopped its waggling when she saw her daughter’s face fall. There were over a hundred signatures on the petition she had handed over to the school board. Though no one knew it, least of all Mister Taggart, he would be asked to resign his position and leave Red Bud before Christmas.
“Ma, he’s agreed to help me with the music and help the others with their parts, picking out who should play what. And he’s written some beautiful songs.”
Her heart twisted. “About angels, am I right?”
“It’s the drama show I wrote. The one about the little angel in Violet and Clover’s storybook.”
Abigail did not want to be harsh with Daisy, but neither did she want to prolong this folderol about the unseen world. She did not believe in heavenly hosts and guardian angels any more than she believed in fairy tales. Life was hard enough without mixin
g woolgathering into a child’s pliant mind. She should have burned the picture book about angels long ago.
“It’s going to be beautiful, Ma.” Daisy’s eyes brightened. “You should hear the music Mister Taggart wrote to my words.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, child,” Abigail said gently. “I remember how disappointed you were after you heard from the Ringling Brothers. I don’t want you to be disappointed again.”
“Even if no one comes, I don’t care.” She tilted her chin a bit stubbornly.
“It’s enough just to hear people speaking my words and singing my songs.”
Abigail reached for her daughter’s hand. “But you do care, Daisy. I can see it in your eyes.”
Daisy swallowed hard. “The only one I care about coming, really, is you.”
Abigail squeezed her daughter’s fingers. “Child, you must understand that as much as I want you to follow your heart’s desire, I would be remiss if I didn’t protect your heart from harm.”
“But… but there’s no harm in this, Ma.” Daisy looked ready to cry. “You’re telling me you won’t come, aren’t you?”
What she had to say was harder than that, but it was for Daisy’s own good in the long run. She kept her voice gentle. “I mean that Mister Taggart is going to be asked to resign his post, child. I’ve already talked to the school board. They have looked long and hard at his past record, and they have concluded that it is best for all the children if he leaves at the end of the term.”
Big tears filled Daisy’s eyes. “No!” she whispered. “It can’t be!”
“I wasn’t going to tell you, honey, until it was announced at school. But I think it’s wise for you to be prepared.”
