Spring's Gentle Promise

by Janette Oke

  Anyway, I should have been alerted when Mary said one morning as Christmas neared, “Do you mind if I invite Pa and Lilli for Christmas dinner?”

  Of course I didn’t mind. It sounded like a good idea to me, and Lou always cooked plenty of everything. We ate leftovers for days after Christmas was over.

  So I heartily agreed to the arrangement. I even rode over to the Turleys and extended the invitation myself. I stayed awhile too. Just to chat with Pa Turley and to play a couple games of checkers. He didn’t have much male companionship now that Mitch had left home, and I guess he missed it. Mary was happy when I returned with the news that they would be glad to come.

  The next day Mary spoke about Christmas again. “I think you can bring in the gobbler now,” she informed me. “I want to get it dressed and out of the way so everything won’t need to be done at the last minute.”

  That made perfect sense to me. We men had always left it to the last minute simply because nothing else needed doing then for us. I had no idea what Mary’s many tasks were going to be, but she was always powerful busy with something.

  I killed the gobbler, plucked off the feathers and carried him to Mary’s kitchen. She took over from there and soon he was ready to be hung outside in the shed where he would be kept frozen until needed further.

  That night as we retired, Mary spoke again—and this time the truth of her Christmas plans finally got through to me. “Would you like to invite Nat and Lou?”

  At first I couldn’t understand the question at all.

  “Invite—to what?” I asked innocently.

  “For Christmas.”

  “We don’t bother none with invitations,” I said to Mary, tossing another sock in the corner. “We’ve done it so long now everybody just knows without invitations.”

  I figured in my ignorance that Mary had just reversed the order without meaning to.

  But Mary hadn’t reversed the order. She had known exactly what she said. “What do you mean?” she asked, stopping in the middle of pulling the pins from her hair.

  “Well, I suppose the first few Christmases Lou invited us. After that—well, we just knew that every Christmas we would go there. Oh, not always ‘there.’ A few Christmases Lou’s packed everything up and had the Christmas out here at the farm. But mostly, unless it’s planned beforehand, we go on into town.”

  There was silence for a few minutes. Mary started to slowly unpin her hair again. “That was before you had a wife,” she said softly.

  I looked up then. Something in her voice was sending me funny messages.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if I should have caught it already.

  “That was before you had a wife,” she repeated slowly as though I was dense or something.

  “What does that have to do with it?” I dared ask.

  Mary’s voice raised a bit and she answered rather quickly, “It has a good deal to do with it, I should think.”

  “It hasn’t changed the fact that we are still family—that Lou—”

  But Mary swung to face me and I could see a stubborn set to her chin and a hurt look in her eyes. I didn’t get any further. At least not just then.

  The silence hung heavy again.

  Finally Mary broke it. She fought to keep her voice controlled—even.

  “Josh,” she ventured, “what do you think has been goin’ on around here for the past several days?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t follow her.

  “The bakin’? The plannin’? The tree? The turkey?” Mary went on.

  I shrugged again. I had the feeling that no matter what I said I was going to be in trouble.

  “Christmas, Josh. Christmas,” Mary said with emphasis. “I have been gettin’ ready for our first Christmas. Now, if I wasn’t going to be allowed to have Christmas—why’ve I been allowed to prepare for it?”

  “It’s—it’s not that you aren’t allowed,” I stammered.

  Mary ran a brush through her hair. “Good,” she said simply. “Then we will have Christmas as planned. Do you want to invite Nat and Lou?”

  Oh, boy! Talk about not communicating. We were running full circle.

  I stood to my feet and crossed to stand in front of her. Somehow I had to get things cleared up.

  “Mary,” I said in exasperation, “we always—Grandpa, Uncle Charlie and me—go to Aunt Lou’s each Christmas. Every year. We—”

  But Mary had turned her back on me. It made me angry. I wanted to reach out and turn her around again. Make her face me.

  “That was before,” she insisted.

  “Before? What does that have to do with it? Before! It doesn’t change Christmas. We are all still family. Families are to be together at Christmas. Not just—just little chunks of them. All of them. Can’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

  Mary wheeled around then. There were tears spilling down her cheeks. “No,” she stated with a sob, “you don’t see. I’ve worked for days, Josh, no—weeks, to get ready for this first Christmas. Always before I’ve had to leave you at Christmas and go home to my family. Well, now we are family, Josh. You and me. I wanted this Christmas to be ours. To be special. I thought you wanted it, too,” she sobbed. “But now—now you say that Christmas is to be a trip to town—to Lou’s to have dinner together. Well, I care about the family as much as you do, Josh. I love Lou and Nat—and the kids—but that’s—that’s not the way I had planned our first Christmas.”

  Mary was crying hard by the time she finished her speech. I found myself wondering if Grandpa and Uncle Charlie were hearing every word. The walls certainly were not soundproof. Well, let them hear. This was our business.

  I tried one more time.

  “It’s not that I don’t want our Christmas to be special,” I argued. “To me it is always special to be with Nat and Lou.”

  Mary reached for a corner of her nightgown and wiped away her tears. She didn’t cry any further, and I thought I had won. That she had finally listened to reason.

  She didn’t say “very well,” or “fine,” or anything like that. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. She just laid her brush back down on the dresser and walked around the bed to slip into her side. She even allowed the customary good-night kiss after I had put out the light.

  It was some time in the middle of the night that I awakened. I had the feeling that I’d heard something, but as I lay there in the darkness, straining to hear whatever it had been, there was total silence. And then it came again. Just a shaky little sob from Mary’s side of the bed.

  I rolled over then and reached out a hand to her.

  “Mary?” I questioned in a whisper. “Mary, is something wrong?”

  “Oh, Josh,” she sobbed, slipping her arms about me. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have been so insensitive. I—”

  “What are you talking—?” I began, not understanding, completely forgetting our little tiff at bedtime.

  “Of course you want to be with your family, like always. I’m sorry that I—”

  So that was it.

  I held Mary and let her cry. All the time I thought on what had transpired. For the first time I began to see and understand Mary’s thinking. We were family now—Mary and I, and with the years we might be blessed enough to have other family members join us. We had the right and the responsibility to make our own traditions—our own Christmases. Sure, the rest of the family would always be dear to us—and we could share and be with them—but not lean on them. Not depend on their traditions anymore.

  My hand patted Mary’s shoulder, and I lay staring into the dark thinking and praying a bit, too.

  I had slipped again. I had failed in cherishing Mary. I had not been sensitive to her needs, had not nurtured nor supported her. Would I ever learn?

  “Mary,” I whispered against her hair, “you were right and I was wrong. I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

  There was silence again. I dared to continue.

  “We should have our own Christmases.
We are family. It’s important to—to both of us.”

  Mary tipped her face in the blackness. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind. Really.”

  But I wasn’t turning back now. “I’ll go see Aunt Lou tomorrow,” I informed Mary. “Grandpa and Uncle Charlie can still go. We’ll have Lillie and Pa here.”

  “No,” said Mary. “We’d be splitting up family. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “I’ll talk to Lou,” I insisted. “She’ll understand.”

  “I’ll talk to Lou,” said Mary. “We’ll work it out.”

  “But—” I began. Mary reached one finger out in the darkness and placed it on my lips.

  “Trust me?” she asked simply and I nodded my head against her finger to assure her that I did.

  CHAPTER 17

  Adjustments

  GRANDPA DROVE MARY IN to see Lou the next day. He was looking for an excuse to go into town anyway. I figured he had some more Christmas shopping to do.

  Everything worked out just fine. It was decided that Christmas would be at our house with Uncle Nat, Aunt Lou and family, Pa Turley and Lilli, all around our table. Mary would take care of all the arrangements for the dinner. Grandpa confided to me that he felt Lou was a bit relieved. The new baby was still keeping her up nights a good deal.

  Lou and Mary also agreed that in the future each would take turns having Christmas dinner. That sounded like a sensible arrangement to me. It gave both women a Christmas “off” and yet allowed each to have Christmas just her way on the Christmas when it was her turn.

  I was proud of Mary. She had been sensitive and caring—and yet had shouldered her share of family responsibility.

  That Christmas turned out to be the best I had celebrated up to that point in my life. Mary did a fine job with the dinner—just like I’d known she would. The turkey was cooked to perfection, the potatoes fluffy and the gravy as smooth as silk. All the good things she had been baking over the previous days appeared on the kitchen sideboard—right along with the honored silver tea set from which she served the tea and coffee.

  The weather was fine—though we never did get our Christmas snow, nor any other snow, for that matter. The families arrived early and left late, and we all had a great time together.

  Of course Lou’s four little ones added a lot of spark to the occasion. Sarah was too grown-up now to be relegated to the children’s status. Jonathan too had matured a lot over the summer months and wasn’t nearly as hard to keep track of, but Timmy more than made up for him. Someone had to watch the boy every minute. I finally had to carry Pixie up to the bedroom and shut the door on her. Timmy insisted on petting her and holding her, and poor old Pixie’s bones were too fragile for Timmy’s kind of handling. He tried to be careful, but being a small boy he was pretty awkward at showing his affection.

  Baby Patty slept a good share of the day. Aunt Lou ruefully commented that it might mean a long, wakeful night. I had no idea what that was like and wasn’t particularly interested in finding out.

  Pa Turley really seemed to enjoy being with the family. He watched the antics of the children with loud guffaws and slaps to his knees. I couldn’t help but wonder, What’ll he think of having grandchildren of his own?—though I felt I knew.

  Lilli was quiet. She helped Mary in the kitchen, but her mind didn’t seem to be on it much. I wasn’t too surprised when along about midafternoon Avery appeared at our door. I invited him in, but he declined. Said he’d come to take Lilli for a bit of a drive. We teased them some, but they just flushed and bundled up to get away from all of us.

  When they returned Avery accepted our invitation to share leftover turkey and homemade buns. We formed a little foursome and played dominoes. Mary and I won, hands down, but I don’t think our opponents were doing too much concentrating on the game. Avery and Lilli were the last to leave that evening.

  We were all tired but happy when we retired. Mary and I cuddled close in Aunt Lou’s old bed and talked over each of the day’s happenings. It was fun to go over it all again.

  “You know which gift I liked the very best?” Mary asked me.

  “Which?”

  “The mirror. The new mirror.”

  I wasn’t really surprised. I’d noticed her stretching or stooping, trying to see herself in Lou’s old mirror. The gilt was wearing off at just the wrong place.

  “What was your favorite?” asked Mary.

  “Oh, boy! That’s tough. I liked them all.”

  But Mary wasn’t to be put off so easily.

  “Come on, Josh. Favorite.”

  I reviewed the gifts Mary had given to me. “I guess the pullover sweater,” I said after much thought.

  “The sweater?”

  “And do you know why? Because you made it yourself. For me.” I paused a moment and then went on with a chuckle, “And you know why else?”

  “Why else?” teased Mary. “Is that proper English?”

  “Of course it is. Why else would I say it?” I bantered back and Mary gave me a little jab in the ribs.

  “Okay—so why else?” she asked me.

  “Because it actually fits,” I laughed. “It has two arms—and they are the same length. It has a hole up top for my head and one at the bottom for my waist.”

  By now Mary was chuckling too but she gave me another playful jab. “Are you saying you didn’t think I could knit?” she accused me.

  “No,” I answered, dodging away from another jab, “but I have seen a few sweaters in my day that were made by girlfriends or new brides. You had to ask to be sure what the thing was.”

  Mary gave me one more jab. That one I figured I deserved.

  On a cold, windy day near the middle of the month, I came in one morning to find Mary in tears. I couldn’t think of anything I had done, and I was sure Grandpa or Uncle Charlie wouldn’t do anything to make her weep. For a moment I feared Mary might be ill, and that scared me something awful.

  I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have time. Mary threw herself into my arms and sobbed against my shoulder. By now I was really worried. My eyes traveled to meet Grandpa’s across the room, but he wouldn’t look at me. He was busy staring out of the window at the bleak, sunless day. Uncle Charlie was nowhere to be seen.

  In my mind I frantically reviewed family members, wondering if bad news had come in some way while I’d been out. But I hadn’t heard a horse, and the farm dog had been with me all the time. His ears were sharper than mine, and he most certainly would have heard if someone had come.

  “Sh-h-h. Sh-h-h,” I tried to quiet Mary, brushing aside strands of fine hair from her tear-streaked face.

  “Sh-h-h. Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Mary swallowed hard and tried to get control. “It’s Pixie,” she finally managed to gasp out. “I found her in her box behind the stove.”

  “Pixie?”

  Mary burst into fresh tears and clutched me even more tightly.

  I wanted to free myself and check on Pixie. The little dog might be in need of some attention. But I couldn’t just leave Mary. Not the way she was feeling now. I held her more tightly and rubbed her shoulder and patted her back.

  When her tears finally subsided, I put her gently from me and went to kneel beside the stove to check on Pixie. It was far worse than I had feared, and my whole being rushed to deny it. The little body was lifeless. There was nothing I could have done. She was already stiff and cold.

  Tears came to my own eyes. I picked her up as gently as I could and ran my hands again over the silky sides and let my fingers toy with the floppy little ears. She’s been a good dog—a good friend, I mourned. Pixie had been with me ever since my dearly loved Gramps had found her for me so many years ago. Boy, would I miss her. It reminded me of how much I missed Gramps.

  I knew Pixie was old, that she had been stiff and arthritic and in pain much of the time. She was far better off having just slept her way out of life. But I still fought against the reality of it. If I’d had the power right then,
I’d have brought her back.

  I didn’t have that power, so all I could do was hold her up against my chest. The small body sure didn’t feel like it usually did. I was used to her little tail wagging gently as I petted. I was used to a little lick with a pink tongue every now and then. I was used to warmth and energy. And now there was only the quiet, stiff, lifeless little form. I felt almost repelled by it—but I couldn’t put her down. I just kept running my hand over her, speaking to her as though I thought she should awaken.

  Mary came to where I knelt and laid a hand on my head, running her fingers softly through my hair.

  “I’ll fix a box,” she said quietly.

  For a moment I wanted to protest. Pixie had been my dog. I would fix the box. And then I remembered how much Mary had loved her too and I nodded in agreement, the tears flowing again.

  I pulled Pixie’s small bed out from behind the stove and laid her gently back down. Without a backward glance I arose, pulled my heavy mittens back on and left the kitchen.

  I found the shovel and a pick and chose a spot in the garden. I wanted her to be down under the trees beside the grave of my first little pup, the one I had named Patches. Gramps brought me that puppy too, I remembered as I raised the pick above the frozen ground. It was hard digging. Maybe that was good. I needed something difficult to concentrate on for the moment. I put my full strength behind each swing of the pick. Then I shoveled out the frozen clumps of dirt, making a hole big enough to hold a small box. A small box with an even smaller dog.

  Tears froze on my cheeks as I worked. She might’ve been small, I thought, but she was all heart. All heart and love. I’d never known anyone who had loved me like my small dog had. She asked no questions, demanded no apologies. She just loved me—Josh Jones—just as I was.

  I guess I got a little carried away on the size of the hole. I made it bigger than it needed to be, but perhaps I wasn’t ready to go back to the house yet. I needed a little more time to be alone. With Pixie’s death went my last visible memory of Gramps. Oh, I had lots of memories. Things that I treasured as I pulled them out and thought on them—which I did often. But with Pixie those memories had been different, more vivid. Each time I picked up the little dog I could see the age-softened hands of Gramps as he handed her to me for the first time.