As the old story was told again, Lanie held Corliss firmly. She hoped the baby wouldn’t decide to sing or to cry. Instead, Corliss seemed fascinated by the lights pointed at the stage.
From time to time Lanie glanced at Annie. The old woman was leaning forward, intent upon the wise men and the shepherds. This was Cody’s and Davis’s part. They took their place on the stage and listened as Orrin read. “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.”
At this moment the lights brightened, and Lanie was horrified to see Cody fall flat on his back, covering his face up as if he had been shot.
“That’s a bad case of overacting,” Forrest whispered, humor in his voice.
“He’s just awful!”
The play went on, and finally Joseph brought Mary to the inn. Maeva and Cody had both argued that Mary should come in riding a real donkey, since there were plenty of them around, but Mrs. Prince had put the quietus on that idea.
As Mary and Joseph stood before the door that had been built of pine, Maeva looked absolutely beautiful. Her face looked innocent and sweet, and Lanie felt her dad take her hand and squeeze it hard. She squeezed it back and noticed that Annie was hardly breathing.
Joseph knocked on the door and said, “Innkeeper, are you there?” That was Lowell Stockwell’s cue. Lowell was a tall, heavy boy with a round face, and not the smartest boy in Fairhope, to put it kindly. At fifteen his voice had already changed. But he had begged so hard to have a part in the pageant that Mrs. Prince couldn’t refuse him.
“What do you want?” he howled.
“Please. We need a room for the night,” Joseph said.
“There’s no room. Now be off with you!”
Joseph argued, and Lowell Stockwell got rougher with each moment. He was reveling in the part, and the audience appreciated good acting when they saw it.
Finally it was Maeva’s turn. She did not turn all the way around but let the light fall across her profile. Her cheeks were smooth, and she let the hood fall back so that her red hair glistened. Her voice was soft as she whispered, “Oh please, sir, we need a place to sleep!”
“I tell you there is no place! I don’t have room for you!”
Mary stepped forward, and she looked very small compared to the bulky form of Lowell Stockwell. “I hate to ask for favors, but you see, I’m going to have a baby, and if you could find just any place at all, my husband and I would be so grateful to you.”
Lowell Stockwell could not get his next line out.
Lowell cleared his throat and couldn’t seem to get the words out, and when he did speak, his voice had risen in kind of a frantic tone. “Well, I . . . I don’t think there’s room.”
Maeva took one step forward and looked up into Lowell’s face. He watched her, fascinated, unable to turn away.
“Oh, please, sir, I can tell you’re a kind man. Please find us some place.”
Everyone in the house saw tears come into Lowell Stockwell’s eyes. They ran down his cheeks, and the lights picked up the glitter as they left a track. He opened his mouth to speak two or three times but could not find the words.
“Oh, please help us!” Maeva whispered.
Then something happened that became a legend in Fairhope.
Butcher Knife Annie stood up and shouted in a voice that made everyone in the audience and on the stage jump convulsively.
“Let ’er in, you dummy! What kind of a feller are you to act like a blasted devil! Now, you let that poor girl in, you hear me?”
A thick silence seemed to blanket the spectators, and then suddenly Joseph shouted, “She’s right! Lowell, you take her in the house!”
Lowell, totally confused, was even more shaken when the audience exploded with laughter and spontaneous applause. Everyone started standing up, and the applause filled the auditorium of First Baptist Church.
Pastor William Prince was standing stock still, and his wife’s mouth was open as if she were frozen. William Prince started laughing, and at first his wife looked at him angrily, but then she giggled. The two of them hugged each other, still laughing, then Pastor William Prince walked up on the stage.
He took his place beside Lowell and dropped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He held up his other hand for silence and with a broad smile said, “I think this time we’re going to have the Christmas pageant done the way we wish it could have been—not the way it happened. Just think what an opportunity that innkeeper missed! He could have had the honor of being the host of the Savior of the world—but he turned it down. I am made to wonder just how many times we have an opportunity like this—to do good to one of God’s creatures, and refuse to do it. I think I’d like to be more alert to the needs of people, and I’d like to be quick this year to take people who need help into my heart and into my home and into my church!”
Applause broke out, and there were many “Amens” and “Praise the Lords.” But it was Sister Mrytle Poindexter’s charismatic voice that drowned out all the others: “Well, glory to God! The Lord has spoken—and I’m plum ashamed He had to come to this here Baptist church to get heard! Lord, touch the hearts of ever’ born-again, sanctified child of God! Cause us all to open the doors and let the Lord Jesus come in!”
Pastor William Prince, after the benediction, made straight for Butcher Knife Annie. He took her hand and said warmly, “Sister Annie, thanks for standing up for the Lord. You’ve made this a Christmas that will never be forgotten in Fairhope!”
Annie was overwhelmed by the pastor’s words. She dropped her head for a moment, then lifted her eyes to meet those of the pastor. “Well, preacher, I just couldn’t stand fer that gal to get left out.”
“You did just right, Annie.” Prince smiled. “The Lord Jesus never wants anyone to be left out.”
C H A P T E R 9
Corliss was sound asleep, lying on her stomach in the baby bed, both fists clenched tightly. Lanie smiled at the sight of the powder can that apparently could not only entertain Corliss but also put her to sleep.
The house was strangely quiet. Cody, Davis, and Maeva had gone off after lunch to take in the Saturday matinee at the Rialto. The picture featured the Cisco Kid, starring Warner Baxter. Lanie didn’t care for westerns, and it had been no sacrifice to tell the others that she would stay home and take care of Corliss.
Sitting at the kitchen table with the Big Chief notebook in front of her and a jelly glass full of pencils all sharpened and ready, Lanie studied the pages that she had written. She had thought long and hard about the assignment for English, the big assignment that would count for 25 percent of her grade. She had weighed her options thoughtfully and finally decided to write a story, but no ideas came.
Suddenly she sat straight up. “I could write a poem about the innkeeper! Everybody is still thinking about the nativity play at church. And I’ve already written a poem about Mary. What would the innkeeper be like? A pretty tough fellow, I’ll bet!” Ideas began to flow, and for over an hour she wrote and scratched out lines—and finally took a deep breath and put her pen down. “I don’t know if it’s any good, but I’m going to hand it in.” She ran her fingers over the paper.
Innkeeper
All right—all right! Don’t smash the door!
What’s that you say? You want a room?
There is no room; they’re on the floor
As you can see by light of moon.
This whole town’s stacked with Jews from every nation;
You should have made an early reservation.
Who’s that behind you in the dark?
Your wife? You say her time is near?
Well I can tell you that’s no lark!
Why did you drag her here this time of year?
No! No! There’s no room—but listen stranger,
You two can stay tonight in yonder manger.
Now, back t
o bed—it’s cold tonight.
That girl will freeze in that old stable!
There’s some will swear I’ve been too tight,
But I must do my business able.
My bills don’t stop—not even for a birth.
Besides—that pair? Why, they’re of little worth!
She took a silent delight in studying the poem. Miss Dunsmore had taught her how to make good rhymes, and also how to make up the rhyme schemes. She could not have done it without Miss Dunsmore! Putting away the poetry, she pulled out her journal and leafed through it. She stopped at the entry marked two years ago to the day, March the thirteenth, and read aloud.
“Today I am thirteen years old, a genuine teenager. It has been wonderful! Mama made me a cake, and she also made me a beautiful dress out of real store-bought material, not flour sacks. Everybody had a gift for me, and we played until late at night. I hugged Mama and Daddy as hard as I could, and Daddy said, ‘Well, we’ve got a grown young woman on our hands here. No more little girl.’ And I said, ‘I’ll always be your little girl, Daddy.’ And then I saw that Mama was looking like she wanted to cry, and I asked her what was the matter. ‘It’s sad to see children grow up. They have to, of course, but it reminds me of the day when we won’t be together. You’ll be off with a home of your own, and I’ll be the creakity old grandma.’
“‘You never will be,’ I told her. ‘You’ll always be beautiful like you are now.’”
Slowly Lanie closed the book and felt the touch of sorrow that had come so often since her mother died. She had her daddy, but she missed her mama more than she had ever known she could miss anyone. They were so close, and she had not even known it! Cap’n Brown jumped into her lap with one of those expert leaps that cats can make, and then Beau nudged her with his nose.
“You can’t get up in my lap, Beau,” she said, stroking his head. “There’s not room for you.” Beau laid his head on her lap next to Cap’n Brown, and all was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the great-grandfather clock out in the living room. Its ticking filled the house and it seemed to say, “Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!”
The disappointment that had been lurking in Lanie all day broke the surface. “Nobody even mentioned my birthday, Cap’n Brown. They could have mentioned it at least.” She put her hand on Beau’s head and stroked it. “Well, maybe Daddy will bring me a present when he comes home from work.”
Forrest’s legs trembled slightly, for it had been a hard morning. He stood in front of the bookkeeper and took the check that the old man handed him. I’m gettin’ old. When I was twenty I could have worked three times this long.
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Hudson.”
“Sure thing, Forrest.”
“The Biggins boys been through with their load yet?”
“No, sir. Ain’t seen hide nor hair of ’em s’morning.”
Forrest sighed. “Well, I’ll see to it then.”
He walked to his truck, staring at the check, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He glanced at the huge pile of logs offloaded from his flatbed. Most of them he had hauled himself. Every day seemed longer than the one before. He cut the timber, loaded it, went to the sawmill, dumped it, and went right back for another load. The Biggins brothers’ regular truancy didn’t help him out at all. Maybe he’d start cutting their pay.
He started the big truck and pulled out of the sawmill yard, waving at some of the hands. He stepped on the gas. The truck was running well, and he nudged at the speed limit slightly as he went out Highway 82 toward the logging road. The truck bumped and jounced over the ruts, and finally he had to stop, for this was the last place to turn around. Still no sign of his other truck, which the Bigginses would have used. Reaching over, he opened the glove compartment, picked out the thirty-eight and stuck it in his belt. He had seen enough rattlers in the deep woods to make him jumpy.
As he walked, he didn’t hear the sound of men cutting lumber, and he knew something was wrong.
At the place where the last trees had been cut the day before, he stepped over a tree trunk two feet thick. When his foot hit, it struck something round, something softer than solid ground, and at the same time he heard the sound he hated worst in all the world—the deadly buzzing sound of a rattler. He threw himself over but felt something strike his boot just above the ankle. Yanking the thirty-eight from his belt, he turned and saw one of the largest rattlers he had ever seen in his life rearing back to strike again. He leveled and fired the weapon, missed, and then fired three more times. The last shot struck the rattler in the middle of the body just below the head, and the reptile fell over twitching.
“Wow! That was a close one!” Forrest could not control the trembling in his hands, and he walked over to the log and sat down, looking first for a mate. He felt weak as dishwater and sat there for five minutes until the weakness passed away. He got up, took a deep breath, and cut the rattles from the snake. It was a huge one, and if it had struck his leg above the boot instead of below, he would have had little chance.
He couldn’t understand timbermen who wore low-quartered shoes and wouldn’t have done it himself for anything. The shots had not stirred anybody, and he discovered by walking another thirty yards that no one was there. Several trees were down, but they hadn’t been trimmed or cut to length. A grim mood seized him. He walked rapidly back toward the truck, got in and started it, turned around, and headed for the Bigginses’ house in the foothills.
The sight of his own logging truck parked in front of the shack brought a cold rage to Forrest. He’d had reservations about hiring the Biggins brothers, but they were the best he could find. He marched up to the door and banged on it. “Duke, Alvin, get out here!”
The door did not open for a long time, and when it did, Ethel Crawford, Duke’s live-in girlfriend, emerged. She was wearing a short dress, faded and thin, and obviously with nothing under it. She was a sultry woman with red hair and blue eyes, and Forrest saw a discoloration on the left side of her face. Duke was no doubt responsible for that, he thought grimly.
“Where’s Duke?”
“He ain’t here.”
“I know that. Where’d he and Alvin go?”
“They went in to the Green Door to get drunk.”
“How’d they get there without using the truck?”
“Duke’s cousin Willie came by in that old car of his.”
At that moment Forrest saw something change in Ethel’s eyes. She would be fat one day, but now beauty was still hers, and her full lips turned upward in a smile. “Why don’t you come on in, Forrest, and have a little drink.”
“No thanks, Ethel.”
Ethel stepped out and squeezed his arm. “Oh, come on. You’re not in any big hurry. We could have us a little party.”
Ethel probably got her bruise for taking up with another man. She had put her eyes on him before, but he always ignored her. Now he pulled away. “I’m going and find those two.”
“What’s the matter? I’m not good enough for you?” The smile turned to a grim twisting of the lips. “You think you’re better than I am! Is that it?”
“You tell ’em that I’m lookin’ for ’em. I’m not payin’ them to get drunk at a juke joint!” Forrest walked away, conscious of her stream of profanity as she cursed him. He shook his head as he got into the truck. I’ll have to go get Bascom to get the truck back. I’m not lettin’ those clowns get in it again until I’m sure they’re gonna be sober—which may be never.
C H A P T E R 10
Sunlight ran fresh and fine through the trees that surrounded the small cemetery. It flashed against the sheen of the new polished stones and cut long, dark shadows on the velvet green carpet of grass. As Lanie knelt beside the grave of her mother, plucking the tiny weeds that grew there, a queer memory rose in her, a stray current out of her past. Her mother had been dead for exactly one year, for this was July the fourth, and for her that year had been as long as anything she could imagine. The days marked the time f
or her like the ticking of a clock that had no face or hands. At times it was difficult to remember what life had been like when her mother had been there with her cheerful smile and her quick laughter, but it came back now, and Lanie had to struggle to keep her composure. Across the grave, Maeva stood, fists clenched, and she looked ready to attack someone. Her attitude had not changed in the year that had passed. She still resented God for taking their mother from them.
“The cemetery’s beautiful this time of the year, isn’t it, Maeva?”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s more than that. Look how green the grass is! There are so many birds out here. Look, there’s a mockingbird flashing his wings. I wonder why they do that?” She was not really particularly interested in the mockingbird, but she wanted to soften Maeva. She got to her feet and looked at the grave, which was still mounded. Other graves were flat, having long ago sunk. She didn’t want to think about that and said, “Come on. Let’s go back to the house.”
Lanie tried to keep up a bright conversation and pointed out a tombstone that had always amused her. It was very old and barely decipherable. “Look what that one says.” She stopped and bent to read the inscription.
To the memory of Caleb Jones.
Accidentally shot April 1844
As a mark of affection
From his brother.
She smiled as she always did. “It sounds like Caleb’s brother shot him as a mark of affection. I think there’s a misplaced modifier or something.” She watched Maeva’s face, but Maeva simply shrugged and said, “Hurry up. I don’t like this place.”
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