Christmas with Tucker

by Greg Kincaid

  Grandma Cora complained to me, “This one is the worst. The pieces are so small and the shapes irregular. I think your mom and your sisters have given up on it.”

  My mother yelled to us from the kitchen. “George, Cora, come in here. They’re at it again!”

  We had seen the hummingbird acrobatics many times before, but we wouldn’t deny the combatants an audience.

  Grandma and I joined my mother by the sink. Two male hummingbirds were fiercely attacking a third in an effort to drive him away from the flowers. They hovered, darted, dashed, and generally moved—horizontally and vertically—through the air with astonishing speed. Theirs was a well-thought-out battle plan. And as with all good plans, position on the battlefield was everything.

  As we watched them zooming in and out of view, we saw my grandfather running up to the house, his face white. Instantly, we all knew that something was terribly wrong. When he threw open the back kitchen door, he hung his head as if he were pained to the bone, breathing hard. My grandmother took one look at him and ran to his arms. “What is it, Bo?”

  He shook his head back and forth, as if to say no. “I’m so sorry, it’s John, he’s, he’s …”

  “What is it? What happened?” my mother pleaded, rapidly losing control.

  My grandfather faced them both, his legendary strength drained away. “There’s been an accident. The tractor flipped. John was killed—”

  My grandmother screamed, and my mom buried her face in her hands, crying over and over again, “Oh, my God, no, not John!”

  It was the worst day of my life in that house. It was as if the walls of our home, our lives, our very souls, just collapsed.

  My father was cutting a field of alfalfa when it happened. The purple flowers attract bumblebees. He had been mowing near the bank of the creek when the tractor kicked up an entire nest. There were bites all over his body. He must have been fighting them off when he lost control of the tractor, which went over the creek embankment. He was thrown from the cab and hit his head on some rocks. He tumbled into the creek, and the tractor rolled over him, pinning him under the water.

  My grandfather, wondering why the tractor had been quiet for so long, set out to check on his son. Good partners have a way of watching out for each other. It must have been terrible for him to have a vague worry change instantly into an unspeakable truth.

  Six months after that day in June, I found myself standing in the same place my grandfather had found my father’s body. It was a place I pretended did not exist—the place where all the rules were broken.

  That running-away feeling came over me again. Suddenly hating everything about the farm that stole John McCray from me, I never wanted to see another field of hay, milk another cow, or touch another tractor. If I could, I would just get on the first bus for Minnesota and never look back. No one would blame me. The absolute finality of death was sinking into my young mind.

  As much as it hurt, I accepted that my father was never going to walk through the back kitchen door again, no matter how long I hung around the McCray farm. There was no reason for me to stay here for another minute, thinking that he would.

  Using the saw, I cut down the first tree I focused on, angrily hacking away at the trunk. When I finished, I grabbed the tree by the trunk and started to walk back toward the creek.

  As quickly as the bitter resentment had welled up, it vanished. It was as if someone just pulled a plug and it all drained out onto the ground. In its place, there was nothing but loneliness.

  Dropping the tree and plopping down in the snow, I had a long-overdue conversation with my dad. It was time to sort things out and tell him how I felt.

  I love you, Dad, so much, and I miss you every minute of the day. I have this dog, Tucker, and he’s been helping me out a lot. Well, he’s not really mine but I sure wish he were. You’d like him, I bet. And I’m so grateful to have Grandma and Grandpa helping me out, too. But no matter how hard I try to stop feeling sad and lonely, I just can’t help it. I try to stay busy—I’m doing the milking by myself on snow days, and I’m even in this stupid school play. But I don’t know how to go about it all without you here. And I don’t know if I should stay here or go to Minnesota. I miss you giving me advice. I miss you reading to me. And I’m really sorry for not doing all those chores when you asked.

  “What are things like where you are, Dad?” I said out loud, with tears on my face. “Do you think I’ll ever see you again? I sure hope so.”

  How I wanted his strong but gentle hand on my shoulder to tell me it would be all right and that all of these unbearable feelings would pass, and the world would operate by the rules again.

  Listening hard, I was hoping for some sign. And then I remembered something he said to me many times before he died. He said that I should take the best parts from the men I admired the most in the world, add them all together, and then try to be that person. One thing I admired about both my dad and my grandfather was that when things went poorly, they always got back at it and tried again. They were both men who valued perseverance.

  I realized that if he could talk to me today, that is what he would tell me. I could hear his voice in my ears just as if he were standing there on the bank of the creek. And if I tried hard, I could feel his touch on my shoulder, too.

  No matter how bad the roads, George, we just climb back up on the maintainer and try to clear the way. That’s all we can do.

  So, right there, I gathered my resolve, stood up, wiped the tears from my face, and made a resolution not to give up.

  As I brushed the snow from my jeans, something moved at the top of the hill where we collect wild Easter lilies in the spring. I thought it was a deer, until I heard a bark and saw a dog running full speed after a rabbit. It was that big red Irish setter coming to join me.

  Before long, Tucker’s efforts were rewarded. A rabbit dangled from his jaws. He looked very proud and perhaps he sensed my sorrow, for he suddenly dropped his prize at my feet.

  Some people might think it was an unimportant gift, but I knew that for Tucker, there was no greater offering. I had gotten my first and perhaps only Christmas present that year. He was trying to give me the most valuable thing that existed in his world. He was trying to make sure I stayed alive when doing so might mean he would go hungry.

  I leaned over to scratch him behind his soft, floppy ears. “Thank you, Tucker. Thank you for being my friend.”

  It was time to go home, so I dragged the tree back across the creek. It was probably too big of a tree, particularly to haul a half mile back up to the house. But if Grandma was right and a tree was going to fix my Christmas, it was going to have to be a big one.

  After I crossed the creek, I looked for my grandmother, thinking she might still be out walking, but she was gone. I could see her tracks leading back to the house. Seeing her solitary footprints, I sensed her own brand of sadness and was reminded of something my mother told me before she left. She said I mustn’t ever forget that however hard it was for me to lose a father, and for her to lose a husband, it was just as hard for Grandma Cora and Grandpa Bo to lose their only child.

  That night Grandma Cora put little bits of Tucker’s rabbit in with the pot roast, and we offered him a plate of his own as our thanks for his sharing, and as a treat for his last dinner with us. After a brief discussion, with all of us trying hard to keep our emotions in check—even Grandpa—we’d decided that it was only right that Tucker should go back to his owner. After dinner, I think each of us said our private goodbyes to Tucker. All I could do was sit with him on the living-room floor, stroking his red coat and feeling the warmth of his body. I had no words for how I felt.

  It was very cold and dark by the time Frank Thorne pulled into the driveway.

  Chapter 16

  FRANK THORNE was in his mid-forties, thin, and had a blond handlebar mustache that went well with his cowboy boots and hat. He smiled shyly as he stood at the back door, gingerly stepping into our warm house. Tucker looked at Thorne
and wagged his tail, but he stayed at my side.

  When my grandfather extended his arm to shake hands, Thorne had to pull his hands from his pockets. His fingers were stained with black grease. “Welcome home, Frank.”

  “It feels good to be back.”

  “Do you have any work laid out yet?”

  “No. Not yet.” He remembered that his hat was on and he hurriedly removed it. “Hopefully, I’ll have something soon.”

  “Well, I might need some help on the maintainer, if this weather keeps up. You interested?”

  Thorne paused. “I think I should have something come through any day now, but thanks for asking.” He looked at me and continued, “George, I understand you’ve taken care of my dog for me.”

  “Yes, sir. I have.”

  “Well, thanks.” He looked at Tucker, who was still waiting patiently at my side. “Come here, boy.” Tucker wagged his tail and approached Thorne, but not before I gave him one final pat on his silky head. Thorne knelt down and petted the dog. “Good to see you, Red.”

  I could feel Tucker slipping away from me and I’m sure I sounded pretty desperate. “Mr. Thorne, I was wondering if you might sell me your dog?”

  He looked at me dumbfounded. “Sorry, son, but I’m not looking to get rid of him.” He slipped a chain around Tucker’s neck. “Looks like you two have become pretty good friends, so you can come up and play with him anytime you want.”

  For the first time in my life, I wanted to rip the limbs straight off another human being. My face turned red as a pie apple. Grandma put her hand on my shoulder. “Well, thank you, Frank. I’m sure George would enjoy that. You take good care of yourself.”

  It was just more than I could stand, watching Thorne head out the back door with Tucker. My grandparents and I were silent as we listened to Thorne’s truck pull out of our driveway. Suddenly, afraid I was going to say or do something I would regret later, I stormed out the back door. Once again, I had an overwhelming urge to run away from all this, but I had no destination. I simply stood in the dark, snowy yard, burning with anger despite the cold. I did my best to collect myself, for the sake of my grandparents, and after a while I went back inside. I still felt powerless and confused.

  The next morning, when the bus drove by Thorne’s house, I sunk down into my heavy winter jacket so Mary Ann wouldn’t see the upset in my eyes. Tucker was tied up, resting beside Thorne’s old brown truck, on a snowless patch of ground. I wanted to jump off the bus and take him, bring him home, but I knew that was impossible.

  No matter how bad the roads, George, we just climb back up on the maintainer and try to clear the way. That’s all we can do. I was trying to climb back up, but I just kept slipping. The path ahead was growing harder to follow.

  Chapter 17

  THAT AFTERNOON, I got off the bus at Thorne’s house to visit Tucker. The brown truck was gone, but Tucker was in his usual spot outside, tied to the post. After knocking on the door and getting no answer, I sat on the ground by Tucker. Wanting him to know that I had not abandoned him, I held him in my arms for a few moments, wondering how to best negotiate with Thorne. Finding Tucker a good home was proving just as hard as finding the right one for me.

  Thorne’s house was a mess—the paint peeled down to exposed wood, tires and car parts in the yard, and lumber strewn all about. The place looked scary to me and unsuitable for Tucker.

  Armed with paper and a pencil from my book bag, I wrote a note to Thorne, opening with a little bit of salesmanship.

  Mr. Thorne,

  I know Tucker is a handful to care for, so if this dog is too much work for you, I’m still interested in buying him. I’m leaving for Minnesota in a few weeks, so let me know soon if you’re interested.

  Your neighbor,

  George McCray

  I stopped short of telling him that Tucker deserved a better life.

  After searching for a place to leave the note, I decided to tuck it between the old, ripped screen door and the wooden front door, with its dirty glass window. As I opened the screen door, I could not help trying to look inside. As I pushed my nose against the windowpane, the front door swung open—it was unlocked. Thorne correctly surmised that there wasn’t much worth stealing. Standing on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I looked around.

  It was as I suspected: chaos. The house appeared to be one big room with a bathroom and a bedroom at the back. There was a table covered with beer cans, newspapers, and bottles. On one wall, there were some photographs I could barely make out. One looked somehow familiar, but it seemed so out of place that it made no sense.

  Before walking in to investigate further, I called out, “Mr. Thorne?” No answer. Wanting a better look at that photo, I took a chance and stepped inside. Trying to avoid piles of dirty clothes, broken car parts, and half-eaten bags of potato chips, I walked closer to the wall of photos.

  I peered closely at the photo. It was a picture of my dad as a young man with his arm looped around Frank Thorne’s shoulder. It looked like they were working on some old car, covered in grease, with broad smiles across their faces. Not understanding why my dad would want to be friends with Frank Thorne, I hurried out the door and pulled it shut, with my note stuck in the doorjamb.

  Although it nearly killed me to do it, I turned my back on poor Tucker and walked home. I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. He barked frantically and I felt awful for betraying that poor dog. I had no idea what to do or how to make things right.

  During dinner, it was easy to avoid discussing what had happened with Tucker that day, as none of us seemed to want to raise the subject of the latest missing member of our household.

  Chapter 18

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke to the sound of the back door quietly shutting. I reached out for Tucker, but of course, he was not there. I heard my grandfather’s work boots as he stepped slowly across the kitchen floor and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table. There was no “snow day” announcement, as there had been for much of the last week.

  Why was my grandfather sitting alone in the kitchen with the lights off at this hour?

  Huddling under the covers, knowing that something was wrong, I noticed an eerie yellow glow coming up through the floor grate. I could hear Grandma in the kitchen now, but still, they were uncharacteristically quiet. Worried and curious, I got out of bed, but when I tried to turn on the lights—nothing. We’d lost power.

  After quickly dressing in the dark, I went down the stairs as best I could with no light. My grandparents were at the kitchen table, talking quietly. An old kerosene lamp with a gaudy Victorian shade rested in the center of the table.

  “Good morning, George.” My grandfather pushed a chair toward me. “Sit down and let me tell you what winter has blown our way.” He chose his words appropriately as gusts of wind shook our house. There was a serious tone in his voice. Grandma Cora squeezed my shoulder as she rose from the table and started to make breakfast.

  “George,” my grandfather continued, “we have our work cut out for us today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Another sixteen inches of snow fell last night and, as you’ve already figured out for yourself, we lost power. We still have the phone line, but that might not last much longer. We’ll have to be extra careful about keeping the ice cracked on the pond and we’ll have to milk by hand—just like when I was a boy. It’s going to get a little uncomfortable around here. Can you help us out?”

  This had to be serious or my grandfather wouldn’t have taken so many words to say it. I had seen sorrow cross his face, but until that morning, I had never seen fear in his eyes or heard worry in his voice. My grandfather was comfortable barking orders, but this was different. Until that morning, I had never heard Big Bo McCray ask any man for help, and certainly not a boy like me.

  There was only one answer to the question. “Of course I’ll help. What can I do?”

  “If you’ll go down and crack the ice on the pond, I’ll start the milking. Later t
oday, I’ll show you how to drive the maintainer. The only way to get through this is to take turns, working in shifts, night and day, until we dig out of this storm.”

  “Drive the maintainer!” I said, nearly falling out of my chair. This was a big step up from milking alone. I felt a mix of fear and excitement.

  “He’s only thirteen!” my grandmother warned. “Bo, I told you earlier, it’s not a fair thing to ask him to do.” Her voice cracked and tears began to fall.

  “He’s old enough, Cora, and you know I need his help.”

  “Then I’ll take a shift driving, too,” she said, wiping her eyes. Like many farmwives, Grandma could drive a truck on a dirt road and a tractor across a field, but I couldn’t recall her driving the maintainer in a snowstorm.

  “Cora, you’re strong, but you can’t handle this. And you need to stay and take the emergency calls and help George with the milking when I’m gone. You’ll have your work cut out for you, too. I’ll take two shifts to his one. That way I can sleep a few hours. Let’s eat now and we can start to work at first light. George, you’ll start by cracking that pond ice.”

  Certainly there was better help around somewhere in Cherokee County, but I was available, and Grandpa McCray thought I was the man for the job. Maybe my grandfather was just used to partnering with McCray men and wanted to keep it that way. It felt good to be trusted, though I still could hardly believe he was about to trust me with the job of driving the maintainer.

  “Use the twelve-pound sledge and make sure the hole is plenty big. You’d better bring a shovel so you can dig down to the ice.”

  These were my grandfather’s last orders as I set out for the pond from the back door of our old Kansas farmhouse. It looked as if the entire sky had lost power, too; only a weak diffused light passed through the blowing snow and steel gray clouds. I wore rubber boots that were a good protector from the snow and the pond water but were poor insulators, and my toes were quickly cold. The weather turned harsh and unforgiving as it swept down from the north. No jacket could keep you warm, and the cold was only tolerable if you kept moving.