Till Morning Is Nigh (4 page)

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Franky told his sister gently.

“I don’t care! An’ anyway, how would you know? You’re even too dumb for school.”

“Rorey, that’s enough,” I had to scold. “Another cruel word, and you’re going back to bed.”

“I ain’t sick so bad like I was!”

“Then you can manage to behave yourself and apologize to your brother. He is far from dumb.” She apologized begrudgingly, with one quick “sorry,” and Franky and Berty looked over all the rest of the paper figures one by one. Berty wanted to know who made every one of them. He didn’t remember even the ones he had worked on. But Franky remembered them all.

Rorey’d already had enough of the Christmas box. She got up and headed for the stairs. “Can I play with Sarah’s doll?”

“Sure, if you’re nice with it.”

“I’m always nice with it. Bessie likes me good.”

I thought of last year and Sarah’s tears after Rorey twice sent the doll tumbling down the steps. But Rorey’d been only six, and dealing with far more than a six-year-old knew how to handle. I took a deep breath as she ran up the stairs to get Sarah’s precious Bessie doll.
Surely things will be better this year, heavenly Father. For all of us. Help us.

“Can I draw dat baby Jesus?” Berty suddenly asked.

“Of course. That’s a great idea.”

“C’mon, Fwank, let’s get paper and C’ayolas.” He jerked at his brother, and Franky pulled himself back to his feet and went with Bert to the kitchen for the supplies.
Thank you, Lord, for Bert and Frank
, I prayed.
Maybe with their help I can manage to get everyone feeling Christmasy. Just as you said, “A little child shall lead.”

“I drawed Jesus once before,” Berty told me when they got back to the room. “But this un’ll be lots better, ta cut with scissors an’ stick on dat wall ober d’ere.”

The boys spread out paper and worked together on their drawing.

“Lidda Lor’ Jesus,” Berty started singing again. “Laid downed his sweet head . . .”

I joined him, singing softly, and moved back to the rocker with Emmie, who was finally sipping at her water again. “Lidda Lor’ Jesus is gots to be the prettiest,” Bert told his brother. Their shaggy brown heads bobbed together over the picture.

“You’re right,” Franky agreed with a quiet voice. “He’s the mos’ importan’ one. We wouldn’ have no Christmas without him. And no heaven neither, an’ that’d be even worse.”

“Really? Dat baby Jesus in heaven?”

“He sure is,” Franky answered, as always wise beyond his years. “He made heaven an’ ever’thin’ in the whole world. E’cept the bad stuff. That’s problems the devil throwed in.”

“How you know all that?” Berty asked. He, too, was bright. It was plain to see, and I wished their father wouldn’t willingly miss out on so many special times with his little ones.

“I jus’ listened good,” Franky kept on explaining. “T’ Mama an’ Mrs. Wortham an’ the preacher. You can learn a whole lot if you listen good.”

“Oh.” Berty nodded. “I try that sometime.”

I smiled. And Emmie’s lidded cup slipped suddenly away from her hand. She rolled against me, her breaths deep and even. So quickly, so peacefully, she was asleep.

“Lidda Lor’ Jesus,” Berty sang out again. “As’eep on da hay . . .”

The Stars in the Sky

B
y the time the other children had come home from school, Emmie’d had a nice nap, Rorey’s mood had improved a bit, and the boys had helped me hang button ornaments and yarn people from doorknobs and mantel corners, just to be festive. They’d also drawn a new baby Jesus, a wise man, and a tiny little angel.

“This one’s little ’cause it’s far away,” Franky explained. “On the way t’ find the shepherds.”

But Berty’s ear was bothering him again, the snow had increased considerably, and we’d seen nothing at all of Samuel, George, or the doctor.

Sarah was excited to find the Christmas box out on the sitting room floor, but after picking up a pair of paper angels, she grew strangely quiet.

“Come an’ play doll with me,” Rorey called her.

“Not right now.” She stared down at the cutout Crayola drawings. “Do you remember last year we decided that your mama and Emma was our Christmas angels?”

Rorey’s face turned red. “See, Franky? See? There is too such a thing as remembery, and Sarah’s got it! But we didn’t decide nothin’! We didn’t! Mama an’ Emma jus’ died! We didn’t tell ’em to go an’ be no angels!”

“Stop it,” her older brother Kirk told her. “We oughta all just go home.”

“Not all of you. Not yet,” I said quickly. “Mr. Wortham is getting the doctor for me, to take a look at Emmie.”

Kirk frowned. “Pa won’t like you callin’ the doctor.”

“Maybe not,” I acknowledged. “But we thought it was best, considering the way she’s been feeling. Better not to take any chances.”

I was immediately sorry I’d said it that way. Kirk turned his stormy eyes away from me. Joe was looking strangely pale, and Lizbeth took Emmie into her arms. “You think it’s bad, Mrs. Wortham?”

“No,” I tried to assure everyone. “I just wanted the doctor to advise how to help her be a little more comfortable, that’s all. She’s had a restless day.”

“Me too,” Berty announced, even though he’d seemed fine most of the time. “I got a earache.”

“Quit complainin’,” Willy said. “Nothin’ wrong with you ’cept you make too much noise.”

“I think I got the earache too,” Harry told us, and Lizbeth and I both looked at him in surprise. Harry’d never been sick, not in all the time I’d known him. And as boisterous as he usually was, I would have thought that if he ever did get sick, he probably wouldn’t slow down enough to notice.

“Are you sure?” Lizbeth asked him. He did look flushed. And he hadn’t chased Bert, though he’d been home all of ten minutes.

“Maybe that’s why he was so good in school this afternoon,” Joe suggested. “He didn’t even get out of his seat once, ’cept when he was supposed to. I wondered then if he was sick. That ain’t like Harry at all.”

Not another one. I went and felt Harry’s forehead, and he was surprisingly warm. Even warmer than Emmie. But maybe he wasn’t feeling any worse than Bert. Surely not. Bert had been up and playing most of the day, even after telling me about his ear. He really wasn’t sick. And Harry was such an incredibly strong, active little boy. It seemed impossible for him to be so suddenly under the weather.

But he plopped down on the davenport and leaned his head against a cushion. “Teacher said I’m not zippy today,” he told me quietly. “I don’t think I wanna go tomorrow.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I said with a sigh and glanced over at Lizbeth. She looked like she could burst into tears. “Now, don’t worry,” I told her quickly. “It’s the most normal thing in the world for children to come down with colds and things when the weather gets chill. They’ll all be fine. Just look at Rorey. She’s feeling much better than she was this morning.”

Rorey didn’t comment on that at all. She was still put out at Sarah for bringing up her memories, and apparently at the rest of us for failing to pay more attention. “I don’t want the Christmas stuff out,” she complained. “Put it away.”

“Oh, Rorey, I know it’s hard,” I tried to sympathize.

“No, you don’t! You let Mama go away! You let her go all the way to heaven—”

“Rorey Jeanine,” Lizbeth warned. “You know as well as anybody that it weren’t Mrs. Wortham’s fault.”

Something shook inside me. I could picture Wila on her bed, Emma in that rocker, both of them fading, with nothing I could do.

“You apologize,” Lizbeth scolded her sister. “It’s plain foolish to be pointin’ blame. Mrs. Wortham’s been a godsend to us, and you well know it.”

Rorey didn’t apologize. Kirk looked my way with a purposed frown. “You oughta keep most of the kids over here, I guess. But Pa was sore from fallin’ this mornin’, so at least one a’ us oughta go and see t’ evening chores.”

“I’ll go,” Joe volunteered. “I wanted t’ check on Pa anyway.” He put his hand on Harry’s forehead for a moment. “You rest, trooper,” he said. “Behave yourself.” He looked over at Rorey. “You too.”

“I’m comin’ with you,” Kirk told him, and I encouraged them both to bundle up carefully. I really couldn’t argue with them wanting to go home long enough to see to the necessary farm chores. They were just being diligent and helpful the way boys their age ought to be. But I didn’t like them going, I couldn’t say why. I just felt uncomfortable with them heading out again in the snow, even though it had lessened and it really wasn’t terribly blustery or cold. Nothing like some of the awful storms last winter.

If Samuel had already gotten there, it was probably unnecessary for them to go. Samuel would help George with the chores before coming back home to meet the doctor here. But I couldn’t be sure.

“Hopefully Mr. Wortham’s been by to tell your father about the doctor coming, but if not, you let him know. And tell him I’ve got a pot of soup on the stove that’s been simmering most of the day,” I told the boys. “I’m going to add dumplings. And he’s welcome to join us. I’d like for him to.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joe said. “But I doubt he’ll come.”

Surely he will, I told myself. These are his kids! He ought to come, even if it’s just to talk to the doctor and then take them all back home.

Robert and Willy went out to tend to chores here while Joe and Kirk started toward their farm. I got Sarah and Katie started drawing angels and shepherds. True to her word earlier, Rorey only watched. With a far-off look in his eye, Franky held a piece of paper rolled in his hand, and I figured he was concentrating on what to draw next. Lizbeth held Emmie on her lap, playing quietly with a couple of the yarn figures. Harry was soon asleep on the davenport, which was so startling that I was glad to have called for the doctor. Harry was usually wilder than a stampede of horses after being cooped up all day at school. Berty, who usually joined him in his ruckuses, didn’t seem to know what to do. He followed me into the kitchen, looking rather forlorn.

“Now Harry’s sick too,” he said with a sigh.

“I suppose so, but I don’t think it’s bad with any of you. How’s your ear?”

“Still hurts.”

“But you seem to be feeling fine otherwise.”

He shook his head. “My tummy feels jumbly. And my insides is sad ’bout Harry.”

I took him in my arms for a little squeeze. “Harry’ll be fine. He just needs to rest after school today.”

“He usually needs t’ let his legs run loose.”

Despite his peculiar way of putting that, I nodded. “I know. But he’ll be fine. Let him sleep.”

I wondered what Berty meant by his tummy feeling “jumbly,” but I didn’t ask him. I really didn’t want him dwelling too much on such things. I figured whatever it was would pass, and he’d be back to himself pretty much like he’d been all day.

“What’re you gonna do?” he asked me.

“Make dumplings like I told your brothers.”

“I like dumplin’s.”

“Good. I know your older brothers do too. I’ll have to make plenty.”

“Pa likes dumplin’s.”

I glanced over at him and was not surprised to see his usually bright eyes looking sad. Maybe even at his young age he could sense a struggle in his father the way I did. I prayed that George would come and join us for this meal. I prayed that he was feeling all right. With several of his children seeming to come down with something, maybe he was a bit under the weather too.

“Can I help?” Berty asked, and I obliged him, though there really wasn’t much he could do.

He soon lost interest and left me alone. I assumed he’d gone off to play, or joined the girls in the other room to draw Christmas angels. But it wasn’t two minutes before I heard a strange clunk behind me.

Berty had a chair tipped on its side on the floor. “Do you need help setting that back up?” I asked him, thinking he’d bumped it over accidentally.

“Nope. Can I make a cow barn?”

“What?”

“With room for sheep an’ chickens an’ baby Jesus too.”

He tipped another chair, and I just stood there with my mixing spoon in hand, not sure what to tell him. He ducked under the table.

“Looky! This is jus’ right.” He pulled at one of the fallen chairs. “This can be the trough where we’re gonna put the baby. An’ I’m Joseph, ’cause I’m big.”

I smiled. “It’s all right to play under the table until time to eat. Then the chairs will all have to stand up again.”

Looking like he had serious business to accomplish, he pulled another chair over and moved it against the table legs to form a wall. Then apparently deciding that this game was too good to keep to himself, he went running into the sitting room, hollering with excitement.

“Sarah! Sarah! Can your dolly be Jesus? An’ you can be Mary! Or Rorey or Katie can! Or else angels! Franky! Come an’ be a shepherd!”

I didn’t try to shush him so he wouldn’t disturb Harry or get Emmie worked up. I wasn’t about to squelch his exuberance. I’d prayed for God to be with us and help us this Christmas. And he’d sure sunk Christmas deep into Berty’s heart. That was all the boy had wanted to think about all day.

But not Rorey. She was holding Sarah’s doll, and she did not want to give it up for Berty’s manger. And Franky’s perfect solution that Rorey pretend to be Mary did not sit well with her at all. “I don’t wanna play that! I wanna be a modern mommy! And we’s in a house, not some old manger.”

“I’ll be Mary,” Sarah volunteered sweetly. “We can pretend the baby isn’t borned yet.”

“But I want you to play with me,” Rorey immediately protested.

“I can play with you,” little Katie offered.

“No! I don’t want you!”

Rorey had never welcomed Katie’s arrival on the scene. She seemed to see the younger girl as nothing more than a distraction when what she wanted was Sarah’s undivided attention. But I couldn’t simply ignore her rude words. Katie had been brave even to offer. I left my bowl of dumpling batter in the kitchen and followed the voices into the sitting room.

“Rorey, please come here a moment.”

She stuck out her lip. “Are you gonna make me play Mary?”

“No. Absolutely not. But I do want to talk to you.”

She threw the doll down on the floor and stomped her little feet in my direction.