A Redbird Christmas (10 page)

An Awakening

S
PRING CAME TO
Lost River around the middle of March. The nights were slowly becoming warmer, and each evening as the sun went down, the mullet started jumping and splashing around in the river, almost as if they too were happy spring was here. Soon all the flowers Oswald had not seen when he arrived began to bloom. Almost overnight, the entire area was heady with the smell of gardenias, azaleas, wisteria, night-blooming jasmine, and honeysuckle. Oswald thought, if this were to be his last spring on earth, it was certainly the most spectacular one he had ever witnessed.

A few weeks later, on one balmy night as Oswald walked down the street, he saw fireflies flitting in and out of the bushes, and the wind blowing the Spanish moss through the trees forming shadows on the road. As he reached the river, Oswald suddenly felt as if he were walking around in a painting. Then it dawned on him. Everywhere he looked was a painting! Everything was alive with color: the water, the sky, the boathouses that lined the river, with red tin roofs, silver tin roofs, and rusted orange tin roofs. Red boat in a yellow boathouse. Green, pink, blue, tan, yellow, and white boathouses. The wooden pilings sticking out of the water were a thousand different shades of gray, and each individual piling was encrusted with hundreds of chalk-white barnacles and black woodpecker holes. Even the grain of the wood and the knots on each post differed from inch to inch and pole to pole. Vibrant color everywhere he looked and it all changed from season to season, from minute to minute. At that moment he thought, God, if he could only paint all the beautiful things he saw! He could live a thousand years and never run out of things to paint. Birds, trees, ducks, flowers. After Oswald had gotten out of the army, he had signed up for a course in architecture, but he never finished it. He had certainly never painted anything in his life, but when he had been younger, before he made a career out of drinking, he had always been tempted by those
DRAW ME
advertisements in magazines. One time he had gone so far as to actually send one in and they had written back and told him in glowing terms that he had talent and invited him to send off for a series of art courses, taught by famous artists, but Helen had discouraged him. She said it was just a scam and that they told everybody they had talent just to get you to buy lessons—so he had not followed up. But now he wondered if maybe they had been right. Maybe he might have talent. He could try a few things on his own; after all, he didn’t have a thing to lose.

The next day he started by just doing the black silhouettes of the birds and trees in pen and ink on the backs of old paper sacks, and after a week or two he had about ten drawings he thought were not half bad. He even gave one a name, “The Lone Duck,” and signed it
O. T. Campbell.
A few weeks later he strolled around the store to the area where Roy kept the school supplies, picked up a long black tin box of watercolors, and asked Roy how much it was. “A buck,” Roy said. “OK,” he said, pulled out a dollar, and left. Roy thought he had bought the watercolors for Patsy, but he was wrong. Oswald felt a little foolish dipping his brush into paint shaped like stars and half moons, but he had to start somewhere and he needed to get as much practice as he could.

ALONG THE RIVER

The Lost River
Community Association Newsletter

Well, it’s official. Spring has sprung, and as that gentleman bard Browning once said, “Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.” But with all our flowers bursting with color and splash, I say I would much rather be in Lost River. Have you ever seen a prettier spring? And of course it’s getting to be that time of year when Mr. Peter Cottontail is about ready to come hopping down that bunny trail. All you boys and girls out there be sure to come for the big Easter egg hunt that will be held at the community hall, and a big thanks to Mr. Oswald T. Campbell for volunteering to help dye Easter eggs this year.

—Dottie Nivens

A Visit

M
ISS ALMA WAS
having her nap and Oswald was out on the river, so Betty Kitchen had a moment to walk next door and have a cup of coffee with Frances. After they had finished discussing Polka Dot business, she said, “You know, Frances, we are all going to have to be extra special nice to Mr. Campbell.”

“Why?”

“Last night I asked him if he had any family and he told me no, he was an orphan named after a can of soup. He said he did not have a living relative that he knew of.”

Frances was appalled. “Oh, poor Mr. Campbell, and he never mentioned a word to me about it. Betty, can you think of anything worse than being an orphan?”

Betty thought it over for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind giving it a try, for a day or so at least. Mother is about to drive me batty. I came in this morning and she had poured four boxes of oatmeal and two bottles of Log Cabin syrup all over my kitchen floor. You try cleaning that up.”

“What possessed her to do that?”

Betty shrugged. “Who knows what possesses her to do anything? Yesterday she was hiding from Eskimos she saw flying around in the yard and locked herself in the attic. Poor Butch had to come over in the middle of the night and break the lock to get her out. She’s worse than trying to keep track of a litter of kittens.”

After Betty left, Frances thought about poor Mr. Campbell. Even though she did have her sister Mildred and plenty of relatives, she knew what it felt like to be lonely. Mr. Campbell deserved to find someone, even if it was late in his life. There was always hope, and now that he had put on a little weight he was almost nice-looking. Why Mildred would waste so much time over that Billy Jenkins who had left her practically at the altar was beyond her. She knew Mr. Campbell liked Mildred. Why else would he laugh at her terrible jokes?

Just as she was finishing the dishes, she heard someone knocking at her door and wondered who it was. She dried her hands and walked to the door, and there stood Tammie Suggs and she did not look happy. Oh dear, thought Frances, I could be in trouble. She had bought Patsy a pair of gloves on the sly. But she put on her best smile and said, “Well, hello, Mrs. Suggs, how nice to see you. Won’t you come in?”

As Frances opened the door she looked out and saw a banged-up maroon truck parked in front of her house with a long-haired man sitting in the driver’s seat. Tammie marched into the living room, flopped down in her best chair, and said, “The reason I’ve come here is because my husband showed back up yesterday, and we’re fixing to leave for Arkansas in the morning.”

Frances’s heart sank. She had known this day was coming, but she had hoped to have a little more time with Patsy.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Suggs. I’m sure we will all miss Patsy.”

“Here’s the thing,” Tammie said. “I know you took sort of an interest in her and all, and my husband said he don’t want to fool with her no more, so I was wondering if you knew anybody that might be willing to have her for a while.”

Frances was totally unprepared for the question but, not missing a beat, she looked Tammie right in the eye. “I do know somebody, Mrs. Suggs,” she said. “Me. I would just love to have that little girl.”

Tammie said, “Well, all right, then, you can have her this afternoon if you want.” And she gave the child away with no more concern than if she had just given away an old sweater.

After Tammie and the husband drove off, Frances was beside herself with joy. She had prayed for a child for years and every Christmas Eve had secretly longed to have a little girl of her own to send up and get a present from Santa Claus. When her husband died she had given up hope. But now her prayers had been answered. She was so grateful, she thanked the Good Lord that Tammie had come to her first and wondered why she had ever doubted Him. She ran upstairs to get the room ready for Patsy and to think about all the things she was going to buy her. She would buy her a hundred pairs of shoes, and Patsy could ruin all of them, as far as she was concerned.

Frances called everyone she knew and told them the good news. They were all delighted and relieved that Patsy was finally going to have a good home. Later that day, after Frances had the room ready, she went down to the store and explained to Patsy that she was coming home to live with her now. Patsy, who had been left in so many different places in her short life and always went where she was told to go, said OK. She told Jack goodbye and that she would see him in the morning. That first afternoon as Frances walked down the street with Patsy, holding her hand all the way back up to her house, people up and down all came out on their porches and waved at them as they passed. Dottie called out with a flourish, “Helloo, Miss Patsy, we’re all so glad you’re going to stay with us!”

It soon became a familiar sight, Frances walking the little girl in the Dr Pepper hat to the store every morning and back home every afternoon.

In all the excitement of getting Patsy, it was not until a few days later that Frances realized Tammie Suggs had left without giving her a forwarding address. Not only that, she also realized she had no idea what Patsy’s last name was. But it didn’t really make any difference. Frances had her now, and that was all that mattered. She and Mildred took Patsy to Mobile and bought her shoes and socks, underwear, dresses, coats, and sweaters. They tried to buy her a few cute hats but Patsy did not want any hat other than the Dr Pepper beanie Mr. Campbell had given her. She wore it with everything. Even when Frances washed her hair and combed it out so nice and shiny, she put the hat right back on. On the first Sunday, when Frances dressed her up in a frilly white dress, she put the beanie on again and Frances didn’t have the heart to make her take it off, so she wore it to church. She would have slept in it if Frances had let her.

As the days went by, Frances worried that Patsy might be upset at coming to live with a complete stranger, but if she missed Tammie Suggs or her father, she never said so. She never complained about anything, really. She was basically a very shy and quiet child and seemed perfectly happy to do what she was told. Although Frances did not know how old Patsy was, she guessed she must be at least six and planned on sending her to first grade in the fall. But before she went, Frances wanted to teach her a few basic things so she would have a head start. Even though December was still eight months away, she wanted to make sure that Patsy would be able to write a letter to Santa Claus next Christmas and go up and get her present from Santa with all the other children.

Every afternoon after the store closed, Patsy would come home and have her lessons. Mildred came by and asked how Patsy was doing, and Frances beamed with pride. “Oh, Mildred, she’s as bright as a penny, she can already write her name and she’s reading like a house afire.” She turned and exclaimed, “Why, she may be a genius for all we know!”

Mildred was genuinely happy for her sister, but she was also worried. “Now, Frances, don’t let yourself get too attached to this child, you’re just setting yourself up to have your heart broken when that father comes back for her. It’s not like you can keep her forever.”

“I know that,” said Frances. “I know I only have her for a little while.”

“Well, just as long as you understand,” Mildred said. “I don’t want you to get too attached and forget that she belongs to someone else.” But her sister’s warning was too late. Frances had already become attached. Secretly she hoped that the little girl would never have to leave.

When Oswald wasn’t at the store visiting with Patsy or at the river, he worked on his sketches on the back porch of the Kitchen house. One rainy afternoon when he was on the porch, Betty walked out to get something from the extra ice box she kept out there, glanced at his latest picture, and exclaimed, “That looks just like a blue jay!” And then she added, “I hate blue jays,” and went back in the kitchen.

But Oswald was very encouraged. Not that Betty hated blue jays but that she had recognized what he had drawn. When he had first started, all his birds looked alike. He must be getting better.

Oswald was now spending most of his cigarette money on painting supplies, but that was all right with him. He was smoking less anyway.

A few days later, Oswald asked Claude Underwood, who went fishing every morning at 6
A.M
., if he would take him back up in the marshes. He wanted to see the large ospreys and their nests that he had been told were there. There was a picture of them in his Alabama birds book, but so far he had not spotted any.

“Sure,” said Claude, happy to oblige. “I can get you right up to them and leave you there for a couple of hours, if you like.” Claude had seen some of his drawings and was pleased that Oswald had found something he seemed to enjoy. He noticed that Oswald was getting a lot of mail now from the Alabama Ornithological and Audubon Society.

The next morning at five-thirty Oswald walked over to Claude’s house. He saw a light on in the kitchen and knocked gently. Claude’s wife, Sybil, opened the door and greeted him with a big smile. “Come on in, Mr. Campbell, and have a cup of coffee. Claude’s getting the boat ready.” He stepped into a big room, with pine walls and a brick fireplace that had a large circular brown-and-cream rug in front of it. The sofa and the easy chair and the curtains in the windows all had the same brown-checked material, and hanging over the fireplace was a picture of the Last Supper. A round honey-colored maple dining table, with a lazy Susan and chairs, was across the room. The place was neat and clean and looked as if it had not changed one bit since it was first decorated, which by the look of the pinecone wallpaper in the kitchen, Oswald guessed was probably sometime in the forties. “A place where time itself stood still,” came to his mind as he sat down and was handed a cup of coffee and a homemade cinnamon bun by Sybil, who also looked like she was from the forties. She had on a white frilly apron over her housedress and still wore her hair in tight curls that only old-fashioned bobby pins could create. “Claude tells me you are going across the river to look at some birds for your art.”

He laughed. “Mrs. Underwood, I don’t know if you can call it art, but yes, I’m going to try and do a few sketches.”

Sybil poured him another cup of coffee. “I think it’s very exciting,” she said. “Claude tells me you are a wonderful artist. Who knows, Mr. Campbell, one day you may be hanging in a museum and make us all famous.”

Claude came through the front door. “Good morning,” he said. “We can take off anytime you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” said Oswald, picking up his sketch pad. Sybil handed each of them a small paper bag.

Mr. Campbell looked at his sack. “What’s this?”

“Your lunch,” she said. “You don’t think I’d send you boys off with nothing to eat, do you?”

It had been years since anyone had called Oswald a boy, and he liked it. As they walked to the river, he said, “Your wife is really nice. How long have you been married?”

“Forty-one years this July.”

Then Claude, who was usually a man of few words, said something surprising. “And I don’t mind telling you that there has not been a day in all those years that I haven’t thanked the Good Lord for her.”

The river was still covered with early morning mist as they headed out. After about an hour, the mist lifted and the sun came up over the salty marshes that now lay before them. Claude pointed to some tall gray trees that had great nests on the tops of them. “There they are.” As they approached the bank of the river, a big hawklike bird rose up and gently flapped to another tree, and perched there, looking at them. “If you’re lucky you’ll see all kinds of owls and hawks and cranes, they live up in these marshes.” Claude pulled up alongside a dock with a wooden bench and let him out. “I’ll be back to get you in a few hours.”

As Claude pulled away and disappeared around the bend and the sound of his motor faded away Oswald realized that he was truly out in the middle of nowhere. After a while back up in the marshes with only the sound of occasional wings flapping and a hoot owl way off in the distance to break the silence, Oswald began to lose all sense of time and place. All the years of catechism, and years of drinking, had not done it, but now, sitting in the silence, away from “the whirl of society and the noise of city life,” he felt himself becoming one with nature. For the first time in his life he was at peace. He had finally caught a glimpse of what they had been talking about.

Around ten o’clock he started to get hungry, so he opened the sack and looked in. Sybil had packed him a typical fisherman’s lunch: a box of saltine crackers and small tins of potted meat, tiny Vienna sausages, and sardines. She had included a white plastic knife and several packets of mustard and he ate the whole thing and it was delicious. An hour later, Claude came to pick him up, and when he got in the boat Claude said, “Any luck?”

“Oh, yes, I must have seen a hundred birds,” he said. “What about you?”

“A little,” Claude said, as they headed home. Oswald found out later that for Claude a little luck meant he had caught more fish and bigger fish than anyone on the river, not just that day but also that week. There was no question that he had a talent for fishing. He knew the currents and how to read them, how the wind affected the fish, how deep they were at what time of the year. Some who had been with him said he could hear them. But he was modest, and when he was asked how he did it he just said, “I do a lot of it and stick with it longer, I guess.” The only time he did not fish was on Saturday afternoon when everybody in Lost River had the Saturday opera on the radio and you could hear it up and down the river. Claude said there was no point to try because all those Italians screaming like that scared the fish so bad they wouldn’t bite anyway.