A Merry Little Christmas (Songs of the Season)

by Anita Higman

  Flashbacks of being with Charlie those three weeks began frolicking through her head. Even though there was a bittersweetness that went with them, one by one she let the scenes play. Like the time they’d helped the sow birth her piglets, and when they were fishing side by side. When they took their TV trays into the living room and watched The Ed Sullivan Show. The times Charlie played Christmas carols on his guitar, and when they listened to all their favorite records—folk, doo-wop, gospel, and rock and roll.

  She was into some serious reminiscing when the young woman next to her asked, “Would you please pass the salt?”

  “Sure.” Franny handed her the shaker.

  “Thanks.” The woman wiggled in her seat.

  “You’re welcome.” When Franny tried going back to her sweet memories it was useless. Now she was distracted by the woman’s skirt, if a person could call it that. She wore black slick boots up to her knees, and a red cashmere top that showed her midriff! Her mother would have found some extra material to sew over that bare tummy right away. And wasn’t she freezing in that thing?

  Franny glanced around. No one else seemed concerned about the woman’s apparel. Guess she’d been living in the dark ages out at the farm.

  While Franny went back to sipping her root beer, a man strutted out of the back room wearing a paisley shirt, a jade-colored sleeveless tunic, and a plaid fedora. The man was a walking carnival. Franny tried not to let her mouth fly open at the sight.

  The man leered at the woman who was half-dressed and said, “How ya doing? I’m Arnold, the owner of this fine establishment.”

  Since the young woman didn’t run the other way, the owner rewarded her with an exaggerated wink.

  Surprisingly, the woman winked back.

  My goodness gracious.

  Arnold took one of the silver bells off the aluminum Christmas tree near the counter, jingled it, and then set it next to her.

  The woman grinned.

  Then he slid the stack of donuts over to her and leisurely removed the glass dome lid. “On the house for such a pretty lady. Your pick.”

  Hmm. Perhaps you ought to pick up some of that drool while you’re at it, Arnold.

  “No thanks,” the woman said, wiggling in her seat. “I’m watching my figure.”

  At that point, anyone could read old Arnold’s mind—he was watching her figure too. To his credit he didn’t say it out loud, but Franny couldn’t believe the owner would be so intimate with a woman who appeared to be a complete stranger to him. Didn’t he have any sense of propriety? Guess not. And on another level, Arnold certainly hadn’t offered her a free donut. In fact, he didn’t even tip his silly hat at her or acknowledge her presence.

  At thirty-three, maybe I’m getting old. Franny hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about her appearance or her age. She’d always been too busy with the garden and the animals to think about such things. But now with some time on her hands she wondered…and her wondering was as entertaining as a meat hammer on the toe. If Charlie was forever out of her life, would love pass her by altogether? Would she never have a husband or family? She hadn’t been to the doctor in years. Maybe she was getting too old to conceive.

  First things first, Franny. At the moment she didn’t even have a job. A little surge of panic trickled through her. Even though Arnold seemed far from the ideal employer, she blurted out, “Are you hiring any waitresses?”

  Arnold sighed and turned his attention to Franny. “Yeah, I am. Why? You need a job?”

  “Yes, I really do.”

  Arnold went into the details of the position and what he expected, and since she was in agreement, she filled out a job application and handed it to him.

  Arnold glanced over the paperwork. “All right. See you at seven in the morning.” He pointed at his eyes and then at hers. “Seven sharp.”

  “I’ll be here. Thanks.” Franny opened the door to the rest of the day, grateful to have some work. The rain had stopped, but it had left puddles of mud and patches of sloppy grass everywhere. Franny stepped off the sidewalk, trying to avoid getting wet, but as she made her way across the street a car drove by and splashed her dress and hat with dirty water. She let out a yelp, yanked off her hat, and slapped it against herself over and over. “Oof!” Now her clothes were filthy, and they were her best.

  Someone honked at her from behind. “Hey, watch where you’re going, lady. Coulda run over ya.” The man cruised on by, but not before giving her an ugly look and letting his car backfire right in front of her, nearly making her jump out of her skin.

  Franny got back into the safety of her pickup, slammed the door shut, and rested her head against the steering wheel. She’d need to find a motel before it got dark. Time to go. She started the engine, and just as she was motoring along again, her pickup sputtered. And then it died. No, not now. She turned the wheel as best she could toward the curb. She’d landed in a residential area, but she had no idea where she was. Not a good time for the pickup to break down, but at least it wasn’t raining.

  Franny checked the gas gauge, but the fuel looked fine. She got out, lifted the hood, and looked over the basics. Could be the alternator or a bad fuel pump or a myriad of other problems, but she just wasn’t sure enough of herself when it came to the mechanics of her pickup to try to fix anything. She would need to find a garage.

  Something wet splashed on her forehead. Rain? She looked upward. There was one cloud left in the sky—and it dangled right above her.

  The full force of the day hit her. No dream. No home. No Charlie. The pickup was busted, and it was starting to rain. Again. It could not get any worse. How could she have sold the only home she’d ever known? She didn’t love farming, but she didn’t hate it either. She’d taken it all for granted—the inheritance that her parents entrusted to her. She’d swept it away with her own hand. Not from bankruptcy or idleness, but for a childish pipe dream that could go nowhere.

  Oh, dear God, what have I done? I sold my livelihood. My heritage. All for some mad fantasy. I acted so silly when I was a teenager, and now I see remnants of that in me still. Guess You’ll need to send a miracle to get me out of this one.

  A train roared by the neighborhood, blowing its whistle. The blaring horn startled Franny, making her lose her balance. She tried to grab onto the front of the truck, but to no avail. She swung her arms to regain her equilibrium and then screamed for good measure. But all her efforts to slow her descent to the ground were in vain. With visions of white polka dots dancing in her head, Franny fell facedown into the mud. Oh, Lord, that’s not what I meant by a miracle!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Franny had reached the summit of emotional readiness for a good oldfashioned cry. Or as her mother used to call it—a fit of bawling. The city had officially lost all its luster. Living near Hesterville, out in the middle of nowhere, was looking better by the minute.

  “Lord, have mercy,” Franny heard a woman say just above her. The stranger took hold of Franny’s arm and helped her out of the muck.

  Franny took her momma’s handkerchief from her pocket, wiped the mud from her eyes, and blinked back into awareness. The stranger, an older woman, wore a plain print dress, and her face was as smooth and richly hued as coffee.

  “Oh, child, how did this happen to you?” the woman asked.

  “I’ve just had the most pitiful day of my life. And to make matters worse, I am completely out of good sense.”

  “Well, I don’t have much to spare, but I’ll loan you some of mine. How about coming inside, and I’ll help clean you up. I’m Noma Jefferson.”

  “I’m Franny Martin. Thank you. I’m so grateful to you.” She reached out to shake her hand but then thought better of it. She certainly didn’t want to cover her benefactress in more mud.

  The woman escorted Franny up to her front door and then into her small entry. It looked to be an old house, as far as Franny could tell through all the filmy mud in her eyes, but it was kept up well and tidy with bits of homey furnishings
.

  “Why don’t you leave your shoes at the front door and then come on back into the bathroom? You can clean up in there, and I’ll give you one of my old housedresses to put on. How about that? And then later I’ll have Thomas have a look at your truck. He’s my neighbor, and he’s the best mechanic on this side of town.”

  “Thank you, Noma. I don’t know how to repay you.” Grateful tears filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks, mingling with the mud. “Actually, I can pay you. I do have some money, and I’d really like to—”

  “Shh, now, there’s no need for talk like that.” Noma touched her shoulder. “It’s all right.”

  Noma guided her to the bathroom, where Franny cleaned up and slipped on the housedress before finding Noma in the kitchen with two bowls of beef stew. Her kitchen was small and simple but friendly, and it smelled of fresh homemade bread. The best kitchens always did. There were warm touches like the gingham napkins and tablecloth and a crocheted wall piece just like her momma used to make. And right in the middle of the kitchen table was a tiny manger scene. Franny already felt at home.

  “Here, now, sit and eat. You’re going to be bones and blow away if you don’t.” Noma set a loaf of bread on the table and sat down.

  Franny took a seat opposite Noma. “You are my good Samaritan.”

  “Now, now. I feel blessed for doing it. Let’s pray.” Noma folded her hands, pressing her knuckles together in a fervent gesture of supplication. “God bless this day, this food, and this fellowship. Take care of Your servant Franny. Hold her steadfast in Your precious hands, which were pierced for our sakes…for our deliverance from this life and into Your glorious presence. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Franny picked up her spoon. As she studied her rescuer, she saw that she was younger than she first imagined, maybe early fifties. Her long hair was dappled with gray and done up in braids around her head as if a crown of laurels. And it was easy to tell that Noma Jefferson had peace like a river running through her veins. Wouldn’t need more than five minutes in her presence for anybody to sense that about her.

  Noma dipped a hunk of bread into the stew. “While you were cleaning up, I washed your dress in the sink and hung it out to dry. It should be all right in the morning.”

  Franny bit her lips to keep from getting emotional again. The act of washing out her dress reminded her of something her momma would have done, and she realized then how much she’d missed the affectionate attention of an older woman in her life.

  “You look hungry. Eat up now.”

  Franny dipped her bread in the thick stew and took a bite. “Homemade. Ohhh.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying it. It was my momma’s recipe. She could have cooked circles ’round any of those fancy chefs, enough to make ’em dizzy. That is, if she’d been given half a chance.”

  Franny sensed there was much more behind her comment, but since Noma didn’t volunteer any more information, she let it go. “Well, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Thanks.” Noma dug in with gusto as if she were truly hungry.

  “Earlier, you asked me how I came to be here like this.” Franny looked at Noma. “I’ll tell you, if you’d like to know.”

  Noma had such a sympathetic smile that Franny told her the whole long story. It took all the stew, all the bread, and a pot of tea to tell it, since it was quite a tale of woe.

  “Lord, have mercy,” Noma said. “That is something. But it could have been a whole lot worse.” She picked up the tiny wooden baby Jesus out of the manger and clasped it in her palm. “You could have gone through all this without knowing God.”

  Franny had to admit that what Noma said was true, although she still wondered how God was going to finish cleaning up the mess she’d made. She certainly deserved to wallow in it for a while longer. “That’s a lovely manger scene.”

  “My father carved it himself. Gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday.”

  “Looks like a treasure.”

  “More than you know.” Noma placed the baby back in the manger then looked up at Franny. “My father faced a lynch mob once. He’d done nothing wrong but fish in the river, and for that he found himself staring at a rope and a tree. But my father was good with words, and even though he was scared that night, he stood up to those angry men. He talked them right out of the evil they was about to commit. And this manger scene was carved from the very tree those men was going to hang him on.” Noma ran her finger along the wooden star. “I will always remember my father saying, ‘Sometimes you gotta show people what you’re made of.’ ”

  Franny stared at the manger scene, her eyes blurring with mist. “That’s a great story.”

  “That it is.” Noma put her hand to her throat and took in a deep breath. “So, what will you do now?”

  “Well, I did manage to get a job today…as a waitress. I’m supposed to start tomorrow morning at seven at the Sunnyside Up Diner.”

  Noma picked up the dishes. “Being a waitress is good honest work.”

  As Franny helped to clear the table, an idea occurred to her. “Noma, I would love for you to be my guest at the diner tomorrow. I want to thank you for—”

  Noma waved her off with a chuckle. “Hon, there’s no need for that.”

  “You’d be doing me a favor, since I’d feel a lot less lonely on my first day if I knew you’d be dropping in for lunch.”

  Noma filled the sink with water and added a dash of dish soap. “I do have a little time between jobs, and the Sunnyside Up Diner is an easy walk from where I clean houses.”

  “So you’ll be my guest, then?” Franny hoped she’d say yes. It would make her first day not nearly so friendless.

  Noma paused and then nodded. “Yes, that might be nice.” She handed Franny a towel and then scrubbed away with her dishrag. “My little sofa makes into a bed, so you’re welcome to stay the night. There’s nobody here but me, so I’d enjoy having the company.”

  “Thank you.” Franny began drying the dishes. “You just keep rescuing me, but I just keep needing it.” She touched Noma’s shoulder.

  “Well, God comes to my rescue daily, so I’m just following in His ways.” She rested her hands on the counter.

  Both of Noma’s hands were scarred with what looked like old burn wounds. Franny wondered about the disfigurements, but she didn’t bring up the subject.

  While Noma washed the dishes, she began singing the spiritual “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” The sound of it was lush and soulful, and it connected Franny’s spirit to another world—the heavenlies. Uncle George used to hum that tune, and hearing Noma sing it made her wish she could have said good-bye to him. Franny savored the sound of the spiritual and tucked it away in her memories.

  It was easy to tell that her new friend’s singing was tied to anguish as well as victory, but while Franny knew of suffering, she’d never known the kind that kept a person in an ever-present bondage. Even though her day had been a bad one, it wasn’t the kind of day Noma might experience when people turned against her. Franny had never lived with the color of skin that could bring malevolence, the kind that banned people from businesses and churches and even whole towns. She’d been outraged on their behalf and yet she’d never really felt their plight. God, help me to know—to see through Noma’s eyes.

  Later that night Franny tossed and turned; she seemed to have a whole host of reasons why she couldn’t get drowsy. She fretted about the piglets, and she wondered if Henry had calmed down after the storm. And Charlie, dear Charlie, did he miss her as much as she missed him? She hoped so.

  In the midst of her farm worries Franny thought about Noma again. God would surely answer her prayer as quickly as a hummingbird lighting on a flower. She could feel it coming. The Almighty was going to allow her to get a glimpse of what life was like for Noma.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Charlie limped his way through the weekday lunch crowd at the Sunnyside Up Diner and found a seat at the back. He was in no mood for chitchat with any of the other custome
rs. He was in no mood for lunch, since he’d lost his appetite. He was just in the mood to find Franny, even though the news he had to tell her wasn’t good.

  And then just like that—in an answer to the most fervent prayer he’d ever petitioned heaven with—the woman he’d been searching for stepped out of the kitchen and into the light as if she were the very sunrise. Charlie attempted to rise to get Franny’s attention, but a searing pain in his leg sent him back to his seat. For a moment he just watched her, relieved to finally have located her and content to once again take in the object of his affection.

  Franny was dressed in a waitressing uniform with an apron and a lace headband, which gave him another pang of sadness along with his own personal grief. After only one day, had Franny already been turned down by all the radio stations? That kind of a blow would have devastated most people, and yet there she was, smiling and greeting one of the new customers as if she were an old friend. That was Franny—to have made friends even after one day. He continued to watch the scene, mesmerized by her. Charlie leaned forward to hear the rest of the conversation.

  “So, it wasn’t too far for you to walk, then?” Franny asked the customer, who was an older Negro lady wearing a maid’s outfit. Charlie noticed that the woman carried a heavy-looking basket full of brushes and cleaning products, and she shuffled a little as if her feet were hurting her.

  “No, it was just fine,” the woman said, smiling. “I’m used to walking.”

  Franny motioned for the woman to sit at the front counter.

  A few of the other patrons stared at her but didn’t say anything.