A Shiloh Christmas (7 page)

We sing “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus,” Mrs. Maxwell playing the piano, and the service is over.

Ma's already made friends with the preacher's wife, and as people make their way up the aisle, she and Mrs. Dawes are talking about the weather. Everyone's praying for rain again. That one short rain we had was the only one we've had in months.

Mrs. Dawes is a thin woman, and probably a whole foot shorter than her husband. A whole lot quieter, too; not pretty, not plain—tired-looking, is how I'd describe her. And the little purple flowers on her gray dress don't do a whole lot to brighten her up.

“Judith, this is my husband, Ray,” Ma tells her. Mrs. Dawes puts out her hand, and Dad shakes it.

“Good to meet you,” he says. “Your family beginning to feel settled here?”

“Oh, yes. We're used to moving,” Mrs. Dawes says. “Always hard on the girls, though,” and she makes this
little gesture toward Rachel, who's standing four feet away, head turned toward the windows. Dara Lynn and Ruthie are already whispering little secrets to each other as they inch up the aisle with the rest of us.

“Our younger daughters ride the bus together,” Ma says. “We hear a lot about your Ruthie.”

“Well”—Mrs. Dawes moves two steps forward, stops again—“she's a regular little chatterbox. . . .”

I'm thinking this would be a good time to tell Rachel I got her name for a biography, but she's workin' so hard to keep her distance that I sort of wimp out. Not due till Christmas anyhow.

In the hallway, Becky comes scrambling up the stairs from below, waving her sticker book, and Ma grabs her hand so she won't push her way out through the door.

The preacher's there, shaking hands with everyone, and when it's Dad's turn, he says, “I'm Ray Preston, Pastor Dawes. Haven't had a chance yet to welcome you to our community.”

The pastor searches his face to see if he's someone he remembers—decides no. “Thank you,” he says, and there's at least a half-inch smile on his face. “I believe I've met your wife.”

“Yes, you have. I can't come every Sunday because
I need to finish a building project before winter sets in, but I hope to hear more of your sermons.”

I think the preacher's going to nod, but instead I hear him say, “Well, where your priorities are, there will your heart be also.”

And Dad says, “True. And right now my priorities are with my family. Nice to meet you.” And I follow him out.

It's a quiet Sunday afternoon without Dad sawing and hammering out there on the new addition. He's in the recliner with a pillow behind his back, and I watch a football game with him. We usually root for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but today we're cheering the Giants.

I sit on the floor with Shiloh. I'm propped against the sofa, and he lies with his head on his paws, eyes closed, but I'll see his ears twitch if there's a loud blast of noise from the TV. It's like he's sleeping and listening both at the same time.

He'll get up and wander off now and then if he hears a sound in the kitchen like maybe somebody's opening a can of meatballs and didn't invite him. But one time, when he don't come back, I go get a snack for myself, and then I notice that Dara Lynn and Becky's bedroom door is closed. That's an almost sure 100 percent that they're into mischief.

I go stand with my ear against the door, and all I get are giggles.

I knock, and they scream and Shiloh yips.

“Don't come in!” Becky yells, but if my dog is in there, I'm going.

I open the door and see them trying to push Shiloh into the closet. At least I think it's Shiloh, because he's got a red kerchief around his neck, one of Becky's white T-shirts over his chest and front paws, and a fringed skirt around his belly, with a pair of pink underwear pulled up high on his hind legs.

“What are you doing?” I say. “Get that stuff off my dog!”

“It's his Halloween costume!” says Dara Lynn. “He's cute!”

“He's a cowgirl!” says Becky, and then she bolts out the door before I can catch her, Shiloh at her heels. Next thing she's in the living room by Dad's chair, tapping his arm to see Shiloh.

But there's a penalty being announced at the football game, and the referee is adjusting his microphone.

“Shhhh,” Dad says to Becky, his eyes never leaving the screen. “I want to hear this.” He pats his legs for Becky to climb into his lap, but Shiloh thinks it's for him and jumps instead.

Us three kids are standing there, our mouths half-open, as Dad feels the fringe of the cowgirl skirt on his lap, and still watching the TV, he gives Shiloh's rump a little pat.

Then Shiloh wags his tail, flip-flop, right against Dad's hand, and suddenly Dad jerks back and stares down at the dog.

“Becky!” he yells, and I'm laughing harder than I can remember, right along with my sisters. I come out here to bawl 'em out, and all I can do is double over. Ma comes in from the other room, and she's laughing too.

“Two girls in this family is enough!” Dad says, grinning now. “Would you let that dog be a dog, please, and let me finish watchin' this game?”

The next week the preacher's wife calls and asks Ma if Ruthie could stay at our house awhile after school on Wednesday. She's got to take Rachel to the eye doctor, and there's like to be a long wait at his office. Mrs. Dawes would be glad to return the favor anytime Ma would like to leave Dara Lynn with them.

“Would they keep her for a year?” I say when Mom tells us at the dinner table, and she gives me her look.

Wednesday I come home from school and here's this skinny-legged girl—skinnier than Dara Lynn, even—sitting
on top of the tire swing, her legs crossed beneath her, hands holding tight to the rope, and Dara Lynn on a stepladder, holding her back. Dara Lynn lets her go, and Ruthie sails out across the yard screechin' her lungs out, but when she sails back again, she bumps into Dara Lynn, knockin' her off the stepladder, herself off the tire, and then Becky jumps down off the porch and piles on top of them, all three of them laughing and shrieking. Never heard such high-pitched sounds in all my life. I go in the house and shut the door.

Ma smiles. “It's not so bad with the door closed,” she says.

But later they come inside, and Dara Lynn and Ruthie are on the phone, tryin' to convince Mrs. Dawes to let Ruthie stay for dinner. Finally she agrees, as long as Dara Lynn will come to dinner someday at their house.

When Dad gets home, though, Ruthie gets quiet, and at the dinner table, she eats with her eyes down. She's got a long, thin face, like her pa, and her light-brown hair hangs in wisps around her ears. Dad asks her a few polite questions, and she answers like every word she uses costs her a nickel.

So Becky takes over. Chews for a while, her eyes on Ruthie, and then she up and says, “Why do you have to march three times around the Bible?”

This time Ruthie's head comes up and she stares back. I see Dara Lynn squirm.

“What?” says Ruthie.

“Why do you have to march three times around the Bible if you touch it?” Becky asks.

Ruthie's eyebrows scrunch up, trying to puzzle it out. “We can't touch it when it's open, but we don't have to march. . . .”

And Dara Lynn, trying hard to change the subject, says, “But you had to put your feet in ice water.”

Now Ma and Dad have stopped eating.

“That was only once, for something else,” Ruthie says, and drops her eyes again.

Dad steps in. “Well, we're glad you could join us for dinner, Ruthie. I already peeked in the kitchen and see some apple dumplings out there.”

When the dusty black car pulls up around seven, the preacher gets out and stands by the car, and Dad walks out with Ruthie. I watch from the door.

Preacher and Dad shake hands.

“Nice to see you again, Pastor,” Dad says. “We enjoyed having Ruthie join us for dinner.”

“I trust she behaved herself,” the preacher says.

“Absolutely. A pleasure to have her at our table.”

“Bringing them up in the way of the Lord is the hardest work I ever did in my life. Scripture promises that if we do, they will not depart from it, but it's a struggle, isn't it?” Preacher says. And without waiting for an answer, he slides into the driver's seat and starts the car.

If Rachel is supposed to be wearing glasses at school, she don't want anyone to know it. Mr. Kelly is talking about autobiographies now, and he hands out a list he wants us to read—choose two, he says—and I see Rachel squinting at the list. In math, though, we've still got blackboards, and we're supposed to copy down some problems from the board. I see her dig a pair of glasses out of her bag, put them on, and take them off the minute she's through. Sees me looking at her and gives me this scowl as if to say,
So what?
I see that look a lot. Ma calls people like that “prickly.” Like they're ready to be offended whatever you do or say.

Every few weeks I ride over to Doc Murphy's, see if there's any job I can do for him that would take a little off the bill I owe him for fixing up Shiloh. This particular day he asks can I clean out one of the cupboards in his kitchen—got sort of sticky since his wife passed away, and it's not something a man pays much attention to.