“How long does the pizza take?” Marvin asked.
“Well, it’s thirty miles away,” said Sicily.
“One or two hours,” said Amy Joy. “They get a lot of orders and they can only put so many pizzas in the oven at one time.”
Sicily cleared her throat. The group waited. One or two hours.
“Winnie Craft tells me that Vera Gifford dragged out all her Christmas lights last night and lit up her entire yard,” said Sicily. “They even stuck up that awful Nativity scene.”
“What?” gasped Pearl.
“The Giffords is crazy,” Lola turned away once more from Randy to report to the group.
“But Christmas lights?” asked Marvin. “Why?”
“Don’t ask,” said Sicily. “Everyone in town knows that Goldie Gifford, across the road, bought about a thousand boxes of lights when they went on sale after Christmas. Why Vera is the one doing the lighting up I haven’t the foggiest.”
“They’re always up to something,” Lola said, and giggled as Randy touched a finger to the toe of her sneaker.
“Wasn’t Vera a cousin to Chester Lee Gifford?” Pearl inquired of Sicily. Another thorn in Sicily’s side. What Pearl was really saying was “Oh yes, I remember the last time that Amy Joy took it into her head to get married, to a Gifford.” When would the pizza arrive?
Sicily stared out the window as evening swept over the Mattagash River valley with a cold rain that threatened snow.
“Christmas decorations in April,” Pearl said with disgust. “What will the Giffords do next?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sicily. They had an hour and forty-five minutes to go. “Maybe they’ll start seeing ghosts.”
RED RYDER DOESN’T HAVE A DOG’S CHANCE: GOLDIE RALLIES HER CHILDREN
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you—Nobody—too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
—Emily Dickinson
Red Ryder, the puppy who had become the resident dog at Pike and Goldie Gifford’s house ten years earlier, picked himself up from the creaking front porch and ambled down the long drive. He had waited hopefully for the kids, whining at the bottom of the steps, until Goldie shooed him away.
“It’s Saturday, Red Ryder,” she told him. “They won’t be up for a couple more hours.”
At the bottom of the long Gifford drive, Red Ryder brought his hind leg up and clawed at a flea. The claws dug in deep, never having even heard of clipping, and some of the tension encased in the itch was relieved. Red Ryder spied a cat on Vera Gifford’s front porch and wondered whether the chase would be worth it or not. Deciding against it, he ambled down the road.
Being a Gifford dog had its ramifications in Mattagash. That week alone Red Ryder had had thrown at him, by the descendants of the old loyalist pet owners, a high-heeled shoe, a torn sneaker, a Pepsi bottle, a yellow rubber ball, an Orange Crush pop bottle, a garden hose nozzle, three pieces of firewood, rocks of all sizes, a broken hairbrush, and a tiny purple Gideon Bible, which flew at him like a large plum.
“Look, it’s Pike Gifford’s old dog,” he had heard said a hundred times. “Run it off before it infects the whole place.” Such things Red Ryder had grown used to. And he didn’t mind. As soon as the tossed torpedo made contact, careened off into the bushes, and the pain of it subsided, he was off again, wagging his tail, oblivious to the discourtesy.
It was in front of the Craft residence that Red Ryder stepped back to avoid a rather large rock that Winnie had found near her front steps and heaved at him.
“You go back to Giffordtown!” she shouted, and then went inside her house and slammed the door, taking Poo Poo, her poodle, with her. Poo Poo would have preferred to stay outside. She and Red Ryder had sniffed beneath each other’s tails many times and had taken pleasure in such actions. But Poo Poo sensed a social taboo in the friendship she had with the Gifford dog and merely watched the turn of events through the glass of Winnie’s front door.
Red Ryder turned away from Winnie Craft’s large rock and into the path of a rumbling pulp truck, which hurled him quickly into the ditch. The trucker, Donnie Henderson, kept on his way, needing to get in as many loads that day as possible. Trips meant money. A dog was a dog. Besides, that was a Gifford dog. If it had been that queer little cotton ball that Winnie Craft worshiped, it would be a different matter. Donnie Henderson kept on, with his heavy load of pulp, for Watertown. Red Ryder lay on his side in the ditch of the only road in Mattagash and breathed painfully for a half hour until he died.
For a few hours afterward, as he began to stiffen in death, bemused residents drove by and saw what Poo Poo was keeping a watchful eye on.
“Someone hit the Gifford dog,” Amanda Henderson said to Mary Mullins. “Poor thing.”
“It’s probably better off,” said Mary. “It was flea-bitten to the high heavens.”
“Pike Gifford’s old dog,” said Peter Craft, on the way back to his filling station. “They’ll probably serve that up on a platter tonight.”
Red Ryder lay on his side in the ditch of the only road in Mattagash and, as usual, paid no mind to the social barbs being tossed at him like bones. It was a phone call from Goldie’s sister that brought the news to the owners. They filed out of the house as though they’d heard a fire alarm and raced the quarter of a mile down the road to where the body lay. Little Pee stayed home, although it was officially his dog. Only little kids and girls would enter such an emotional fracas, he decided, so he stayed behind. But when they were safely gone he cried aloud and hit his fists into the dirty pillows of the front porch bed.
Goldie, Priscilla, Hodge, Missy, and Miltie gathered around Red Ryder in a solemn circle, each sensing, even little Miltie, that there was some kind of justice in this. They were Giffords, after all, and all things, even things that were rightfully theirs, should be taken from them. Missy threw herself down on the body and buried her face in the tangled fur.
“Poor Red Ryder,” she sobbed, then, “Good dog. Good boy.” Other hands searched the fur, patted the head, positioned the tail comfortably behind the body. They had had him from his puppy days and he had never once minded being theirs. This was the thought that ran unspoken through their minds. Red Ryder was all theirs. He loved them, not Amy Joy Lawler. Not Lola Craft. But them. Missy. Miltie. Little Pee. Priscilla. Hodge. Pike and Goldie Gifford’s kids. Now, like a chance from the future, like an opportunity, he had been taken away from them. Goldie pulled her children into the circle of her arms as if they were tiny ducks. She rounded them up and held them, made sure she touched each one.
“Listen,” she said, her voice ragged. “Red Ryder wouldn’t want us to cry like this. He had a real good life with you kids and he loved every one of you.” She gathered them tighter. Missy’s sobs were now uncontrollable and Miltie had hidden his face in the crook of Goldie’s arm, which was growing wet with his tears. Priscilla stood stunned, unable to cry.
“Why didn’t whoever hit him call us?” she asked Goldie.
“Nobody in this town owes us a damn thing,” said Goldie. “Nobody. If you can remember that, maybe one day you can get the hell out.”
They pushed Red Ryder aside, gently, farther down into the ditch, where he could have some privacy from Mattagash in his death, and then they walked solemnly home.
“I’ll bring Little Pee back with Miltie’s wagon to get him,” Goldie promised. “We’ll bury him on the hill where he can always be close to you.” All five held hands, even Hodge, who had at first been embarrassed but soon gave in to the feeling of power he felt surging up from his wrist. They were a family, and no one could take that from them. They felt the link to Mattagash as they walked. They came from the earliest settlers, too, just like the McKinnons and the Crafts. Hell, they were related fifty times over to everyone in town. Who, then, had decided that they would be the black sheep?
“And don’t thin
k for one minute,” Goldie said at the bottom of the hill, “that Little Pee ain’t feeling none of this. He’s cried his heart out by now. I just want all of you to know that. I want you to know that we’re a family, and a family shares stuff.”
They climbed the hill rigidly, Miltie dragging back on Goldie’s hand, Priscilla awkward and aloof. She had been a baby with Red Ryder and now he was dead. And she was, too, in a way. She had breasts now, and wild thoughts about boys, and was longing for her menstrual cycle, not knowing its inconvenience. Now she wished she had guarded Red Ryder every inch of the day. Had catered to his every whim. And in her sadness, she felt a vague longing, a sense that she should have guarded her childhood in such a fashion. They would both be safe now if she had, she and Red Ryder. They would be careening through the April fields, waiting for the river to warm for a swim.
“Another thing,” Goldie said, and halted halfway up the drive. Her children stopped silently around her. “I want you to know that I love you, each of you, equally. I want you to know that I’m proud of you. That I believe in you. I want you to know you’re just as good as anybody else you’ll come across in your lifetimes.”
The moment was awkward among them, but then the procession began again its climbing, up, up, up, as if the Gifford hill were some awful social ladder they were forced to ascend. The moment was awkward, but each child came away from it with a small item of respect, the first of its kind, and although they did not realize it at the time, none of them would be sorely burdened by it.
Vera watched the long line of humans climb the hill.
“Goldie looks just like the Pied Piper,” she said to Little Vinal, and then slapped his hand as he reached a finger into her frosting bowl. She had rubbered in on the last phone call and knew what had happened.
“They’re boohooing more over that old dog than they did when Grammie Gifford died,” Vera said, and let the curtain relax.
***
Shortly after Red Ryder gave up the ghost and was safely buried on the Gifford hill, Irma arrived home for the weekend. She had barely had time to toss her purse onto the sofa and grieve the loss of the family dog when Goldie pulled her aside.
“Don’t ask me why,” she said. “But I have the need to express myself.” Goldie held up a handful of Christmas lights Irma recognized all too well, having sold them to her.
“What’s going on here?” asked Irma, and breathed on the heavy lenses of her glasses. “Aunt Vera’s yard is all decorated for Christmas, too. Have you people gone crazy?”
“This is only partly for your aunt Vera,” said Goldie. “This is for the kids. It’s for old Red Ryder. Let’s go.”
It was past five o’clock and growing colder, so they dressed in heavy socks and sweaters and scarves and mittens and went out to decorate their home and yard. Even Little Pee finally left the kitchen window and came outside to help once he heard laughter and recognized what appeared to be real family camaraderie. It was strange for all of them to be caught up in a sort of celebration with Red Ryder just dead, yet it seemed right somehow.
There were strings of lights everywhere. Goldie had planned to show reserve when she decorated the tree that December, so as not to rile Vera or any of the other women who had fared so poorly at the sale. But this wasn’t December. It was April. Goldie Gifford and her kids were a family. Families could do what they wished, as long as they stayed together. And it’s true that a frenzy caught Goldie up in its clutches. She couldn’t seem to stop decorating. Irma felt the same way, except for her the experience was almost a mystical one, stemming from the fact that with the weak muscle balance in her forever wandering eyes she saw, without her glasses, double. And temptation caused her many a time to take those spectacles off and behold the wonders. Just a slight tremor from the wind could make it all appear to be a dazzling light show. The kind they have in Las Vegas.
“How do you think that tree over there would look if we was to light it up, Prissy?” Goldie would say. Or, “Tack some lights around that window, Hodge.”
By nightfall the entire hill where Pike Gifford’s house sat on the cold earth was ablaze in lights. There were strings around each and every window of the house. They covered the doors and eaves. A bright string of mixed colors ran from the front porch out to the garage, circled the door, lined the eaves, and lit up every illegal tire from Mattagash to Watertown. The mailbox was wrapped in lights. There was not an extension cord or an outlet in Goldie’s house that was not working overtime.
“Good thing it isn’t Christmas,” Vera said, looking up in astonishment at the hill afire in color. “If Santa was to fly over that mess, he’d think for sure it was New York City. He’d probably end up spending the holidays in Canada with the Quebecers.”
Pike Gifford rolled a tire up the hill from Vinal’s and stashed it with the others in the garage.
“Nice job,” he said to Goldie as he surveyed the network of lights. “Good work,” he said to the kids, and hiccuped. They giggled. Pike teetered a bit, dazed by the splash of colors, as he reached for the doorknob. It used to be just past Thanksgiving that folks started looking forward to Christmas. Now Easter was barely over and they were already at it. So be it. Pike Gifford would not interfere with the social workings of the world if the world did not interfere with him.
When the job was finally finished, Goldie and Irma and the other children came in, chilled to the bone but satisfied with the creations they’d left behind in the soft, cold rain that was beginning to patter upon Mattagash. And they had left Red Ryder securely buried in the little mound that pushed up from the bank of the old river, beneath the clutch of pines, where he’d want to be, in the animal graveyard.
“Do you think the rain will turn to snow?” Irma asked, glancing out the window at the wet Christmas lights still blazing.
“Who knows?” Goldie shrugged. She made a large pot of cocoa, and Irma popped toast out of the toaster until she had buttered a foot-high stack. The children could dunk toast into their cups of cocoa. They could tell ghost stories. Goldie promised them this. And Goldie knew that when bedtime rolled around, when the children crawled into their flannel pajamas and said their prayers for Red Ryder, they would understand some things about themselves. They were Giffords, but they were as good as the McKinnons, and the Crafts. And they were a family who owned more Christmas tree lights than any other on the planet Earth.
“Is Santa coming tonight?” Miltie asked, wide-eyed, and laughter careened out the door of Pike Gifford’s house on the hill, unheard by the rest of Mattagash.
“He just might,” Goldie said, and rubbed Miltie’s curly head.
SAINT CHRISTOPHER FLOPS IN MATTAGASH: THE GIFFORDS GIVE NEW MEANING TO VENI, VIDI, VICI
Frost heave: an uplift in soil caused by the freezing of internal moisture.
—Random House Kernerman Webster’s College Dictionary
Pothole: that which makes you long for the horse and buggy.
—Donnie Henderson
Saturday evening fell with fat drops of rain that had old-timers predicting that nature just might splatter them one more time with a blanket of white before she let them go headfirst into spring. The temperature dropped sharply to the low forties and threatened to dip further as night came calling. The road that followed the river out of St. Leonard and into the heart of Mattagash was coating itself with a thin, slippery shield as it snaked through Giffordtown, past Vera’s and Goldie’s houses, down the swoop of hill where Alphonse Gifford’s house leaned on its haunches, and into the main cluster of homes, which clung to the bank in a paranoid frenzy.
An occasional yard light belonging to a Craft or a Fennelson bit into the blackness of the road and lit it up in small patches. These were the marks of the upper class, these pole lights that came alive with nightfall and died a slow death with each dawn.
“Fifteen dollars a month,” the owners could think to themselves as they drove into
their well-lit yards and sat silently in their cars for a few minutes to give thanks that their circumstances allowed these social lighthouses to blink out to all of Mattagash: Fifteen dollars a month. Fifteen dollars a month. Look what we got! Where’s yours? Where’s yours?
If the Crafts and Fennelsons and Sicily McKinnon Lawler preferred to light up their yards and therefore their financial circumstances, the Giffords felt differently. The last thing Vinal or Pike wanted was a well-lit yard. A bright circle of illumination was not the perfect place to drag a freshly killed deer. Not in July or August, that is. It was not the best place to roll a set of tires, or lug a heavy battery. And Vinal could only imagine the kind of loudmouthed reflections that would occur if a yard light were introduced to a pile of shiny hubcaps. When the Lord said “Let there be light,” and saw that it was good, it was not Vinal and Pike Gifford he had in mind. Yet on the Saturday evening before Amy Joy Lawler’s wedding, both Gifford yards were ablaze in prisms of light never found on the pages of Genesis. The wet road that looped down the hill and into Giffordtown was beaded with green, blue, red, yellow, and white drops, like splattered paint on the pavement. On both sides of the road, the bedecked Gifford houses put on a light display heretofore unknown in northern Maine, at least on the American side of the border. It was true the French Canadian Catholics on the other side of the river sometimes came up with illuminated Nativity scenes that rivaled the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in their numbers.
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