Till Morning Is Nigh

by Leisha Kelly

  I was finally ready to go to bed when Berty’s quiet tears from a sitting room mattress caught my attention. He’d been so holiday-cheerful most of the time, but I really wasn’t surprised to think that now in the darkness so close to Christmas he was suddenly feeling overcome. I went to his side, and he climbed from the covers and into my lap.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “I miss my folkses,” he told me. “Bof’ of dem.”

  I hugged him, knowing all too well how he felt. I could remember a long-ago Christmas when I was just a little tike, after my mother had died and my father had gone away. It was too familiar, and I wondered why the parallel had never dawned on me before. I squeezed him tight, feeling strangely stricken.

  “Is you crying, Mrs. Wortham?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Me too.”

  Oh, I loved this child. His simple, direct way of dealing with everything. I loved all of them. Even Kirk and Rorey in their difficult times. How could their father stand to be away from them? Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve! May the realization of that work on his insides and draw him back. If he is still alive. I pray that he is!

  I tried to coax Berty to lie down again, but he didn’t want to let me go.

  “Stay wif me, please, Mom. I need you.”

  So I just kept holding him, tired as I was.

  “Sing?” he asked me.

  “Right now? Honey, I don’t want to wake anyone else.”

  “You can sing real quiet. It’s okay.”

  I petted his tousled brown hair. This little four-year-old claimed me with his whole heart. He even called me Mom. And who could blame him, really? I wasn’t sure I should encourage it. I wasn’t sure how to react with all of these Hammonds sometimes. But right now when it was surely already the wee hours of Christmas Eve morn, I couldn’t refuse him. “What do you want me to sing?”

  I should have already known. The only song he’d had on his heart for more than a week now. “‘Away in a Manger.’”

  I smiled. “All right. Do you want to sing along? Softly?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Dis time I listen.”

  So I sang for him, as quietly as I could, through the first verse and into the second.

  “Is that song wrote by a baby?” he asked me suddenly.

  “No.” I laughed a little, wondering at his question. “Why?”

  “Cause it says ‘stay by my cradle.’”

  “I guess that can mean anybody’s bed.”

  “Like this mattress right here?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you is stayed by my cradle.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “I’m gettin’ tired again.”

  “I should think so. I am too.”

  “Can you stay by my cradle anyhow?”

  Even in the darkness I knew the tears in his eyes. He clung to my hand as he eased himself back down into the covers next to Harry. “All right,” I told him, stretching myself at the mattress’s edge. “I’ll stay a little while.”

  He cuddled to me. He wouldn’t let go of my hand until he finally drifted to sleep. And right about then, I heard the back door. Samuel coming in. Somehow I’d thought he was already in bed. I rose softly and met him in the kitchen doorway.

  “Are we ready for Christmas?” he asked.

  “I guess we have to be.”

  “You’ve done a good job, Mrs. Wortham.” He kissed me.

  “You’ve done a good job too.”

  Tired as we were, we were both hungry, so I made us some cocoa and sliced a couple of chunks of apple fruit bread.

  “I keep expecting George to show up,” Samuel told me.

  “I’m hoping, I think,” I admitted. “I want him to come back for the children’s sakes, but I also want him to be in a decent frame of mind, not blind drunk or raging.”

  “I understand.”

  We didn’t say much else. And it seemed like nearly time to get up by the time we went to bed.

  The next morning was Christmas Eve. Bright, sunny. Still white with snow but beautiful. I made oatmeal muffins, and then everybody got ready for special services at church. Before we were part of the Dearing congregation, they’d decided to have services on Saturday whenever Christmas Day fell on a Sunday. They still had services Christmas morning for families close by, but families like ours who lived miles out of town could spend Christmas morning with their families. I was especially glad the Christmas Eve service was in the morning so we wouldn’t have to get into town and back in the dark.

  We’d finally returned Mr. Post’s truck, so young Sam went and hitched his father’s team and wagon and drove us all into town bundled under blankets. It was crisp and clear, and we sang Christmas carols on the way. Or at least some of us did. Kirk and Willy and Rorey and Harry had all gone solemn again, but there wasn’t anything I knew of to do about it.

  Harry was a holy terror in church that morning, absolutely refusing to sit still. He was far from a baby at six years old, but I finally removed him from the sanctuary for a little talking to. But in the hallway, I really didn’t have the heart to scold him. How could I expect much different from him? A restless boy on Christmas Eve, thrust in with us after losing one, maybe both, parents? Really, he’d been behaving fairly well considering that. “Can you please be quieter so that other people can enjoy the service?” I asked of him.

  “I don’t think so,” he answered honestly. “I don’t think my quiet’s workin’ very well today.”

  “Apparently not. Still, it’s important that we try. Okay?”

  Reluctantly he agreed. And he did manage to make it through the rest of the service with only mild disruption. The pastor didn’t seem to mind him slipping down in his seat, fiddling with his sister’s hair, or dropping his shoes on the floor in the middle of a prayer. Still, I was relieved when it was time to go home. We presented our gifts to the pastor and his wife before we left, and they were very pleased with them. Juanita hugged me, and for no reason at all I burst into tears.

  “Oh, Julia, we’re so sorry we haven’t been to visit. Are you managing everything all right?”

  I nodded, wishing I could find the words to assure her. But Lizbeth found them for me.

  “She’s been managin’ everything real well, Mrs. Pastor. I don’t know how she puts up with all a’ us, but we appreciate it.”

  “A lot,” young Sam added.

  Pastor and Juanita hugged every one of the children, as well as Samuel and me again. We were so blessed to have them, such good friends. I knew they’d been praying for us and would continue to, and that was comfort beyond words for me.

  We rode home through the crystal snow, Berty singing his special song again. I joined him at it and then sang “Silent Night” for Katie. She’d gotten so terribly quiet and now was at my side again. I knew she was close to tears, the very nearness of Christmas weighing on her heart with a terrible ache. Why had her mother left her? Didn’t she love her? Didn’t she care? I’d had those questions when my father went away so long ago, and not even Grandma Pearl could answer them for me. But she’d made Christmas happy anyway. She’d made things seem at least a little all right again. And I hoped, I prayed, that I was doing that for Katie. For all of them.

  Something was different as we came up to the house through newly fallen snow. There were tracks across the yard where there’d been none before, and when we got close we could see the back door hanging open as though someone had just rushed in and left it swinging.

  Samuel looked at me, but I couldn’t read what I saw in his eyes. Young Sam stopped the wagon in the drive and was down off the seat in a flash. Samuel hurried down too. My heart was suddenly thundering. Willy jumped up, and I knew I couldn’t stop him or any of the other big boys from rushing inside. But Kirk didn’t rush in that direction. He jumped from the wagon and went straight for the barn.

  Harry wanted to go in. Everybody else seemed hesitant. But we were home, and it was cold outside. Despite m
y thundering heart, I rose from the wagon seat, bringing Emmie and a blanket up with me. “We may as well go on inside,” I said slowly. “Don’t run, all right?”

  “Is it Pa?” Franky asked.

  Lizbeth looked at me.

  “Maybe.” That was all I could say. But who else could it be? Samuel’s brother Edward coming back to see us? Somehow I doubted that. The last we knew, he was in Tennessee.

  Lizbeth bundled a quilt around her shoulders and took Berty’s hand. “We oughta go in then.”

  Joe drew in a deep breath. “I think I’ll walk out to the barn with Kirk if you don’t mind.”

  “That would be good,” Lizbeth told him.

  She and I ushered the young children toward the porch, Katie clinging to my hand like she was scared to death, and Harry stumbling in the snow and rushing ahead.

  “I hope he’s okay,” Franky said softly.

  I couldn’t even answer. Maybe I was feeling as afraid as Katie was. If it was George, how would he be? Where had he gone? And why? For so long! What had he been thinking?

  It was George. Sprawled on our davenport. Samuel and young Sam were just stirring him as we came in, though I would have left him lay.

  “Pa!” Harry yelled, rushing forward and destroying their attempt to rouse him gently. Harry jumped on the davenport without hesitation, landing right on his father’s legs. Despite Lizbeth’s efforts to hold him back, Berty was right behind him, leaping at George’s chest before the man managed to sit himself up.

  Rorey was a great deal more reserved, standing back with her arms folded.

  Willy was too. “Where you been, Pa?”

  George just looked around at all of us, his eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t tell if he was drunk. I wouldn’t have been surprised. He smelled like a sewer rat and looked almost as bad.

  “Pa, what happened?” Lizbeth asked more gently.

  “I . . . I couldn’t do it. I was gonna . . . I was gonna . . .” He looked up at Samuel, seeming almost unable to speak. “I couldn’t do it—”

  “Do what?” Willy asked. “Leave us for good?”

  George looked frightened. Bruised. Filthy. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been up to, it hadn’t been pleasant. He stared at Samuel. “I remembered . . . the promise . . . last year I promised you . . .”

  “Yes, you did,” Samuel answered him solemnly. “Need some coffee?”

  George nodded. He seemed to be shaking. He had yet to tell us any details of where he’d been, but I figured that had best wait. Till the children were in bed, probably. At least the little ones. It wasn’t something they needed to hear. George hugged Berty, who was squeezing his neck. He hugged Harry too. Lizbeth put Emmie in his arms, and he hugged at both of them. Rorey and Willy still hung back. Joe and Kirk hadn’t come inside yet. Slowly, George turned his eyes to his oldest son.

  “Glad you could make it for Christmas, Pa,” young Sam said, his face almost devoid of expression.

  “Glad—glad you could make it, boy. I . . . I’m sorry.”

  I suddenly realized Franky hadn’t followed us to the sitting room. When I went to make the coffee and a bite to eat, I found him sitting at the kitchen table with his head down.

  “Franky, don’t you want to greet your father?”

  “Yeah. In a while. When’s he’s ready. He won’t be anxious.” He sniffed, and my eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Franky. Don’t you think he wants to see you? He did come back.”

  He nodded, fighting the tears that tried to press at him. “I prayed he would. I’m so glad he did—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I . . . I just thought I better wait, that’s all, ’fore he sees me.”

  It broke my heart, seeing Franky’s assessment of his father’s feelings for him. George was always so hard on him, so impatient, and so cruelly blind to Franky’s bright mind, loving heart, and gentle spirit. I couldn’t remember ever seeing George extend any affection toward Franky, and Franky clearly didn’t expect any now. He felt like the castoff, the least desired, who needed to wait while his father greeted the others before darkening his view. I hoped he was wrong about it, but I just wasn’t sure. I’d seen such lack of feeling in George so many times. And yet I knew that Franky loved him anyway.

  “Would you like to help me? I’m going to make everyone a sandwich.”

  He nodded.

  Sarah and Katie came and sat at the table, with Katie hugging tight at Sarah’s doll. Her face was ashen.

  “Everything’s all right, honey,” I assured her. “Mr. Hammond is home, and we’re going to go on with a happy Christmas Eve.”

  She burst into tears.

  “Honey . . .” I took her in my arms, and thankfully Samuel came in the kitchen to make progress with the coffee and sandwiches, or they would never have gotten done.

  Katie cried into my blouse, inconsolable. I tried to calm her, but I was helpless to do much of anything except hold her and let the tears flow. Sarah stood beside us the whole time, her hand gently resting on Katie’s back.

  Samuel and Franky made sandwiches at the table in front of us, but there was nothing I could do but wait with Katie until she could talk to me. I smoothed her hair, I kissed her brow, but nothing seemed to help.

  Harry and Bert in the sitting room were loudly telling their father all the things we’d done while he was gone. Lizbeth tried to shush them a little, but it did no good that I could tell. Everyone else in the sitting room seemed painfully quiet, especially George. Until I heard a strange choked sound and realized George was sobbing.

  “I don’t think he’s drunk,” Samuel told me. “Not anymore.”

  “Thank God,” I replied.

  I carried Katie into the bedroom away from everyone else to try and help her calm down. Only Sarah followed us, and I couldn’t refuse her. She shut the door for me, and I sat on the edge of the bed with Katie on my lap.

  “Can you tell me what’s wrong, honey? Everybody’s okay.”

  She sniffed. She struggled. But finally she could speak. “I—I was scared it was my mommy or—or Uncle Eddie come to take me away.”

  She sniffed again, wiped her face on the hankie I gave her, and then tried to go on. “But then—then I saw Rorey’s daddy.” She looked up at me and drew in a sniffly breath. “He—he must love them because—because—he came back—”

  I thought I understood. The poor child was torn apart, afraid of her mother taking her away and yet brokenhearted if the woman didn’t care enough to come and try. “Honey, I believe your mother loves you.”

  “No, she doesn’t! She won’t come! She won’t!”

  There was nothing I could do but hold her and let her cry some more. What could I say?

  Sarah was bold and kind enough to say it for me. “I bet she does love you. She just don’t know how to show it. An’ we all love you too. I hopes you’re feeling better in a minute, ’cause I’m gonna need you.”

  Katie tried again to dry her eyes. “Why?”

  “We got to move Mary and Joseph again, remember? They’re supposed to get to Bethlehem today!”

  I smiled at my little girl. The culmination of the journey they’d been working on for days was enough to pull Katie out of her sorrow, at least a little.

  “Okay. I’ll help. Can—can I make Mary walk this time?”

  “Yeah. You can move ’em both if you want. And the kings too.”

  It seemed strange to have George back, but good. A relief to all of us. Rorey warmed up to him slowly, showing him the Christmas angel cookies she’d made for her mother. She hugged him when he offered to take them out to Wila’s grave, with a note so that real angels would know where to take them. Willy and Kirk were angry. I knew that and I think their father did too. Sam and Joe shared some of the same feelings, I’m sure, though they were better at keeping them hidden. I understood that Kirk resented his father for being gone without a word and then showing up for Christmas suddenly and expecting everyone to welcome him as t
hough nothing had happened. It was hard to wash all the worries and uncertainty under the bridge.

  George seemed to understand that. He gave them space. He apologized. He could hardly seem to keep from crying.

  Fortunately we had the children’s magical Christmas Eve to take part in. After supper, Sarah wanted Samuel to read the Christmas story, and then she and the other children put it in action right in front of us, using Franky’s paper cone figures.

  Mary and Joseph proceeded slowly, wearily, to a kitchen chair, where they tried to get lodging but were turned away. They had no choice but to venture to the tabletop, domain of the stable animals, and settle in as best they could. Then Sarah ran frantically upstairs for the baby Jesus. The moment had arrived. But she came tearing right back down again. “Mommy! Mommy! He’s gone again!”

  I looked around at the other little faces. “Does anyone know where the baby Jesus is?”

  Berty looked at Franky with a tiny smile and then confessed. “He’s hided in Katie’s shoe.”

  Sarah and Katie ran together to the spot. “You gotta get outta there now!” Sarah exclaimed. “It’s time to get borned!”

  “Why’d he get in my shoe?” Katie wanted to know.

  “He was jus’ visitin’ you for awhile,” Franky explained.

  I smiled. Jesus’s travels made sense to me now. I’d known very well that Franky hadn’t been moving him. I’d asked him about it more than once. But I could well imagine Franky putting Berty up to it, to provide a childish touch of grace on various ones who’d seemed to need it at the time. I marveled at him, cheerfully standing beside his father, though I’d yet to see George acknowledge him directly.

  Sarah hurried back to the manger scene with the paper baby cupped in her hand. Katie raced behind her, and the rest of us stayed close enough to watch. Much to his parents’ delight, Jesus appeared almost instantly in the manger, and the angels flew like lightning to the far end of the table to tell the shepherds the good news.

  Harry and Bert hurried the shepherds and sheep to the baby’s side, where Berty soon had them all singing. The angels joined in, even Rorey’s crying one, which she perched precariously on the stable’s top.