All Daddy’s ever been is a shrimp boat captain. And his father before him—for generations. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be when I grow up. My name is Miller McDaniel McClellan. There’s a lot of history in that name. I’m the son of a long line of fishermen going back to the founding of this here town we live in.
Daddy’s a hard worker and real smart. He’s good with his hands, knows his way around machines, and can fix anything. Sometimes he crews for another shrimp boat. But mostly he does construction jobs whenever and wherever he can. Mama’s working hard, too, out cleaning houses. She tells me not to worry: “We’ll get by.” But I can tell by the way she pays for groceries with cash and counts the change carefully that money’s tight. So I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting a PlayStation or an Xbox this year. I expect I won’t even ask for one.
Besides, there’s something else I want. A whole lot more. I want a dog. And not just any dog—one puppy in particular. It’s a long shot, but this year I think I have a chance. See what I mean about Christmas? It’s a time you can hope.
After school, Dill and I got on our bikes and headed across town to his house. He’s my best friend. His real name is Dillard, after his mama’s family name, like mine is Miller, but I call him Dill. His daddy is a shrimp boat captain, too. We’ve both been working on a shrimp boat since the day we could walk the decks, and that gives us a special bond.
McClellanville’s not like anywhere else. Sure, I’m partial because of my name, but it’s true. Picture a small town that looks like it came out of an old movie, and that’s it. Most of the houses are white wood with fancy porches, one prettier than the next. Then there’s Mrs. Fraser’s house, the big tumbledown redbrick that’s hidden behind thick oak trees and shrubs taller than me. If you can see the porch, you’ll see cats sitting everywhere. We call her the cat lady because she’s always feeding the wild cats.
Daddy says folks here don’t like change, and it’s a good thing because we pretty much live surrounded by the wild. My house is on Jeremy Creek. It looks like a river to me and it winds through acres of wetlands clear to the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the path the shrimp boats take to the sea. On the other side of town is the Marion National Forest. Town is just a few blocks of shops on Pinckney Street—our main street—with the Art Center, and T.W. Graham & Co., the town’s restaurant. It’s been around forever and a day. The town is all spruced up for the holidays with shiny green holly and pine boughs and wreaths on the doors. As Dill and I rode our bikes through the streets after school, I coasted to check out the decorated windows.
“Come on!” Dill shouted impatiently.
He was far ahead, so I gripped my handlebars and pushed to catch up. Just remembering why we were going to his house gave me a burst of energy. We turned onto a hard-packed road bordered by huge oaks and longleaf pines that towered over us. I wouldn’t want to live this far into the Marion National Forest. It’s over 250,000 acres of woods, marsh, and wild things. It’s famous because this is where the patriot Francis Marion hid out against the British army during the Revolutionary War. He was called the Swamp Fox. You might’ve heard of him. The forest is so thick and the marsh so murky the British could never find him. Or maybe they just didn’t want to go in. I can understand that. Just last month a coyote ate one of Dill’s cats. Yep, I’d rather live by the ocean than the forest.
Dill’s house looks more like a big cabin, and it backs up right to the forest. You can’t barely see it in the dark. His family bought it after Hurricane Hugo destroyed their house in 1989, along with a lot of others. McClellanville was ground zero for the hurricane. Dill’s mama told me a boat was in their yard where the house used to be! After the hurricane his mother said she wouldn’t live near the ocean. They didn’t go too far. But here, deep in the forest, it feels miles from the water.
I dropped my bike on the ground and followed Dill into his house. A gruff bark of warning came from the back of the house, and a minute later Daisy, his chocolate-brown Lab, came trotting up to investigate. She passed by Dill and came to sniff my legs while I petted her head. I knew it was her habit because she’s superprotective now, but I could barely stand still since I was so excited to see her puppies! After a minute she wagged her tail and took the dog biscuit I always bring her. She’ll let me pass into the back room now.
“Hi, boys,” Mrs. Davidson called, sticking her head out from the kitchen. “How was school?”
“Good,” we replied in monotone unison.
“I made some cookies.”
I could smell the chocolate and my mouth watered, but nothing could keep me away from those puppies a second longer. “Thanks, Mrs. Davidson, but I’m not hungry. Can I see the puppies?”
Mrs. Davidson smiled the way mothers do when they aren’t fooled. “Sure. Be gentle with them, hear? They’re not so steady on their feet. But they’re already getting into mischief.”
Dill and I shot like bullets to the family room. I could hear the high-pitched yelping before I could see them. This is why I come to Dill’s house every day after school. The brown leather furniture was pushed back to accommodate the large black wire enclosure that corralled seven brown and yellow balls of fur. The puppies came racing to the edge, excitedly climbing over each other, whimpering for our attention.
Seeing a bunch of puppies just does something to your heart. Never fails. I couldn’t stop the “Awwww” that came from my mouth. I’d have been embarrassed but Dill was doing the same thing. I stepped over the railing, and suddenly was surrounded, each puppy trying to lick my nose, my ears. I was enveloped in a cloud of puppy breath. I laughed out loud, not only because it tickled but because they were so darn cute. I loved all seven of them. But I had eyes for only one.
I singled out one golden puppy and settled him in my lap. This one is mine. I called him Sandy Claws because he likes to dig. But also because it was Christmas. I came to Dill’s right after the puppies were born, so I knew them as well as anyone. For weeks, when Dill’s mother went to work in the afternoon, Dill and I babysat the pups. We did our homework sitting outside the fenced puppy arena. When they were newborns, they slept a lot. Now, not so much.
Dill’s mother came into the room with a plate of cookies. “It’s uncommon how that puppy really takes to you.”
“He chose me,” I said with pride. “He comes straight to my side and just stays here. Falls asleep right in my lap.” Sandy looked up at me, then stretched higher to lick my nose.
Mrs. Davidson set the plate on the side table and clasped her hands. She turned to face me, and she looked worried. “Miller, the puppies will be ready to go by Christmas. See all the colored ribbons?”
I noticed that most of the puppies now had ribbons tied around their necks in all different colors. I nodded, even as I saw that Sandy wasn’t wearing one.
“Those puppies have already sold. And I have a list of people who want one. I’m letting them come by this week to see the puppies and make a choice.” She paused. “Miller, one couple especially likes Sandy. I’ve tried to tell people he’s taken but . . . Well, he’s a very handsome boy. I can’t hold on to him much longer.”
My grip tightened around my puppy. No one could have Sandy but me.
“Honey, did you talk to your mama yet about whether you can get him?”
Sandy began to squirm in my tight grip. I loosened my arms but was unwilling to let him go. He stared up at me as though he could feel my tension. “Not yet. I, uh, I was thinking I could ask for him for Christmas.”
Mrs. Davidson’s face softened with worry. “I know, honey, Dill told me. I wish I could wait, but, you see, people want to buy the pups for Christmas gifts. They need to know now. And so do I.”
My lips tightened and my heart began pounding faster. The pups cost $300 each. That was as much as a video-game box.
“I was wondering, just in case,” I hedged. “I have seventy-five dollars saved. Could I give that to you as a deposit and just keep paying you bit by bit till I’m all paid up? I’ll work reall
y hard. I promise.”
She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “You mean you want to buy him on layaway?”
I glanced at Dill. He was looking at the brown puppy in his lap, petting it with his face scrunched up with worry. His brown puppy had a red ribbon around its neck because Dill was getting to keep that puppy for himself for Christmas. I reckon he was embarrassed about not being able to just give me one.
I shrugged, not knowing what layaway meant. “I guess.”
Mrs. Davidson sighed, then walked closer to crouch down to me. She was being kind, but I knew bad news was coming.
“Honey, I wish I could say yes. But I can’t and here’s why. Buying the puppy is the cheapest part. You have to have money to take the dog to the vet, buy food and flea meds, and a whole lot more. It totals up to a lot of money. It wouldn’t be right for me to let you buy this puppy without your parents’ permission. They’ll have to own the dog with you. Do you understand? I wish I could, but I love the puppy too much to take that risk. And I’m too good of friends with your mama not to have her consent.” She paused. “Tell you what. You can have this puppy—and by the way, I think he’s the pick of the litter—for two hundred dollars. That will help some, I hope. Miller, do you want me to talk to your mother for you?”
I shook my head, eyes cast down on the pup. I didn’t want her to see the tears welling up. I knew if she called my mama, she’d give Mrs. Davidson all the reasons we couldn’t have a dog. I needed to plead my case with my mother first.
“No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll talk to her tonight.” I looked up and met her gaze. “I promise.”
She reached out to pat my head. It made me feel like one of the puppies.
“I hope she says yes. I know that puppy loves you.”
I rode my bike home as fast as I could. A cold front was setting in, and my fingers felt frozen on my handlebars. The air was moist and chilled, like snow. Not that I’ve ever seen snow. But the thought of snow gave me hope. My mama told me about the snow that fell on Christmas after Hurricane Hugo. She said it seemed to McClellanville as though God was sending them his blessing after the devastation of the storm.
Daylight was dimming by the time I got home. My house is not as fancy as the Victorian houses on Pinckney Street, nor as big as Dill’s house, but it’s a right pretty house with a broad front porch and gabled windows. They look like a smile when I come home. Best of all, the house sits right on Jeremy Creek, a stone’s throw from the shrimp boat docks. Like a lot of houses, it could use some TLC. “Fixing houses takes money,” my mother always says with a sorry shake of her head when she studies the peeling paint or steps on a wobbly stair. But its home and we don’t ever plan to leave.
Inside the house it was warm and smelled of baking bread. I followed my nose to the kitchen, with its row of windows overlooking the creek. Mama was bent over the long wood-block table putting the top doughy crust onto a potpie. Beside it was the carcass of the old Thanksgiving turkey, cleaned practically to the bone. Mama doesn’t believe in serving a puny turkey on Thanksgiving. As much as I love turkey, and while it makes a nice break from shrimp, we’ve been eating leftovers ever since. I’m hoping this is her last-ditch effort to strip every lick of meat from the bones into her potpie. I sigh, knowing she’ll use the bones for soup.
Mama’s a lean, tidy woman. She’s real pretty. Especially her hair. It’s long and dark brown, though she’s not happy about the white that winds through it now. Daddy calls them silver threads, and she always smiles when he does. She’s got it pulled back now, though some strands are falling down along her neck. Her white baker’s apron is dusty with flour. She’s lost some weight in the past few months. She’s a substitute teacher but since Daddy stopped shrimping she’s started cleaning houses for extra money. Her dress hangs shapelessly from her shoulders, and her face looks tired. But when she looked up to see me, her green eyes sparkled with pleasure and her smile changed her face to look young again.
“You’re back!” Automatically she glanced up at the clock. “I was beginning to worry.”
I went to the table and slid into a chair. I was tired after the long bike ride. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Did you get your homework done at Dill’s?”
I shook my head. I thought about lying, but the one thing Mama hates more than anything is lying. “Family doesn’t lie to one another,” she’s told me every time she’s found me out. I didn’t want to get on her bad side today. “No.”
She stilled and glanced at me. “How much homework do you have?”
To my relief she didn’t scold. I slipped off my backpack and dug into it, pulling out a book. I laid it on the table with resignation. “Not much. We have to start reading this for a book report.”
Mama wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the book. Her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Oh, A Christmas Carol! I love this book. It’s great.”
“I seen the movie already.” I groaned softly.
“Saw,” she corrected. “The movie is good, but the book is better. No one can describe people better than Charles Dickens. Have you read any of it?”
I shook my head. “I just got it today.”
“You’ve heard of Scrooge, haven’t you? The grouchy old skinflint who hated Christmas? He said, ‘Bah, humbug,’ whenever anyone wished him joy of the season.”
“What’s a humbug?”
Mama laughed, a light cheery sound. “You’re a humbug,” she said jokingly, tousling my hair. “No, it means ‘nonsense.’ Or ‘deception.’ ”
I smirked and moved my head from under her hand. “The high school is doing the play and we all have to go see it.”
“Really? Oh, wonderful!” Her smile widened. “We’ll make it a special night.”
I shrugged, uncaring. I didn’t want to go.
“Don’t be an old Scrooge.” Mama laughed again and went back to her potpie. She added jovially, “It’s Christmastime!”
I brightened at hearing this. That was her rallying call, and it being December 1, she was right on schedule. I don’t know anyone who loves Christmas more than my mama. Or any holiday, for that matter. Daddy says she’s a fool for holidays, but he always smiles when he says it. If Mama is thinking about Christmas, I figure it’s a good time to ask about the puppy.
“You remember I told you about Dill’s dog, Daisy, having puppies?”
Mama’s hand stilled a moment on the pie. “Uh-huh.”
“They’re real cute. Mrs. Davidson says they’re Daisy’s best litter ever. And healthy!” I was laying it on thick. “She already took them to the vet and got them shots. They don’t have worms, neither,” I added for good measure.
“That’s good.” Mama shifted her gaze and returned to working on her pie.
“Yeah.” I nodded. My mind was spinning. How should I ask? Should I be direct or clever? Kind of weave it into a conversation? I went for the latter. “A lot of the guys are asking for Xboxes or PlayStations this Christmas.”
“That’s a pretty big ask.”
“Yeah, but I think they’ll get one.”
“Really?” She looked up, finished with her pie. She wiped her hands again on her apron. I noticed how red they’ve become. “Is that what you want for Christmas?”
I tried to act casual. I lifted a shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind one.” I glanced her way. “But it’s not what I want.”
Mama turned and checked the oven. She was efficient in the kitchen, moving from place to place with the sure-footedness of an NBA player. She paused, then looked up at me, giving me her full attention. “What do you want for Christmas?”
Here it comes, I thought. Leaning forward on the table the words rushed out: “Oh, Mama, one of the puppies is the best dog I’ve ever seen. He’s a golden color, and he’s a real sweet dog. I call him Sandy Claws, get it?” I laughed nervously. She smiled but her eyes were sad. “And he likes me already. He always comes and lies right next to me. And he sleeps in my lap and everything! I love him, Mama. He’s the only thing
I want for Christmas. I’ll take care of him and walk him and I’ll get a part-time job so I can help pay for his food.” My words were gushing from my mouth so fast I had to stop and take a breath. I looked at her and ended my outburst with my hands pressed together in prayer. “Please?” My whole body strained forward.
Mama looked at me and I could see a sorrow that went deep in her eyes. She didn’t speak, and I felt my body slowly release its tension as I slid back in the chair, like a deflated balloon. I could see what her answer was before she spoke the words. I could see that she’d already talked to Mrs. Davidson.
“Oh, honey. It’s not a good time to get a dog.”
The disappointment washed over me like a wave. I scowled, hurt and angry. “It’s never a good time.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You’re right! It isn’t fair!” I shot back at her, surprised by my own boldness. “You always say I’m too young or that dogs are too dirty or that maybe when the right dog comes along, or when I’m older. Well, I’m older now and this is the right dog. I love him, Mama.” I felt tears moisten my eyes and was embarrassed.
Mama sighed and her shoulders slumped. “You know things are tight since your daddy put the boat to dock. I don’t know . . .” She took a deep breath and said as a final excuse, “I suppose we could ask your father.”
“Ask me what?”
We both spun around. We’d been so intent on our discussion that neither of us had heard him come in. Daddy filled the threshold, his broad shoulders straining his worn jean jacket. His clothes were soiled with dirt and oil that spoke of a hard day’s work on a shrimp boat. His face was deeply tanned year-round and coursed with lines like the creeks he navigated. His pale eyes shone out in contrast like beacons that telegraphed intensity. The light shone on my mother, then on me.
A Lowcountry Christmas Page 2