A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  For the Christmas Forage, Mama searched for branches of cedar, fir, and longleaf pine. The sound of her clippers clicking away was like the sound the pileated woodpeckers make. She handed the clippings to me to put in the baskets—magnolia leaves, holly berries, pinecones. When our baskets were full to the brim, the scent of pine was so strong I could almost taste it.

  Gathering Spanish moss was Mama’s job. She wore thick gloves and put on a yellow slicker while harvesting because so many bugs were hiding in the moss—the worst of all were the chiggers. She stretched far up with a bow rake to pull the Spanish moss from the trees, then put it directly into black plastic bags. When she was done, she shook herself off like a dog and stripped off her gloves and slicker.

  “Someday you’re going to be old enough for this job.”

  “Someday.” I smirked. “But not today.”

  When we headed back home, we took turns pulling the wagon. The walking and the work made us hungry for more than the snacks Mama had packed us. But we basked in the glow of our success.

  “This might be our best haul ever,” Mama said, looking over the baskets that overflowed with boughs and berries.

  She says that every year, too. I ventured a smile.

  Mama was quick to catch it. “Feeling better?”

  “I guess.”

  “Being outdoors always makes a body feel better.” She walked a few feet, her heels crunching in the composted earth. “I’m glad. You know, I’m sad when you’re sad.”

  “I didn’t just feel sad,” I complained, not wanting her to diminish my pain. “Mama, my heart actually hurt. It still does.”

  “I know,” she said, more softly now. “And I’m sorry.”

  We walked awhile in silence.

  “You know, your daddy felt real bad that he had to say no to the puppy.”

  I snorted. “He didn’t sound sad. He sounded mad.” I grimaced, feeling a spurt of my anger return. “He’s always mad.”

  “That’s because he’s feeling so bad about putting the Miss Jenny up to dock. Working that boat wasn’t just his job, it was his way of life.”

  I stopped short and turned to face her. “But, see, that’s what I don’t get. Why’d he do it? Daddy was the best shrimper around—everybody said so. How come he had to put his boat up and others don’t?”

  “A lot of others did.”

  “Not Dill’s dad.” There. It was what I’d wanted to say for a long time.

  Mama puffed out a breath. “No, not Dill’s dad. Captain Davidson is hanging on, but he’s got a smaller boat.” She looked at me with intent so I’d understand. “The Miss Jenny is one of the bigger boats on the docks, so it costs more to run. You know your daddy hung on as long as he could. But the simple truth is he couldn’t afford to keep the boat on the water any longer. The price of diesel fuel has shot sky-high and the cost of imported shrimp has fallen so low—that’s a bad combination for the local shrimp. Plus,” she said enviously, “Brenda Davidson has a right fine job that pays well so she can help keep things afloat.”

  “You have a good job.”

  Mama smirked. “Well, I have a job.”

  “Are we really broke?”

  Mama expelled a short laugh of surprise. But her smile fell when she saw that I wanted an honest answer.

  “I’m not a baby anymore. You can tell me.”

  Mama sighed and reached out to take hold of the wagon’s handle. She gave it a yank and continued walking, her face lost in thought. “Things are tight,” she said, looking down at her boots while she walked. “Not that you have to worry. We’re getting by. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table. But,” she added with emphasis, “we don’t have anything left over for extras.”

  Like a dog, I thought to myself.

  I remembered how I saw her cutting up her credit cards, how my daddy went out every morning looking for work, and how every evening he sat at his desk late at night, his chin in his palm, looking over the bills.

  “So I’m really not getting Sandy.” I knew the answer but just had to ask.

  “No, honey. Not this year.” She forced a smile. “But there’s always next year. Or maybe even this summer.”

  “Sure.”

  Mama stopped, dropped the wagon handle, and turned to put her hands on my shoulders. She lowered so we looked eye to eye. “I promise you, Miller, I’ll get you a dog, hear? As soon as Daddy finds full-time work.”

  I nodded okay. It was only polite, knowing she was sincere. But I felt all the worse because whatever dog came down the pike, it wouldn’t be Sandy.

  We walked a bit longer, and with each step it felt like my hope for Sandy was disappearing in this big ol’ empty hole in my heart.

  “Miller?” Mama said in a quiet voice.

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

  “What?” I swung my head around. “Me? Mama, I’m ten,” I told her with a hint of disgust.

  Mama tried to hide her smile. “Of course. . . . Well, do you believe in Christmas miracles?”

  My heart skipped as hope seeped in. “Do you?”

  Mama paused, then swung her head to look at me and nodded. “I do,” she replied emphatically. “I really do. Take your brother. I prayed and prayed that he’d come home to me, and there he was, in this horrible explosion. Some of his comrades were killed, but he lived. And now he’s coming home for Christmas.” She lifted one arm as though to say, See what I mean? “If that’s not a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Mama, I’ll tell you what my idea of a Christmas miracle is. If I wake up on Christmas morning and find Sandy under the tree, not only will I believe in miracles, but I’ll believe in Santa Claus!”

  Mama stopped short and bent over with a guffaw that rang through the trees. When she straightened, her face was lit with laughter. She moved closer to bump me with her hip. “Well, all right then. If that happens, we’ll both get our Christmas miracles.” She added with more sincerity, “I hope yours comes true, Miller. I really, truly do.”

  I didn’t know what to think then. Was she going to get me a dog as a surprise? Or was she just trying to get my spirits up again? This Christmas wishing was wearing me out.

  Mama bent to pick up the wagon handle and began walking again. “Yes, sir, it’s our best haul yet,” she said in that cheery voice meant to change the subject. “And I couldn’t have done it without my best helper. Aren’t we the smart ones? We don’t need to spend a penny for the best decorations in town.” Mama’s grin mixed pleasure with pride.

  I didn’t respond, lost in my thoughts about whether I might get a dog.

  Suddenly Mama burst out singing, “Have a holly, jolly Christmas.” She looked at me expectantly, cuing me for the next line.

  It was our favorite carol, the one we began our rounds of Christmas carols with every year. Of course I joined in: “. . . It’s the best time of the year.”

  We sang carols as we walked the narrow path back to the truck, favorites that we knew the words to, sometimes taking turns with harmony.

  When we got home, Mama set right to work. One by one she shook out all the boughs, trimmed the ends of the branches, and stuck them in big plastic pails of water out on the porch.

  “Now comes the grisly part,” she said, slipping on a thick pair of garden gloves. “We have to kill off any creepy crawlies that decided to hitch a ride.”

  She put back on her slicker and began pulling apart the long strands of Spanish moss like cotton candy and spread it out on the front walkway. Crouching low, she picked out twigs, leaves, and insects stubbornly clinging to the strands. Now came the hard part. Together we set up a huge pot that Daddy used to boil crabs. She filled it with water, added dish detergent, then swished the moss strands like we were washing clothes by hand, picking out bits of debris. With clump after clump she repeated this, then rinsed them with the hose. Next I cleaned the pot and filled it with fresh water.

  “My mama use
d to check the moss for bugs, then put it up, but I don’t take that chance. I don’t want bugs in my clean house.” She set her chin. “I cook ’em up.”

  And that’s what she did. She boiled the moss in small batches for a few minutes, then after it cooled I helped her hang the moss on a drying rack made of an old wood ladder and two sawhorses. She let me help now that the chiggers were dead. Side by side we bent over the moss, picking out the last bits of twigs or dead insects.

  When we were done, our backs were aching and I was fit to eat a horse.

  “What seemed like a windfall was really a whole lot of work,” I complained.

  “There’s more satisfaction in decorating the house with things we made ourselves.” Mama crossed her arms and looked at the hanging moss. The sky was darkening and a hush had settled over the landscape. Mama’s face was a silhouette in the shadows. “Someday we’ll look back on today, Miller, and think all this work was the best part of Christmas. Going out to forage for treasures. You and me, on our great holiday adventure.”

  “After our backs are healed.”

  She laughed. “Agreed. Now come on, partner. We’re not done yet.”

  By the time it got dark outside, the kitchen was covered with baked pinecones, smilax, berries, greens, garden wire, wreath frames, and all manner of craft supplies. When Daddy walked in at six, he was carrying a pizza.

  “Hope you like pepperoni,” he called out.

  Having pizza on the night Mama does her decorations is a tradition in our family. Daddy lit a roaring fire, the first of the winter, and we gathered around the coffee table in the living room, sitting on the floor to eat our pizza like on a camping trip. As I lazily chewed the warm cheesy crust, I looked over at my mama and daddy and I saw that they were smiling and talking in low voices like in the days before the boat was docked. I smiled then, too, thinking that maybe it would be an all-right Christmas after all.

  I’m too old and beyond hope! Go and redeem some younger, more promising creature, and leave me to keep Christmas in my own way!

  —Scrooge, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 5

  Jenny

  The phone was ringing off the hook all day, and all the calls were either for Taylor or the surprise homecoming party we were throwing for him. My emotions were soaring—the excitement, the anticipation, the joy—it was like old times when Taylor lived at home. With his all-American good looks and good nature, he was always popular with guys and girls alike. Everyone was excited he was coming home and wanted to be waiting for him with open arms. No one more than me.

  “Taylor’s homecoming is our best Christmas present!” I kept telling everyone, meaning it. Because it was a gift that my son was returning home from the war—safe and sound—during the holiday. My family deserved this perfect Christmas gift. Something to celebrate.

  It had been a long roller coaster of a year. Even before Taylor’s deployment I’d felt his absence. When Taylor left for the Marines, everything seemed to change. It seemed he took the youth and vivacity of the house with him. When he was at home, life seemed richer, fuller, and more fun. Throughout high school and college his friends hung around the dock on days off, sometimes going out on someone’s boat or driving off in a pickup. They were always full of plans . . . always drinking beer. The boys were always giving me compliments, too . . . some cheeky, which always brought a laugh to my lips. But they were always polite and grateful when I showed up with my special peanut-butter brownie recipe.

  Miller was sixteen years younger than Taylor. He idolized his older, handsome, broad-shouldered big brother. He hung around Taylor and his friends like a mascot. Most boys would’ve been annoyed, but Taylor enjoyed Miller’s presence. Taylor’s friends were likewise gentle with Miller and his feelings. They had to be, or face Taylor’s wrath. He took his role as big brother seriously. As their mother, it was deeply satisfying to see their bond.

  When Taylor went off to the Citadel, he was still close enough to come home when his schedule allowed. Once he graduated and accepted his commission in the Marines, however, Taylor had truly left home. His commitment was as steadfast as his sense of duty. Over time I sensed him shifting his focus from his family and friends—even his girlfriend, Ashley—to his band of brothers. He’d let go of my hand.

  Then his deployment to Afghanistan was announced. Everyone in the family reacted differently. Miller was excited. He was too young to be fully aware of the dangers. In his mind his older brother had soared to new heights. Alistair had accepted it with a southern man’s pride in his son’s fighting for his country. Me? I was proud, of course. But I’m his mother. I simply could not reconcile my son’s going to fight on hostile soil. I’d rather he’d stayed home, safe, and worked in the family business as we’d hoped. But Taylor had always been clear he’d had his sights set elsewhere. Alistair had accepted this and argued that I should, too. But what mother was glad that her son went off to war?

  I did what mothers of soldiers have done for centuries. I prayed. I had always prayed for my children, yet during the year of Taylor’s deployment I prayed morning, noon, and night that my baby would come home safe. I clung to my faith, believing my prayers were heard. What else could I do when I felt so helpless? I was also vigilant in following news of the war, getting information from wherever I could.

  Then my worst fears were realized. In the middle of a summer night my heart had stopped when we received word that Taylor’s convoy had encountered an IED, killing all the men in the truck that hit it and seriously injuring others in the convoy. I’d read about the carnage caused by IEDs in Iraq and Afghanistan—how they were a game changer in the war. So when I’d learned Taylor had been thrown from his truck, suffered several fractured bones and burns, but had survived, I fell to my knees in gratitude and wept. He was alive. Injured, but bones would heal. My son was coming home.

  After his discharge from the hospital, I’d hoped he’d come home for Thanksgiving. But instead he went to Oregon to visit a Marine buddy. That was hard, I admit. But good things come to those who wait, right? Now it’s my turn. Taylor was coming home for Christmas. Today!

  At the appointed hour, the family climbed into Alistair’s pickup and headed for the airport. Driving separately was Ashley, Taylor’s girlfriend. Everyone else stayed behind at the house for the big surprise. Once at the airport, I felt the final ten minutes standing outside the security gate lasted longer than the months I’d waited for Taylor’s return. At my left, Alistair stood stoically, his big arms crossed over his slight paunch, his mouth set, and his gaze never leaving the gate. Miller was bored, dragging the hand-painted welcome sign as he walked aimlessly around the airport. He’d grumbled at least twice how he wished he had an iPad.

  In contrast, Ashley was talking on her phone to a friend, her eyes lit up with anticipation. She was wearing a cherry-red coat that only someone young and trim could pull off. The color accentuated the paleness of her golden hair, curled loosely down her shoulders in the current style. Her manicure was perfect, as was her makeup. I felt a bit self-conscious and glanced down at my pressed navy pants, polished-but-worn black boots, and my plain black wool coat. I wore a bright red scarf for holiday color, but it seemed dowdy compared to Ashley’s. When I looked up, I met Ashley’s nervous gaze. Suddenly it didn’t matter what I was wearing. I felt older and wiser seeing the vulnerability in her eyes, and smiled encouragingly. Of course Ashley would be dressed to the nines. That poor girl had been in love with Taylor since middle school.

  I glanced at the arrival board to confirm Taylor’s plane had landed. Anxious, I took a few steps forward, meriting a warning glance from the guard. Several people were walking down the exit ramp, a sure sign the plane had released passengers. Ashley put her phone away and came closer to the gate, eyes glittering. She reapplied her lip gloss and checked her reflection in her pocket mirror.

  At long last I spied Taylor coming our way. He had to be one of the last off the plane. I sighed with relief when I didn’t see the cane
he’d been using. He was dressed in civilian clothes, required for an off-duty Marine. I would’ve recognized his gait anywhere—steady, sure, shoulders straight. My eyes roamed his face hungrily. His hair was cut short in the high and tight style of the military, and his green eyes were searching the crowd. I knew the moment he saw me; Taylor missed a beat, then walked faster toward us with a smile on his face.

  I stood breathlessly, bound at the gate with open arms as he grew nearer. Squinting and leaning forward, I scanned his lean, tan face, seeking out scars and finding none. In a final stride he dropped his bag and wrapped his long arms around me. I hugged him close, shutting my eyes, feeling hot tears flow down my cheeks. My boy was home. Safe in my arms. God had answered my prayers. I stepped aside and, wiping my cheeks with my palms, watched as Alistair stepped forward in a handshake that morphed into a hug. Finally, Miller couldn’t hold back any longer. He drew near, then stopped short, uncharacteristically shy. Taylor extended his arm to include Miller. I took a step back, overwhelmed with emotion to see my three men together again, wrapped in a single embrace.

  A few feet away Ashley hovered, fingertips pressed to her lips. Taylor hadn’t seen her yet. When he released his brother, he turned his head and his eyes widened with obvious surprise. He opened his mouth but Ashley rushed into his arms, looping hers around his neck, and began crying. Taylor put his arms around her and lowered his head to speak into her ear, but it wasn’t a tender moment. Nor was it the bear-hug, lift-her-off-her-feet kind of hug she’d expected him to offer. Despite his smiles and polite words Taylor appeared somehow . . . reserved. As if he were going through the motions.