The Winds of Autumn (15 page)
Jack Berry. Jack Berry.
I pushed it away. Sure, I was upset with the guy. He had been acting like a jerk lately. But it sure wasn’t worth troubling myself over. I turned my eyes back to the snow and watched it fall like feathery petals.
This is great to have the freshness and cleanness for Christmas,
I thought sleepily.
“Are you feeling any better?” came a soft voice and Aunt Lou was back in my room.
I even turned my head slightly on my pillow and the pain did not sweep through me with the same intensity.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Lot’s better.”
“Good! Are you up to visitors?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Foggelson and Camellia entered my room. She looked at me and her face went white, but she came right over to my bed.
“What happened, Joshua?” she asked me, her eyes wide with the terror of it.
“I don’t remember,” I said honestly.
“Nothing?” asked Mr. Foggelson, as though he found that hard to believe.
“Doc said he hit his head on a rock when he fell,” said Aunt Lou. “Sam took Doc back to the spot where he found Josh. The snow had covered the ground so Doc couldn’t learn much, but he said there was a large rock on the ground beneath the maple tree.”
Sam? Old Sam?
It must be. Vaguely I remembered Sam helping me home, but nothing further would come clear to me.
“But your face—?” quizzed Mr. Foggelson. “Surely your face wasn’t hurt like this in the fall.”
“I don’t remember,” I said again, a bit stubbornly.
Camellia reached out a soft hand and gently touched the bandage over my eye.
“Does it hurt terribly, Joshua?” she asked me, wincing with the words.
“Naw,” I said bravely. “I hardly feel it.”
And it was true. My head had been hurting so fiercely that I hadn’t really felt the cut above my eye.
“Good,” she said and smiled. For a moment I didn’t feel any pain at all.
“Oh!” Camellia squealed, reaching over me to gently stroke Pixie. “Your little dog. She’s a darling.”
Pixie responded by sending out greetings with her little pink tongue.
Camellia squealed again.
“May I hold her?” she pleaded. No wonder she got whatever she wanted from her pa.
“Sure,” I said. I watched proudly as she scooped up my little dog and held her close against her cheek for a moment. Then she sat on a nearby chair with Pixie on her lap, patting the soft head and stroking the silky fur.
It was quite a sight the two of them made there together.
Mr. Foggelson broke the spell.
“We mustn’t tire Joshua, Camellia.”
I noticed again the way he pronounced each syllable, and the teasing of the fellas came back to my mind. With it came the haunting rhythm of
Jack Berry, Jack Berry
. I pushed it away again and tried to thank my visitors for coming.
“Can I come again tomorrow?” Camellia begged.
“Now, Camellia,” her pa objected. “You know the doctor has said that Joshua must have his rest. We do want him back in school soon.”
“But, Papa—“ she cajoled him, “I won’t stay long. Promise.”
“I’m fine,” I joined in. “Likely be out of this bed by tomorrow.”
“Oh, no you won’t.” Aunt Lou’s voice came from the door. “Doc says we are to keep you here at least until Sunday afternoon.”
Then she turned to Camellia and gave her a bright smile. “But I’m sure Josh would be glad for your company for twenty minutes or so—if it’s okay with your folks.”
Camellia rewarded her with a dazzling smile. She didn’t even turn to her pa, assuming that the issue was settled.
“I’ll bring a book and read to you,” she promised as she put Pixie gently back on the bed beside me and the Foggelsons left my room.
One by one the family members came to see me. I guess they felt that all of them at one time would be too much for my poor head. They visited for a few minutes each, always the same questions in their eyes if not voiced. What had happened? How had I been hurt on my way home from Camellia’s house? Why had Old Sam found me lying on the ground?
I still had no clear picture of the evening, only bits and pieces that made no sense. I knew that I felt anger flood through me when I thought of the night before. But I had no idea why.
Jack Berry, Jack Berry
played over and over in my head, and I couldn’t imagine why that should be.
Eventually Grandpa, Uncle Charlie and Gramps went on home. I envied them their trip through the new snow, but I knew better than to coax to go with them.
Doc stopped in again before nightfall. He seemed pleased with my progress and told Aunt Lou that I could have a few more of the pills if the pain was too bad.
Uncle Nat came to chat after he had done up my evening chores. I told him I was sorry about his needing to take over for me, but he brushed it all aside, saying that the exercise was good for him.
That night we had our devotional time in my bedroom so I could share in it. In Uncle Nat’s prayer he gave special thanks to God that I had been found and helped home the night before. When Aunt Lou prayed, thanking the Lord I was safe and home, I realized how worried she had been. Uncle Nat had been away at the Browns’. One of their daughters was planning a New Year’s wedding, and he was counseling her and her beau. So Aunt Lou had been alone with her concern. I could imagine her going often to the front room to check the street for my return. Pixie would have been whimpering about her ankles.
I smiled as cheerfully as I could at her when she gave me a pill, tucked the blankets around me and kissed me good night. The pain in my head was much subdued. I slept.
C
HRISTMAS WAS ONE OF
my favorite times of the year. We always went out to the farm. I don’t know what part of it I liked best. I loved the smell of the spices while Aunt Lou baked savory cookies and pies. I loved the tangy odor of pine as the tree from our pasture woods was set up in a corner of the big farm kitchen, decorated with paper chains and popcorn strings. I loved the mystery of hidden gifts that a person could accidentally stumble across if he happened to be looking for something in out-ofthe-way places.
I even loved the Christmas program at the church, though it took a lot of time and patience from those like Aunt Lou who worked to get it to finally come together for the night of presentation. It took a lot of hounding by the mothers—in my case, my aunt Lou—to get us to memorize the parts.
But in the end, it always came off quite well and folks enjoyed it and praised our efforts until our heads puffed up with thinking about how good we were. When it was all successfully behind us, Aunt Lou heaved a sigh of relief and put her program ideas away for another year. But she still had her books out for this year ’cause the program was yet to come.
Like I’ve explained, I loved the snow of Christmas. It made the world look fit to welcome the King of Kings—even if He did come as a tiny baby and likely didn’t even notice if there was snow or not. But I couldn’t imagine Christmas without snow. Once when a visiting speaker at our church said that there most likely was no snow in Bethlehem on the night Jesus was born, I wanted to argue back that the fellow must be wrong. To think of Christmas with no snow—a dirty, bare, sordid world to welcome the Christ-Child—just didn’t seem right.
Yes, I waited every year for a Christmas snowfall. It was like a hallowed sacrament to me—the covering of the drab, ugly world with clean freshness right from the hand of God himself. The unclothed trees, the dirty rutted yard, the bare, empty fields—all were suddenly transformed into silvery, soft images, always making me think that something truly miraculous was happening before my very eyes.
I had been allowed to return to school the Tuesday after my accident—or whatever it was. My face was still a bit swollen and my eye discolored, but other than that, I felt quite good. The doc insisted that I not be active in any of the boys’ games, so I stayed in at recess time. I felt like a jerk—like some kind of sissy. But it did prove to be an opportunity to spend some time with one of Mr. Foggelson’s books. He brought it for me and kept it locked in a corner cupboard. He brought it out only after the rest of the students had left the room, and returned it to the cupboard again before he rang the bell.
My head gradually stopped aching and I seemed to be back to normal. I felt awful about Uncle Nat doing my chores, but the doc insisted that for at least two weeks I was to do nothing strenuous. Two weeks would take us past Christmas.
I still had this troubled feeling about Jack Berry. He wasn’t at school either, and word had it that he was down sick with the flu. That would keep him out of my hair for a while. By the time he was back, my eye and bruised nose and lips would be back to normal again and he would not have further occasion to goad me.
Camellia kept fussing over me. She said she felt to blame, seeing that I was on my way home from her house—but that was ridiculous. The attention was embarrassing, but sort of special, too.
As I watched this Christmas quickly approaching, I was filled with all kinds of mixed emotions.
I had been storing away every nickel and dime I could get my hands on for shopping for my Christmas gifts. It would have worked out just fine, too, if Camellia hadn’t entered my life when she did.
Most every day I went back to my dresser drawer and counted those coins. They sure didn’t multiply any. I still had the same four dollars and fifteen cents. I’d figured on paper just what I would get for each family member and had it all worked out just fine until I decided that the only right thing to do was to get Camellia a gift as well. I mean, she had been so nice to me and all.
I reworked my list a dozen times but I couldn’t get it to work out.
If I’d been healthy, I mean, if Doc hadn’t made his silly pronouncement that I wasn’t to “exert” myself, I could’ve been hustling around town looking for odd jobs. But with things as they were, there wasn’t a hope in the world that I could get ahold of any more money before Christmas. So I wanted Christmas to come, but I didn’t know what to do about gifts.
I window-shopped one more time and came up with decisions about family gifts that would leave me with fiftyfive cents! With excitement coursing through my veins and joy in my heart, I went looking for a gift for Camellia.
The joy didn’t last long. There was nothing that would do for a girl like Camellia that could be purchased for a mere fifty-five cents. Nothing.
I went home with a heavy heart, my feet dragging across the snow-covered ground.
Pixie met me at the door. I pulled her into my arms and held her close while she licked my face.
Pixie!
I could give my dog to Camellia! There was likely nothing on earth I could give her that she would like more. I remembered the time when she had come to read to me when I was in bed. She had loved my little dog and never tired of holding her or of watching her playful antics or her puppy tricks.
But how can I give Pixie away?
I moaned. Never was a fella so torn. I loved Pixie more than I had ever loved anything— except for family, that is. As a matter of fact, it was awfully easy to think of Pixie as family. I held her so close just thinking about it that she started to whine.
But Camellia? She was pretty special too, and if you really cared about someone, weren’t you supposed to put that person’s wants and needs before your own?
I was still battling it through in my mind, this way and that, when it dawned on me that Camellia said she couldn’t have a dog because of her ma’s allergies. I hugged Pixie even tighter and breathed a prayer of thanks.
Boy, was I glad for that allergy. I sure wouldn’t have been able to decide that tough one on my own.
Without even knowing, Uncle Nat solved my problem about a gift—though he did sort of leave it until the last minute.
I knew he had been secretly working on a cedar chest for Aunt Lou for her Christmas present. He kept it hidden at the farm, and he slipped out and spent time on it for an hour or so when he’d finished his pastoral visits and duties.
The first weekend I was allowed to go home to the farm—the only weekend before the Christmas break—Uncle Nat came out on Saturday morning, determined to get the chest finished.
It was a beautiful piece of work. Uncle Nat didn’t have many fancy tools, but he had a lot of love for Aunt Lou. He did want the chest to be just right, so he toiled over it, careful to make every board fit perfectly.
It smelled good, too. I loved the smell of the cedar.
I guess I said some nice things about the chest and about the smell of the wood, for Uncle Nat, without even looking up from his work, said, “There’s a bit of lumber left over, Josh, some board scraps and things. You’re welcome to them if you’d like them for anything.”
“Thanks,” I said without too much enthusiasm, “but I wouldn’t know what to do with ’em.”
“You could always make a little jewelry box or a treasure box.”
I was about to ask him who that would be for, knowing that Aunt Lou already had a jewelry box, when I thought of Camellia.
“Could you help me?” I asked instead, unable to hide the eagerness in my voice.
“I guess I could—I don’t think it’d take too much time.”
I couldn’t believe my good luck. I went right to work on it. With Uncle Nat’s guidance in measuring and sawing, and help from Uncle Charlie in the sanding and Gramps in the varnishing, I got the small box finished in time for Christmas. It looked just fine. I could hardly wait for Camellia to see it.
That Sunday, December twenty-second, we had our Christmas program in the evening. I had hoped Camellia would attend. I mean, she knew I had an important part in it and had been studying on it for weeks. But she wasn’t there.
I tried to put her from my mind and think about other things—like how my lines went—but I have to admit that I was deeply disappointed.
The program went all right. I can’t say it was perfect. But it was close enough for folks to overlook the little things and compliment us all on our efforts after it was over.
Aunt Lou went home tired that evening and placed her hat on the hall closet shelf.
