If the weather remained fair, Harry promised to take them up on the high ridge to cut down the cedar he’d picked for a Christmas tree. George fussed about going to bed, so eager for the outing he didn’t want to sleep at all. Maude wrapped her shawl around her shoulders as she ventured outside to fetch eggs from the hens. To the east, the sun rose in a burst of pink and golden brilliance and the skies were clear. Frost coated the worn wood of the porch floor and steps. It sugarcoated the brown grass but Maude thought it didn’t feel as cold as it’d been.
The slight breeze rippled across her bare face, chilly but not frigid. It should be a fine day to fetch the tree.
She’d promised a picnic if possible and once inside Maude put together a simple meal they could eat outdoors. She gathered up some of the molasses cookies she baked the day before. Then she sorted the apples and chose three of the nicest to put into the basket with the cookies. Maude cut a pan of cold cornbread into fourths, then fried some of the fresh sausage to round out the picnic. She set three of the sausage patties aside to cool and kept the rest warm on the stove for breakfast. With a few spare moments at hand, she poured a cup of coffee. Maude sat down to savor it and heard Harry’s tread on the stairs. She smiled, aware he’d been roused by either the aroma of coffee or the frying pork. He came into the room, hair still sleep-tousled but dressed.
“Good mornin’” she said. “Looks like it’ll be a good day to get the tree. Is George up yet?”
“Nope,” Harry answered as he leaned down to kiss her. “He’s still sound asleep. Did you bring in the milk?”
Maude shook her head. “Just the eggs,” she said. “I made up a picnic basket for when we go. Weather’s pretty but a bit cool.”
“Just right for bringing home the Christmas tree,” Harry said as he helped himself to coffee. “I’ll do the chores and fetch the milk. After breakfast we can bundle the little man up good and head out.”
They did just that, the three of them, Harry armed with a good hand saw, Maude with a basket over one arm. George held their hands and dangled between them, sometimes lifting up his feet so he could swing in the air between them. “Where is this tree you’ve got spotted?” Maude asked as they headed up hill to the side of the house. The narrow path wasn’t wide enough to go with three abreast so Harry took the lead. “It’s up at the top on the flattest part of the ridge,” he said. “I know it’s a rough climb, Maudie, but it’s a beauty, prettiest cedar you ever saw and just right for Christmas.”
She nodded. The rocky trail ascended up the almost sheer hillside, and footing wasn’t easy. Maude minded each step and watched for George, sandwiched between her and Harry, but the little boy advanced, nimble as a goat. Most of the time she kept close to home, going no farther than the dooryard, so being out in the wider world delighted Maude. Although she didn’t fall behind, she stopped to gawk at the wonder of the woods more than once. The higher they climbed, the more spectacular the panorama spread out below. By the time they gained the top of the incline, Maude could see the farm below. It reminded her of a toy farm set she’d seen once in a Sears and Roebuck catalog. Their rambling house, the huge old barn, and other buildings seemed small from this perspective.
Shoal Creek curved between the hills and fields, the waters sparkling with reflected sunshine. The vista included the railroad tracks as they inched forward from the east and made their way toward town. To Maude’s delight, a train came into view and the high, thin sound of the whistle echoed through the hills. George clapped his hands and pointed. “Train!” he cried and did his best to mimic the whoo-whoo sounds of the steam whistle. Harry chuckled and they stood still to watch until it passed around the bend, the engine puffing white smoke through the funnel into the sky.
A wild gaiety seized Maude and she giggled. The outing into the forest, the season, and the love she carried for her companions brought happiness. She wanted to run through the trees the way she had as a young girl, when she first moved from town and knew Harry. The years since had brought maturity and she’d settled into young adulthood, then marriage, then being a widow. Despite the troubles and losses along the way, most of them recent, she’d found in Harry a companion and the love of her heart. Standing high on the Ozark ridge and gazing out across the wide valley far beyond Shoal Creek, Maude knew she’d never love anyone else the way she did Harry or find the deep, close relationship they shared. We’re made for each other in every way. The notion increased her joy and she smiled at Harry. His eyes lit as if he caught her thoughts and knew them.
Harry grinned and before Maude knew what he was about, he’d managed to put George between them. He lifted the boy up until the kid threw one arm about her neck, the other around Harry’s. Her son’s face burned brighter than the sun with pleasure as he laughed, caught between them. Harry leaned over George to kiss her, a swift peck, and the boy giggled harder.
“Come on,” Harry said, shifting George until the boy rode on his neck, hands on his uncle’s shoulders. “We’re almost there.”
Maude followed him, still smiling as they made their way through a sticker bush thicket. Some of the sticktights clung to her skirt and later, she’d have a job removing them from everyone’s clothing. For now, though, she didn’t mind. They emerged onto the flat ground at the top and a trail cut by generations of wildlife led toward a stand of cedar trees. The vivid green stood out in stark contrast to the drab winter woods. A bright red cardinal swooped down from a higher branch and lit on one of the trees. Maude wished she could have a picture of the vivid color against the softer green and banked it to memory. Above, the sun climbed to the near center of the sky and sunlight lit the scene with brightness. One tree stood out, alone and separate from the others, and before Harry opened his mouth, Maude knew it must be the one they’d come to take.
The trunk stood taller and straighter than most. Prickly green limbs grew outward in a pleasing pattern. No gaps or dead spots marred the natural lines of the cedar. This tree grew upward with branches narrowing from the base to a near-perfect, inverted V at the top. Maude glanced at Harry for confirmation and he nodded. “That’s the one. I knew you’d see it right away. Isn’t it perfect?”
“Yes,” she said. And so are you, my love. She watched Harry take George over to see the tree at close range. “This’ll be our Christmas tree, buddy,” Harry said. Eyes sparkling, the boy repeated, “Kiss-mas tree, kiss-mas tree.” Maude laughed.
“It’ll be his first one?” Harry asked. She nodded. “I doubt he’ll remember it later but he’ll like it fine once we decorate it.”
Harry set the child down. “First thing we need to do is cut it,” he said. “Then we’ll drag it home.”
She opened her mouth to protest, to remind him of the picnic, but he added, “We’ll eat after I cut it. Take George and find a good place to sit while I saw. I want you two well out of the way. It’s not so big but I don’t want anyone hurt, not even a scratch.”
Maude nodded. “C’mon, George, let’s find a place to picnic.” She took her son’s hand and walked away from the stand of cedars. A movement to their far right caught her attention and she pointed in time to show the boy a pair of deer as they leapt over a fallen log with grace. A gray cat squirrel fussed and chattered above their heads and she smiled. They found a good spot beneath an aged oak, sheltered by the massive trunk of the tree. Soft green moss grew beneath the wide branches and offered a soft place to sit. Maude pulled an old, tattered sheet from her basket and spread it on the ground. “Come sit with Mama,” she told George. “We’ll watch Pop cut down our Christmas tree.” They leaned back against the trunk as Harry lay on the ground to saw. The boughs trembled and shook but in a very short time the tree toppled away from Harry and landed. He leapt up with a triumphant grin and wiped his now-grimy hands, sticky with sap, on his overalls. “I’m hungry now,” he announced. “Let’s eat.”
She brought out the cut cornbread and cold sausage. George reached for the meat but she broke the patty into quarters and gave him a pie
ce. The toddler chewed on it but he didn’t seem about to choke so Maude handed Harry his food. She nibbled hers, enjoying the outing more than the makeshift dinner. Her son clamored for a cookie after he’d eaten half the sausage so she gave him one. “These are good, Maudie,” Harry said as he bit into his. He settled back against the tree trunk and she leaned against him. George sprawled across her lap, cheeks red from the chill fresh air, and gummed the rest of the cookie. He’d be sleepy before long and she’d have to haul him home or drag the tree so Maude roused herself. “We’d better go before long. He’ll want his nap,” she told Harry.
“I might want one myself,” he said. He unfolded his legs and stood. Maude noticed he favored his left leg but caught herself before she fussed. If he needed anything, she’d offer later but she didn’t want to spoil the moment. Harry’s eyes sparkled and the lines in his face, too many for such a young man, were relaxed for now. “Let’s go. You might have to carry the little ‘un.”
The return journey took longer and required more care. Going downhill presented dangers and Maude watched each step. After the first few minutes, despite the steep decline, she carried George on one side, the basket on the other. Harry led the way dragging the cedar but he moved slow, cautious not to damage the tree. By the time they reached the yard, his limp was noticeable and the wind blew from the north, much colder than before. “Go on in and warm up,” Harry said. “I’ll knock together some boards so the tree will stand up, then I’ll be in. You might make a pot of coffee.”
“Sure,” Maude said. She would linger but the baby slept, his weight heavy on her shoulder. “I’ll make some soon as I put George down.”
By the time Harry brought the cedar, which seemed much larger now than in the woods, through the front door, she had his coffee waiting. He stood the tree up against the rear wall, well away from the hearth, on the base, with just two boards nailed in an X shape and attached to the trunk. Maude inhaled the cedar aroma, fragrant and fresh, as Harry stepped back. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s big but pretty,” she said. A few bits of dry leaves and twigs were caught among the branches so she began picking them out. Harry sat down in the closest chair and groaned. Maude glanced up and asked, “Is your leg bothering you?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, some, but I’ve got a bad headache that’s worse. Is the coffee ready?”
“Yes,” she told him. “It’s right here. Do you want me to fetch you some aspirin?”
Harry nodded as he accepted the cup from her hand. “Thanks, Maudie.” His earlier good cheer faded as he frowned. He looked more than a little puny so when she returned with the pills, she asked, “Do you feel really bad?”
The frown line between his eyes deepened. “Naw, I’ve felt better but I’m not sick or nothing. It’s just one of the headaches I get, and the aspirin will help. I’ll try to catch a nap between now and chore time. Speaking of naps, where’s the boy?”
Maude patted Harry’s cheek. “He’s upstairs. I didn’t want him to take a chill when you brought the tree inside. The wind’s turned cold.”
“I’ll bring in more firewood in case the weather gets bad,” Harry said. “You plan on decorating this thing tonight?”
She had been but now she changed her mind. “No, I thought we’d do it tomorrow afternoon. How’s that sound?” Harry offered her a faint smile. “Real good, honey, real good. I’ll go cut you some mistletoe in the morning, holly too if you want some.”
The next afternoon, Maude decorated the mantelpiece with holly, careful to keep the shiny green leaves and bright red berries out of George’s reach. Harry hung the mistletoe above the front door and kissed her soundly as soon as it was in place. He hadn’t complained of any pain but she tasted the pungent corn whiskey on his lips so he’d been nipping at Granpa’s old jug. Maude noticed he’d favored his lame leg a good deal all day so she wasn’t surprised he’d doctored it with a bit of liquor. His spirits were good, fueled in part by the moonshine, she thought, but she didn’t say anything. If he was drinking, he likely needed it.
The popcorn she’d popped up and strung the evening before looped over the back of one chair in long garlands. Other strings of dried poke, bittersweet, and elderberries hung in readiness, but Maude planned to hang those far out of George’s reach. She’d carried down the small box with Granny’s heirloom ornaments, hand blown glass pretties handed down over the decades. A set of tin stars and snowflakes Harry brought home from the five and dime in town years ago were in the same container. Last night, she’d searched out any scrap bits of paper and ribbon to make a chain to wrap around the branches the way they had at Silver Moon School. To top the tree, Maude had made an angel last year. Fashioned like a miniature doll, her angel wore a white satin gown, material from a remnant bought in town, and wings starched taut. She also had some dried Queen Anne’s lace and brown-eyed Susan flowers to add to the decorations and a bird’s nest, perfect and empty, to tuck inside a branch.
“Were you going to put candles on it?” Harry asked after he stepped back from the kiss.
“No,” Maude said with genuine horror. Some folks lit their trees with candles but she knew of two house fires begun that way. “It’ll be pretty enough without them.”
“Good,” he said. “It’s dangerous, I think. Does George get to help trim the tree?”
“He can,” she replied. “But I don’t want him around the berries, and would you help me put the angel on first? He could mangle it.”
An hour later, the decorated cedar brightened up the front room. Festooned with all the pretties, it offered the festive cheer Maude needed. More than once, George almost toppled the tree by pushing against it, enchanted with the novelty of having the forest inside the house. He ate most of one popcorn string, pulling each kernel from the garland, and Maude hoped it wouldn’t make him sick. When she told Harry, he laughed. “If he gets the bellyache, it’ll be from the four molasses cookies he sneaked when you were hanging stuff on the tree, Maudie, not the bit of popcorn.”
“He didn’t!” Maude cried. Harry put his arm around her. “Oh, yeah, he did.” But despite his indulgence in the sweets, Harry sat and stared at the decorated tree with a combination of awe and confusion. After a simple evening meal of pancakes, the three of them admired the Christmas tree and sang a few carols. Maude danced with her son in her arms, whirling and twirling the waltz steps she’d learned as a child in town. She wished she could dance with Harry but he coaxed Strauss’ “Blue Danube Waltz” from the piano so she waltzed with George who giggled.
Eyes closed, Maude remembered the first time she heard the music at Silver Moon School. Miss Randleman could and did play classical music to bring culture to her students. With his ear for music, Harry’d been an apt pupil. She’d danced with him and shocked their classmates, surprising herself with her own natural grace. Maude counted her steps—one, two, three, one two three—as she made the turns. When the music came to an abrupt halt, she stopped. Harry lifted George from her arms. “He’s asleep,” he explained. “Now it’s our turn to dance.”
He put the sleeping child on the sofa and covered him with a quilt. Harry took Maude into his arms and they waltzed without any music as the tune echoed through her head. Despite an occasional hitch in his bum leg, they sailed around the room in graceful rhythm and for Maude, the large, bare room in the old farmhouse vanished. She twirled in Harry’s arms through a ballroom of her imagination, someplace she’d never seen but in pictures and those rare. Maude dreamed up a wide room with beautiful black and white tiles on the floor and golden tapestries hung from the walls. Princes and their consorts, dukes and their duchesses danced beside them, and the scent of soft pine mingled with roses in the hall.
She became someone else, a titled lady or a fairy-tale princess for those moments and basked in the glow of dreams. Her plain, ordinary housedress became a gown made from the finest silk or satin, edged in lace. Every flounce and furbelow trimmed the imaginary garment and she could all but feel the sw
ish of the rich cloth against her legs. Although Harry offered more than the average man’s share of romantic moments, this one ranked high and Maude knew she’d keep this memory forever. She’d talk about it to her daughters and granddaughters if she had any, the story preserved and pressed into her heart like flowers in a memory book. Only toward the end of their dance did she realize Harry had hummed the tune throughout, so the music wasn’t just in her head.
Jamie would’ve never done this. He’d said it was hug-dancing and wrong, sinful. If I danced alone, he would’ve mocked me, laughed, and told me to stop being so silly. He didn’t have a dream in his head, I don’t think. For a moment, Maude felt a pang at her thoughts and wondered if she was disloyal. She considered it and decided no, she recognized reality. And the truth wasn’t wrong, it just was. Then she put Jamie, poor dead Jamie, out of her mind and waltzed with Harry, living a dream and feeling a rush of love powerful enough to shoot them to the stars. Maude had never danced with such joy. No wonder they call it tripping the light fantastic!
When they stopped, Harry released her and then bowed to her, courtly as any fine gentleman might. His words confirmed he’d shared a similar fantasy as they waltzed. “Thank you for the dance, my dear lady,” he said. His grin fired her happiness like a match to a candlewick and she laughed, her finger tracing the outline of his mouth. With the fanciest pose she could strike, Maude replied, “You’re most welcome, sir. Dare I hope for the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening?”
“You may,” he said. Then Harry stopped playacting and pulled Maude against him. He kissed her, a deep slow caress with his mouth. His lips teased and tickled and cherished as heat flamed between them, potent as moonshine. Maude wasn’t a drinker. She’d had no more than a little hard cider, twice, and once a half glass of homemade Muscat wine but she recalled the sense of warmth, the slight giddy feeling that came after drinking. Harry’s kiss infused her with something similar and intoxicated her senses. He poured all his love into the kiss and she drank it deep, then gave it back. He didn’t hurry the kiss and his arms lingered around her but there was no hurry, nothing pressing. After a long, comfortable span, he sighed with contentment. “You’re the eighth wonder of the world, Maudie,” Harry said. “I’m not much good with words and I don’t say it pretty or often, but I love you, woman.”
Valley So Low Page 8
