A Sharecropper Christmas (Christmas Holiday Extravaganza)

by Carlene Havel

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Alice shook Herbert to awaken him. “What’s that noise?” she asked. “Something’s got the chickens stirred up.”

  Herbert sat up on one elbow and listened. Suddenly, he leaped out of bed. He jerked his work shoes onto sockless feet and didn’t bother with the laces. Quickly grabbing the shotgun that always hung over the mantle, he ran out the door. Alice slipped out of bed and went out to edge of the porch. The sliver of moon provided a slight amount of illumination—though none was needed to see the flash of Herbert’s shotgun. The chickens reacted to the noise with clucking and wing-flapping, but they quickly settled back into quietness.

  “What was it?” she asked as soon as Herbert returned.

  “A possum.”

  “Did he get any of the chickens?”

  “I don’t think so.” Herbert opened the door to the house.

  “What happened?” James mumbled.

  “Your papa shot a varmint,” Alice said. “Go on back to sleep.”

  Relieved the chickens were safe, Alice thought for a moment. “Can we eat the possum?”

  “Not enough left of it.”

  “Too bad,” she said. “We could use the meat.”

  Herbert reloaded his shotgun and replaced it on the mantle. “You ever tasted possum?”

  Alice grinned. “Yes, I know they’re tough and greasy. But meat is meat these days.”

  Herbert caressed her. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what? For killing that no-good chicken thief?”

  “No.” He released her. He sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes. “Because everything’s so hard for you.”

  Alice leaned over and kissed Herbert. “It’s not your fault. Everybody’s having a tough time.”

  “I always thought I’d buy you nice things one day. Now I don’t know if that will ever happen.”

  Alice was unaccustomed to hearing Herbert talk this way. “We have a roof over our heads and enough to eat,” she said. As she returned to bed, she added, “At least you work hard, not like that no account Arnold. It’s no surprise Frances is so bitter, married to a man like that.”

  “Now, sweetheart, Arnold’s doing the best he can.” Herbert lay down and spread the quilt over his shoulders.

  “Hm,” Alice replied. “I doubt that. Anytime there’s work to be done, he takes to a sick bed.” She started to elaborate on Arnold’s worthlessness but realized Herbert was already asleep.

  * * *

  Alice pulled her shawl tightly around her against a gust of cool wind. She fed her chickens, made sure they were all there, and then went to the barn to fetch the cream for churning. She was grateful that her husband put James and David to work hauling rocks one or two days a week. She suspected his purpose was partly to relieve her of watching the boys, although she did occasionally wonder if the rocks were breeding out in the fields.

  Despite the chilly breeze scattering a fine layer of dust everywhere, the weather continued to be unseasonably mild. Maybe the wind would blow in the rain Herbert kept saying they needed. As Alice opened the barn door, she noticed the bright morning sunlight shafting through the cracks between the vertical planks of the barn walls. It’s going to be cold in here when winter sets in, she thought. Herbert already had plenty of extra straw inside the stalls for insulation. If the weather turned bitter, the cows would have to stay inside the barn, eating hay instead of grazing in the open pasture.

  The cream can seemed exceptionally heavy to Alice as she struggled to lift it beside her round belly. She should remember to ask Herbert to split the cream between two cans until after the baby came. She passed by the stall occupied by a mound of discarded newspapers. The idea she could put this paper to good use jumped into her mind like a leaping cat. The cream can seemed suddenly lighter as she thought about her plan. Before starting to churn, she checked her supply of flour—yes, plenty! She energetically churned the morning’s cream into butter, eager to finish the chore and begin her project.

  As soon as she could, Alice made a trip to the barn to bring an armful of newspapers to the house. Before going inside, she shook the papers vigorously to dislodge any spiders lurking among the pages. As soon as she put the stack of newspaper on the table, she set about making paste. Uncertain of the proportion of flour to water, she mixed small amounts of each into her largest bowl. When the paste felt thick and sticky, she used a wet rag to spread a thin coat on the wall next to the fireplace. “ROOSEVELT WINS,” the large print proclaimed. Alice put the newspaper on the wall and patted it with her hands to make it stick. She tried smoothing out the wrinkles with her wet rag, but the paper dissolved and ripped apart. Irritated, she pulled the sheet of newsprint from the wall, wadded it, and threw it into the fireplace.

  On her next attempt, she used a soft, damp cloth to make the paper smooth. She stood back and surveyed her work. So far, so good. Working outward and upward from the corner, she soon had the fireplace wall covered as high as she could reach. The appearance was not as attractive as the floral wallpaper in the home she’d once owned, but it would serve to keep the winter wind from whistling through the cracks between the boards.

  Not trusting the chairs to bear her weight, Alice dragged Herbert’s handmade table to the wall. She sat on it and swung her legs onto the top. Scooting near the wall and using it to balance herself, she was able to stand. Short as she was, with the added height of the table, she could reach high enough to spread newspaper all the way to the bottom edge of the tin roof. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so proud of an accomplishment.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With precious little time to sit and talk with her husband, Alice expected to enjoy the ride to the church in Garza’s Crossing. It took some effort to hoist her thickened body up to the wagon seat, and she made it only with a strong boost from Herbert. He was relaxed and even more optimistic than usual as he urged the mule along.

  “Things are really looking up for us, Alice,” he said. “If the Lord sends sunshine and a little rain, we should be able to get a good yield out of Old Man Sweeney’s land. With a few laying hens and some satisfied dairy customers, I see us having a real good year. Then if all four cows have a calf this spring, one of them will be ours. And the best thing of all—a new baby in our home in a couple of months.”

  Alice winced to hear the Sweeney farm house referred as their home. Surely Herbert didn’t expect to continue living in that ramshackle old house permanently. How could he talk so enthusiastically about sharecropping? Did he have no ambition to purchase his own farm and live in a decent house again? Was it possible he could resign them to a hopeless situation? When the wagon bumped to a stop, Alice realized she’d dozed off, leaning against Herbert most of the way to church.

  Alice was relieved to see that her family did not stand out because of their apparel at the Garza’s Crossing church. Everywhere she looked, she saw women in patched, faded dresses. Children’s clothing was either too small or several sizes too big. While many of the children wore shoes or boots, James and David were not the only barefoot boys. Still, she was glad she’d taken the time to braid her thick hair in the French style Herbert always said made her look as pretty as a picture.

  Despite their scarecrow thinness and shabby clothing, the congregation exuded a warmth

  that put Alice at ease. “Good morning,” a man in threadbare overalls called out as soon as Herbert looped the wagon’s reins over the hitching post. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Fritz Norman. Welcome to the church.” He was short, fiftyish, and balding.

  “Herb Shoemaker, my wife Alice and our sons James and David.” Herbert jumped to the ground and shook the man’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Come on in and let me introduce you to some more folks,” Fritz said.

  “Why, Alice!” Victoria Breinig exclaimed. “How nice to see you again. I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter, Catherine.” Instantly, Alice saw the answer to a question that nagged at her since
she’d met Victoria. Why was the Breinig’s teenaged daughter still unmarried and living with her parents? Catherine’s left arm was withered and drawn up beside her. She walked with an uneven gait, always leading with her right leg, dragging the shrunken left leg behind her.

  Alice lost track of Herbert as women flocked around her, full of questions about her children and soon-to-be-born baby. When Sunday school was about to begin, she spotted her husband talking with a group of men. “Come on, Herbert.” She tugged at his elbow. “It’s time to find the boys’ Sunday school class.”

  A round-faced woman seemed to appear from nowhere. “They’re not in grammar school yet, I’d guess.” When Alice nodded, the woman smiled and said, “I’m Mrs. Clayton. My husband and I teach the primary boys. Would you two fine-looking young men like to come with me and meet some new friends?”

  James held David’s hand as the two of them trotted along with Mrs. Clayton. Both boys seemed to have lost their normal shyness, chattering away to a woman they’d never seen before.

  It was clear that the church was built in more prosperous times, its traditional appearance strangely at odds with its poverty-stricken congregation. The exterior wood was painted white, and a tall steeple rested on the roof. The numerous stained-glass windows soared upward to terminate in the shape of gothic arches. Inside, the color-filtered sunlight reflected off the polished wood of pews neatly aligned on either side of the center aisle.

  Alice sat on a wooden bench next to Herbert in a spacious meeting room. Victoria Breinig settled beside Alice, while Willard Breinig stood at a wooden lectern before the group of about twenty people.

  Alice listened intently as Willard read from his worn, leather-bound Bible. “In this world you will have trouble…” He paused while several of the men, including Herbert, spoke their affirmation with one word—Amen. Willard began to elaborate on the trials first century Christians faced. As Willard spoke, he mentioned numerous scriptures, encouraging everyone to read them with him. Alice looked at the pages while Herbert pointed at one word, then another.

  Herbert read from his Bible every day. Alice hardly read at all. Before the Smith family moved to town, she and her sisters went to a one-room school only when they could be released from their chores at the family farm. Myrtle went through the third grade and Charley never went to school at all. Both made it clear they saw no point in educating girls. The Smiths’ daughters could have gone to school more regularly after the family sold the farm and moved to town, but by then Alice was so far behind her classmates, she found catching up to be an insurmountable task.

  Myrtle never objected when her girls quit school but did insist they find another place to live or acquire paying jobs and contribute their wages to the support of the household. Mary cleaned house for a wealthy woman for a year or two. Then she married a widowed farmer with two young children in need of a mother.

  Frances took a job at a laundry. When she and Arnold Emerson began courting, Frances brought Alice along to double-date with Arnold’s good-looking cousin, Herbert. Alice took a liking to Herbert right away. He was kind and considerate, and he treated her like a grown-up woman even though she was barely fourteen. She would have wanted to marry him even if she hadn’t been so desperate to quit school.

  “So what Jesus was telling His disciples,” Willard Breinig said, “was that it wasn’t anyone’s fault the man was born blind.”

  Alice straightened her back, hoping no one noticed her inattention.

  “No one did anything to directly cause the blindness,” Willard continued. “It was for a higher purpose, which the poor fellow and his parents didn’t understand until the man was more than forty years old.” He leaned on the lectern and looked over his glasses. “I know a lot of folks say if you’re out of work or don’t have a place to live, it’s because you’ve done something to bring God’s punishment upon you.” He closed his Bible and took a step closer to his listeners. “I’m saying there’s no blame to be placed on a man who’s doing the best he can. Maybe someday we’ll look back and understand these hard times, or maybe the purpose won’t be clear until we meet our Maker in Heaven.” Breinig paused and wiped his forehead with a white cotton handkerchief. “Let’s pray and go to church.”

  Victoria introduced her to so many women there was no hope of remembering their names, although Alice smiled and made the attempt. What she wanted to do was question Herbert about the things Willard Breinig said. Could Jasper Reynolds have been wrong? What a relief it was to think the sour state of their lives was not because they were guilty of some unknown offense.

  CHAPTER NINE

  James ran to the backyard. “Mama, somebody’s here,” he said. “Two people in a car. A man and a woman.”

  Alice put the last of the eggs into her bucket. “I’ll be there directly.” She scattered some chicken feed and went to the front of the house.

  “Good morning,” the man in the black suit said from the window of the Model T Ford. “I’m Jeremiah Sweeney. My daughter, Eunice Martin. We are looking for Mr. Shoemaker.”

  “I’m Mrs. Shoemaker. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Won’t you come inside?” she asked. James ran his hand over the Ford’s rear bumper, while David disappeared under the house.

  “Thank you,” Eunice Martin said. “Come with me, Papa.” The feathers on her stylish hat bounced as she climbed out of the automobile. “All right, now, take my hand and step out on the running board.”

  “I’m coming as fast as I can,” Sweeney rasped. “I have some papers for your husband to sign, Mrs. Shoemaker.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alice replied. “James, go and fetch your father. Tell him Mr. Sweeney wants to see him here at the house right away. Hurry, now.”

  Without a backward glance, James took off running.

  Eunice slowly led her father up the steps, across the porch, and into the house. Even though the door was open, Alice hurried to hold it while Mr. Sweeney and his daughter went inside.

  The green gabardine of Eunice Martin’s elegant dress was a stark contrast to the colorless interior of Alice’s home. Pulling a kitchen chair away from the table, Alice motioned to it and said, “Please make yourselves comfortable.” She wished she had phrased her welcome some other way, because she could not imagine how two such finely-dressed people could be at ease in these surroundings. The newsprint wallpaper she was so proud of applying now served as a source of acute embarrassment. What must these high-class folk think of the headlines and ads adorning every wall?

  After maneuvering her father to a chair, Eunice sat and smoothed her skirts. Perhaps she did not think the papered walls were unusual, since she seemed not to notice them. Mr. Sweeney felt the table’s surface and then placed a packet of papers there. “Danged lawyers,” he complained. “Make me get everything in writing.”

  “Papa’s attorney wants him to have a signed contract for all of the farmers who work on shares,” Eunice explained.

  “May I offer you some fresh buttermilk?” Alice asked. “I just finished churning.”

  Eunice’s eyes seemed to rest on the patched spot on the bib of Alice’s apron. “No, thank you anyway. We—”

  “Speak for yourself, Eunice!” Mr. Sweeney said. “I’d love some fresh buttermilk. Haven’t had any in a coon’s age.”

  Alice quickly fetched her landlord his drink. She had no idea how to entertain high society people, uncertain whether she should continue with her chores or sit at the table with her guests. Should she invite them to stay for dinner the way she would ordinary folks? She wished Herbert would arrive and clear up his business with Mr. Sweeney.

  After a short silence, Eunice said, “I didn’t know you had chickens at this farm, Papa.”

  “I don’t,” Mr. Sweeney replied. “Now this is good buttermilk. Nothing in the world like a good Jersey cow.”

  Eunice shifted in her chair. “I saw chickens out back when we drove up. Your memory must be getting bad.”

  “I brought a few chickens with me when we moved
in here,” Alice said. She hoped she hadn’t done something wrong.

  “Memory must be getting bad,” Mr. Sweeney said in a voice that sounded more like his daughter’s than his own. Returning to his normal manner of speaking, he added, “Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean I can’t think.”

  At last Alice heard Herbert’s footsteps on the porch. “Good morning, Mr. Sweeney, Mrs. Martin,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. I’ve been hoeing weeds and I’m none too presentable.”

  “You’re fine,” Mr. Sweeney said. “You could be wearing a hula dancer skirt for all I know. I see only shapes and shadows anymore.”

  Eunice Martin re-stacked the papers on the table. “Papa needs your signature on this contract,” she said. “So everyone understands the terms.”

  While Herbert read, Eunice opened the drawstring of her purse and pulled out a fountain pen, which she set on the table.

  “This sounds like what we shook hands on,” Herbert said as he uncapped the fountain pen. “I’m to have one third of the profit from the crops and one quarter of the livestock.”

  “No, wait,” Eunice said. “The chickens belong to the Shoemakers. It needs to be clear that you don’t get any hens or egg money, Papa.”

  Mr. Sweeney rocked from side to side in his chair. “Well, everybody knows poultry isn’t livestock, Eunice. You best leave the business to us menfolk.” He turned his head in Herbert’s direction. “My grandson usually drives me around, but he had to go to San Antonio this morning.”

  “I left the business up to the men when my husband died,” Eunice said. “Next thing I knew those gentlemen were figuring out how they didn’t have to pay back money they borrowed from my husband before Elijah had his heart attack.” Eunice took her fountain pen from Herbert’s hand. “I’ll just write in a note and the two of you can initial by it. That way there can’t be any misunderstandings. That’s what your lawyer wants, isn’t it?”

  “Have it your way,” Mr. Sweeney said. “Even though you know as well as I do I never try to skin folks like those no-account bankers.”