A Merry Little Christmas (Songs of the Season)

by Anita Higman

  Charlie sat down on the bed again and picked up his guitar from the stand. He’d made certain Franny hadn’t seen the instrument when he pulled it out of his trunk. Knowing her love for music, she would have wanted a performance right away, and he still wasn’t satisfied with his playing. It was an art he’d kept to himself mostly out of necessity and from a reticence to perform.

  He popped a Life Saver into his mouth and began picking and strumming, humming his way through one of the Christmas songs he’d written. If only music were something his father loved too. If only he considered music a worthwhile endeavor, an inspired pursuit and not a thorough waste of time. Perhaps if his father had given him even a word of support, he wouldn’t have been so tentative about his music. But how long was he going to blame his father for his own hesitations in life? His own ineptitude?

  Charlie stopped playing when he heard a faint noise. What was that? Didn’t sound anything like a squirrel. He set down his guitar and listened again. It was some kind of howling. Had to be coyotes. What else could it be? A few more of the beasts joined the first one until there was a whole chorus of yelps and howls. Kind of a surreal and lonely sound…but peaceful too.

  He walked over to a window and pulled back the curtains, but the glass was so dirty he couldn’t see outside. After undoing the two latches and pounding on the frame with the heels of his hands, the window budged a little. He slid it open, leaned outside, and looked up at the starry night.

  Thousands of uncountable, dazzling stars filled the sky. It made him think of the night when the shepherds were watching their flocks and a host of angels appeared in the heavens—on a clear bright night just like this one—and made the most important announcement ever made.

  He continued staring, captivated by the sight. The stars couldn’t show off in the city. Too many artificial lights. Charlie took in a deep breath of the brisk air as his musings drifted right back to Franny. None of the women he’d dated in the past could have managed what she’d done. She’d dealt with a tragedy and taken on the burden of a family business even at a young age. And, amazingly, she had done it with an upbeat attitude.

  Charlie memorized the details of the night sky and then shut the window. Maybe he’d practice his tune some more. There was still plenty of time, and he would be able to sleep late in the morning anyway. They’d both worked so hard all day; surely Franny would want an extra hour or two of rest. He gave the ancient radiator a kick to get it started again and then went back to his guitar. But the moment he started strumming, he heard another noise. This time it was a scratching sound, like an animal trying to get in out of the cold.

  The squirrel.

  Or maybe a whole nest of them.

  In spite of the chilled air in the room, perspiration beaded on his scalp, ran down his forehead, and dripped onto his guitar.

  It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Franny sat on her twin canopy bed and swung her legs like she had when she was three. The gentle squeak of the bedsprings comforted her as she absorbed the day’s events. She was used to hard work, bad weather, and rough times, but she’d never had a day so full of hope and possibility. Or a day so full of anyone like Charlie Landau. He was unique and funny, not altogether unattractive, and he stood out like a harp in a field of banjos.

  She liked him. And she’d liked him even before he’d mentioned his family name.

  The only male she’d really gotten to know, for recent comparison, was Derek Mauler, the local vet. She could safely say that it hadn’t worked out well. He’d asked her out on six dates. Each time, he’d taken her to the drive-in for a movie, which was fine, but later, at the drugstore, over her favorite meal of ham-salad sandwiches, chips, and an icy-cold Coca-Cola, Derek had mostly talked about the maladroitness of the local stockyards. Somehow Derek had become enamored with that word in high school, and the two of them—he and that word—had built quite a relationship over the years. So, Derek spent his days ingenuously trying to figure out how to work maladroitness into ordinary conversation so that it came off as natural as wheat in a silo. But no one in the town or the county, including herself, was brave-hearted enough to tell Derek that he had never once used the word correctly.

  Of course, Derek wasn’t a man of only one word. He also had a surplus of commentary on every subject, including his remedy for purging the land of root rot. Not the creamiest way to top the parfait on a romantic evening. But even if Derek had talked about music and city life, he still wasn’t the one for her. Not even close.

  “What a day. What a day.” Franny couldn’t stop saying it, thinking it. She’d prayed for change and it had come. Guess she should have prayed about it a long time ago. Maybe she was too afraid for an answer. “I’m sure there’s a country song in there somewhere.”

  Franny sent a smile up to the Almighty on that one. She thought for sure He smiled back. “Lord, the only thing I can’t figure out is…well, Charlie seems like somebody I’d like to get to know better. Someone I already feel a fondness toward.” In fact, she was feeling so fondly, she almost needed to turn on the watercooler. “So, Lord, why did he have to be the one to give me my freedom?” Franny felt sure God was up to something wonderful. His ways were still quite the mystery to her. But she trusted Him enough to leave it in His hands.

  Franny smooshed her lips between her fingers as if they were bread dough—a habit she found strangely comforting. Hmm. Something Charlie had said, though, niggled its way into her thoughts. He’d mentioned trying to make a profit over the next year. Did that mean he would sell the old place just as soon as he could make a quick buck? Seemed kind of sad to hold onto her family’s land for so long just to sell it to someone who didn’t really care about it.

  Even though she didn’t love the farm as her parents had, she did have an attachment to it, and she would hate to see the farm change hands every year or so. She’d always imagined a small family buying the land—a father and mother who wanted to raise their children here. A family that would want to drop their fishing hooks into the creek together, lean into the ebb and flow of seasons, and choose to stay for a lifetime.

  It’s 1961, Franny. The world is changing. People are changing. She would need to make the mental adjustments or be left behind.

  Franny scrubbed her face clean in the bathroom, slipped on her flannel pajamas, and burrowed under her Eight Maids a-Milking quilt. Back to business. She would need a plan for teaching a city boy how to run a farm. Seemed like Don Quixote’s impossible dream to teach someone in three weeks what it had taken her a decade to learn.

  What to tutor him in first? She started to hum, since it helped her to think. One of the sows was about to have her little ones. Franny would have to ease the mommy-to-be into the farrowing pen. It could be Charlie’s first lesson. Yes. Perfect. That settled it. In the morning, early, before the chickens were up or the roosters were crowing, Charlie could help her deliver the piglets. And maybe she’d remember to take her Brownie camera and shoot photos of it all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Charlie roused for a moment when he heard a sound. What was that noise? Probably just my imagination. He rolled over and smiled. Amazingly, despite the yammering coyotes, the mattress with lumps the size of grenades, and the threat of being dismembered by a pack of wild squirrels, he’d floated off into a long autumn nap. Franny had given him several hundred blankets since the radiator was on the clunky side, and under those covers, he’d slept like a newborn infant. Guess I’d better be careful who I tell that one to. He tucked the blanket under his chin and moaned softly. The sun hadn’t come up yet, so there was still plenty of time for more slumber. Was that a rooster crowing? Too early.

  Just as he sailed away again on the sleigh ride of snoring bliss, there came a rapping at the door. But coyotes didn’t knock. Was he dreaming?

  Then he heard the tap again. And this time it was accompanied by a voice that sounded faintly like Franny. Surely not. No human creature was up at such an unearthly
hour. No rational person did farm chores in the dark.

  “Charlieee.” He heard a voice like a cherub’s whisper through the crevice in the door. “It’s time.”

  Time for what? To get up? She had to be kidding. Charlie tried to shake off the haze of sleep but left the blankets just under his nose. Was Franny humming “Good King Wenceslas” this early in the morning? “Yes? What is it?”

  “It’s the sow, Tutti. She needs a midwife,” Franny said. “And you’re it.”

  Charlie’s chuckle got muffled under the covers. “That’s a good one.”

  A chasm of quiet filled the space between them.

  “Franny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “I always get up this early. Most of the farmers do. It’s the only way you can get all the work done before nightfall.”

  Charlie had to admit that until that very moment he’d harbored a more gentlemanly vision of farming, but Franny was determined to dislodge that refined illusion with a good swift kick out of bed. His plan would not be thwarted by laziness, however, so he threw off his covers, hooked up his overalls, tied up his work boots, and opened the door.

  Franny looked him over and chuckled.

  “What is it now?”

  “You look like you’ve had a squirrel wriggling in your hair all night.”

  Not a good word to wake up to. Maybe he’d used too much Brylcreem. Charlie ran his fingers through his hair and shrugged. “I’m ready. Let’s birth some babies.” It would be the first time in his life he’d gone to work without taking a shower beforehand, but he didn’t think the pigs were going to be concerned about body odor. They had plenty of their own to manage.

  “Well, first you look like you could use some breakfast and coffee. I’ve made eggs and biscuits and gravy.”

  “You did that all this morning?”

  “Always do.”

  While I slept.

  Franny looked chipper and rosy-cheeked and ready to attack the day.

  Charlie grabbed a coat from a box of old clothes and followed her to the farmhouse. He felt ravenous. He had no right to be, since he hadn’t hefted anything this morning, but he knew he could eat everything in sight. She’d already proven herself to be a good cook from the previous evening. Not the gourmet fare he’d grown up with, but hearty and appetizing nevertheless.

  As a matter of fact, what would he do for food when she left? Frozen dinners came to mind, and he shuddered. He could always hire a chef, but where would he or she live? Certainly not in the apartment. He’d have to build a house for his cook. But somewhere in all the expenditures, he was bound to end up in the red. And the whole point of the venture was to make money, not spend it.

  “Are you still cold?” Franny walked so quickly, he nearly had to run to keep up with her.

  “No, I was just wondering what I’d do for food when you’re gone. You’re a good cook, Franny.”

  “Thanks, but you’ll do fine. I had to learn too. My mother taught me some of it, but I’m afraid that when I was younger I wasn’t always paying attention to what she told me. So I made a lot of mistakes. You will too.” Franny turned around and smiled at him.

  It looked as if the sun had already come up in her smile. Charlie loved her face that way.

  Minutes later, they arrived in the kitchen to mounds of steaming food. Charlie pulled out a chair for Franny and encouraged her to sit down. He heaped her plate full of eggs and biscuits and gravy and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She accepted the plate. “I’m not used to anyone serving me.”

  Wish you could get used to it. Wish you could stay a little longer. A lot longer. If she stayed, he would devote his time to finding ways to please her, just to get her face to light up as it had now.

  Charlie sat down but nearly missed the seat.

  They both laughed.

  “You sure I can birth pigs? I can’t even sit down.”

  “You’ll be great.” Franny took a big forkful of eggs. “The babies usually come all by themselves, but sometimes they need a little help. So we’re there in case Mom needs us.”

  Charlie sat so close to Franny that he wished he’d showered. Hopefully he’d have plenty of time later in the morning. Farmers surely took coffee breaks.

  After Charlie scarfed down a second helping of breakfast, they headed to the farrowing house. The morning was so hushed, he could hear his breathing. See it too. His boots crunched on the mud-spackled ground. Although he still felt tired and the hour seemed unnaturally early, the moment was agreeable. The stars were still out, full of audacious glory, the air as crisp as fall apples, and the smell of—his reverie halted at the pungent, stinging odor of hog manure. “That scent. Ohh, that is profane.”

  “My father always said it was the smell of money.”

  Charlie laughed. Sounded like something his father would say, only it would have been accompanied by a colorful expletive.

  The farrowing house turned out to be a small redbrick structure, which held several pen-like metal apparatuses with places for the sows to rest on their sides to birth and feed their young without concern of accidentally stepping on them. The contraption, which appeared to be homemade, looked ingenious. “Did you make these?”

  “My daddy did. He kept experimenting until he figured out this design. He made them himself with his welding machine and metal scraps from around the farm.” Franny showed him the gate and the levers.

  “Looks like an engineering marvel.” Charlie looked down at Tutti, who seemed happy to be there.

  “Daddy would have appreciated hearing that from someone who must be very used to hearing brilliant ideas.”

  “Well, some of the people my father invites to the house are better at being slick than smart.” Charlie grasped the metal railing. “Did your father ever try to get a patent on this device?”

  “No, but it’s a thought.” Franny turned on a heat lamp and angled it toward the sow.

  “At least it’s warmer in here.” Charlie opened his coat. “So what can I do to help? Looks like the work is done. How did Tutti get in this thing, anyway?”

  Franny shrugged, tossing a sheepish grin at him. “I wanted to let you sleep in a bit, so I got up early enough to make sure Tutti was ready to go.”

  Sleep in a bit? He almost laughed. He’d never been up this early in his life. “Next time, though, no matter how sissified I act, get me up to help you. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Now that I’m here, what can I do?”

  “Well, you can help Tutti by keeping her calm. Scratch her behind the ears and talk to her like you’re her friend. This is her first litter, so she might be a little skittish.”

  Charlie knelt down next to the sow’s head, reached over the railing, and stroked her behind the ears. He felt awkward, but he’d get over it soon enough. He didn’t think he’d ever met a pig before—at least not of the hooved variety.

  Tutti seemed to give him an appraisal. She looked dubious of his abilities. You’re not alone with that sentiment.

  Franny added some hay here and there and then knelt down on the other side of the pen. “Why don’t you try whispering to her?”

  Ah yes, sweet nothings. “All right. Let’s see.” He had no idea what he could say to calm a sow during labor, but he’d give it a try. “Tutti, you’re probably thinking this could be the worst of times. But then again, you might be thinking it’s the best of times. Or maybe it’s what you’ve waited a lifetime for. Still. You’re bound to be scared. You might even doubt that you can do this thing.”

  He raised his hands for effect. “Yes, you might even be dealing with a whole slop bucket full of misgivings and insecurities.” Like me. “Trepidation and shilly-shallying.” He rolled his eyes. He was making a mess of things, but Franny urged him on with a nod. “You’re probably even wondering how you got into such a predicament. But there’s good news, Tutti. Yes, good news. Franny’s here. That’s right. She’s h
ere, keeping watch, and I promise, everything’s going to be just fine.”

  Tutti grunted contentedly and then rested her head on the floor.

  When Charlie looked into Franny’s eyes, they were misty.

  “Charlie? That was so…”

  “Yes?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Franny reined in her emotions. “I’m sure Tutti thought that was beautiful, Charlie. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” Charlie’s face shadowed with what looked like disappointment.

  Perhaps he’d wanted her to say how much she’d loved his tender sow soliloquy, but there was no reason to get overly sentimental. She would be leaving for the city in three weeks—the day after Thanksgiving. “I was thinking of the upcoming holiday. I assume you’ll be going home for Thanksgiving. Do you all have a big dinner in the city?”

  Charlie paused and then said, “My father doesn’t really celebrate the day. As far as home goes, I’m wanting to make this farm my new home.”

  Franny had never heard of anyone not celebrating Thanksgiving. She had a hundred more questions about his family life but thought it best to leave the subject alone for now. “Well, then, I’ll make us a turkey dinner you won’t soon forget.”

  “Only if you’ll let me help.”

  Franny nodded, gripped the metal railing, and told herself to get back to business. “By the way, it’s good you’re getting the hang of this.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because just about the time I’m gone, there’ll be another sow ready to have her babies.”

  “Oh?” His smile warped into a grimace.

  Franny grinned.

  “The other sow is also a Yorkshire breed, and she’s an eventempered animal. You shouldn’t have any problems with her. No misgivings or insecurities. No trepidation or shilly-shallying.” Franny hoped Charlie didn’t mind a bit of teasing. “But you need to know that the other sow loves Chuck Berry music.”