On the way home, we had to drive slowly. The snow had stopped, but the roads still glistened treacherously.
The winter sky blazed with sunset by the time we drove past Panther Fork Church.
“Let’s stop here a while,” I said.
Aunty Rose parked outside the gate, and we walked up the path, which had become just an indentation in the snow.
“Lonnie Dale’s mama put a wreath on his grave,” Aunty Rose said, pointing.
The wreath, hung with red Christmas balls, had been lavishly decorated by snow.
“It’s pretty,” I said. “I wish I’d brought Mama something.”
Aunty Rose took a deep breath, then let it out, making her breath billow in the cold.
“I sure do miss her,” she said.
I nodded.
Our footsteps squeaked in the snow. A cardinal flew from one cedar tree to another, and I caught a whiff of Aunty Rose’s perfume. I knew she’d like her Christmas present tomorrow morning.
She drifted off to pet the preacher’s beagle, who’d ambled over from the parsonage, and for a minute I had Mama to myself.
Mama’s angel wore a pom-pom of snow on her head, giving her a festive look that made me smile inside.
It’s working out okay, Mama, I said, looking into the soft winter twilight. Daddy’s being home and all. We’re all settled down now.
A jay landed on the branches of the redbud that grew by Mama’s grave. The jay’s weight shook snow down, which showered on my face. Somehow it made me think of Mama laughing. I knelt and drew a butterfly in the snow, and that was when I saw the little bouquet of juniper berries tied with string.
Who had been here before me? Daddy? Grandpa?
What difference did it make? We all missed Mama.
Hoping Aunty Rose didn’t follow, I drifted over to the little grave by the fence. It cast a blue shadow on the snow.
I bent down to touch the letters.
Baby Clark was happy in heaven with Mama, no matter where his body lay, but because the rest of my family was right here at Panther Fork instead of in heaven, I wrote in the snow, “We love you, little brother.”
* * *
At home, everybody was standing around the fireplace in the living room, champing for Aunty Rose and me to get back. The wiring inspector had come while we were gone and hooked up the meter.
Nana beamed as she studied the picture on the box of brightly colored candles bubbling with light.
“Hurry,” she said, “before it gets too dark.”
So in the darkening room lit by the glow from the fireplace, we strung the Christmas lights, Daddy climbing up on a chair to do the high ones and Grandpa giving advice from the wall where he leaned with his crutches.
“Are you ready to plug them in, Mae?” Daddy finally said, stepping back.
“Wait,” Aunty Rose said. “Let’s sing ‘Silent Night.’”
So we began. But because we weren’t singers, we just smiled and moved our lips now and then while Daddy sang out in his strong tenor.
Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright.
When he was done, Nana leaned down and plugged in the Christmas lights, and we all clapped. Aunty Rose and I hugged each other, and Nana beamed her thanks to Grandpa and my daddy.
Later, while Nana was working on supper, I bundled up and went outside. I could hear Daddy still singing in the barn about the Christmas child.
Jacky ran up to me silently in the snow and prodded my hand with his wet nose.
I petted him, my strokes making static electricity crackle in his cold fur.
“I know what one of my packages is under the tree,” I told Jacky. “It’s buckskin gloves from Daddy.”
Daddy didn’t sing about the gypsy Davy much anymore, I guess because we weren’t gypsies. But I’d seen the leather gloves in the window of The Mammoth Department Store. They were small enough to fit my hands and made of the softest tan leather.
“Spanish leather,” I’d said, trying them on that day in the store. “Just like the song says.”
Not that I needed them for wandering. For now, our traveling days were over. For now, we were all happy exactly where we were.
About the Author
Sharelle Byars Moranville remembers the miracle of electricity: ice cubes, ice cream, bright lights at the flick of a switch, and especially her father scrambling to get her grandparents’ farmhouse wired before Christmas so there would be lights on the tree. Ms. Moranville grew up in deep country darkness. “My grandpa could show me the splash of the Milky Way on any clear night—so the changes rural electrification brought were profound,” says the author. Several years ago, Ms. Moranville discovered a batch of family letters from 1945 that opened up a world of memories, inspiring her to write Willa Mae’s story.
A professor of writing and literature, Ms. Moranville lives in West Des Moines, Iowa, with her family. This is her first novel for young readers. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Copyright
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
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Copyright © 2002 by Sharelle Byars Moranville
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First Edition—2002
eISBN 9781250116376
First eBook edition: February 2016