A Shiloh Christmas
Page 16
“Judd, I should’ve warned you about that stump,” says Dad.
He shakes his head. “Best ride I ever had,” he says. “Next time I try it, I’ll have my dog with me,” and we laugh some more.
Becky wants another ride, and then there’s just a girls’ ride, and I decide that my extra Christmas gift to Dara Lynn will be to hand the sled over to her each time she wants a ride. Finally the Daweses say it’s time to go home.
“One more!” Ruthie pleads, and grabs for Dad’s hand. “Take us up one more time!” she begs.
It’s embarrassing there for a moment, her grabbing Dad’s hand. He don’t want it to look like Ruthie chooses him over her own dad, but don’t know how to turn her down, neither.
And then we hear Jacob say, “I’ll take you girls, but I need a pair of boots.”
The girls can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Can’t take our eyes off their dad, and finally Ruthie’s face breaks into the widest smile. I hear Dad say, “I got an old pair of galoshes, Jacob. I don’t know your size, but they’d probably fit over most anybody’s shoes.”
And before you know it, the preacher’s on his way up the hill, the galoshes making a gloppy sound on his feet. He’s got one of Dad’s caps on his head, one of Dad’s scarves around his neck, and I go along to give them a push. He sits down at the back of the sled, and for a minute, I don’t think Rachel’s going to sit in front of him. But finally she does, then Ruthie.
“Ready?” I say. I see the preacher lean forward to grasp the sides of the sled, his chin next to Rachel’s shoulder. She leans back against him just a little, Ruthie against her, and I give ’em a push, then follow them down the hill on my feet, Shiloh leaping along beside them through the snow.
I tell you, I can even hear the preacher give a shout, and when they turn at the bottom, Rachel snuggled back against her dad, their cheeks are apple red and they’re all three of them smiling. When Ruthie begs to do it again, her father tells her, “Okay, one more time, and then we need to go.”
I know that a single afternoon don’t change a lifetime of preaching against sin. It don’t change a lifetime of looking for faults instead of goodness, feeling fear instead of love. And it don’t make Judd the kind of man you can trust 100 percent. But like Dad says, it could be a start.
Everyone goes home by four o’clock. Aunt Hettie’s already on her way back to Clarksburg. We say Merry Christmas to the Daweses and Doc Murphy, and Judd heads down to his friend in Middlebourne to see his dog, take him some of that leftover turkey.
Then our family has the sled to ourselves. Even Ma bundles up and takes a few rides. We’re on that hill a half hour more, but when the wind picks up, turning colder and raw, we pack it in for the night and go inside to warm up by the stove.
As we’re taking off our boots, I hear Ma say to Dad, “Judith told me something interesting as we were watching the kids play. First she said she’d like to go to that parenting class with me, and then she said that Doc Murphy had suggested a counselor in Sistersville that he thought would be good for her and Jacob.”
“Really!” says Dad.
“And she also said she’s made an appointment, and she’s going whether he goes or not,” Ma tells him.
“Well, that’s a step in the right direction,” says Dad. “I don’t know . . . Somehow, I think he might go along.”
I don’t say a word. Can’t stop smiling.
When Judd comes back around eight, though, he discovers a big old branch has blown down on the tent, and new snow has got his sleeping bag wet.
Wind is fierce now, and after Dad takes a look at the situation, he says, “Judd, it’s Christmas, and you’re not sleeping out there tonight. We’ll get to that tomorrow. Come on in here where it’s warm.”
And for once Judd agrees. Ma makes turkey sandwiches and a salad, and after supper we sit around the living room—turn out all the lights except the ones on the tree. Dara Lynn shows off how she’s learned to play “Jingle Bells”—her version of it, anyway—on the harmonica Santa left in her stocking. If you ask me, Santa should’ve had better sense, but she loses interest in it as soon as she sees Becky trying to find something of Judd’s to look at under her microscope. He offers a thread from his jeans or a hair, but she’s already seen some of those.
“Tell you what,” he says. “I got a callus on my hand from chopping wood. You can have a piece of that.” He pulls out his pocketknife, and Becky’s fascinated as he peels off a thin piece of the thick skin.
“Gross!” says Dara Lynn, but she puts it between two glass slides and hands it to her sister. Becky slips the slide in place and turns on the little light. Then she bends low over the microscope and fixes her eye in the right place.
“Wow!” she cries. And moves over to give Dara Lynn a look.
Dara Lynn takes her place at the microscope.
Judd starts to grin. “What’d you find? No bugs, I hope.”
“You’re made up of all these teeny tiny pieces,” says Dara Lynn.
“Yeah, I get to dancing too hard, I’m like to fall apart,” Judd tells her. And when Becky don’t smile, he says, “Just joking, sweetheart.”
When it’s time for bed, and the girls have gone off to put on their pajamas, I tell Judd he can have the couch tonight, but he says he can sleep just as well in a recliner. So while Ma brings out the pillows and blankets, I put the leash on Shiloh and take him out to do his business before we settle down for the night.
Don’t have my boots on, so I stay on the bottom step and let Shiloh nose around in the snow. Air is crisp as a cracker, sky so bright I can see stars I never knowed was up there before. Feel like I’m standing by a fairy-tale house, those icicle lights behind me. Dad says we get to keep them up till New Year’s Day. Neighbors like ’em too.
When I go back in, Dad’s turning out the light in the kitchen, and I thank him again for the desk lamp/radio he and Ma gave me. “It’s really cool,” I tell him.
He gives me a one-arm hug. “Now all you need is a room,” he says. “Won’t be long. We’re working on it. G’night, Judd.”
“Have yourself a good one,” Judd says in reply.
He settles himself in the recliner, brings up the footrest so he can lean way back. I go to the bathroom and put on my pajamas. When I come out, I turn off the Christmas tree lights and crawl under my blanket there on the couch. The living room’s dark except for the glow of our icicle lights coming in the windows, and a small square of yellow/orange from our potbellied stove.
Radio’s still playing softly in the corner. Ma had it on all day so we’d have music during company dinner, and we like every little bit of Christmas we can get. Each one of us has got a favorite carol. Mine is “We Three Kings,” ’cause you can hear someone using wood blocks to sound like camels’ hoofs. Dara Lynn likes “O Holy Night” just to see if the soprano can hit the high note without it wiggling.
Ma slips into the room and turns the radio off.
“Time for sleep,” she whispers.
So I listen to the concert I got right here—the fire hissing and spitting; Judd Travers snoring in and out, in and out; and Shiloh’s wheezy little breaths. And I figure this is about all the music I need.
Phyllis Reynolds Naylor has written more than one hundred and thirty-five books, including the Newbery Medal–winning Shiloh, which inspired three beloved movies; the recently concluded Alice series; and Roxie and the Hooligans. She has inspired generations of readers with her stories and characters—particularly one very special pup. She lives in Gaithersburg, Maryland.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
Jacket illustration copyright © 2015 by Mike Wimmer
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Naylor, Phyllis Reynolds.
A Shiloh Christmas / Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: “Marty and his best friend, Shiloh, are on another adventure. Marty learns when a secret is too dangerous to keep, and that hate can spread like fire.”—
Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4814-4151-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4814-4154-4 (eBook)
[1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. Family life—West Virginia—Fiction. 3. Clergy—Fiction. 4. Prejudices—Fiction. 5. Christmas—Fiction. 6. West Virginia—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.N24Sgc 2015
[Fic]—dc23 2014040082