We passed Crazy Coote on the way out of town. He looked right at me like he could read my mind. I shrank into my seat, feeling guilty for wantin’ anything at all.
As we followed the Tohachee River northeast over the mountains, the scenery changed from our paper-bag landscape to something very different. Pastures full of woolly cows nibbling on weeds and brown grass came into view. Bare trees stretched their skeletal branches up to the pale gray sky. Even without their leaves, they were beautiful, like living sculptures.
“What do you suppose trees do all winter?” I asked Mom. “Do they sleep?”
“Not really. They concentrate all their growing underground when it’s too cold above.”
They looked to be hibernating. But not all the trees were bare. Small evergreens grew along the pasture fences. “What kind of trees are those green ones there?”
“Those are spruce trees,” she said. “Birds eat the seeds, land on the fences, and well, they poop. It’s fertilizer and a seed in one. So that’s where the trees grow.”
“Then they’re bird-crap trees?” I said and quickly covered my mouth.
“Jack!” She glared at me but then turned away. I could see her grin in the window’s reflection.
“We gonna have a Christmas tree this year at least?” I begged.
“No, Jack, that’s wasted money,” she said with the frown again. “I’m sorry, but I need you to be mature about this for me, okay? Just this year, please?”
Being poor sucked. Still, I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about bird-crap trees. If we could just get birds to fly over Coppertown, maybe they’d help make trees. I’d take bird-crap trees over no trees at all.
Dad showed up a week before Christmas with a tree tied to the roof of the family car anyway. Puffed up like a rooster, with an axe in his hand, he planted it on the ground next to him with a proud “Ta-da!”
He looked like Paul Bunyan in his denim and plaid flannel top. Mom snickered, “Oh, Ray, what have you done?”
It was a bird-crap tree. My dad brought home a bird-crap tree for Christmas. Well, don’t that just beat all.
We set it up inside anyhow and tried to decorate it, but the branches were too floppy to hold any ornaments. So we threw tinsel over it and called it done.
As we stood staring at it, Mom covered her mouth and tried not to laugh. It was contagious. I squeezed my lips tight to keep from busting up.
Finally Dad said, “Well ain’t that the saddest lookin’ Christmas tree yu’uns ever seen?”
That was all it took. We laughed until tears ran down our faces.
I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d heard my parents make that sound.
I couldn’t imagine not giving my family something for Christmas, but I didn’t have any money since Mom cut my allowance. I looked around my bedroom hoping for an idea. And there it was in the bottom drawer of my desk.
I pulled out my old sketch pad and some colored pencils. I hadn’t used them since I was a kid, but I didn’t have anything else. So I drew a landscape of Coppertown for Dad. I used up half my yellow and orange trying to get the land to look just right. For Mom, I drew a bird. It had to be a sparrow, like in the tune she always sang. I looked it up in a book I’d checked out from the school library and was surprised at the picture. The bird was small, brown, and gray, nothing special to look at.
“Its charming song belies its dull appearance,” the book said. Maybe the next time we left Coppertown I could try to hear one. Unless they migrated. Wasn’t that what birds did?
I’ll add some colors and make it prettier.
I did one more landscape drawing of Coppertown, this one for Grandpa, but this time I added trees using lots of greens and blues. That one was the most fun to do as I imagined my home the way it used to be before the mining started. I wanted Grandpa to see it that way too.
I smiled at my drawings—they looked all right. I signed each one “Love, Jack,” rolled them up, and tied some kitchen string around them.
I was so proud of myself that I felt like a turkey with its tail fanned out. I went to find my parents, not to tell ’em what I’d done but just to hint a little maybe. Mom was in their bedroom with the door closed. I knocked. “Mom?”
“Don’t come in!” she yelled and made sounds that made me think of juggling Tupperware.
I frowned. “Well, where’s Dad?”
“I think he’s out in his metal shop.”
That was where he always was now, if he wasn’t picketing. He’d come home from the strike, take a shower, and go out to his shop. If it weren’t for dinner, I’d probably never see him. The message was clear—he wanted to be alone.
I sighed and went to the kitchen for a snack. There wasn’t much in the fridge, or in the cabinets neither, just stuff that had to be cooked, like beans, soup, and rice. I finally found a jar of peanut butter. That’ll do. I took a spoon, scooped out a big hunk, and ate it like a Popsicle.
Lately it seemed like I was hungry all the time, and there was never enough food around. Mom said I was gonna eat us out of house and home. It made me feel awful, but how was I supposed to stop growing?
Chapter 13
Christmas
We went to church on Christmas Eve, as usual. The choir sang carols out of tune, as usual. The room did look nice with the twinkle lights and candles lit, though. There was a real Christmas tree in the back of the church. It filled the air with its spicy scent, which mingled with cinnamon and hot apple cider. Everybody was dressed in their Sunday best, which made it feel more festive.
Piran and I laughed about everyone huggin’ and shaking hands like they didn’t see each other every Sunday anyway. The smiles may have been more forced than usual, but everybody seemed to be trying. Anytime the word “strike” was mentioned, somebody got finger-smacked on the arm or back, or even on the back of their head if they didn’t stop.
Then I spotted Hannah. All the twinkle lights framed her, lighting her up all golden and sparkly. Her friends sounded like a pack of hens out at the Spencer farm, but she just smiled and outshined them like copper in the ore, a diamond in the coal, the jewel that she was.
Could she feel me looking at her? I’d grown an inch recently—would she notice? I willed her to glance my way, but her eyes kept straying toward the back of the church. I followed her gaze to Eli Munroe. He stood near the door with his parents like a black cloud.
What does she see in that guy?
He was dressed in a suit—one that actually fit him, unlike mine, which was feeling a little tight. And he looked right back at Hannah with…with love in his eyes. Surely Eli couldn’t feel anything that deeply—even though that’s what it looked like.
She’ll figure him out soon enough. She’ll see him for what he really is, and I’ll have my chance. I just hoped it would be soon.
Back home, we did our traditional reading of “The Night Before Christmas,” with sound effects. I especially liked pounding on things during “the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.” It was a very noisy poem, what with all the snorin’ and whistling and such. Of course, I didn’t tell any of my friends that we did that. I would have been laughed out of the county.
“What about milk and cookies for Santa?” I asked. Yeah, I’d been too old for Santa for a while, but we always pretended I wasn’t. It was part of the Christmas fun.
“Not this year,” Mom replied and squeezed my shoulder. I went to bed feeling lower than a sunken mine. A bird-crap Christmas tree, no cookies, and no bike—this is going to be the worst Christmas ever.
Christmas morning I grabbed my drawings and ran for the den. Maybe, just maybe.
I stopped short and sighed when I saw the tree. Santa had definitely skipped us. Two gifts wrapped in brown paper and tied up with kitchen string sat next to the tree. Nothing else, no dirt bike. Not that I really expected it, but I had hoped anyway.
<
br /> “Maybe we can get your bike next year.” Mom hugged me from behind.
“How’d you know?” I asked. I’d made a point of not saying anything about it recently, although I’d worn out the magazine in my bedside drawer staring at the ad.
“Merry Christmas!” Dad shouted as he entered the room. “Well, lookie there, presents! You better open ’em, Jack.”
I tucked my drawings in with the gifts and shook off my bad mood as best I could. I tried to fetch the larger of the two packages, but it wouldn’t budge. I had to leave it on the floor to rip off the paper. Underneath was a handmade model of the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard.
“It must weigh fifty pounds!” I grunted as I lifted it out.
“Close to it,” Dad said.
“So that’s what you’ve been up to in your metal shop.” Mom smiled.
Dad had cut every piece, welded and riveted them together, painted the car a deep orange, and even hand-painted the rebel flag on its roof. It looked like a miniature version of the real thing. He’d done a beautiful job.
“Wow,” I said, admiring his work.
“It’s your favorite, right?” Dad asked.
“Oh yeah,” I said, smiling. “Thanks, Dad!” I tried to roll it across the floor, but the round wheels scratched the wood. Dad could do anything with metal, but he couldn’t make tires. If he could’ve, it woulda saved a lot of money since cars in Coppertown went through tires fast.
“It’s kind of more for display,” Dad said.
“I’ll find a good spot for it.” I smiled. I knew I’d be staring at it a lot, dreaming of myself at the wheel.
“You have more,” Mom said and handed me the other package, which was large and squishy.
I tore off the paper and pulled out a multicolored quilt. I ran my hand over the bumpy and uneven surface—it felt soft and somewhat worn. I stared at a blue patch with white writing.
“Hey, that’s my old baseball team, the Braves!” Another patch looked like my first pajamas. “What the…?”
“I took your old clothes, the ones that I could never throw away, and made a quilt out of ’em,” Mom said with a sniff.
I held it up and looked closely. “That was the back pocket on my favorite overalls, the ones with the patch, and that was my favorite shirt when I was a kid.” It was a fabric scrapbook of my life. “Mom, this is really nice, thanks.”
“Grace, I didn’t know you quilted,” Dad said.
“I didn’t either.” She blushed.
Dad handed her a small box. “Ray! I thought we agreed no presents!” She glared at him but untied the string and opened the lid anyway. Inside was a Christmas tree formed by silver waves going back and forth.
“Oh no, Ray, this is too expensive.” She frowned. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t worry, Gracie. I made it myself out of stainless steel wire. I hammered the shape.” Dad pulled it out of the box by the black ribbon he’d run through the loop at the top. “See here, it’s a charm necklace.” He tied it around her neck.
Mom smiled wide and tears ran down her cheeks. She threw her arms around my dad and gave him a huge kiss…which kept going.
I coughed…then coughed again a little more loudly.
“Sorry!” They smiled.
“I’ve got something for yu’uns too.”
“Really?”
I handed them my rolled-up drawings.
“I didn’t know we had an artist in the family,” Dad said.
“Oh, Jack, it’s wonderful,” Mom said. “What kind of bird is it?”
“It’s a sparrow, like in your song,” I replied. “But I thought I’d make it prettier, so I colored it purple.”
“It’s beautiful, honey. Thank you.” She hugged me tight, wrapping me in her smell of soap and flour. “We’ve got to hang them somewhere.” She grabbed some pins from the bedroom and Dad tacked them on the wall above the couch.
“That looks real nice,” he said. We stared at my picture of the barren landscape of Coppertown next to the sparrow—two things that didn’t go together anywhere but on our wall.
“I’ll start breakfast,” Mom said and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
She made biscuits and gravy with eggs, grits, and sausage roll—the biggest breakfast we’d had in a long while. It wouldn’t have been Christmas without sausage roll—the pin-wheeled pastries smothered with ketchup were a family tradition. I added hot sauce to my ketchup like Dad did and it burned on my tongue.
Grandpa showed up halfway through breakfast with an armful of presents. He handed Mom a bag of oranges, which she set to slicing up. He handed me a fishing pole tied with a big red bow. “I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to wrap it,” he said.
“Cool, Grandpa. Thanks!” Now Piran and I would both have one for the summer, although it would be a while before we’d be able to use ’em.
“Grace, sit for two seconds,” he said. “I got you somethin’ better than oranges.” Mom dried her hands on the kitchen towel and unwrapped a camel-hair coat. “Oh, Pa, thank you.”
“I got it at Faysal’s Dress Shop,” he said. “Your old one was lookin’ a little bit moth-eaten, and sometimes you got to treat yourself to the nicer things rather than givin’ it all away to everybody else.” He looked at her with a knowing expression and Mom blushed.
He gave Dad a metric ratchet set for his metal shop—about the only thing he didn’t already have.
“How’d you know?” The tops of Dad’s ears turned red, a sure sign he was pleased.
I showed Grandpa my General Lee, and Mom showed him her Christmas-tree charm.
“You made these?” Grandpa’s eyebrows went up. “Nice work, Ray. If you make some more of these, I’ll try to sell ’em in my store.” That was a high compliment.
“And look what Mom made for me,” I said and showed him the quilt. I pointed out all the pieces and told him where they’d come from.
He touched it gingerly, like it was a treasure. “Grace, you think you could make one of these for me from your mama’s old dresses?” Mom looked at him, surprised. Grandpa Chase didn’t mention Grandma very often. Even now it was still painful for him. “I’d pay ya, of course,” he said.
“You wouldn’t have to pay me, Pa. I’d be happy to.”
“Nonsense. I know yu’uns could use the money, and it would mean the world to me.”
“All right.” Mom wrung the kitchen towel between her hands tightly. She didn’t talk about her mother much either, ’cept for her singin’. Mom claimed Grandma Chase had an even prettier voice than she did, which I found hard to believe. I’m sure I’d heard her sing, but most of my memories of Grandma Chase were like an out-of-focus slideshow.
While my parents cleaned up, I handed Grandpa my drawing. “It’s Coppertown, Grandpa, the way it used to be. The way it’ll be again someday.” Somehow.
“This is right handsome, Jack,” he said. I could have sworn I saw his eyes water up before he looked away. He hugged me so tight, I thought I was gonna break.
Grandpa asked to see some of Dad’s other projects in his metal shop while Mom made a green-bean casserole, yeast rolls, and apple pie.
“That’s not all we’re having, is it?” I asked. Our meals had been pretty slim lately, so I was worried.
“No, Jack.” Mom laughed. “Everybody’s bringing a dish just like at Thanksgiving. It’ll add up, you’ll see. We’re not going hungry quite yet.”
Speak for yourself, I thought.
The whole family showed up at our place again, ’cept Aunt Catherine, who never did come back, and Uncle Amon, of course. I caught Dad lookin’ out the window, all wistful, a few times.
Mom was right—we ended up with a feast. Since Uncle Bubba was a hunter, he brought a wild turkey. Aunt Livvy made giblet gravy, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, regular mashed potatoe
s, and pumpkin pie. She brought brussels sprouts too, but I didn’t eat any of those. Grandpa brought the cranberry sauce and I helped him get it out of the can in one ringed piece.
Dad and Bubba started talking about the strike over dinner, but Aunt Livvy told them to shush. “It’s Christmas. Yu’uns give it a rest.”
Buster and I sat at the card table, even though we were too big for it. Course, there weren’t no room at the big table for all the adults and us too.
“How do you like your new place?” I asked him.
“It’s okay, I suppose,” he said, “’cept for when the wind blows the wrong way. Those chickens stink something awful. Worse than a sulfur cloud.”
“There haven’t been any of those since the miners went on strike,” I whispered. “The whole plant is shut down.”
His eyebrows went up at that. “That don’t sound normal.”
“It’s not.” I smiled.
After dinner, Grandpa played Christmas carols on his fiddle and we sang along.
That night, I crawled into bed full and tired and wrapped up in the quilt Mom made for me. I didn’t get a lot of presents like other years, or my BMX bike, but everything I got came straight from the heart and it felt pretty good.
The week sped by visiting with friends, but New Year’s Eve snuck through quiet as a mouse. I heard a few bottle rockets here and there, but mostly people let the New Year in with as little notice as possible. So much time had gone by since the strike began that people were startin’ to worry, and without the holidays to think about, it crept back into everybody’s heads. My parents didn’t say much in front of me, but I could hear them whispering in their bedroom at night. Whatever they were saying, it didn’t sound good.
On New Year’s Eve, Mom made black-eyed peas.
“Eat ’em all,” Dad said. “Every pea is a dollar we’ll make this year.”
I poured vinegar over mine and ate every last one.
Chapter 14
Flood
A Bird on Water Street Page 7