by Kate Seredy
“Gramp, he says he was feelin’ awful cold of a sudden. ‘Musta been dreamin,’ he says to himself and goes back to the kitchen. There he sat waitin’ and a’waitin’ but nobody came. Not until morning. Not until morning. By this time the wind let up and the snow, and Gramp, he hears the bells and voices again from the road. So out he goes real spry and happy, hollerin’ ‘Merry Christmas!’ He never want to hear it again, he says—nobody here durst say Merry Christmas near Gramp. Because Tom McNeal was standin’ in the yard with the tears a’streamin’ on his face and he says to Gramp he says, ‘No, Jake, no, it ain’t a merry Christmas, not for you or me or anybody ever loved Joe and Libby.
“And Gramp, he is just standin’ there in the door his blood runnin’ cold an’ his bones achin’ from bein’ afraid. Granma come a’runnin’ but she don’t say nary a word just keeps lookin’ from Gramp to Tom McNeal. And Tom McNeal he has to tell them what he has come to tell them on Christmas mornin’—he tells them: ‘A truck run over the sleigh at the crossin’ when Joe and Libby was headin’ home.’
“And Granma she just falls in a heap on the kitchen floor but Gramp, he says: ‘I heard them—the sleighbells ringin’ and Joe and Libby singin’ at eleven by the clock.’ And Tom McNeal he bows his head real low and he says: ‘The Lord have mercy, Jake Van Keuran,—it was eleven by the clock when they died.’”
Then Andy was silent, hunched over the desk. Janet was crying quietly. “Oh, poor Andy,” she whispered. Dick, close to tears, stammered: “Oh, Andy, that must have been awful.”
Andy shook his head. “Not for me it wasn’t. I ain’t the poor one. Can’t recall any of it, bein’ so little when it happened. But my heart aches powerful for Gramp. He an’ Granma ‘re the only folks I ever had. We get along right smart except at Christmas time. Come Christmas Eve, Gramp, he just stands by the window in the kitchen, quiet like . . . listenin’, listenin’. And Granma, she don’t know better’n to rant at him and never a word he says. We don’t hold Christmas at our house; it’s just a day of grievin’.”
“No Christmas . . . oh but, Andy! You have a Christmas tree and gifts, haven’t you?”
Andy shook his head. “Never had a one. Gramp once took me to town to see a tree, right pretty it was too.” Andy sighed in remembrance. “I liked it so powerful much that, . . . no matter. ‘Tis nothing to tell.” But his eyes were on Dick’s face, questioning, eager. Dick looked back into Andy’s eyes. Neither boy said anything or moved a muscle. But suddenly Dick KNEW how Mother and Father talked to each other without words. This was all right. Andy was his friend. He said, in an offhand way: “I’m going to ask your Grandma to let you come to our place for Christmas, if you want to.”
Andy looked away. The pact was sealed; they were friends, so his voice was almost gruff when he said: “Obliged I’m sure. I’d like to, right well.” Then he turned to Janet, and cautiously explored her face with his eyes. The frank, sweet kindliness he saw there, made him feel as if the June sunshine had melted a hard lump in his heart. A cold, aching lump he had lived with ever since he could remember. He smiled. “Got eyes just like my calf,” he said softly and added “Janet,” a shy afterthought. Then he looked away quickly and said, not addressing either of his new found friends, but speaking to both:
“Guess ‘t will be all right to tell.”
“What?” Dick asked, his voice trying to match Andy’s in gruffness. “What I’m about to tell. The Christmas tree. The one nobody knows a thing ‘bout. Because nobody pays any heed to what I do on Christmas day. I go . . .“He hesitated again, there was another barrier in the way of complete confidence. “Do you like critters? Little wild ones, rabbits an’ squirrels and such?”
“Oh yes,” Dick and Janet exclaimed together.
Andy nodded, satisfied now. “Shucks, I knew you would. Granma, she don’t like nothin’ soft and pretty and Gramp, he cusses at them because they don’t do no good anyways you look at it. I know that . . . but they’re right pretty. I . . . I am considerable fond of them. So . . . I go on Christmas day, I go up Fox Hill and beyond, to the clearing. Up there, high on the knoll is my Christmas tree. Not much it is, stands ‘bout as high as I can reach, but pretty. I take apples and corn, hick’ry nuts and anything I have hid away, then I string them on the branches the way I saw it was done. Then, if I keep right quiet, after a spell the little critters come. Not always while I’m waitin’ there, but no matter. I know they find what I bring them because the stuff is always gone the day after. Just knowin’ and a’thinkin’ of the little critters makes Christmas day go easy like. At times I wisht Gramp could know—it might take his mind from grievin’.”
Dick gulped. “I like that, Andy. That’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever heard of. Would you . . . some time maybe . . . let Janet and me come with you?”
“Obliged to have you,” said Andy, solemnly inclining his head. “I never told anybody ‘bout it,” he went on in a low voice, turning to pick up his pencil again, “ain’t never had any one TO tell. Now, look what I did to Janet’s chart!” he exclaimed, looking at the paper black with his scribbling. “Mustn’t let Granma see it, ‘t ain’t thrifty to mess up good paper she says.”
He was about to crumple it up when Dick put his hand on the paper. “Let’s see, Andy . . . now wait a minute!”
“Ain’t nothin’ but shiftless scribblin’,” Andy said defensively. But Dick held the paper fast. “Why, Andy! You can draw pictures! Look Janet, look here! It’s a little calf and here, that’s a bunny sitting up. Gee, Andy, you are clever.”
“What’s this, Andy?” Janet pointed to the crudely but powerfully drawn figure of a man. “It . . . doesn’t LOOK like your grandfather but it is. Gee . . . isn’t it?”
“Don’t never know what I draw when I’m a’thinkin’,” Andy shrugged, peering at the paper with ill concealed eagerness. “Might be Gramp—sad like, ain’t it? Gramp grievin’ it might well be, the way I feel it.”
“It is sad. All bent over and dark,” Dick nodded. “But it’s beautiful, Andy, even more beautiful than the calf and the rabbit. I’d like to show it to Dad. May I keep it?”
Andy was very ill at ease. “He’ll only tell Granma ‘bout it and set her railin’ at me. Naw . . . let me throw it away.” He reached for the paper, frowning.
“But she shouldn’t, Andy! You . . . you must be an artist. People who can draw pictures are something special.”
“Ain’t nothin’ but shiftlessness, Granma says,” Andy sighed. “Times I forget about the chores for a spell, lookin’ at no’count things like . . . apple trees in spring of year a’dancin’ on the slopes and a piece of sky droppin’ down all blue and shining and laughin’ into the pond for little yellow ducks to swim on . . . or when I’m just a’dreamin’ about my Ma and my Pa . . .” he sighed again, his eyes far away, “well, like as not Granma will find me and . . .”
“ANDY! Andrew Van Keuran! I want you,” Mrs. Van Keuran’s sharp voice brought Andy back to reality. His face hardened, the dreaming boy was gone. “Milkin’ time,” he announced in a matter-of- fact way. He hitched up his jeans and strode out through the door. In a moment his towhead appeared again and he said in a hoarse whisper:
“You can keep it if you want but . . . don’t let Granma see it.” Then he was gone.
Dick, deep in thought, rolled up the paper carefully and slipped it inside his shirt. He glanced at Janet. Her eyes were full of tears. “Dicky . . . I want to go home quick . . . to Mother and Dad,” she said in a trembling voice.
“So do I . . . gee, so do I. Come on, Sis!”
Hand in hand they hurried out. Walking quickly and quietly through the long barn, they saw the two old VanKeurans and Andy, each sitting close by the side of a cow. They were milking; Dick and Janet could hear the rhythmical swish-swishing noise as the streams of milk hit the tin pails. It was almost like music. But just then, neither of them wanted to stop to see how milking was done. “We can watch it some other time,” Dick whispered and Janet nodded in agreement. Andy l
ooked up for a moment. He gave them a fleeting smile, then bowed his head again.
Out on the road, hurrying toward their own house, Janet said, “He is awfully nice, Dick. I like him loads. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. He’s all right I guess,” Dick frowned, hiding under the frown his joy in that moment when he and Andy had come to a silent understanding. He took Janet’s hand and began to run. “Come on, Sis, I’ve got to talk to Dad.”
CHAPTER VII
A FEW LITTLE SURPRISES
BUT more than a week went by before Dick and Father had a long talk about Andy. It was a week none of them would ever forget; days crowded with excitement, work, fun, and surprises.
Monday started off with a joke they chuckled over and teased each other about for years to come. After breakfast Father said: “Who wants to come to town with me? We’ll have to get a lot of things if we are to stay here.”
Gran took the shopping list out of her pocket. “Here are some things we need right away. Groceries, drugs, drygoods, chicken feed. . . .”
A queer expression came into her eyes. She blinked. “WHICH town, John?”
Father opened his mouth to answer but no sound came, and he forgot to close it. He looked at Mother. She said: “Huh?” in a dazed sort of way. Then she made a little sound as if something was tickling her and her voice was tight and giggly when she said: “Don’t ask me! I didn’t drive the car. I didn’t watch the map. I didn’t buy the farm. I didn’t even find the auction sale. I was just a passenger in . . . the rocket to the moon.”
She was frankly laughing by then and laughing hard. So was Father. So, in her own funny, soundless way, was Gran.
“Does ANYBODY know where we live?” Father gasped finally, wiping his eyes. Nobody knew. Not one of them had the faintest idea. Gran said after a long silence: “We could ask the Van Keurans but. . .”
“NO!” cried Father. “Oh no. That would be the end. Why. . . we’d never live it down. Let’s see that map; maybe we can find ourselves by the well known process of elimination.” He ran to the car and came back, spreading the map on the kitchen table. “Now! The last town I remember having passed was Middletown. Here it is. Then we came up on Route 17,” his pencil traced the line of the highway, “but I didn’t pay any attention; my mind was on a game of golf I had hoped to get into.”
“Wait, Dad,” Dick cried. “Fair Oaks. I remember a sign that read: You are now leaving Fair Oaks. Thank you, call again. Here is Fair Oaks on the map.”
“All right,” Father chuckled. “About how long after that did we leave the highway?”
“Gosh, Dad, I don’t know. The road wasn’t very interesting . . .well . . . I really don’t know.”
“Never mind, Dicky, you’re no better than your elders. We’ll try a different approach. The next good sized place after Fair Oaks— where we evidently aren’t—seems to be Bloomingburg. That’s where Route 17 and 17K run together and we never got there, I know that much. NOW! There are some mountains indicated right about here,” he looked closely at the map, “Shaw-an . . . Shawangunk, G-U-N-K-, believe it or not, Mountains.” He straightened and with mock seriousness peered out the window, shading his eyes with his hand, Indian fashion. Then he pointed triumphantly. “MOUNTAINS!”
Mother was laughing so hard she could hardly speak, but she managed a weak: “Daniel, oh wilderness scout!” Father grinned at her.
“Quiet, Woman. I am about to discover the lost Preston tribe.”
He bent over the map again. “On this crude, primitive, undependable map there are no signs of any trails through the wilderness of Shawangunk. In other words, side roads of the dirt variety are not indicated. BUT, if we are still alive, and, by all the signs if not by the quality of our brains we seem to be, as I was sayin’, we MUST be within this circle.” He drew a small circle on the map.
“Wonderful!” applauded Mother. “NOW what do we do?”
“The only thing to do is to behave like a dog chasing his own tail,” laughed Father. “We’ll retrace our road to Route 17, drive north to Bloomingburg, do our shopping, turn around and come back here. AND, forever after act just as if we had never been lost.”
“What will we . . . blaze with?” Mother asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Blaze?”
“Yes. A trail, you know, Daniel! With a little hatchet or bent saplings or white pebbles or whatever! Before SOMEBODY gets us lost again.” She didn’t look at Gran but Gran snorted good-naturedly. “Fiddlesticks,” and flounced out of the kitchen.
It was almost noon when they got back to the farm; then there was the rush and bustle of unpacking, sorting things out, bringing some semblance of order into the few rooms they had decided to use. In the afternoon Dick and Janet learned from Gran how to take care of the chickens.
“We can do it, Gran,” Dick offered. “We feed and water them twice a day and clean the coop. That’s easy!”
“And pick up the eggs,” Janet reminded him.
“Won’t be many to pick up for a few days,” Gran said. “Hens don’t like to be moved. In a week we should get eight-nine eggs a day. But next spring . . . I want at least two hundred baby chicks . . . raise a big flock . . .”
“Next SPRING!” Dick stared at her. “You mean we’re going to live here . . . for good?”
Gran bit her lip. “Bess Preston, you ought to be trounced,” she mumbled under her breath. Aloud she said, stuttering a little: “I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . oh shucks! What’s wrong with that?” she flared at Dick.
“Oh gee . . . nothing, Gran—I’d like it. But Dad . . .”
“Well, hush then.” Gran was frowning. “Nobody said anything about living here next spring. Chickens! That’s what I was talking about. Chickens!” She left in a great hurry, shaking her head and grumbling. The children stared after her, puzzled. Janet sighed.
“Now, what made her angry?” Dick shook his head. His eyes were narrow slits, aimed at Gran’s retreating back and when he spoke, he spoke slowly, musingly:
“You know what, Janet? I think Gran is up to something. Ever since . . . why, Janet, ever since that day when—when Dad stopped working for Karspin’s—Gran has been up to something.”
Janet’s eyes were round. “What?”
“I . . . am . . . not sure. But for more than a week she has had her castor oil face on; every time she speaks to Mother or Dad her nose twitches !”
“Brrrr,” shivered Janet, laughing with Dick. Gran’s castor oil face was their own private joke. Every time when they were sick, the first thing Gran would do was to try to feed them castor oil. She disguised it in orange juice, cocoa, chocolate, grape juice, lemonade—something different every time. But, after one or two samples of her lovely-looking concoctions, the children discovered just how to tell an innocent drink from a loaded one. They’d watch Gran’s nose. If it behaved in a dignified way, all was well with the drink. But if Gran’s nose twitched beware of anything she might offer.
“That mother of mine is up to one of her tricks,” Father said to Mother the same evening. He had just come in from a stroll in the yard. “I sort of wandered into the barn . . . there she was, scurrying around with a long tape measure and a notebook. She had some papers on the floor. When she saw me, she SWOOPED down on them and positively glared at me. She made me feel like a hawk or something the way she gathered those papers under her wings. I asked her what she was doing and . . . oh boy, did I get told off!”
“I can imagine,” Mother said, her shoulders shaking. “What do you suppose she’s up to?”
“I am not sure, but I can guess. And I don’t like it. I bet she’s working on . . . the housing plan !”
Mother looked at him. Her eyes grew large, round and solemn. She lifted her hands to her ears, flopping them up and down. She uttered a plaintive and questioning: “MOOO?”
Father burst out laughing. “Yes, you clown. I should have married a nice, fat, plain girl with glasses and brains. Somebody I could lean on in emergencies.”
Moth
er said calmly: “You would have been bored to death. Are we in an emergency AGAIN?”
“We are,” Father sighed. “Something tells me that we are going to be invaded. Mom is out there for no good reason; she’s doing fifth column work, preparing the ground for the enemy. And look here, Molly, this is getting to be serious. We have acquired a farm, a hound, and a flock of chickens. All right. But let me tell you this: I draw the line right there. No cow!”
The door opened. Gran looked in, gave them a sweet, level “Good night,” and disappeared. Mother spread her hands. “All right. BUT,” she said, imitating Father’s voice, “let me tell you this: if Gran wants cow, Gran will have cow.”
Dick woke up with a start next morning. It was very early, just before sunrise. Through the windows he could see the dark silhouettes of trees against the brilliant red-gold of the sky. He slipped off his hay mattress without waking Father and tiptoed to the door. Just as he thought, it WAS Andy’s voice that he had heard. Yawning, he stumbled into the kitchen. Gran and Andy were sitting by the stove, a platter of muffins and a jar of honey between them. Andy noticed Dick first. He surveyed him calmly, from rumpled hair and sleep-flushed face to his bare feet sticking out of red striped pajamas. He whistled. “What’s them things you got on?”
“Pajamas of course,” Dick said, surprised at the question. “Just got out of bed and heard your voice . . .”
Andy gasped. “You wear them to SLEEP in?”
“Of course I do,” Dick said impatiently. “Don’t you?”
“Me? Naw!” Andy was visibly shocked. “I sleep in the raw.”