Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  Love,

  Charlotte

  I stared at my letter and couldn’t stop smiling.

  My sissy . . . my Charlotte . . . was something else! There she was thinking of other people even in the hospital— giving a party for a little girl and saving another girl’s life!

  And knowing she was still the kind, brave sister I remembered made me feel like she wasn’t as far away as I feared, even if she still had “a ways to go.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Even though summer still seemed like a faraway dream, one morning Miss Beany started talking about the end of the school year.

  “This spring, all of us teachers have decided we would like to have a school-wide pageant to celebrate how hard you have all worked. With the war and rationing, everyone has been through a lot, so we want to do something extra special for our community.”

  Some kids started to clap, like that excited them too. I just sat there thinking how Charlotte wouldn’t be here to celebrate with us.

  My mind must’ve drifted, ’cause the next thing I knew, kids were standing up and moving to sit in different chairs. “What’s going on?” I asked as Ricky and Berta appeared next to me.

  “Aren’t you a little daydreamer!” Berta laughed. “Miss Beany assigned us groups to work in for the pageant. And we’re together.”

  Ricky pulled up a chair and sat next to me. “Guess I’m with you guys for this too.”

  “So, what are we supposed to do?” I asked.

  Berta rolled her eyes. “If you had listened, like Ricky and me, you’d know that each group is writing a speech about America. Then we will present the speeches to the class, and the best speech from our class will be given at the pageant. So we have to win.”

  I turned to see what Ricky thought of that while Berta kept talking. “And, Prudence, why don’t you go get us some paper so we can write down some of our ideas?”

  I really didn’t like taking orders from Berta—or having her roll her eyes at me—but anytime I could get up in class without asking for permission, I would.

  Right as I walked past her chair, I swear she stuck her foot out in front of me, making me fall flat on the floor.

  “Why in tarnation did you do that?” I yelled, giving her the meanest look I could muster.

  She looked shocked, and if I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe her. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I was just stretching my legs. I swear.” She reached out her hand to me. “Let me help you up.”

  I ignored her as I stood up.

  “You okay, Pixie?” Ricky asked.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled as I went to get the paper.

  I wasn’t gone more than a minute, but when I got back, Berta had the whole thing worked out. “So the speech should be about our store and how it has helped everybody during the war.”

  The way she said it, it didn’t sound like a suggestion she was offering, but a full-fledged decision. I didn’t really care what we wrote the speech about, but I wasn’t gonna let her boss me.

  “I don’t know,” I said, watching where I walked before I sat down. “Maybe it should be more about the war itself. Maybe about someone like Ricky’s brother, who is a war hero.”

  Ricky’s eyes lit up. There’d been no more news about Bill since that telegram. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I mean—yeah, he’s a hero to me—but there are lots of people who are heroes during this war.”

  “Then we should write about all the heroes,” I said.

  Berta nodded like the idea was growing on her, little by little.

  And—butter my biscuit—she actually said, “I like it.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “It sounds like your sister’s another hero we could write about,” Ricky said when he finished reading Charlotte’s letter while we took a break from the chore of cleaning the henhouse. “That girl in the iron lung could’ve died!”

  I put the letter back in my pocket for safekeeping. “Yeah. Charlotte got in the good line, for sure.”

  “What good line?”

  I shrugged. “You know—sometimes I imagine babies standing in lines up in heaven to get all the things they’ll be born with. Charlotte must’ve got in the line for all the good things. She’s always good. And you’re right—she’s definitely a hero—like your brother.”

  Ricky shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it that way—but yeah, Bill must’ve been in the good line too. I’m sure he’s a hero. Don’t know for certain how he got hurt, but I’ll bet you anything it was helping somebody. That’s just who Bill is.”

  He looked back at me and tipped his head like he was trying to figure something out. “So, what line would you have been in up in heaven?”

  That was easy. “I got in the line for trouble. Trouble for me, trouble for everyone who knows me. Probably went back for a second helping.”

  He laughed at first and then stopped. “Wait. You don’t really believe that you’re bad luck for people, do you?”

  “I don’t just believe it—I know it. How else do you explain all the bad luck in my family? There has to be a reason.”

  Ricky shrugged. “What about me? My pa left and didn’t come back—and my big brother got hurt in the war. Do you suppose that’s ’cause I’m bad luck?”

  “’Course not. That’s just—”

  “Just the way some things work out, right?” Ricky’s expression was so serious. “Can’t rightly give a good reason for most bad things. I think bad things just happen—sort of like accidents do.”

  I knew he was right about him not being bad luck, and I remembered the circle of life thing that Granddaddy talked about. But I guess I’d just been thinking I was bad luck for so long now, it was going to take some adjustment to think differently.

  * * *

  * * *

  The smell of warm bread greeted us as we opened the door to the house. Betsy had been excited to help Grandma with her baking, and her blue overalls were now speckled white with so much flour, I wondered how much had ended up in the bread.

  But before I could say anything, I heard the sound of shattering glass in the cellar.

  “What was that?” Ricky asked, but there wasn’t time to answer. He and I ran down the steps to find Buster out of his crate, racing around the cellar and knocking over Grandma’s canning jars like bowling pins.

  “Buster, no!” I tried to stop him, but he must’ve thought it was a fun new game. He’d never jumped out before, and I guess he liked the feeling of being free. Ricky and I tried to catch him, but when all three of us slipped on the pickle juice and fell into a heap, we couldn’t stop laughing.

  “What on earth?” Grandma’s voice didn’t have a speck of laughter in it as she came down the stairs with Betsy trailing behind her.

  I turned as serious as I could as Grandma took in the scene. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Buster’s sorry.”

  “Out! He’s going out to the barn tonight. He’s too big to stay inside anymore.”

  “But, Grandma, he’s—”

  “He’s a farm animal—that’s what he is. And farm animals live in barns. You would do right not to forget that.”

  Ricky kept his arms around Buster, who smelled like a pickle now, to keep him from getting into any more trouble.

  Grandma looked back at hours of her canning work now trickling across the cellar floor. She shook her head and pointed her finger at me. “I know I don’t have to tell you to clean up this mess real good, now.”

  “No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I will.”

  When Grandma shut the cellar door, Buster shook himself off, spraying pickle juice across Ricky, Betsy, and me. We tried not to laugh, but we couldn’t help it.

  When we finally got Buster back in his box, he bucked Ricky’s hand to get him to pet his head while Betsy patted his back.

  “He is getting pretty
big.” Ricky started to pet Buster as he spoke. “Whatcha feeding this guy?”

  I had to admit, Buster was more than three times larger than when we first got him. “He’s getting grains now, and water. He’s eating a ton,” I said. “I miss giving him his bottle, but my hands sure don’t! All that head buckin’ really hurt.” I looked down at the remaining scab on my right hand from more than a week before.

  And then I looked inside Buster’s box, seeing—and smelling—that even more cleaning was needed.

  I hated to say it, but maybe Grandma was right. Buster was too big to be inside anymore.

  Ricky stopped petting Buster. “So where do we start?”

  “I guess we gotta keep that clumsy guy away from one mess so I can clean up the other. Maybe you can hold him while I sweep and mop up. Betsy, could you get the bucket that’s outside by the porch? I’ll go get something for the broken glass.”

  I should’ve been mad at Buster for causing all this extra work, but when I looked at him, covered in pickle juice and sitting, so happy, in his box, I just couldn’t muster up anything but a laugh. It was pretty funny.

  I shook my head. Sometimes Granddaddy tells me if I’m not careful, I might find myself in a pickle. I don’t think I’ll ever think of that expression the same way after today.

  CHAPTER 30

  Buster’s first night in the barn wasn’t fun for him.

  Or me.

  Granddaddy fixed a nice pen close to our cow, Molly, but on the opposite end of those noisy pigs. I lined his pen with more straw than he could ever need, to make sure he’d be comfortable.

  Ricky was there when I brought Buster over to the cow and introduced them.

  “Molly, this here is Buster. He’s a lamb.”

  Ricky laughed. “Don’t ya think she knows he’s a lamb without you telling her that?”

  “How would I know if Granddaddy ever had any lambs before?” I looked back at Molly, who had looked away from me. Buster was starting to rub against her as she snorted and stomped her foot, ignoring him.

  “See? That’s what I’m talking about.” I turned Molly’s face back to look at me. “This here’s a lamb—and I want you to take care of him. You don’t have to be his mama—that’s my job. But be nice to him.”

  Buster seemed to hear what I was saying and stopped rubbing against Molly, instead coming closer to me. I opened the gate, and Buster walked on in, sniffed around, and sat down.

  “Good boy!” I said as I shut the gate. “We’ll see you later.”

  But as I turned to walk away, Buster started to complain with a bellowing bleat. Now that he was bigger, his bleh had turned into a deeper baa.

  Baa! Baa! Baa! he cried, running back and forth in his pen.

  Ricky looked as sad as I felt. “Don’t worry. Bet he stops crying as soon as we leave the barn.”

  But his sad baas seemed to follow me all the way back to the house.

  * * *

  * * *

  Halfway through supper, Grandma scolded me. “Don’t be so sad-eyed at my table. That lamb is where the good Lord intended him to be—in a barn with the rest of the livestock.”

  “Have to agree with your grandma, Pixie,” Granddaddy said. “Might be time to pull away from that lamb a bit and remember he’s an animal on a farm.”

  “And you are a girl at my table,” Grandma added, “who needs the food I spent all day preparing for you. So eat up.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered, taking a bite of the stew. But seeing as I was in a sour mood, the stew might as well have been bathwater. Grandma looked at me with such a disappointed look I feared I’d said that out loud.

  We were all looking pretty glum when Daddy walked into the room, late for dinner as usual.

  “I got something that’ll make you happy—and it sure looks like you could use it,” he said as he sat down. “Charlotte’s doctor sent a telegram saying she’s doing real good—walking with a bit of help.”

  That sure did make me happy! “Can I go see her now? Please?”

  Daddy looked pained, so I figured out the answer before he spoke again. “I’m sorry, honey. Children still aren’t allowed to visit.”

  “How is that fair? Charlotte wants to see me!”

  Daddy shook his head like even he couldn’t understand it.

  “I wish you could go visit her too, Pixie,” Granddaddy said. “Breaks my heart thinking of all the kids there . . . Hurting kids . . . in iron lungs . . . in wheelchairs . . . stuck in hospital beds.”

  I tried to blink away the picture of all those hurting kids, because in the middle of that picture was my sissy.

  “Is Charlotte still hurting a lot?”

  Daddy’s voice was almost a whisper. “Yeah. She’s tough, but being away so long is hard for her.”

  My eyes started stinging, and my lip started quivering. I couldn’t even think of eating any more. “May I be excused, please?”

  Grandma sighed. “Yes, you may, Pixie.”

  I got up from the table and ran as fast as I could to the barn.

  * * *

  * * *

  Buster seemed perfectly fine when I walked in the barn—but as soon as he saw me, he began bleating again.

  “Calm down,” I whispered as I climbed over the side of the pen.

  He bucked at me with his head. Baa! Baa!

  I sat cross-legged as he plopped next to me and quieted down. “Buster, sometimes life doesn’t make sense,” I told him, and he looked at me like he agreed. “My mama’s been gone over two years now, and my sissy’s been gone for more than two hundred days.” My voice cracked. “That’s a lot of days that I haven’t seen her. I look at her picture every day to remember what she looks like, but now I’m wonderin’ if she looks like her picture anymore. Imagine that! A person not knowin’ what her own sister looks like!”

  I let myself have a good cry, and by the time I was all cried out, Buster was asleep beside me.

  I watched as the shaft of light from the open barn door got smaller as the sun set. It was peaceful listening to Molly’s occasional grunts and Buster’s soft snores. I was dozing off when I heard the sound of footsteps.

  “Pixie, ya in here?” Daddy carried a lantern that beamed its light on us.

  “Yeah.”

  “Figured.” He walked into the barn and sat down outside of the pen.

  “Daddy,” I asked, “will I ever get to see Charlotte again?”

  “’Course you will.”

  “But you can’t be certain, can you?”

  “Yes, I can. As sure as I am that the sun comes up each morning, that’s how sure I am that my girls are meant to grow up together.”

  “Two hundred days, Daddy. It’s been more than two hundred days.” I wiped my tears with the back of my arm. “I miss her more than anybody knows.”

  He leaned closer. “I know that deep-down feeling of missing somebody better than I ever wanted to. But right now, all we can do is keep everything here ready for her to come home—and pray she gets home soon. I think she will. The good Lord willin’—”

  “And the creek don’t rise,” I finished the saying. “That’s the way Charlotte and I sign our letters.”

  I think I saw him wink, but the beam of light from the lantern wasn’t bright enough to be certain. “You girls get that expression from your mama. You’re both so much like her.”

  I didn’t know what to say. My heart felt better just hearing Daddy say I was even a bit like my mama.

  I stood up and tried not to wake Buster. He snorted in his sleep but didn’t open an eye.

  I wrapped my hand around Daddy’s as we walked back to the house, the chirp of crickets competing with the crunch of our footsteps. The air was cool and sweet-smelling. “That smell reminds me of Mama.”

  Daddy nodded. “Yep. The lilacs are starting to bloom. Those were her
favorites.”

  I remembered that! And I loved the smell too.

  I inhaled as deep as I could. And as tight as I held on to Daddy’s hand, I think I held even tighter to an honest-to-goodness memory of my mama.

  CHAPTER 31

  Turned out that Buster took to sleeping in the barn as easy as he took to running in the fields. Spring was really here, and he was as excited as me to be outdoors any chance he could get. I tried to keep up with him as he ran through the orchard and zipped between the apple-blossom-filled trees, but his four legs seemed more than twice as fast as my two.

  Saturday found him exploring and me busy hoeing the garden, trying my best to only dig up the weeds and not any sprouting vegetables.

  At first, Grandma watched to see if I hoed right while she hung up the laundry to dry. When she’d finished hanging the laundry and giving me pointers, she went inside.

  As I worked, I spied Ricky walking across the orchard, with Betsy riding piggyback. When Buster ran to greet them, Betsy jumped off to pet him.

  She giggled. “Your lamb thinks he’s a dog.”

  “Careful, or Mud will be jealous,” I said.

  Ricky shook his head. “Nah, Mud can’t think enough to be jealous.”

  I laughed, but right then Buster took off running toward the clothesline with the laundry Grandma had just finishing hanging.

  “No, Buster! Get,” I scolded, but he must’ve thought I yelled, Run, Buster, run! since that’s what he did—smack into the sheets, knocking one of them off so it wrapped around his head. I thought he’d come to a stop, figuring how he couldn’t see worth a lick, but Buster ran in circles with his head covered in the sheet, making him the funniest-looking four-legged ghost that ever there was.

  Then he zigged and zagged between the apple trees, heading toward the outhouse. We ran after him, hollering for him to stop, but those legs of his moved crazy fast, especially for someone just discovering he had legs at all.