Her father was working a different job. Her mom called it a side-job and said he would be working a lot of those on the weekends for a while. Charlee wished she had a side-job for him, too.
Charlee looked across the wide field behind their trailer and saw a sea of dandelions she figured would take a whole month to pick. The field grass was bushy and thick in spots and bald in others and looked like her old elementary school principal’s head. On the far edge of the field, she noticed the woman with the sports car and the big house at the end of the street was outside at her clothesline.
She’d seen the woman before and waved at her whenever she drove by their trailer on her way out of the neighborhood. Charlee had asked her mother for permission to knock on her door and say hello, but her mom said no.
“Charlee Alexander, you do not, under any circumstances, have permission to knock on her door or any other door in this neighborhood. I worry enough that you walk up and down the road.”
Charlee picked another handful of dandelions and inched toward the edge of their backyard until she found a perfectly flat tree stump. The podium made her look a foot taller and feel at least ten feet more important. She lifted the bouquet above her head, and with her other hand, she took off her glasses and put them over her heart. She closed her eyes and imagined herself winning a beauty pageant or an Olympic gold medal.
The early October weekend breeze stiffened, and she put her glasses back on. When she could focus again, she saw that the old woman across the field had stopped to watch her. And though Charlee couldn’t hear her, it looked like she was clapping.
She hopped off the award’s podium and waved to the woman. The woman waved back in an exaggerated circle and Charlee waved again. The woman also waved her arm again, but this time the greeting turned into an invitation, and she seemed to be calling Charlee over.
Charlee jogged to her trailer and looked in a back window to the living room. Zach was exactly where he’d been an hour ago, sitting on a beanbag held together with duct tape and cradling an Xbox controller in his lap. She could have asked him for permission to cross the field, but lately Zach’s favorite saying had become “Quit bothering me.”
So she didn’t.
She turned away from the window and crossed back through the yard toward the field. She stepped over a fallen fence that had been on the ground for so long, she thought parts of it looked stuck in the ground, as if the earth had gotten sick of supporting it and swallowed up the railings out of spite.
She began crossing the field, pausing to pick only the longest of the dandelions and adding them to her second bouquet. When she found one fuller than another, she tossed the imperfect flower aside and replaced it. Charlee promised herself that no matter what, when she got to the woman’s yard, she would obey her mother and not knock on the woman’s door if she went inside.
She prayed the woman wasn’t thirsty or tired.
The clothesline woman had gone back to pulling clothes and setting them in a plastic basket. By the time Charlee reached the edge of the woman’s own lawn, marked, she assumed, by big red stones that lay flat with the grass, the woman had nearly emptied the line.
Charlee stood on a stone and smiled at her. She was close enough now to read the woman’s apron: Make yourself at home! Please start with the dishes.
Charlee smiled even bigger.
The woman smiled back.
“My name is Charlee Alexander.”
“Hello, Charlee Alexander. My name is Marva Ferguson.”
Charlee took a step forward. “Most people just call me Charlee.”
Marva smiled again. “And most people call me Miss Marva.”
Charlee took two more steps. “I like that.”
“Me, too.” Miss Marva took the wooden clothespins she’d been collecting in her apron and began pinning them back onto the thin rope line. Miss Marva held several out toward Charlee. “Would you like to help?”
Charlee nodded, set her bouquet down on one of the stones, and finished her slow approach. She arrived at Miss Marva’s side, took the pins from her, and pinched one onto the line.
“Have you ever done this before, Charlee?”
“No, ma’am. We’ve never had a clothesliner before.”
Miss Marva giggled. “My. That’s a shame, isn’t it then.”
“We’ve always had a dryer. Until now. We don’t have a dryer anymore.”
“You don’t?” Miss Marva handed Charlee another handful of pins and motioned to the second of the three lines.
“We did have one. At our old house. We sold it at the yard sale.”
“I see.”
“Mom took our clothes to a laundry place last night. She said they had dryers there so we wouldn’t need one of our own.”
“Your mother sounds very smart,” Miss Marva said.
“She’s super smart.”
The two new friends remained quiet a moment, and Charlee didn’t notice that Miss Marva was removing pins already on the line with one hand, putting them in one pocket, transferring them to the other, and handing them to Charlee to replace on the line.
“How long have you been in Woodbrook?”
“Exactly one week. We moved in last Saturday.”
“I see.”
“Do you have kids?” Charlee asked after another short pause.
“I do. I have one. A son.”
“Does he live here?”
Miss Marva grinned. “No, I’m afraid not. He lives there.” She looked up to the sky and then back to meet Charlee’s eyes.
“Heaven,” Charlee said.
“That’s right. You’re super smart, too.”
“Thank you. And I’m very, very sorry, Miss Marva.”
“He’s been there a long time, so don’t you worry.”
When Miss Marva moved to the third line, Charlee darted back to the row of red stones and reassembled the dandelion bouquet. She appeared in front of Miss Marva and extended the flowers. “These are for you—for your son.”
Miss Marva dropped the remaining pins in one of her apron pockets and took the dandelions. Her voice cracked when she tried to speak, so instead she put the bouquet to her nose and inhaled deeply. Then she tried again. “They’re
just . . .” She smelled them once more. “They’re just beautiful.”
Charlee smiled and admired her work. Miss Marva is right, she thought. They are beautiful.
A comfortable quiet lasted several minutes as Miss Marva retrieved an oversized clothespin from one of the other lines and used it to bind her bouquet of dandelions. Charlee watched with curiosity as Miss Marva disappeared into the back door of her home and returned a minute later without the flowers.
Miss Marva and Charlee spent half an hour making a game of spacing the pins at exact intervals across all three lines. They chatted about Zach and the Alexanders’ move to Woodbrook, and Miss Marva explained the letter J fishhook design of the neighborhood.
“So that’s your home there?” Miss Marva pointed. “So you’re on the main road in. That’s the shank; that’s what people here say. And the side road with the trailers and the dirt pile? That’s the barb—you know, like on a fishing hook.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I live here all by myself on the point. On the end of the hook.”
Charlee couldn’t wait to share the fishing map with her parents that night, and she hoped more than ever that her father would be home before bedtime.
Charlee shared what she’d learned about her neighbors so far, which wasn’t much, and Miss Marva told her to be extra kind to the three ladies in the trailer on the bend in the hook.
“Two of them are quite sick,” she said. “They don’t have a lot of waves left in them.”
Charlee confessed that she was feeling lonely in the neighborhood, and that despite her efforts, she felt as if the ot
her kids didn’t even see her.
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” Miss Marva said. “I’m sure they saw you.”
Charlee shrugged, and, like a tank low on fuel, they both seemed to tire, sputter, and run out of things to say and clothespins to rearrange.
“You want to know a secret before you go?” Miss Marva leaned down.
“Sure!”
Miss Marva cupped her mouth with both hands and whispered in Charlee’s ear. “Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Someone always sees you.”
5
Whisper-Shouts
“Thomas, didn’t they promise to pay you before you left?”
“They did.”
Charlee heard her mother’s angry sigh through the thin wall between the room she shared with Zach and the almost toy-sized kitchen of their mobile home.
“You can’t let them do this to you. If the deal is to pay the same day you work these side-jobs, then don’t leave until they do.”
“Em, it’s not that simple.” His voice was quieter than her mother’s, but she still heard his whisper-shouts well enough to be sad they were fighting.
“Why take the jobs then? Why spend another day away from us doing extra work when you have to chase them for the money later? If you’re not going to get paid, Thomas, I’d rather you not get paid and at least be home.”
“You’re getting a little loud,” he said.
“I’m whispering, Thomas. And Zach’s listening to music in bed, and Charlee is asleep.”
Charlee heard nothing for a moment, and she wasn’t sure if the whisper-shouts had become just whispers or if they’d stopped.
“I was going to tell her a story tonight,” she finally heard her father say.
“I know.”
Charlee listened as their conversation turned back to money, people they owed money, why they need money, what they’d do with money, and why her mother was having a hard time finding a job of her own. Charlee pulled Melvin close to her and arranged him so their heads shared the pillow and their eyes met. They stared at the bottom of Zach’s bunk bed above them.
“Charlee asked me about Christmas today,” her mother whispered.
Her father didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his voice was so quiet Charlee could only guess at what he’d said. “She asked you about Christmas?”
“She did.”
“But it’s only October.”
“I know it’s only October. But you know Charlee—she thinks, she worries about us, she’s got that old soul. She looks down the road more than we do.”
“And she loves the holidays.”
“She does.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what did you tell her about this year?”
“I told her we’d be fine. That’s how I answer every question, Thomas. We’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Zach’s just angry today; he’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, just give me a few minutes. Your dad is really tired today, that’s all. He’ll be fine.”
“That answer won’t work forever,” he said, probably louder than he meant to.
“You think I don’t know that? Trust me. I know that better than anyone. I feel sick when I put that fine face on. It feels like a lie, Thomas.”
“Emily—”
“Look at us. Just look at your kids. Zach is suffering. He’s completely alone. This hasn’t been a fresh start. He’s the same kid, only more invisible. I don’t even recognize him anymore. He’s broken. Don’t you see it? No one trusts him, and no one even pretends he exists. And Charlee? She’s dying here, Thomas.”
“Now come on. It’s going to—”
“To what? Be fine? Will it? We’re living in a shoe box in a town we don’t know, with neighbors who barely speak to us and mostly treat us like we don’t belong here. We’re avoiding ten calls a day. No, I’m avoiding ten calls a day while you’re working until you’re so tired you roll in the door and fall asleep before I even know you’re home, half the time. Me? I’m filling out applications to fast food places that make you wear a paper hat. Paper hats, Thomas. And you’re working fourteen hours on a Saturday at some job site where you can’t even collect the money they promised.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Not fair? Is any of this fair? This life you’ve dropped us into?”
“Is this about me now, Emily?”
Charlee turned on her back in bed. She felt the tears in her head deciding where to go, and an ache began to build behind her eyes. She wanted to get up and get a drink, maybe ask her mother for some aspirin, but she didn’t want them to think she’d heard their whisper-shouts.
“Isn’t it about you? Isn’t it about you and your big business plans? The truck? The gear? All the junk?”
“Junk?”
“The stuff, Thomas. The stuff that buried us.”
“Emily—”
“You buried us, Thomas.”
A minute passed with nothing, and to Charlee, it felt as long as the time it takes to give someone a hug. She hoped that was it.
Another minute passed, and then the door to the trailer opened and slammed shut. Charlee leaned out of her bed to look up at Zach.
His earbuds were off, and his eyes were open. “What’s your problem?” he said.
“Nothing.”
“Go to sleep then.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“I don’t care. Go to sleep anyway. You’re a kid.”
Charlee paused. “You’re a kid, too, Zach.”
“Whatever. Just shut up and go to bed.” Zach grunted. “I hate sharing a room with you.”
Charlee stayed quiet a moment before saying, “We’re not supposed to say shut up.”
Zach’s head appeared over the edge of the top bunk. His face was red and became redder as he hung sideways. “You going to go out there and tell, Charlee? You really think Mom and Dad care if I say shut up?”
When Charlee didn’t answer quickly, Zach added a nasty, “Grow up, Charlee,” and flipped back on his bunk with an exaggerated flop.
“No, why don’t you grow up? You’re so mad all the time! I hate it, and I hate how mean you are, and I hate sharing a room with you more.”
Charlee knew she didn’t mean it, but she decided not to say another word that night. Because she’d realized she was whispershouting, too.
6
Christmas Help Wanted
Marva awoke at 6:17 a.m. The alarm had been set at that odd time for so long she didn’t even remember why anymore. But she didn’t mind. Marva liked to be up early, and even though she’d been more tired lately and wearing down earlier in the day, waking up under the blue-black denim sky reminded her she was still alive and in control of her day.
She felt sorry for the elderly men and women she volunteered with at the town library and the nearby physical therapy clinic. Too many of them were giving in to the aches that whisper and gossiping about sore knees, hips, and lower backs. Sure, Marva looked over her shoulder and saw the pains gaining, following her wherever she went like a thief waiting to steal what she did not protect.
But she would not release her grip. The years would have to threaten someone else; Marva Ferguson would not hear the taunts.
Marva sat up in bed and, just like every morning since the spring of 1970, she picked up the phone on the nightstand to listen for a dial tone to be assured it still worked. It did; it always had.
She showered slowly, then dressed and selected an apron from her collection to wear while she prepared breakfast. It read Yes, I’m a superhero, and I’m fully aware my cape is on backwards.
She ate two pieces of bacon, half a grapefruit, two eggs, and a toasted English muffin with blackberry jam. She knew it was a large meal for a woman her age living alone. But she also knew that the
more time she spent at the table, the more time she had to read her Bible. She’d been reading during breakfast since her teen years, and the daily tradition had followed her into married life and on to being a widow.
Plus, Marva enjoyed the large meal because she planned to do a lot of living, and a hearty breakfast would fuel her through the early afternoon.
It was, after all, the day she planned to put up Christmas.
After washing her dishes, something she always did immediately following whatever meal she enjoyed, Marva opened the deep linen closet inside the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. She couldn’t remember the last time the closet actually held linens, but that was all right because she couldn’t remember the last time the guest bedroom held a guest, either.
She pulled out the faded, green canvas bag that protected her artificial tree. Real trees were nice, but her late-sweetheart, John, had purchased this tree at Sears, and every time she put it up, it reminded her that he wasn’t as far away as he sometimes seemed.
Then came boxes of traditional ornaments, lights of every kind, and several popcorn strings that hadn’t been supplemented with fresh popcorn in far too long. There were also bows, tinsel, stars, miniature stockings, plastic candy canes, real candy canes that were so old they looked plastic, and a few of her favorite recipes shrunk and laminated into ornaments that hung from pieces of yarn strung through paper-punched holes.
Marva also pulled her nativity scene from the closet. As much as she loved the Santa side of Christmas, Marva knew they were just decorations on the spiritual tree. No string of lights could shine brighter than the nativity that represented the real meaning of the holiday.
Lastly, Marva retrieved the box her husband had made from a pallet and later lined with red felt. It held the unusual wooden Advent calendar that dominated her mantel from late October through December. She liked the looks she got on Halloween when sticky-faced trick-or-treaters peered inside her front door and saw her southern extension office of the North Pole.
There were years when her friends were too overbooked with family and parties to visit her dripping-with-the-holidays home. But putting up Christmas right before Halloween meant that no matter what, even on the lonely years, someone would appreciate her work. Even if it was only from the front door, and even if it was from someone holding a pillowcase of candy and dressed as a character from a horror movie.
The 13th Day of Christmas Page 3