Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  “When’s that?” Della and I asked almost in unison.

  “Soon. Really soon. I miss being down there, and I don’t want to waste any time.”

  24

  Della

  I seemed I’d always worry about Alex, for one reason or another. I was still dealing with the feelings I had after learning what was going on with him.

  When he kept avoiding me, I drove up to see him, unannounced. On the long drive, I’d imagined a big showdown, like we’d had years ago. But I almost didn’t recognize the gaunt man who opened the front door for me. When I asked him why he’d shut me out, he told me he had prostate cancer and he was embarrassed he couldn’t “you know.”

  “You think that would matter to me, compared to you?” I said, tears smearing the makeup I’d put on trying to look nice for him. I went to the room I used as my office up there and closed the door. I sat quietly, trying to pull myself together.

  After a while, I came out and knocked on his closed office door. When Alex opened it, I started to speak, but only a sob came out. Then more wet, messy sobs. He held me while I got that out of my system. I mopped my face and finally found some words. “I was afraid you were up to your old ways, but the truth is even more devastating.”

  “Unfortunately I’m not up to anything with anyone, at least for the time being.” I could feel my face turn into a scowl. “I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I was speaking generally; I didn’t mean to include anyone but you, Della.” He kissed me, and we gave up on words and sat together for a long time.

  Since then, I’d been working on living each day fully. When I stuck with that philosophy, I found a lot more to be happy about. Like having Abit and Millie with us. On that first day of our visit, we all just hung out together at the house. Alex and I worked some, and Abit took Millie on walks, like he did with Jake when he visited before. Jake wasn’t up to such long treks anymore; he mostly stayed close to Alex.

  In addition to the story about that dreadful-sounding news channel, Alex was busy with several breaking stories, including Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, and the ‘96 elections. I helped make calls and type up notes. But mostly I just wanted to hang out with Alex.

  The next day, Abit and I got up early and headed to the craft show. Alex packed us a lunch, warning that food service during big shows was not only a rip-off but lacking in taste and nutrition. I could remember his Big Mac days—not unlike Bill Clinton’s—and I was glad for his sake those seemed behind him.

  When we entered the giant hall filled with row after row of booths, I wished I’d grabbed Abit’s camera to capture the look on his face. I knew he’d seen craft shows before, but not like that one. A palpable hum pulsed throughout the space, an amalgam of creative conversations, professional lighting, and amazing wares. The show glowed with an incandescence from far more than kilowatts.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

  “I could never imagine such a thing,” he said. “And look—some of the craftsmen are wearing business suits.” He pulled his jacket a little closer to cover his flannel shirt. A few booths later, though, we saw signs of more familiar hippie attire, some looking as though they’d slept in their vans and hadn’t changed clothes in days. That seemed to put Abit at ease.

  He started scribbling notes, and as his notebook filled, it grew harder to write on the go. We found a break area so he could sit down and finish his thoughts. He didn’t say much the rest of the morning, which surprised me, especially since I knew how excited he was.

  Around one o’clock, we returned to the break area and opened our lunches. Alex had created his own works of art in a couple of refrigerator dishes. Our sandwiches (on homemade bread) were cut into quarters and placed carefully along each side of the box, alternating with hardboiled-egg quarters. In the middle, carrot sticks radiated from the center with cornichons and olives filling the gaps. Sliced apples (dipped in lemon juice to keep them from turning brown) made the centerpiece with a few almonds scattered about. Somehow we’d carried them upright so they weren’t jostled too much; I would’ve hated to ruin his creations. We bought coffee, which was surprisingly fresh, and enjoyed the two chocolate chip cookies from Firehook.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon at the show. Abit eventually got up the nerve to talk to some of the craft artists. Not only those working in wood, but also tile makers and cloisonné artists. I stepped aside and watched as they exchanged professional courtesies and allowed Abit to take a few photographs.

  When we were on the Metro train heading toward home, Abit started talking, and I just sat back and enjoyed his ramblings. I dozed a little, knowing if I missed anything, I’d get another chance to hear it again with Alex.

  The dogs were elated by our return, and after we greeted them properly, I told Abit I needed a lie down. Upstairs in our bedroom, I drifted off to his telling Alex all about the show.

  “Man, there was furniture that looked like food—chairs shaped like celery stalks and tomatoes. I saw a couch built and painted like a whole cake with a slice out of it—and the slice was an ottoman. Others were painted in so many colors, you’d think it would look a mess, but they were cool together. I even saw a chest of drawers shaped like a fat carrot. … Mostly, though, I loved the simple but perfect craftsmanship, joinery that put mine and Shiloh’s to shame. Well, maybe not shame, but at the back of the line. Barn-wood stools with legs painted shiny red, in contrast to the wood …”

  25

  Abit

  Della and Alex were knee-deep in work, so I called Nigel to see if Millie and I could stop by. We retraced the same path I’d taken with Jake on my last trip. As we walked, we passed a bunch of men who looked like they were living rough. I didn’t remember seeing so many homeless people last time.

  Back home we had folks who didn’t have much, but they always seemed to have somewhere to sleep. At least round where I lived. And people were fed, even if just beans and cornbread. Our barn had some old hobo signs carved into the logs, markings hobos used to leave to help others know what kind of place it was. I asked Daddy about it, and he remembered when they roamed round the area, especially when he was young (though he didn’t live in our house then).

  I reckoned whoever owned it before had done a good turn for them. There was an odd kinda cross carved into the barn and something resembling two eyes with a smile below it. I got a book from the bookmobile that said those signs meant “talk religion get food” and “can sleep in barn.” It felt good working in a place that had sheltered people in need. I also found something carved into one of the barn logs—down low where the owner might not see it but someone sleeping there would: “The Bible is a book of instruction on how to be a hobo with style and joy.” I would give that a lot of thought over the years ahead.

  As Millie and I walked on, I stepped over the outstretched arm of a man sleeping on the sidewalk. He’d used his bedroll as a pillow and lay flat on his back, a soft snore rattling his lips. Millie kept sniffing round, so I tugged her away, but not before I noticed his hand tightly clutching, even in sleep, a black plastic bag I figured held everything he owned. I wanted to slip him some money, but I was afraid he’d wake up and think I was trying to rob him. I felt bad just walking away; I’d have to ask Della what to do next time.

  Nigel greeted us with his usual “Hello, hello, hello” and some behind-the-ears rubs for Millie, which helped me shake off images of that lost man. After we caught up on our news, Nigel said we needed some refreshment. I thought he was gonna run downstairs to the bakery for scones, but instead, he put on a suitcoat over his crisp white shirt, took a fedora off a hat peg, smoothed his already-slicked-back white hair, and set the hat at a jaunty angle. “And not those bloody scones again.”

  “I thought you liked tea and scones—and curd,” I said, kidding around because that word sounded so awful (but tasted pretty good).

  “I do, dear boy, but I’m more fond of a pint.” He ushered me out the door muttering, “My treat.”

  We walked
down Connecticut Avenue to a place called Churchill Arms. Even somebody from Laurel Falls knew that was likely an English pub. We settled in a nice booth near what appeared to be a fireplace with glowing coals. As warm as it was outside, I couldn’t imagine sitting there for long, but then I realized it was just lights and fake coals; the heater was turned off.

  I was surprised Millie got to join us, but Nigel assured me he was a regular there, and because he was from the homeland, they played by those rules. From that, I figured dogs were allowed in pubs in England. Sounded like a good idea to me.

  Nigel came back with two pints of Guinness, black as those fake coals and creamy on top. “I thought you might have taken to Irish brews, Abit.” I wasn’t sure where he was headed, but I hoped we weren’t gonna talk about Fiona. I changed the subject and told him about the Smithsonian Craft Show.

  Nigel let me go on about that some, but all the while he was kinda twitching, like he was waiting his turn to say somethin’. After a time, he took a big slug of the dark brew, licked his lips, and said, “Now, look here, Abit. Della told me not to mention this, but I was very sorry to hear about your Irish lass, Fiona. I so enjoyed meeting her last year at Christmas.” Ever since that first Christmas together, he’d been coming to Laurel Falls every other year; the rest of the time he went to his daughter’s.

  When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “A lot of Englishmen don’t like the Irish, but I have a fondness for them. Some of the best forgers in the business. Like Stumpy the Scribe ... ‘er, hang on. Let’s not get into that. Suffice it to say, they’re a good lot when they’re not blowing up London pubs and such.”

  “Well, it’s over.”

  “No, my boy, I’m sorry to say the Troubles have started up again, breaking the ceasefire. They’re still blowing things up over there.”

  “No, I mean Fiona is over. And I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Yes, I can imagine it still hurts,” he said, patting my arm but not taking the hint. “I know I shouldn’t be giving out advice, but I really wanted to tell you about something that worked for me. You can imagine that relationships, marriage in particular, are difficult with my, er, profession. My former profession.” He took another big drink and kinda winked at me. This wasn’t the Nigel I was used to, but in spite of his dwelling on Fiona, I was getting a kick out of him. I was beginning to see another side to the guy and, for the first time, could imagine him getting up to no good with his forgeries and God only knew what else.

  “Anyway, my wife had given me the boot, and after a year or so, once I’d gone to work for the Treasury Department, I wanted her to know I was doing well. I honestly believe that was why I called her. Not so much to get back together, but to say, ‘Hey, I’m not a loser. Look at me now.’”

  “What happened?”

  “We got back together, for a few more years, anyway. She loved it that I called her. And even though we eventually broke apart again, we’re still friends. When I see her at my daughter’s, I’m genuinely delighted.”

  “Thanks, Nigel. That’s a nice story.”

  “Hang on, I’m not telling you stories. I’m giving advice. You should call that lass—just to tell her you’re not sitting round with your thumb up your arse. You’re a fine craftsman, and according to Della, you’re making some wonderful music at those bluegrass concerts you play at. What do you call yourselves? The Rambling Rovers?”

  “The Rollin’ Ramblers.”

  “Hmm, that’s a lot of moving about, but I imagine your music warrants the name. Anyway, give it a try—but promise me, when you talk to Della, not a dicky bird, all right? She’ll have me guts for garters.”

  I promised, mostly to get him to stop talking. (Besides, I didn’t know what he was on about with dicky birds and garters.) We sat staring at the fake fire for a while, the beer taking effect. I almost started laughing at how much I felt, well, grown up in a way I’d never done before. Out with a friend, having a beer, in Washington D.C. Not a six pack in the back of the bus in the middle of nowhere, but a real pub in our nation’s capital with Millie at my feet. I was feeling pretty happy when Nigel spoke again.

  “Well, are ye gonna do it?” he asked, his words a little slurred. He was working on his second pint; I was only halfway through my first.

  “Do what?”

  “Oh, for crissakes, man. Call the woman!”

  26

  Abit

  Something came up, and Della needed to stay on in D.C. for a while longer. I paced round Alex’s house, nervous-like because I really needed to get back to my woodshop.

  I guessed Della picked up on my fidgets, because after lunch she told me she’d booked me on the Southern Crescent. That was the name of the train that headed close to home; I knew about it because I’d taken her to Gastonia a time or two to catch it. “We’ll need to leave just before suppertime, but you can get a fine meal on the train,” she said, knowing that would be on my mind.

  When I turned to go pack, I nearly tripped over Millie. “What about …” was all I got out before Della added, “I’ll bring her in a few days when I come back.” I reached down to pat my furry friend and figured I could cope without her for a day or two.

  Union Station blew my mind. After Della dropped me off, I went into the main hall and stood there staring up at the plaster ceiling and all them statues. People kept bumping into me, some of them glaring, most of them not caring. Even the platform where I caught the train was awesome, in an industrial kinda way. I heard a guy dressed in a railroad uniform shout, “All aboard,” and he didn’t have to ask twicet.

  I made my way to my seat, which was surprisingly comfortable, especially for a big guy like me. Not long after the train started rollin’, I swayed with its rhythms down the aisle to the dining car. Moving between cars, the wind roaring and couplings clattering, I felt a jolt of excitement go up my spine.

  When I found the dining car, right away I could tell how special it was, what with the waiters dressed in white shirts, black ties, and black jackets with brass buttons. Their crisp uniforms were matched by their kindness as they served me a fine dinner, just like Della promised: fried chicken with green beans and a flakey biscuit. I finished up with apple pie and coffee. The silver coffee pot reminded me of all that room service we’d had in Atherton, Virginia, when Della and I were closing in on them cons.

  I rocked my way back to my seat and after thinking about the craft show for a while, started feeling sleepy. But something about that seat—the way it had a rolled cushion at the top—reminded me of that poor homeless feller. I felt bad I’d forgotten to ask Della about that—but I would when she came home.

  I musta fallen asleep because next thing I knew, one of the uniformed guys was shaking my shoulder. “Gastonia,” he whispered, trying not to wake the other passengers. I dragged myself off the train and finished sleeping in the station; there weren’t no buses that time of night. I didn’t get home till late the next morning and was grateful Shiloh had taken the day off. No saws buzzing while I crashed upstairs.

  When Shiloh showed up the next morning, I shared some of my notes from the show with him, then poured myself into my work. Lots of orders to catch up on. I looked forward to getting them out, because I wanted to design some new furniture Alex and I had talked about—and some I’d conjured up on the Crescent before I fell asleep. Something about traveling on that train really made my mind pop.

  Over the next coupla weeks, I sanded and sawed and polished until my arms ached. I told myself that show gave me a real kick in the butt, but deep down I knew most of that energy came from trying not to think about Fiona. My heart had started to heal, and then Nigel and his damn story had gotten my mind working on her again. I gave some thought to calling her. I even tried a time or two. I gathered enough courage to pick up the phone, but each time, I put it back in the cradle before I dialed. I just couldn’t do it.

  Until I did.

  I waited ‘til I knew she’d be at work and I’d get her answering m
achine. I’d written out what I wanted to say so I didn’t stumble and say stupid things. But then I found myself going off script, just the same. It went something like:

  Hi Fiona, it’s Rabbit. Just wanted to check on the table and make sure it’s holding up. [Why did I start like that? Of course a big wooden table was holding up!] My business is going good, and I just got back from the Smithsonian Craft Show in D.C. where I saw lots of things that blew me away. Not just furniture. Oh, and I’m thinking of taking up the mandolin. [I’d decided that while I was with Alex and Della in D.C. We’d heard a great band at an Irish pub my last evening there.] It gets old lugging ol’ Bessie round. I’ll still play her, but I’d like to have a smaller instrument, too. Gina left the band, and we need more string players. [I regretted saying that, but it was too late. What I really wanted to tell her was the big hole in the band was the loss of her fiddle playing and singing.] Well, that was all I wanted to say—just hi, and I’m doing good—and I hope you are, too.

  I hung up without saying goodbye and immediately went to the fridge for a beer.

  She didn’t call back.

  Instead, she came walking into my shop the next afternoon. Man, she looked even better than the last time I saw her. When I felt my heart kinda melt, I realized just how brittle it’d become. We were both acting awkward, and I didn’t know what to say after hi. She was holding something that looked like a mandolin case, so I asked, “Whatcha got there?”

  “Oh, me da sent this.”

  “All the way from Ireland?” She nodded, and just like that I felt like a fool. As if you couldn’t ship things round the world.

  “It’s been in the family, and he thought I should have it,” she said. I’d almost forgotten how sweet her voice was. “I love the fiddle too much to give this mandolin its due. If you’d like to borrow it to see if you want to learn it, well, that would be fine with me.” She held the case out for me.