A Shiloh Christmas

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  The preacher’s there, shaking hands with everyone, and when it’s Dad’s turn, he says, “I’m Ray Preston, Pastor Dawes. Haven’t had a chance yet to welcome you to our community.”

  The pastor searches his face to see if he’s someone he remembers—decides no. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s at least a half-inch smile on his face. “I believe I’ve met your wife.”

  “Yes, you have. I can’t come every Sunday because I need to finish a building project before winter sets in, but I hope to hear more of your sermons.”

  I think the preacher’s going to nod, but instead I hear him say, “Well, where your priorities are, there will your heart be also.”

  And Dad says, “True. And right now my priorities are with my family. Nice to meet you.” And I follow him out.

  It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon without Dad sawing and hammering out there on the new addition. He’s in the recliner with a pillow behind his back, and I watch a football game with him. We usually root for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but today we’re cheering the Giants.

  I sit on the floor with Shiloh. I’m propped against the sofa, and he lies with his head on his paws, eyes closed, but I’ll see his ears twitch if there’s a loud blast of noise from the TV. It’s like he’s sleeping and listening both at the same time.

  He’ll get up and wander off now and then if he hears a sound in the kitchen like maybe somebody’s opening a can of meatballs and didn’t invite him. But one time, when he don’t come back, I go get a snack for myself, and then I notice that Dara Lynn and Becky’s bedroom door is closed. That’s an almost sure 100 percent that they’re into mischief.

  I go stand with my ear against the door, and all I get are giggles.

  I knock, and they scream and Shiloh yips.

  “Don’t come in!” Becky yells, but if my dog is in there, I’m going.

  I open the door and see them trying to push Shiloh into the closet. At least I think it’s Shiloh, because he’s got a red kerchief around his neck, one of Becky’s white T-shirts over his chest and front paws, and a fringed skirt around his belly, with a pair of pink underwear pulled up high on his hind legs.

  “What are you doing?” I say. “Get that stuff off my dog!”

  “It’s his Halloween costume!” says Dara Lynn. “He’s cute!”

  “He’s a cowgirl!” says Becky, and then she bolts out the door before I can catch her, Shiloh at her heels. Next thing she’s in the living room by Dad’s chair, tapping his arm to see Shiloh.

  But there’s a penalty being announced at the football game, and the referee is adjusting his microphone.

  “Shhhh,” Dad says to Becky, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I want to hear this.” He pats his legs for Becky to climb into his lap, but Shiloh thinks it’s for him and jumps instead.

  Us three kids are standing there, our mouths half-open, as Dad feels the fringe of the cowgirl skirt on his lap, and still watching the TV, he gives Shiloh’s rump a little pat.

  Then Shiloh wags his tail, flip-flop, right against Dad’s hand, and suddenly Dad jerks back and stares down at the dog.

  “Becky!” he yells, and I’m laughing harder than I can remember, right along with my sisters. I come out here to bawl ’em out, and all I can do is double over. Ma comes in from the other room, and she’s laughing too.

  “Two girls in this family is enough!” Dad says, grinning now. “Would you let that dog be a dog, please, and let me finish watchin’ this game?”

  The next week the preacher’s wife calls and asks Ma if Ruthie could stay at our house awhile after school on Wednesday. She’s got to take Rachel to the eye doctor, and there’s like to be a long wait at his office. Mrs. Dawes would be glad to return the favor anytime Ma would like to leave Dara Lynn with them.

  “Would they keep her for a year?” I say when Mom tells us at the dinner table, and she gives me her look.

  Wednesday I come home from school and here’s this skinny-legged girl—skinnier than Dara Lynn, even—sitting on top of the tire swing, her legs crossed beneath her, hands holding tight to the rope, and Dara Lynn on a stepladder, holding her back. Dara Lynn lets her go, and Ruthie sails out across the yard screechin’ her lungs out, but when she sails back again, she bumps into Dara Lynn, knockin’ her off the stepladder, herself off the tire, and then Becky jumps down off the porch and piles on top of them, all three of them laughing and shrieking. Never heard such high-pitched sounds in all my life. I go in the house and shut the door.

  Ma smiles. “It’s not so bad with the door closed,” she says.

  But later they come inside, and Dara Lynn and Ruthie are on the phone, tryin’ to convince Mrs. Dawes to let Ruthie stay for dinner. Finally she agrees, as long as Dara Lynn will come to dinner someday at their house.

  When Dad gets home, though, Ruthie gets quiet, and at the dinner table, she eats with her eyes down. She’s got a long, thin face, like her pa, and her light-brown hair hangs in wisps around her ears. Dad asks her a few polite questions, and she answers like every word she uses costs her a nickel.

  So Becky takes over. Chews for a while, her eyes on Ruthie, and then she up and says, “Why do you have to march three times around the Bible?”

  This time Ruthie’s head comes up and she stares back. I see Dara Lynn squirm.

  “What?” says Ruthie.

  “Why do you have to march three times around the Bible if you touch it?” Becky asks.

  Ruthie’s eyebrows scrunch up, trying to puzzle it out. “We can’t touch it when it’s open, but we don’t have to march. . . .”

  And Dara Lynn, trying hard to change the subject, says, “But you had to put your feet in ice water.”

  Now Ma and Dad have stopped eating.

  “That was only once, for something else,” Ruthie says, and drops her eyes again.

  Dad steps in. “Well, we’re glad you could join us for dinner, Ruthie. I already peeked in the kitchen and see some apple dumplings out there.”

  When the dusty black car pulls up around seven, the preacher gets out and stands by the car, and Dad walks out with Ruthie. I watch from the door.

  Preacher and Dad shake hands.

  “Nice to see you again, Pastor,” Dad says. “We enjoyed having Ruthie join us for dinner.”

  “I trust she behaved herself,” the preacher says.

  “Absolutely. A pleasure to have her at our table.”

  “Bringing them up in the way of the Lord is the hardest work I ever did in my life. Scripture promises that if we do, they will not depart from it, but it’s a struggle, isn’t it?” Preacher says. And without waiting for an answer, he slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car.

  If Rachel is supposed to be wearing glasses at school, she don’t want anyone to know it. Mr. Kelly is talking about autobiographies now, and he hands out a list he wants us to read—choose two, he says—and I see Rachel squinting at the list. In math, though, we’ve still got blackboards, and we’re supposed to copy down some problems from the board. I see her dig a pair of glasses out of her bag, put them on, and take them off the minute she’s through. Sees me looking at her and gives me this scowl as if to say, So what? I see that look a lot. Ma calls people like that “prickly.” Like they’re ready to be offended whatever you do or say.

  Every few weeks I ride over to Doc Murphy’s, see if there’s any job I can do for him that would take a little off the bill I owe him for fixing up Shiloh. This particular day he asks can I clean out one of the cupboards in his kitchen—got sort of sticky since his wife passed away, and it’s not something a man pays much attention to.

  He’s right about that, ’cause the syrup bottle and the ketchup and the salad dressing have all left circles on the wood shelf. I set to work taking everything out and wiping the shelves clean.

  Doc Murphy sits at the table, slicing up an apple and some cheese for us to eat when I’m through. Today we’re talking about the drought. Well, water, anyway.

  “Did you know,” asks Doc, “that
since the world began, not a single drop of water has been added to the earth, or a single drop taken away?”

  No, I tell him, I didn’t know that, and I give the ketchup bottle a good swipe around the bottom.

  “What it means is we can’t afford to waste it, because the more people there are on the planet, the less each person gets,” he tells me.

  “So it’s not like there’s a big reservoir in the sky God could let loose if he wanted?” I say.

  “There’s whatever has been sucked up by evaporation from the oceans, and at some point it will come down again as rain,” says Doc.

  “You don’t think the drought’s because God’s mad at us?” I ask.

  “I believe there are cycles to nature, and not all of them are to our liking,” he answers.

  He goes on cutting up apple, I go on cleaning shelves. I wonder if I’m pestering him with these kinds of questions. After a while I say, “Guess I’ve got a lot of whys in my head.”

  “So do I,” says Doc. “And the longer I’m a doctor, the longer I work with people, the more whys I get.”

  At the animal clinic the next Saturday, Chris is busy tending to a cat got all torn up by a raccoon, so Dr. Collins asks me to come in and help while he puts a dog to sleep.

  People still want to call it that, nobody brave enough to call death by its real name. When people die, it’s somebody “passed.” Here it’s “put to sleep.”

  The lady who brought Ollie in says she’s had him since he was eight weeks old, and now he’s been alive for thirteen years, sick for two. Dr. Collins tells me Ollie’s heart’s failing, kidneys are failing, and he suspects he’s got a tumor somewhere, giving him pain.

  Miss Bowen can’t hardly stand being in the room when Ollie gets the needle, but can’t stand not being there neither, so she wants all the loving hands on her pet we can provide, and Dr. Collins asks can I come in and stroke the dog till its over.

  Miss Bowen has her hands on Ollie’s head, her face against his muzzle. I’m stroking Ollie’s flank.

  “Ready?” Dr. Collins asks, real gentle.

  “Oh, Ollie, I love you so,” the lady sobs, and I got a lump in my own throat.

  Dr. Collins gives the needle, and Ollie don’t even jerk or flinch. His breathing stops, and a few seconds later Miss Bowen raises up and looks at him, and his eyes look just like glass marbles, not moving at all.

  I hope I don’t have to assist in any more going-to-sleep sessions, but I’ll have to if I get to be a vet. Every time a dog comes in hurting, I think of Shiloh.

  Even though I’m going home at noon this time instead of helping Dad deliver mail, he stops at Wallace’s store in Friendly so I can buy me a PayDay candy bar—the way I treat myself for helping out at the clinic. Split it with Dad. Be nice if I could ever get a real part-time job at the clinic—get paid with money, not candy.

  Ma had a headache this morning, so after Dad drops me off at home, she lies down for a nap and I keep the girls quiet out on the porch making a straw man. We’ve got us an old pillowcase, an old shirt and overalls of Dad’s, and a raggedy pair of work gloves, and we’re cramming them full of straw. We’ll have that man sitting out here on the porch come Halloween. Dad says we can have the bale of straw he got for the chicken house to use for stuffing, and after Halloween’s over, we’ll give it back to the chickens.

  Shiloh’s lying beside me, glad for a bit of sunshine, and Tangerine’s jumping at every twitch of his tail, trying to catch it.

  I found a perfect box for the head, and Becky’s stuffing the arms. Dara Lynn took the job of patiently pushing crushed straw into each finger of the work gloves.

  “See how real they look if I don’t make ’em too stiff?” she says, holding up one glove. “We can bend ’em a little at the joints.”

  Becky lifts her head and scrunches up her nose. “What’s that?” she asks, and sniffs.

  I’m sniffing at about the same time. “Somebody must be burning leaves,” I tell her. “Against the law when it’s so dry.”

  “I smell it too,” says Dara Lynn.

  I put down the box and look out across Middle Island Creek, at the woods far off on Old Creek Road. I see a cloud of gray smoke rising up over the tops of the trees. Then I go out in the yard and climb on top the shed.

  It’s getting windier, and I can’t tell if the smoke is all in one place or moving along. All in one place, it’s probably somebody’s trash pit. But far down, I see this yellow-orange color, and it’s moving. Dancing.

  I jump down and yell, “Go inside and wake Ma. Tell her there’s a fire! It’s coming down Old Creek Road. And don’t you move from here ’less Ma goes with you.”

  And leaving Shiloh and the girls behind, I leap on my bike, go racing down the lane, and thunder across the planks of the bridge.

  seven

  ALL I CAN THINK OF is Judd’s dogs, penned up in his backyard. Judd’s been working six days a week now at Whelan’s. Don’t get off till five. Can already see them in my head, smelling the danger, yelping and throwing themselves against the fence, trying to get out.

  I pedal like mad, all the while hoping that maybe a neighbor’s already opened the gate—the one neighbor close enough to see, anyway. But deep down I’m thinkin’ that anybody who looks out and sees smoke and flames coming their way is probably going to think first of their own pets and babies, and how much of their things they can throw in the car in two minutes.

  Quarter of a mile away and I can hear the barking—a frenzy of yips and howls, and I’m scared to death the flames have already got there. Heart’s beating so hard it can’t go no faster. Neither can I. My legs ache, and I’m terrified to be heading right for the inferno, but I’ve already got my own strategy: once I see it’s only twenty yards off, I’ll drag my bike down the bank and throw myself in the creek.

  A car’s comin’ down the road toward me and swerves to let me pass—hardly room, with trees on one side, creek on the other.

  “Get out of here, boy!” a man yells out his window. “Place is on fire!”

  “I will,” I yell back, but keep going. So does the car. Far, far away, I hear a siren.

  Reach Judd’s brown-and-white trailer, and I half fall off my bike. His pickup’s gone, of course. I race around the side, the dogs so terrified they almost bite at me as I’m trying to work the latch. I swing the gate open and they run like rockets.

  Then I think of Shiloh. Think how someone let Judd’s dogs loose once out of spite, back when the dogs was kept chained and mean, and how they went running through the neighborhood, tearing stuff up. One even bit Dara Lynn on the hand. Now that Judd’s been treating his dogs better and I been playing with them some, they aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be. But who knows what two dogs will do, scared half out of their minds, if they come upon a small child or a trembling little beagle.

  So I’m on my bike again, going fast as my feet will pedal, and this time I can see the yellow-orange coming through the trees behind me, not as close as twenty yards, but I can hear the snap of branches falling, the hiss of the flames. Smoke is getting thicker, and I hit a rock and almost go down, but manage to keep the bike up. The dogs could be anywhere—could have crossed at the bridge or headed off into more woods farther on.

  I reach the bridge myself and speed across those wood planks, thinking how the fire could eat them up, my heart beating so fast it hurts. Head up the lane toward the house, and I’m screamin’, “Dara Lynn, get Shiloh and Tangerine in the house! Hurry!”

  She’s standing out there beside Ma and Becky, Ma turnin’ this way and that, trying to make sense of what’s going on—the smoke, the fire sirens, and me yelling.

  “Shiloh!” I scream again. “Get him and your cat inside! Hurry!”

  Dara Lynn don’t bother to ask why. For once in her life she just does what I say—runs on up to the house where Shiloh’s standin’ at the door, tail between his legs, knowin’ something awful’s in the air, grabs up her cat, then opens the door and shoves them both
in before she runs back down to Ma.

  “Marty!” Ma calls, swinging herself around. “Where were you? Which way’s that fire going?”

  But I don’t answer and she don’t press me, ’cause a fire engine’s coming along the road up from Little—a good big one—must be from St. Mary’s, and the siren’s going so loud can’t hear nothing but that. I drop my bike, and all four of us go hurrying down the lane. See the truck stop at the bridge, half blocking the road so’s cars can still get out, but nobody can drive over there.

  Firemen jump off, unrolling the hoses, and even though this one siren stops, we can hear more in the distance. Fire trucks are coming from all directions, trying to find the best place to fight those flames.

  Two firemen pull a hose onto the bridge and aim it at the glow coming at them through the trees, big spray of mist, not a thick stream of water like I’d expect. Three more men are hauling some equipment down the bank, getting ready to use a portable pump to refill the engine’s tank with creek water.

  “Oh no! Oh no!” Ma keeps whispering to herself over and over, one hand to her cheek, the other on Becky’s head. We can’t see what’s behind the fire, just one big mass of gray smoke, but we know there’s some houses in that woods. Some right nice ones too. Cars are coming to a stop now behind the fire truck, men won’t let them cross the bridge even if they got a house over there. People get out of their cars and come down to stand by us.

  “The drought’s turned the whole woods to kindling,” one woman says. “Do you suppose there’s even enough water in the creek to fight this thing? Water level was already down two feet.”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” a man answers. “No hydrants up here.”

  A tall tree, burning, falls to the ground on the other side, and the whole sky seems to light up for a minute or two, the flames so high, sparks going everywhere, setting more dry brush on fire.

  Becky pulls Ma’s hand away and looks up at her. “Is that hell?” she asks in a tiny voice.

  Ma swoops down and lifts her up, hugs her. “No, Becky,” she says, trying to sound calm. “This is just a terrible accident that shouldn’t have happened.”