A Redbird Christmas

by Fannie Flagg

  Jack responded by running around on his wheel and ringing his bells, almost as if he were laughing at Mildred. Roy thought it was hilarious but Mildred was not amused.

  Oswald had recently started getting up at daybreak and was usually down at the store by seven to have a cup of coffee with Roy before going out on the river. But the next morning Oswald seemed flushed and was already banging at the window at six-thirty. Roy walked over and opened the door. “Oh, hell, let me in,” Oswald said, and ran into the store.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Man, I’m in trouble,” he said, holding up an envelope. “Betty, Mildred, Frances, and now Dottie Nivens have all asked me to this Valentine thing over at the hall, and I don’t know what to do. Oh, man,” he said, wringing his hands. “These women are going to drive me to drink.”

  “Well, which lucky lady are you going to go with?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whoever I pick, the other three are going to be mad at me.”

  Roy thought about it. “If I were you I would explain it to Frances and let them fight it out among themselves.”

  After he left, Roy had to smile. Oswald was certainly the most unlikely Lothario he had ever seen.

  Oswald could not have agreed with him more. He had never been asked out on a date in his life, much less by four women on the same night. Reluctantly he explained the situation to Frances.

  As it turned out, all four had invited him because they wanted to make sure he would not feel left out and did not know the others had done the same. And so it was decided that all four women were to be his date.

  On Valentine’s night poor Oswald, wearing a red bow tie and even though he was a terrible dancer, had to dance every dance. He waltzed with Frances to a sappy version of “Dreamy Alabama,” jitterbugged with Dottie Nivens, did some odd tango thing with Mildred, and ended the evening being dragged around the floor by his six-foot landlady to the tune of “Good Night Sweetheart.”

  ALONG THE RIVER

  The Lost River

  Community Association Newsletter

  Oh, what a delightful evening was had by all who attended the annual Sweethearts dance! The melodious tunes that had all of our toes literally dancing inside our shoes was supplied by the ever-popular Auburn Knights Swing Band, and we were all mighty impressed by their musicality and wide range of repertoire, from the fox-trot to the jazzy idioms and interpolations of the bossa nova. But the highlight of the evening was the nimble Terpsichore of our own Fred Astaire in the person of Oswald T. Campbell, who if I may borrow a phrase was truly the belle of the ball!

  After Oswald read that first paragraph and later when Roy and Claude started calling him Belle, he decided that all of this female attention was making him a nervous wreck. He had so many dinner invitations he had to write them down.

  He needed to get to an AA meeting fast.

  Butch Mannich knew a lot of people in the nearby towns, so the next time Oswald saw him walking up the street he stopped him and asked if he by any chance knew anyone in AA.

  Butch brightened up. “Yes, by gosh, I sure do. I know a man over in Elberta who belongs. I didn’t know you were in that, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Yes,” said Oswald, “but it’s not something I’m particularly proud of, and I would appreciate it if you could sort of keep it under your hat. I don’t want anybody to know, especially Frances.”

  Butch nodded and conspired in a whisper. “I understand completely, Mr. Campbell, and I don’t blame you, but don’t you worry. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t say a word to anybody.” Butch glanced around to see if anyone was looking and quickly wrote a name and number down on a piece of paper. He looked around again to make sure no one saw him and then slipped him the piece of paper on the sly.

  Oswald called the number that afternoon, and a man answered.

  “Is this Mr. Krause?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Mr. Krause, I was given your number by Butch Mannich over in Lost River.”

  “You mean Stick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, any friend of Stick’s is a friend of mine. What can I do for you?”

  “Uh . . . I understand you are in AA, and I wanted to ask you when the next meeting was.” Mr. Krause told him there was a weekly meeting at eight o’clock on Friday nights at the Knights of Columbus hall in downtown Elberta and to please come. “We will be glad to have you. We are always happy to have new members. Where are you from?”

  “Chicago.”

  Mr. Krause was impressed. “Ah, Chicago. I bet there are a lot of great meetings up there. We are just a small group over here. Are you a beginner, Mr. Campbell, or have you been at it for a while?”

  “No, I’m not a beginner, I have a few years, but I haven’t been to a meeting in quite a while and you know once you stop going it’s hard to start all over in a new town.”

  “You got that right, Mr. Campbell. You have to keep coming or you get out of practice. But don’t you worry, we’ll get you right back in the swing in no time.”

  “By the way, is this a men’s meeting?” Oswald asked.

  “We have one or two women but mostly men.”

  Good, thought Oswald. It would be a nice break for him.

  Friday night Butch said he would be glad to drive Oswald over to the meeting. He had some people he needed to see anyway, so they drove over before dark. Elberta was a small German farming community about ten miles to the east, and the houses had an almost Bavarian look to them. Butch took him to the Elks Club where he was a member and introduced him around to a few friends. Around seven-thirty after they had eaten hamburgers at the lodge, Butch drove him downtown, parked on a side street, and furtively glanced around in all directions to make sure the coast was clear before he let him out. “I’ll be back to get you in an hour,” he said.

  Oswald asked if he could give him an hour and a half. “Since this is my first meeting here, I’d like to try and get to know some of the fellows.”

  “No problem,” said Butch. “And don’t you worry, Mr. Campbell, mum’s the word.” And with that he sped off into the night.

  Oswald went inside the large Knights of Columbus hall and found a sign that said ALABAMA AA with the arrow pointing upstairs. A heavyset man in suspenders greeted him with a big beefy handshake and a pat on the back that nearly knocked him down.

  “Mr. Campbell? Ed Krause. Welcome to our little group.”

  Oswald looked around the room. There were already six or seven other friendly-looking men sitting in wooden chairs, smiling and nodding at him.

  Mr. Krause led him to a chair. “Where’s your instrument, Mr. Campbell?”

  Oswald was not sure what he had heard. “I beg your pardon?”

  It was only when he looked around the room again that he noticed that all the men were pulling accordions out of the cases beside each chair.

  When another man walked by with a big black case and carrying an armload of sheet music, Oswald suddenly realized that he had walked into an Alabama Accordion Association meeting!

  He turned to the man and said, “Ah . . . I tell you what, Mr. Krause, I believe I’ll just listen tonight. My instrument is sort of on the blink.”

  “That’s too bad,” said a disappointed Ed Krause. “We were looking forward to a little new blood.”

  Oswald went over in the corner and sat and listened. He sat through quite a few polkas and one pretty lively version of “The Poor People of Paris” before it was time for Butch to come and pick him up. Outside, Butch asked how the meeting went and he answered, “Just fine.”

  On the way back home, Oswald thought about it and wondered which was worse, being an accordion player or being an alcoholic. He figured it was a toss-up.

  He was sorry there were no AA meetings around, but Oswald figured he was doing pretty well just hanging out on the dock and meeting with the birds every day. It seemed to keep him calm, and it was certainly interesting. He was not bored. There were plenty of them to see. One da
y when Oswald was sitting there on the dock busy watching the birds, a great blue heron stared right back at him, and it suddenly occurred to him that they might be busy watching him as well. He wondered what they thought he was, and how would they identify him.

  His Birds of Alabama book had given him guidelines as to how to identify birds by size and color and by location, so he decided to look in the book and figure out what the birds would write down for him. He searched for himself up under LOCATION:

  PERMANENT RESIDENTS: Live in the same geographic region all year long.

  SUMMER RESIDENTS: Breed and raise their young in one geographic region, then leave to winter in warmer regions.

  WINTER VISITORS: Come to a geographic region only during winter months after their breeding season.

  TRANSIENTS: Pass through a geographic region only once or twice a year during their spring or fall migrations.

  ACCIDENTALS: Birds not expected in a particular region and, therefore, are surprise visitors.

  As he read on, he decided that according to the book, he was definitely a medium-sized, redheaded, nonbreeding accidental. At last he knew what he was, and it amused him to no end. He was a rare bird, after all.

  Winter

  ON THE MORNING of February 21, everybody up and down the street declared, “Well, winter is here,” and noted with horror that last night the temperature had dipped all the way down into the 50s. That afternoon, Oswald looked across the river and for the first time saw blue smoke curling out of the chimneys of the houses on the other side. The air was suddenly fragrant with the smell of wood smoke from the burning of local pine, hickory, and cedar logs.

  Oswald welcomed the cooler weather because in the following days he discovered it brought winter sunsets, and the river sunsets were different from anything else he had ever seen. They mesmerized him. He loved sitting there on the dock in the cool crisp air, the river so quiet you could hear a dog bark a mile away. Every afternoon he watched the sky turn from burnt orange to salmon, pink and lime green to purple. Navy blue and pink clouds were reflected in the water, and as the sun slowly disappeared he watched the river change from teal blue to an iridescent green and gold that reminded him of the color of the tinfoil that came wrapped around expensive candy and then from rich tan to a deep chocolate brown. As the evening became darker, the birds and ducks that flew by became black silhouettes against the sky. He sat each night watching the evening change colors and the currents of the water make circles, until the moon came up behind him and rose over the river.

  With the last of the sun fading, he could see the reflection of the green lights on the docks across the way and the stars twinkling in the river like small diamonds. What a show. This was better than any movie he had ever seen, and it was different every night. It was so wonderful at times he felt he wanted to do something about it, to try and stop time, make it last longer, but he didn’t know what to do. How can anyone stop time? He knew with each passing day his own time was running out, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop it. If he could, he would have stopped it right then and there on the river, while he was still well enough to enjoy it.

  A few weeks later, Oswald was still feeling well, and Jack was still making everyone laugh except Mildred, and everything was going along as usual until Saturday morning, when Patsy showed up at the store to see Jack. One side of her face was red, and it was obvious that someone had hit her. Roy asked her how it had happened, but she said nothing. Butch, who had been in the store first thing that morning, was in a rage over it. Afterward all six-feet-four-inches and 128 pounds of him stormed down the street to Frances’s house in a fit and threw open the door.

  “That just aggravates the fire out of me!”

  “What?” asked Frances.

  “Somebody hit Patsy!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. There’s a big old handprint on the side of her face.”

  That afternoon an emergency meeting of the Mystic Order of the Royal Polka Dots secret society was called to discuss what could be done. After much talk back and forth, Betty Kitchen allowed that Roy might be right. She said, “There may be nothing we can do without getting those people back there all riled up. You all know what they are like.”

  Mildred said, “Trailer trash.”

  Frances said, “Oh, now, Mildred, that’s not a very Christian thing to say.”

  “No,” said Mildred, “but it’s the truth.”

  Butch admired her ability to hit the nail on the head. Frances got back to the point. “Now, I think we all agree that this is definitely a Polka Dot matter, and I think the least we can do is offer to buy her some decent clothes. Here it is, the dead of winter, and the little thing is still running around with no coat or shoes.”

  “How much money do we have in our Sunshine fund?” asked Betty.

  Frances went over to her gravy boat display, and lifted the top off the third one from the left, and pulled out $82. They took a vote to spend it all on Patsy, and the motion passed unanimously.

  Betty said, “The next question is who and how are we going to ask the family if we can do it.”

  Mildred said, “Why don’t we just take her to Mobile and do it ourselves? Why ask?”

  Frances looked at her. “We can’t just take her, Mildred. They might have us all arrested for kidnapping. That’s all we need is to go to jail.”

  “Yes, but if you go back there where they live they’re liable to turn the dogs on you,” warned Dottie. “Or shoot you.”

  “Well, two can play that game,” said Butch, patting the sidearm he wore under his shirt. “They’re not the only ones around here with guns, you know.”

  “Oh, Lord,” said Frances. “That’s all we need is gunplay.”

  “Why don’t we go as a group?” asked Mildred.

  Frances shook her head. “No, that might be too threatening. I think one of us should just casually pay a visit like a friendly neighbor. Who wants to go?”

  Butch raised his hand.

  “No, not you, Butch, it has to be a woman,” said Mildred.

  Betty Kitchen said, “Well, I’ll go. I’m not afraid of any man. They fool with me and I’ll sling them into tomorrow and back.”

  Dottie, who knew that Betty was not exactly capable of being subtle, said quickly, “I think you should go, Frances. You’re the nicest and least likely to get thrown out.”

  The following Sunday, Frances parked her car at the store and walked down the white sandy path in her high heels, carrying a purse on one arm and a large welcome basket on the other, hoping she would live through the day. Throughout the years a variety of people had moved back up in the woods, and her husband had told her it was best to let them alone. Some were hiding from the law and were not very friendly to strangers. They usually stayed awhile, threw trash everywhere, and then moved on. A few years ago, the sheriff’s department had arrested some of them, so there was no telling what she was walking into today. A few moments later she suddenly heard a loud crack, which almost scared her to death. She thought she had been shot. She turned to see Butch, who had been darting back and forth in the woods trailing behind her and had stepped on a branch. “Oh, my God, Butch, what are you doing? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  Still darting, he jumped behind a tree and said in a whisper, “Don’t worry about me, you just go on. I’m here just in case you need me.”

  Oh, Lord, she thought. Butch had clearly seen too many movies. She continued on until she reached a clearing and saw a broken-down trailer sitting up on concrete blocks. An old rusted ice box lay on its side in the yard, along with an assortment of worn tires and motorcycle and car parts. As she got closer, some kind of pit-bull-mix dog came rushing toward her, barking furiously, baring his teeth, and straining at his chain. Frances stopped dead in her tracks. In a moment a five-foot-tall fat woman in a tank top and short shorts opened the door, yelled at the dog to shut up, and t
hen saw Frances standing there.

  “Hello,” said Frances, trying to sound casual, “I hope I’m not bothering you. I’m Mrs. Frances Cleverdon, and I was wondering if I might speak to you for a moment.”

  The woman stared at her. “If you’re a bill collector, it won’t do you no good. My husband ain’t here.”

  Frances, trying to reassure her, said, “Oh, no, I’m just a neighbor lady come to chat and bring you a little gift.”

  The woman shifted her small pig eyes to the basket. “You wanna come in?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Frances climbed the concrete steps while the dog leaped up and down and literally foamed at the mouth. The place was a mess. She took note of the empty beer cans on the counter and a box of stale doughnuts. The woman sat down and crossed her enormous white leg with the tattoo of a snake around her equally enormous ankle. After Frances had moved a few things and made a place to sit, she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Tammie Suggs.”

  “Well, Mrs. Suggs, I really came here today to discuss your little girl.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What about her, what did she do? Patsy!” she yelled. “Get out here!”

  “No, that’s all right, she didn’t do anything—”

  “If she stole something, I ain’t paying for it.”

  Patsy appeared from the back of the trailer, looking frightened.

  “No. It’s nothing like that, Mrs. Suggs. Hello, Patsy,” she said, and smiled.

  Frances leaned forward. “I was hoping we could speak in private.”

  The woman turned and said to Patsy, “Get out of here.”

  Frances waited until she was gone. “Mrs. Suggs, it’s just that I . . . well, a group of us, actually—have grown very fond of Patsy and wondered if you had had a doctor look at her lately?”

  “What for?”

  “Well, her condition—her leg?”

  “Oh, yeah, she drags that thing bad, don’t she. But she was already like that when her daddy left her here. She ain’t even my kid. She was just dumped on me. I don’t have no money for doctors for my own kids, much less her. Then after her daddy took off, I got stuck with her and the next thing I know my old man up and runs off, and me and them kids is about to starve to death.”