A Lowcountry Christmas Page 3

  The look in his eyes made me sit straighter in my chair. I couldn’t speak and turned and looked helplessly at my mother.

  She was flustered by his surprise entrance and hurried to his side to offer him a quick kiss. “You’re home early.”

  “The catch was lousy,” he said with a disappointed grunt.

  “Want a beer?” Without waiting for a reply Mama hurried to the fridge to fetch him one.

  Daddy opened the bottle and took a long drink. Then he fixed his gaze on me. “Ask me what?”

  Mama came to my rescue. “Miller was just telling me what he wanted for Christmas.”

  A shadow crossed Daddy’s face. He took another swig from his beer. “So what do you want?”

  I licked my lips and rose to stand. “A puppy. One of Dill’s puppies.”

  He didn’t speak.

  I rushed on. “He’s a golden Lab. Pick of the litter, Mrs. Davidson says.”

  “A dog?” he asked with a shocked expression. “You want a dog?”

  I nodded, mute.

  “Hell, boy, do you know how much it costs to keep a dog?”

  “I’d work to help pay for his food and stuff. You know I’m a good worker.”

  “You are that.” He conceded and rubbed his stubbled jaw. He glanced at my mother, then shook his head. “But it won’t be enough. Maybe next year.”

  “Not next year!” I cried. My desperation made me bold. “I don’t want any dog, I want this dog! Sandy. I have to get him. Please, Daddy.”

  “Not now, Son. I can’t afford to keep food on the table for you, much less a dog.”

  “I have seventy-five dollars. I’ll give it all to you.”

  Color flooded my father’s face. “I said no,” he shouted.

  “Don’t shout,” Mama said.

  “Don’t encourage him!” he shot back at her, anger sparking.

  A moment passed between them, a message signaled in their eyes that I didn’t understand.

  Daddy calmed and said, “Don’t let him get his hopes up.”

  I could see I’d lost. I knew I should’ve been quiet, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I’d pay you back. Every penny. I swear.”

  “No!” he bellowed, and swiped his hand through the air like a machete cutting wheat. “No dog! That’s the end of it, hear? Not another word.” He glared at me a moment, but more hurt than anger was in his eyes. Then he stomped out of the room, leaving me and my mother standing in a stunned silence.

  I slid back into my chair and rested my head in my arms, trying hard not to let the tears loose.

  My mother came to my side and rested her palm on my shoulder. “Aw, Miller, don’t feel bad. Daisy will have puppies again.”

  “Not like Sandy,” I cried, my voice muffled by my arms.

  “You don’t know that. She always has beautiful pups. I know for a fact Mrs. Davidson is breeding her one more time.”

  She paused, waiting for me to say something. But I had nothing to say.

  “Cheer up.” She gently shook my shoulders. “I have some wonderful news. The best news.”

  I sniffed and raised my head. That’s the thing about hope. You can beat it down and crush it, but it’ll still bubble back up at the slightest chance. I wildly wondered if she’d heard of some job I could get, or that maybe she’d talked to Mrs. Davidson.

  “Your brother is coming home!” Mama said with heart. Her eyes shone with the news. “Can you believe it? Taylor coming home is our family’s best Christmas present! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  That was the big news? I loved my big brother, and I was glad he was coming home. But that was my Christmas present? No Xbox. No PlayStation. And worst of all, no Sandy.

  I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and stepped away from the table, away from her. I roughly grabbed my copy of A Christmas Carol and stuffed it back into my book bag with an angry shove. I felt hurt roiling inside me like a storm.

  “Miller, don’t be like that. It’s Christmastime!”

  Stomping away, I turned at the door and shouted with a voice that sounded like my father’s, “Bah, humbug!”

  There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour.

  —A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 3

  Jenny

  A mother was only as happy as her most unhappy child.

  I watched my son turn his back on me and stride from the kitchen, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. His every movement radiated anger and disappointment, and it hit me like a tidal wave.

  Bah, humbug. Miller was a bright boy, and he knew that his quoting Scrooge, after my definition of the phrase, would deliver all the more impact. I tightened my lips, trying to still my careening emotions. Those were not sentiments a ten-year-old boy should feel at Christmas.

  I brought my shaking fingertips to my lips and closed my eyes tight. A mother was the foundation of her family, I believed. It was up to me to create a home rich with traditions, values, and morals that would instill confidence in my children. At no time was this more true than at Christmas. Wasn’t this the holiday that brought families together? A happy time meant for laughter, sentimental gifts, and love? And this holiday was extra special because Taylor was coming home from war. We had so much to be thankful for, so much to celebrate.

  I sniffed and straightened my shoulders. This wasn’t the time for weakness or tears. We were having tough times, sure, but love and laughter were not things that could be purchased—they came from the heart. It was up to me as the mother to make this holiday the happiest Christmas ever. I pulled the stray strands of hair from my face and tightened the elastic, wiped my hands on my apron, then determinedly walked to the turkey potpie resting on the table. My fingers began to move expertly around the crust, pinching the dough to tighten the seal. As I worked, I saw again Miller’s face when his father had shouted no. Pinch. The crumpling of dreams, the wide eyes of sorrow filling with tears. Pinch. His head buried in his arms. Pinch. Finally his defiant anger and his rejection of Christmas.

  My hands stilled, my head lowered, and my shoulders slumped with the weight of my son’s unhappiness. I felt his crushing disappointment in my heart. I wanted to make his dream come true with the puppy. But I didn’t have the money, and more, I wouldn’t cross my husband on this. What could I do to make Miller feel better? I wondered. My anguish came from realizing nothing would. He’d see my efforts as nothing more than this turkey potpie, a desperate attempt to recycle tidbits from holidays past.

  Three days passed and Miller was still giving us the cold shoulder. When I called out, “Good morning,” Miller ignored me and sat sullenly at the kitchen table and shoved cereal in his mouth in silent protest. It was more of the same at dinner. I let him sulk, understanding he needed time to get over his disappointment. But when the weekend arrived and he was still acting this way, I decided enough was enough.

  A December cold front had settled in the lowcountry. When I awoke, I peered out the bedroom window to see a coating of frost sparkling on the tips of the grass. A knowing smile crossed my lips. My grandmother once told me the best time to gather from the woods was after a frost had killed off the bugs. Old wives’ tale, perhaps, but it signaled it was time for the Christmas Forage.

  Even though it was Saturday, Alistair had risen and left before dawn to spend the day out on a shrimp boat. The season would soon end, and I worried he’d take a job on a boat in Florida. That would mean months away from home. I’d heard the tales of women whose husbands followed the shrimp south, of the floozies who hung around the bars the way laughing gulls did docks, and the drinks that led to bad choices. Many marriages ended after a few of the rowdier trips, and I didn’t want to be another statistic. But he was hell-bent on earning money for his family, and there was no stopping the Captain when his mind was made up. I had seen the shame in his eyes when he’d told his son he couldn’t afford a dog. He’d always been a proud man, the best captain in these parts. The disgrace of docking his boat was coming down hard
on him and could make him mean. I was walking a thin line between support and frustration.

  I dressed quickly in jeans and a thick sweater. As I walked down the hall toward the stairs, I paused at Taylor’s room. Pushing open the door, I couldn’t help but peer inside. The scent of pine soap permeated the room, fresh and clean. I’d spent most of yesterday afternoon freshening it up for his arrival. The small navy-and-white room was just as he’d left it four years earlier when he’d entered the Marines. The Corps insignia hung on the wall beside that of the Citadel. I leaned against the doorframe and allowed myself the luxury of wandering back in my memories to when Taylor was a small boy. How many times had I tucked him into bed in this room? Taylor had been our only child for most of his childhood. He could do no wrong in my eyes and he rarely disappointed me. His father doted on him, too—despite their rows. The problem was they were too much alike. Taylor had Alistair’s good qualities—he was fair-minded, honest, hardworking, a natural leader, and deeply kind. They were both big men, broad shouldered and square jawed. Taylor also shared some of his father’s not-so-good traits. They could be stubborn and opinionated. Also like Alistair, Taylor was a man of few words, but when he spoke, his words were well thought out and people listened.

  I let my fingertips glide over the bedpost and the navy coverlet, and smiled, remembering how at bedtime a young Taylor would sometimes ask for “a chat with the light out.” Those were golden moments. Taylor didn’t share his feelings readily, yet somehow the darkness allowed him to open up. He’d lie on his back, hands under his head, and tell me about his day, just rambling on about this or that. I’d listen, capturing each word. It was music to my ears.

  I sighed, bringing my hand to my cheek. Taylor was twenty-six now and hadn’t shared anything personal with me in a long time. I hadn’t even seen him in over a year. I felt his absence deeply. It was almost five months since he’d arrived back in the States. I’d wanted to fly to Andrews Air Force Base to greet him when he got off the plane. But he’d been firm when he’d told me not to come. Money being tight, I’d agreed, but it still niggled at me. I could have surprised him. The thought that my son had arrived back on American soil injured and alone still hurt. But I was careful never to complain. Every day I thanked God that my baby had come home alive.

  And he’d be home in a few more days, I reminded myself, pushing off from the wall. I was going to spoil him rotten! I’d start by giving him the welcome home he deserved. Oh, what a party I’d planned! Wouldn’t he be surprised? I smiled and crossed the room, eager to get my day rolling.

  Next I passed Miller’s room. I slowly pushed open the door for a peek inside. The door creaked softly and I cringed, not wanting to wake him. Shafts of light from the blinds illuminated the boy sleeping on the twin bed. He was on his belly, twisted in his blue-and-white duvet covered with sailing ships. He wanted his room to be the same color as his adored older brother’s.

  Miller had been my surprise child. Like Sarah in the Bible I’d born a son later in life, and he had been my and Alistair’s blessing. Miller was more like me than Alistair and Taylor. He had always been my helper, at my side, watching, observing, readily absorbing anything I taught him. When he grew older, Miller, unlike Taylor, didn’t hold back on his feelings or the gossip from school. He didn’t need the lights out to share his thoughts. Miller talked openly night and day.

  Which was why his silence now was so disturbing. I missed my chatterbox. I slowly closed the door again. Today, my focus was on Miller. His heart was broken and he needed my help to get past his anger.

  Making my way downstairs, I let my gaze wander the rooms, assessing what needed to be done that day. It was an old house. It had once belonged to a McClellan, another shrimp boat captain, but over the years it had been sold. It was a great day in the Captain’s life when he bought the house and brought it back into family hands. I loved the house even more than he did. The trawler, the Miss Jenny, was Alistair’s terrain. This house with all its wood-paneled rooms and beams, the dentil molding, built-in shelves, was my domain. The navy sofa was lumpy, the plaid fabrics on the wing chairs were frayed, the cane seat of the old rocker by the fire needed recaning, but put them all together and they made a cozy room in the early-morning light. The house was neither large nor grand. But it had history . . . and it was mine.

  Clothes lay strewn about on the furniture, dishes were left in front of the television, dying flowers drooped on the table. Entering the kitchen, I paused. Best of all, every morning I could come into this kitchen and greet the day while staring out at my beloved Jeremy Creek. The sight never failed to take my breath away. This time of year the wide creek curved through the vast acres of gold and brown cordgrass like a snake, stretching far out to the Intracoastal and the ocean beyond. I loved this old house, one of the oldest in an old town dating back to 1861. None of the bigger, newer houses along the creek with all their bells and whistles made me wish for more. I had what money couldn’t buy—craftsmanship from a day gone by. Besides, I wasn’t the fancy type. Flannel and denim suited me more than silk and cashmere. And today, boots! It was time for the Christmas Forage!

  I reached for my heavy iron skillet from its place of honor over the stove. This treasured heirloom had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations. I’d make a hearty breakfast for Miller. I smiled smugly to myself as I pulled a thick slab of bacon from the fridge. Nothing could lure a boy from his bed faster than the scent of bacon sizzling on the stove.

  For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child Himself.

  —A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 4

  Miller

  Do I smell bacon? Who can ignore that? I pushed back my covers and went downstairs, sniffing like a hound on the scent. Mama was standing at the big iron stove, humming as she flipped sizzling bacon in the cast-iron pan. She turned and smiled when I walked in.

  “Morning, sleepyhead. There’s a stack of pancakes on the table, help yourself. Bacon will be up in a minute.”

  I slid into a chair and grabbed the pitcher of warm maple syrup. After drenching the pancakes, I dug in. I’d already eaten two when Mama put several pieces of crisp bacon on my plate. She stood beside me and watched as I hungrily devoured a piece.

  “Eat up,” she said with gusto as she turned back to the stove. “We have a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Huh?” I swung my head to look at her.

  Mama’s eyes gleamed as she picked up her coffee cup. “It’s time for our Christmas Forage!”

  The Christmas Forage was an outing that we went on every year. Our mission was to collect pine and fir branches, holly, pinecones, and whatever other decorations caught our eyes in the woods. It was special. Just the two of us. No one else came along. She called me her Christmas helper, but I always teased back that I was really her slave.

  I looked up at her smiling face, and her eyes were bright with hope. She knew I was still mad at her and Daddy, that my heart was still aching about the dog. But I knew she felt bad about it and was trying to make me feel better. I wanted to stay mad, but this was our special time. And when I saw that hope in her eyes, I just couldn’t hurt her. I loved her too much.

  So I caved. Brusquely, I nodded and went back to my breakfast. I had to save face, after all.

  With every step, I heard a crunch in the thick forest floor of leaves. The air was crisp and laden with the musky scent of autumn. In South Carolina the winters come slow. Not till December do the icy winds and frosts hit us, unlike in Chicago where my uncle lives. There are already inches of snow on the ground. Or even in the mountains of North Carolina, where the roads are already slick with ice. People from off always yammer on about how the seasons never change here. They’re used to looking up into the trees to see the colors go from green to yellow, orange, then red. They just don’t know where to look when they’re in our neck of the woods. Mama says that the most magical changes of season occur in the wetla
nds, where the grass turns gold in the fall, then brown in the winter, then come spring you see the bright green stalks peeking out at the base of all the brown grass, until summer, when the vast expanse is a wonder of waving green dotted with white egrets. We look up and see the migrating birds that stream along our coast on their long journey south in the winter, then back north in the spring. Every fall Mama and I get our binoculars and make a list of all the migrating birds we spot. Yes, sir, here along the coast the change of seasons is a living, breathing miracle.

  We walked a few paces, Mama’s stride slow, her head turning with careful scrutiny of the forest floor and leafy canopy. She’s spry like I imagine a woodland fairy to be. When she strolls, her dark hair fans out behind her and her eyes gleam with the joy of the hunt. It’s like being deep in the forest frees her somehow. With each step deeper into the woods the creases and lines of worry leave her eyes and a soft smile rests on her face.

  I followed behind her, pulling the rusty, trusty red Radio Flyer wagon that used to be mine when I was a kid. It was a good toy then, but it’s a good tool now. We use it to lug all the loot we gather from our forage trips to the woods, the beach, the docks. We’d been out to the forest earlier in the fall to collect pounds of pecans for her Thanksgiving pecan pies. Mama calls it “going nutting.” She knows a secret spot where the best pecan trees dwell. She won’t tell anyone where it is, save for me.

  “Sworn to secrecy,” she told me. “My mama told me, and her mama told her. The pecans from those trees are always the sweetest and most buttery. Good genes. Like us.”

  We laughed then as we always did when she told me this story. And she told it every year. We gathered the nuts in cloth sacks and stored them in a cool, dry place. Even after all her Thanksgiving pies we still have plenty left for Christmas. Mama doesn’t hunt for nuts now. This late in the year the squirrels have beaten us to anything worth eating. I’m glad because it’s backbreaking work, stooping over to pick out the nuts from the leaves under the trees. We collected black walnuts, too. They’re hard to open. After we lugged them home, Mama and I spread them out in the gravel driveway and she drove her car over them to break the husks. Sometimes she even lets me drive.