The wind threw open the door as soon as Grandma turned the handle, and the thrust nearly toppled her onto the floor. Outside, the sky had begun to look ominous.
I caught her as she stumbled backward. “Why don’t you stay here? I can run over there by myself.”
She righted herself, giving me the wooden-Indian look. “You won’t know your way to their house without me.”
“All right,” I said. “Hold on to my arm so you won’t get blown over.” We headed out the door, the wind whipping our coats around us. “This is some wind!” I hollered.
“Storm coming!” she yelled back. “I was certain there was a storm coming!”
Shuddering and shivering, we climbed into the old Buick. Neither we nor the Buick was ready for the sudden burst of arctic winter. Grandma pumped the floorboard with her foot as if to help the engine crank.
The last afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows as we emerged from the shadow of the house. “I hope this wind hasn’t knocked the power out at Dell’s house,” Grandma said, her lips moving in a worried line. “They wouldn’t have a phone to call it in. They could freeze to death on a night like this.”
“Grandma, I’m sure they’re fine.”
“That old house probably has propane radiators anyway, so they won’t be out of heat, even if the electric is out. It’s too cold this evening to be out of heat. Why would that dog be running around scratching on my door all day?”
“Grandma!” I said it louder than I meant to, and she jumped in her seat. Her conjuring was more than I could stand. “We don’t know that anything is wrong. Dell has probably just been home helping her grandmother. Things are probably fine.”
Chin jutting out stubbornly, she gazed out the window as we pulled onto the highway.
“You can wager they don’t even have a detector in that hovel of theirs.” Grandma was determined to break the tranquillity of the evening. “John Morris almost died from that monoxide gas two years ago, and I went to Wal-Mart and got a detector the next day. Dell’s granny is too busy buying cigarettes.”
“Grandma, please.” I was caught between laughing at her and getting ill at the horror of what she was suggesting.
“Well, it’s true,” she muttered, and went back to looking out the window, moving her lips. “Turn here. Mulberry Road.”
The warning came too late and I had to make the turn quickly, causing the car to skid.
“For heaven’s sake, Katie, you’ll run us in the ditch.” She took a death grip on the dashboard. “It’s just two miles up here, past the old school.” She paused, gazing at the side of the road as we descended into the valley of Mulberry Creek. “Oh, this place is horrible. It’s worse than I remembered.”
For once, Grandma was right. Even the golden evening light could not hide the ugliness of Mulberry Road. On either side, the ditches were littered with remnants of trash and rotting furniture, interrupted by narrow gravel driveways leading to trash-filled yards and cracker-box houses on the verge of caving in.
Dell’s house was no better. Despite the howling wind, the odor of trash made my stomach turn as we pulled into the drive. Leaving Grandma in the car, I took the cake and walked slowly to the door.
I knocked, prepared, I hoped, to finally come face-to-face with Granny.
No one answered, and I tried again, so loudly that the entire place seemed to rattle. No answer. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Grandma Rose craning sideways to get her head out the car window.
“Look in and see if there’s anyone inside.” Her shrill voice slashed the stillness like a knife. The dog appeared at the corner of the house, raising his fur at first, then recognizing me and trotting forward. He escorted me as I walked to the front window and peered in. A couple of dim lightbulbs with no shades lit the interior.
The place was surprisingly neat inside—just one ancient couch and chair, an end table, a lamp with a torn shade, and a broken coffee table held up at one end by a stack of magazines. More magazines were stored in one corner of the room in three neat piles, each probably three or four feet high, as if someone had been keeping them there for years. One faded print of a wagon train hung crooked on the wall above the sofa. Other than that, the room was empty except for Dell’s Christmas tree, propped in the corner.
Twisting my face to the left, I peered into the kitchen, not much more than a freestanding sink with two cabinets overhead, a stove on one side, and a squatty round-topped refrigerator on the other. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, which was full of water, as if someone had started to wash the dishes and then been interrupted.
“Well, do you see anyone?” Grandma’s voice from the car startled both me and the dog, and we bumped into each other. Legs tangled, we fell against the door. It gave way under our weight and flew open with a crash, depositing us on the ancient shag carpet.
Any other time, the situation would have been comical. As it was, I stood up with my heart pounding and stared at the bedroom doors, waiting for someone to come out with a shotgun. Rolling to his feet, Rowdy shook off the aftereffects of our encounter, then walked into the living room like a king entering his court.
I was torn between going after him or backing politely out the door. Rowdy disappeared into one of the doors off the living room, and I stood waiting, hoping that was Dell’s bedroom and not Granny’s.
An eternity seemed to pass, and nothing happened. Choking on the scent of mildew and cigarettes, I stepped forward.
“Hello,” I called out, standing in the center of the tiny living room.
No answer. Rowdy came out of one door and trotted into the other, which I could now tell was a bathroom. I stepped sideways and peeked inside. Empty.
“Hello,” I said again, feeling like a cat burglar about to be caught in the act. “Is anybody home? It’s Kate Bowman.” I moved slowly toward the other door, my heart fluttering against my chest. “I just wanted to make sure everything was all right here. . . .”
The bedroom was empty. Bringing a hand to my chest, I paused, took a deep breath, and let my head clear. Moving a step closer, I stood in the doorway and looked around the room, gaping in curiosity at the place where Dell curled up to sleep at night and dreamed dreams of her baby brother living in a perfect house. Just a mattress on the floor with one soiled sheet and a faded comforter thrown over the top. Atop the comforter lay the pink-and-white pajamas she and Grandma Vongortler had gotten from the church. Beside the mattress was a sagging bed, which I assumed belonged to Granny. It and the dresser next to it were strewn with flowered housedresses and slippers. It looked as if someone had been searching for clothing in a hurry.
More confused than ever, I called the dog and started for the front door. At least I was assured that they were not lying in their beds, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning, or freezing from lack of heat. What I didn’t know was where they were, or why Dell hadn’t said anything about going away. Their things were still in the house, so they must be coming back. That, at least, would be comforting to Grandma.
I took a final look around as I shooed the dog out and reached for the door. One last glimpse of Dell’s reality—a world where the ceiling was caving in and the floor dipped in the middle, where the windows were opaque with filth, and the covering was rotting off the sofa. A world where Santa wouldn’t visit and Christmas dinner came in Styrofoam containers. A world where the smells were stifling and the sights turned your stomach. Yet somebody had found time and money to build an altar of periodicals in the corner.
My stomach turned over as I closed the door and hurried back to the car. Grandma was waiting with one leg out the door.
“I was just coming after you.” Her words were breathless, and I could tell she was more upset than was healthy.
“Nobody’s home,” I said, trying to hide the sick feeling inside me. “Maybe they were invited somewhere for Christmas.”
Grandma shot me a cynical look. “I doubt that. I’ll call Larry Leddy again when we get back. I’d like to give him a pi
ece of my mind, anyway. This place is shameful.”
I nodded, saying nothing. A lump of tears was forming in my throat, and I knew the slightest utterance would crack it. I didn’t want Grandma to see me cry, especially not on Christmas Eve. Watching the road, I tried not to listen as she rattled on about Larry Leddy, white trash, welfare, garbage collection, and Mulberry Road.
When we got home, Grandma exited the Buick quickly, determined to call Larry Leddy and tell him her opinion of his rental property, Christmas Eve or not. I sat in the car, staring at our house, the windows glowing warm against the darkness, and I was more ashamed of myself than I had ever been in my life. Only a few miles away, people had nothing. No food, no family, no secure shelter, no Christmas. We had everything, and yet we’d failed to fully appreciate it.
Stepping from the car, I stood in the cleansing rush of winter wind, watching through the window as the family gathered by the Christmas tree, Ben holding Joshua, Karen rearranging a few decorations, Aunt Jeane watching from a nearby chair with her feet propped on a footstool. Above the windows, red lights glittered from the eaves, and around the porch posts, white twinkle lights were wrapped with pine garlands. The tree, impressive in its stature, shone through the beveled glass window in the front door, and hickory smoke billowed from the chimney. It was a perfect scene of home, hearth, and Christmas—what many people wished for, but only some received.
I realized how truly fortunate we were, and how wrong to be petty and cruel with one another. Standing alone in the winter cold, I closed my eyes and asked God to show us the way to forgiveness and peace, and to protect little Dell, wherever she was. I opened my eyes again and just stood there for a long time, watching as the family wandered away and only the tree remained.
Finally, the winter chill and the icy wind forced me inside, and I hurried through the starless night into the house.
I went to bed that night beginning to understand who we were, who we could become, and what wonderful gifts we had been given in life. Cradling the old photo album in my lap, I looked into the eyes of my mother, holding me when she was close to my age. I realized that she had been the same as I—feeling her way through life without all the answers. If she had lived, we might have become close. As it was, I felt her near the family that Christmas Eve, drawing up the quilts and kissing our cheeks as we lay down, listening to the prayers of our hearts and trying to answer.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight, and the wind ceased howling through the maples. A light snow drifted to the ground like flour falling from Grandma’s sifter, covering the old leaves and dressing the barren trees in white lace. The world became clean and new, born as the Christ child on Christmas night.
In the dark hours of the morning, I heard Grandma get a glass of water in the kitchen, then slowly shuffle past our bedroom. Drowsily, I looked at the alarm clock, then rolled over and drifted back to sleep. The sound of Joshua fussing pulled me to consciousness some time later, but he quickly settled, and I snuggled into Ben’s arms, floating away again.
The first rays of dawn were lighting the new snow like a field of diamond dust when I awoke again. I sat up quickly, and Ben muttered a sleepy complaint, clumsily stretching out an arm to pull me back.
“Go back to sleep,” I whispered. “It’s early.”
Filled with the excitement of Christmas morning, I walked to the window and looked at the sugarcoated world outside. Grandma’s ankles were truly more accurate than the young weatherman on Channel Five. The snow probably measured only an inch or two, but it was a white Christmas.
Shivering from the cold draft near the window, I slipped into my robe and house shoes and walked silently through the house, enjoying the solitude. Filled with a sense of joy and anticipation, I plugged in the Christmas lights so the house stood ready for the family to awaken.
I found Grandma sound asleep in the recliner by the fireplace, undisturbed as the mantel clock chimed six-thirty. On the table beside her lay the wildflower book. Slipping it away, I moved to the window to read by the glow of early-morning light.
For Joshua at Christmas, it said. I had a sense that this story was not for me, but I could not stop myself from reading on.
Ssshhhh, little one. No more cries. Everyone is sleeping but you and I. Nothing new for me to walk the halls at this late hour. In my old age, sleep and I are so seldom paired. But how many years since I have tramped the floor with a colicky babe!
How many years . . . Since your father was born . . .
Oh, listen to me! Not your father. My son is your grandfather. How could so much time have been whisked from me so quickly? Like the silent stroke of a broom, the years have swept me clean of youth, and worth, and loved ones. In my mind, I held your babe grandfather in my arms just yesterday. In my mind, you are he . . . sometimes . . . Yet he is grown, and his daughter is grown, and now you are born.
Come, come, don’t cry. Look at this fine Christmas tree your mother has set up—the colored lights twinkling like so many stars, reflecting in your bright eyes. In mine also, but not so bright.
Oh, the best times of my life were at Christmas, when my family gathered together. In those days, they came in box sleighs hooked behind their good farm horses, hooves crunching dully on the packed snow. We were poor folk and had no autos, but those old-time cars were of little use in the snow.
We children would sit by the hour on those Christmas Eves, listening for harness bells to bring our loved ones to us. Oh, the air was so still, the bells sounded like butterflies dancing! We pressed our hands and noses to the frosty glass and watched and listened.
There was barely enough space for the line of us at the eight-paned window on the front porch. I had five brothers and sisters, you see, and many, many aunts, uncles, and cousins. You never knew any of them. They were gone long before you came, and I am the last.
These days, families are spread like cottonwood fluff, but back then! Back then we were all together—so many we filled the floor when we laid our pallets beneath the claws of the big black stove. And dutifully, we children fought for sleep against the ticking and striking of the mantel clock that came from the old country. You see, there it is on your mother’s mantel. She does not always wind the chimes. The new clocks are not so noisy and need no winding. Ssshhhh . . . If you listen, you can hear it ticking now.
Oh, like a drum, it once struck in my ear . . . One—“Santa won’t come.” Two—“Until you sleep.” Three—“Gifts won’t come.” Four—“Gifts won’t come.” Yes, it once rang in my ear, and in the ears of my children, and their children, and now for you.
On Christmas morn, that clock called us to our bright Christmas tree, a humble product of our forest, hung with such things as we could find or make. In my day, a Christmas tree did not come from a shop. It came from our land, and our hearts, and our hands. We sought it out in the snowy wood in our box sleighs—not three weeks early, mind you, but on Christmas Eve. Always on Christmas Eve.
My, what fun we children had going on the sleigh for tree choosing! And carefully, with much discussion, we would stop to consider every tree along the path. The horses would toss their shaggy manes, and rattle their bells, and snort smoke from their nostrils, impatient for their warm stable. But we would not be hurried. Youth is never hurried. . . .
But listen to me. I go on like an old lady, remembering.
What fine Christmas times I had in my own little home, when I held the hand of my lover and watched my children hang their tree with ribbons, and bows, and strings of chokecherries. And I clipped the candles to the branches, lit the wicks with a twig from the fire, and watched them burn . . . before electric tree lights . . . before anyone I ever knew had died. . . .
Years have mellowed my joy in Christmas, as in all things. The packages, the tree, the fire, all carry memories to me—reminders that I am the last. Looking at them, I relive, remember, regret. And an ache blossoms in my breast that I am no longer young.
But you . . . you in my arms are my blanke
t when my grief lies naked like a babe in the cold night. You are my youth, my sleigh bells, my nose pressed to the frosty window. You are me, repeated, sleeping unaware of the ticking and striking of the clock. . . .
Closing my eyes, I hugged the book to my chest, sad for all the things Grandma Rose had lost and happy that we were able to give her one more Christmas with family, and a tree chosen from the field on Christmas Eve, and a baby to rock in her arms in the dark hours of the morning.
I set the book beside her and stood looking at her in the dim light. She seemed so pale, so fragile. Yet she was strong in her determination to make us a family again. Perhaps determination was one thing age could not take away. Pulling the quilt over her shoulders, I left her there to rest and went to the kitchen to make coffee and start breakfast. Everyone would be up soon. A wonderful sense of anticipation came over me, and I knew that, just like the white-cotton landscape outside, this Christmas would be perfect.
Chapter 14
THE smell of the coffee and the sound of the pans clanking slowly awakened the family, and they wandered into the kitchen until all were present except for Grandma, who was still catching up on sleep in her easy chair, unaware that Christmas morning had come.
I glanced around the table as I set out a stack of dishes. The expressions on our faces were pleasant, and the conversation a harmless and chatty one about the snow outside, and how Dad and Aunt Jeane remembered Grandpa playing with them on their sleds one year on the hill above the river, sliding right onto the ice and falling into the water. After that, he hadn’t cared much for sledding.
Even Karen laughed at the story. “Do you remember when Mom got Grandpa and Grandma on a sled to take a picture that one year we came for Christmas?” she asked. “Remember that, Kate? We were laughing so hard, you wet your pants and Mom told you to go inside and change. You were so mad, you threw a fit and flopped down in the snow, and Mom said that was the first time she’d ever seen someone make a snow angel facedown.” Everyone at the table chuckled, and Karen lost her usual control, laughing with them, and finally gasping with tears in her eyes, “You got so mad at everybody for laughing at your fit that you stomped off to the closet and wouldn’t come out the rest of the day.”
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