Chapters 23 & 24

 

Our ancestors revered and noticed how high up they fly, ‘where they behold forever, the countenance of God,’ wrote Rabanus Maurus Our.– 100 Birds and How They Got Their Names by Diana Wells

Chapter Twenty Three

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

Pine Lake, Indiana

December 19^th, 2005

 

The last ten days

drizzling rain pelted down

like cold, silver bullets under

a dreary-gray sky

I feel all alone.

Now a mist of gloom surrounds me

like the inside of a cloudy bubble .

I’m trapped, defeated

and sad.

 

 

I sat on my bed reading over what I had written last night before I went to sleep. Mrs. Stankowski would be proud. I used them “colorful words”. Then I left it wide open, hoping Mama would read it.

I think she did.

Today things was brighter. It was Saturday, December 20^th, the Lakeside Christmas Bazaar Day. By some kind of Christmas miracle (and me being a whinny butt) Mama had promised to take me over there. But she ain’t done it yet, and already it was mid-afternoon. Mama mentioned buying a craft for Wilma, and maybe meeting Woody. Excited, I had my fingers and toes crossed. (And, crossed myself with that Catholic cross like Gabrielle does. I figured it can’t hurt none.)

“We’d better hustle. The Christmas Bazaar’s only open until 5:00 p.m.,” I said, prodding Mama out the door. We ain’t got much time, only an hour! And it’s starting to snow.”

“At least it ain’t raining!” I said encouraged, my heart racing as fast as my feet on the way over there.

Me and Mama scurried into the Lakeside Nursing Home, shaking snow off our boots, as the closing door nipped at our heels.

Like magic, the lobby appeared to be a fairyland to my delighted eyes. A towering, Christmas tree was brightly lit-up and tucked away into a cozy corner.

“Whoo. . .eee! That’s the prettiest darn Christmas tree I ever did see! Don’t you think so Mama?”

“Lord, yes. Look at them rings of fancy red and gold ribbons! And the way it’s all swirled around that tree. Reminds me of twirling ballerinas,” Mama twittered, her baby- blue eyes dancing right along with her words.

“Best of all, that nasty smell ain’t here,” I said.

“Smells like Christmas, balsam and cinnamon, to me,” Mama said cheerfully.

As if right on cue, chimes rang out Christmas carols. Mama started humming Deck the Halls as we was walking. First off, I seen Woody’s pastel-sweater troops from the woodshop out in full force, scattered behind tables, selling them crafts. Pauline had on her same stained, lilac sweater. But where’s Woody? My brain wondered, while my eyes scanned like search lights.

“Pauline, this here’s my Mama” I said politely introducing her to Mama.

But poor Pauline was obviously out of it saying, “I’m going to the shore today. Do you want to come with me?”

Mama smiled at her politely.

Then an attractive elderly lady, with pearl-colored hair standing beside Pauline, elbowed her and pointed to them cats we’d painted in class. It worked. Pauline snapped back to reality.

“Would you like to buy a cat? A dollar and a quarter,” she said in her thick New Jersey accent.

“Blue honey, would ya look at them cute little whiskers?” Mama said in a joyful, Christmas mood, still humming Christmas carols, and picking up a wooden cat. “Lordy be, isn’t it just too precious? I’m gonna buy that darling little thing for Wilma. She loves cats,” Mama said ecstatic.

I couldn’t believe my ears! Mama was in the best Christmas mood ever. My heart was soaring.

“I painted them,” I said, proudly pointing out the little eyelashes and whiskers. “What do you think, Mama?”

“For goodness sake, Blue! That’s what makes it so interesting. You done a nice job, sugar!”

While Mama was flyin’ high with the Christmas spirit, I directed her over to the “Jesus” optical illusion wooden plaques.

“Stare at it for a while, Mama. Tell me what you see.”

Mama did. So long tears clouded up her pretty blue eyes, then slid down her winter-dried, red cheeks.

“Did you see the ‘Jesus’ optical illusion?”

“Yes, I did . . .,” Mama spoke softly in a distant voice that trailed off. Then her eyes misted up again as she struggled to speak. “I’m gonna buy this for Granny and Granddaddy Johnson for Christmas . . . send it to Turkey Creek.”

Whoo . . . eee! It was my second miracle today. Praying to that Catholic Mary in Kathryn’s room done the trick! Mama’s sending a present to Turkey Creek. Lord, I felt like dancin’. Maybe we could take it in person? Mary, how about a third miracle? Oh please! I prayed right there between the “Jesus” plaques and the wooden grottos for sale for them Catholic folks Woody talked about.

But it seems my good fortune had just run out.

Mama had Woody’s special clock in her hand.

“Who you buying that for, Mama?” I quizzed her.

“For Jim, Blue honey. He’s been so sweet to me. It’ll look good hanging up in his office?” Mama said, talking more to herself than to me.

No, Mama! I wanted to scream. Woody’s special carved clock can’t go to Mr. Jim Pratt! Right about then, I felt a shift in wind. Like a great big ol’ thundercloud was hanging over me, brewing up a storm.

“Where’s Woody?” I said out loud, frantically searching, still not finding him. “He wouldn’t miss the Christmas Bazaar. Not in a million years!”

Mama didn’t hear me. She’d whisked over to the check-out line, her arms filled to the brim with gifts. Bertie, the cashier, was slow. So I dashed over to help her.

Suddenly, Mrs. Stankowski come rushing up to me and Mama in line.

“Ms. Johnson, you must be very proud of this young lady,” she said squeezing the chiggers outta me. “Why every time I come out here, I bump into Emma June volunteering. Mother just loves her! Isn’t that right?” Mrs.Stankowski cued her mother, Bertie.

“Heavens, yes. Miss Emma June Blue’ s the sweetest little girl,” Bertie said pinching my checks way too hard. But I let it go. She didn’t mean no harm. Then Bertie winked, “That’s what Woody called her.”

Mama stood dumbfounded. One glance and I could tell her heart was melting like the new-fallen snow outside the window, warming up to the idea – as warm as the fire burning inside the Lakeside’s lobby fireplace.

“Where’s Woody? Have you seen him, Bertie?” I asked worried.

Bertie and her daughter froze. Solemn ghostlike expressions whitewashed their faces as they glanced at each other. Then at me. Mrs.Stankowski leaned closer, putting her arms around me, and speaking softly.

“Honey, I thought you knew. Well . . . I just presumed, because you visit so often,” she said all flustered, fumbling with her words. “Woody’s wife, Kathryn, passed away December 12^th, the Catholic feast day honoring Our Lady of Guadalupe (Mary). Isn’t that a strange coincidence, considering her grotto and all? Woody and the family – two daughters and a son –came by to pack up her things. He hasn’t been over here since. I thought for sure that he’d come out for the Bazaar. I guess he’s still grieving. I’m sorry, dear. I assumed you knew.”

“Poor Woody,” I cried out in shock. “He’ll be lost without her!”

“The Lord called her home, sugar,” Mama said, putting her arm around me and sounding like one of them TV preachers.

“I want to leave now, Mama,” I said, shivering from a numbing chill that come from deep inside. I had never known anyone who had died before. Now I did. Until today, death had never seemed real. Kathryn was real.

“She was Woody’s sweet kitten, Mama,” I said, tears dripping down my cheeks.

Everything inside of me quivered. All I could think of was that big ol’ hole in Woody’s heart.

Walking back to our apartment, the cold snow crunched beneath our feet. No one spoke. Me and Mama was each lost in our own private thoughts. As we circled the lake, I remembered the first time I met Woody. He was feeding them ducks. Wonder what Mama’s thinking about? Probably, about Mr. Jim Pratt! I guessed. But I wasn’t even close.

“Miss Emma June Blue. I like the sound of it,” Mama said smiling.

For a second, I thought I heard Woody’s voice instead of Mama’s.

“Mr. Woody sounds like he’s as sweet as tea. Blue honey, I’m afraid I was wrong to misjudge him . . . and you. Tomorrow maybe we could cook Mr. Woody a meal. Think he’d like that?”

Mama did have a heart!

I nodded, too choked up to utter a sound. Maybe I’d misjudged Mama, too.

“There’s a customer who comes in the restaurant all the time, and works in the Lakeside office. I’ll ask her to get me his address.”

“No need to, Mama. We can see Woody’s apartment right outside our window. I’ll show you where he lives on the way home.”

Dusk arrived before we reached home. To my delight, Woody’s “lamplighter” had flipped the switch at the Lakeside’s main building. Woody’s star was shining bright like the star of the East in the Christmas story.

“Mama, look!” I said proudly, pointing to his star twinkling in the lacey, violet sky. “I helped Woody make that.”

“Wonder if Kathryn’s peeking down, proud of Woody’s star lighting up the dark heavens, Mama?” I said.

“I reckon she’s about as proud of Woody as your Mama is of you, sugar,” Mama said, putting her arms around me, warming me up. It was a nice feeling being close to Mama again for a change.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Herons] are highly gregarious, feeding and nesting together. – Living Birds of the World by E. Thomas Gilliar

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

The next day, Sunday afternoon, Mama had cooked up a storm for Woody: chicken and noodles, a mess of ham ’n green beans, and a big ol’ chocolate cake (which I had frosted). Now we was standing outside his door with all that food, banging loudly, yelling “Woody!”

Nobody answered.

“Now what am I gonna do with all them noodles?” Mama fretted as we turned to leave.

Suddenly, the door swung open. Woody didn’t shout his usual excited, “Come in! Come in! Miss Emma June Blue.” Instead he was staring at us blank. Confused. He was a ghostly image of sadness with his white, stubble-beard, puffy-bloodshot eyes, and uncombed hair. My heart ached seeing him like this.

“Woody, this here’s my Mama. She’s made ya some supper.”

His sorrowful old eyes started filling up with tears. Slowly his cold, bony hand reached out like a claw for my hand and Mama’s from his wheel chair. Nothing else I could do, but hug him pickle jar tight.

“Mr. Woody, sir, we’re real sorry about your wife,” Mama said respectful and sweet.

Overwhelmed with emotion and unable to speak, Woody motioned for us to come in. He backed up his wheel chair and circled around. Me and Mama tagged behind him like baby ducks.

From the short entryway, I could see that his tiny kitchen was a mess. Coffee beans had spilled all over the floor, a dirty frying pan sat on top of a grease-filled stove, and dirty dishes was scattered all about. I was trying to figure out where we was gonna set all this food, when Mama – bless her heart – took over.

“Mr.Woody, I’m going to put this here food in the kitchen. But first, I’m gonna tidy it up a bit. Make room if it’s all right with you?”

Woody nodded gratefully.

“Blue honey, why don’t you and Mr. Woody visit a spell. I’ll be in to join you in a minute or two,” Mama said winking at me.

I squatted on a cozy blue and white floral-patterned couch while Woody parked his wheel chair in front of a reclining-type chair. My eyes nearly popped out watching him transferred hisself from the wheel chair to the recliner.

“Wow, you have to be as strong as Arnold Schwarzenegger to do that!” I said impressed, and trying to perk him up.

It worked.

“Just call me Arnold,” Woody kidded.

“Okay, Arnold.”

Then Woody leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Your Mama reminds me of an Army drill Sargent, giving orders in that kitchen.”

We laughed.

“I like her,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

Cheering Woody up give me a happy feeling inside like everything’s right with the world. Glancing around, I noticed dozens of family photos practically covering the whole wall. On another wall, a cuckoo clock had stopped at 1:30.

“Is your clock broken?” I asked.

“Nope. Just needs someone to pull the chains and set the time. I can’t reach it, so I have to wait until a visitor does it for me. Would you mind doing the honors? I love to hear the sound of my cuckoo clock.”

I fixed Woody’s clock. But I wasn’t the only one fixing things. Out in the kitchen, I could hear Mama splashing water, tidying up. It was another one of them Christmas miracles, I thought to myself, overjoyed. Then I asked Woody about all those photos of his son and two daughters – growing up, getting married, Christmas time. How sad Kathryn died at Christmas time, I thought staring at them photos. Two large black and white pencil-sketched portraits, hanging in the center of the wall, fascinated me. The old-fashioned picture on the left was of a handsome soldier with a pipe dangling from his mouth. On the right was a sketch of a classy-looking lady in a wool tweed suit.

“Is that you and . . . Kathryn?” I asked, struggling with her name. But Woody didn’t seem to notice. He was lost in his own memories.

“I posed for hours with that damn pipe dangling from my mouth, while an artist in the countryside of France sketched it during the war. Then I mailed it home to Kathryn. She was elated! So I returned to the artist with a tattered photo of her (I’d carried under my helmet all through the war) and asked him if he could sketch one of Kathryn, too,” Woody said in a quivery voice full of pride. “Here’s the results. A matching pair.”

“Don’t look like you,” I said staring at the picture of a handsome young soldier.

“Well, Miss Emma June Blue, that was over sixty years ago!” Woody said sounding more like hisself.

I swear I could almost smell that pipe in the picture. Maybe it was in his apartment. Or still in his clothes. But I’d never seen Woody smoking, I thought puzzled.

“You still smoke a pipe, Woody?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. I gave it up ten years ago. It’s the hardest thing I ever did,” he said.

About that time, Mama come bursting into the dreary room like the fresh scent of pine.

“Them cats you made for the Christmas Bazaar were just darlin’ with their cute little whiskers! I bought one for my friend, Wilma. A ‘Jesus’ plaque for Emma June’s Granny and Granddaddy back in Alabama, and a beautiful clock for my boyfriend,” Mama said blushing.

Boyfriend! My brain shrieked, while Woody’s eyebrows shot up. I knew he was biting his tongue, too.

“Mr. Woody, I got your kitchen all straightened up, and warmed ya up some supper. It’s ready anytime you are.”

“How about now? Smells good! ” Woody said excitedly, transferring hisself from his chair back into his wheelchair.

Me and Mama watched, amazed.

“Pull up a chair and join me,” Woody offered, maneuvering his wheelchair up to his small eating table. “But first I have to clear off my game of solitaire.”

Mama shook her head. “It’s for you, Mr. Woody. But we’ll stay for a spell and visit.

“Best thing I’ve eaten in a long time,” Woody said wiping his dribbling chin. “And heavens to Betsy, the kitchen’s all cleaned up to boot! Your Mama’s a real gem, Miss Emma June Blue!”

Mama smiled. Then buzzed around, picking up the dirty plates, blissful as a bee in a honey jar from Woody’s compliment.

“Say, you wouldn’t be interested in a cleaning job once a week, would you? As you can see, my place gets messy. My kids claim I needed one. Of course, I would pay you,” Woody pleaded to Mama.

“Well, Emma June and I could use the extra money.”

I knew Mama was thinking of that expensive test we had to take.

“Mr. Woody, you’ve got yourself a new employee!” Mama said beaming and shaking Woody’s fragile hand.

“In the meantime, could I interest you pretty ladies in a game of Rummy? I’d be honored if you could,” Woody asked politely.

“We’d be honored too, Mr. Woody,” Mama said smiling sweetly.

“Your daughter said you liked to play cards,” Woody said, dealing us a hand of cards.

There we was slapping down them cards, giggling, and yelling at each other for cheating. Just like a family! I thought. Mama must have had the same thought, missing her family back in Turkey Creek. Because she up and announced, “Emma June, maybe we’ll give that ‘Jesus’ plaque to Granny and Granddaddy in person. Then we’ll get that DNA test done in Montgomery. The court won’t accept a home test. I checked into it. It has to be a Court Admissible Paternity Test, which is darn expensive. More money than I got. I’ll have to ask Granddaddy for a loan. The letter said it had to be done before December 30^th. Then I’ll pay your Granddaddy back from my new job,” Mama said winking at Woody.

“Whoo . . . ee!” I jumped up hugging Mama, then Woody. When I did, I noticed a tear sliding down his wrinkled cheek.

Soon as I got home I dialed Gabrielle and left a message on her answering machine.

“Me and Mama’s headed to Turkey Creek for Christmas,” I breathed into the phone.

Them words glided over my lips, then lodged stone-heavy in my throat. My heart pounded. I’ve waited all my life for this Christmas. My addy will find me in Turkey Creek. I know he will. He has too! But why hasn’t he written me back?