The House Without a Christmas Tree (3 page)

With that big decision made, I jumped down from the chair and struck a crazy pose in front of the old mirror on our dresser. I didn't think I looked much like an angel.

Chapter Three

I got more and more nervous as the afternoon wore on. Dad would soon be home, and I would have to make my move. I was looking anxiously out the living room window, watching for his truck in the driveway, when Billy Wild came along delivering newspapers. He usually made the rounds on his bike, but he couldn't get through the heavy snow that afternoon, so he was pulling his canvas bag of papers along on his sled. He was wearing galoshes over his cowboy boots, and I knew it was killing him to have to cover them up for even a second.

At most of the houses along his route, he would just put the paper between the storm door and the inside door, or put it in a protected place like the milk box, but he usually knocked on the door at our house and handed it to me, and we'd talk a minute or two. I didn't know why we always talked to each other, because if anyone had asked us, we would have said we didn't even like each other. But for some reason, we would yak on about nothing.

Today, though, I wasn't in the mood for any idle chatter. As soon as he knocked on the door, I yanked it open, grabbed the paper out of his hand, said “thanks,” and practically slammed the door in his face before he could say a word. He just stood there on the porch giving me a disgusted look. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he did the same back and turned around and went down the steps. I watched him as he grabbed the rope of his sled and went on down the street.

I plopped nervously onto the sofa with the newspaper and tried to concentrate on Dick Tracy, but the approaching confrontation with Dad kept interfering.

When he finally came home, I tried to stay out of his way. I invented things to do, like picking lint off my sweater and polishing my brown oxfords, which I usually did about once a year. I hardly said a word all through dinner. Grandma kept looking over at me to see if I was going to take the plunge, and I would pretend to be interested in my mashed potatoes, which in reality I hated with a passion.

When dinner was over, Dad went into the living room to read the paper, and I got very interested in helping with the dishes and putting away leftovers, something else I hated with a passion. Grandma, as usual, knew exactly what I was up to.

“Weren't you going to ask your father something?” she said, as I slowly stuffed leftover potatoes into an old peanut butter jar.

“I was?” I said, sounding totally surprised. “What?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, that,” I said, as though I hadn't given it a thought. “Well, I think I'll wait till we finish the dishes.”

“Why?”

“I want to finish the dishes first!” I knew how ridiculous that sounded, but she had the grace not to laugh.

“Never saw you so anxious to do dishes before!”

“He's … not in a good mood,” I said, trying to think of a reason not to ask him.

“Any man's in a good mood once he's had a good meal,” said Grandma. She believed that eating would fix just about anything that was wrong with anybody. “That was when I'd always ask your grandpa for things—after supper.”

“But Grandpa loved you. I don't think Dad loves me.”

“Of course he does!” she said, sounding shocked. “You're his child!”

“He never hugs me or kisses me.”

“He ain't very good at showin' how he feels,” she said quietly, looking at me to see if I understood.

“When Carla Mae's father gets home, he grabs her up in his arms and twirls her around …”

“Your Dad ain't the huggin' kind.”

“He'd love me a lot more if I was a boy …”

“Now that's a gosh-darned thing to say!” Grandma said, and I knew she was upset, because she never used slang like “goshdarned.”

“Well, he treats me like a boy. He taught me to box! I bet when I was born, he wanted me to be a boy!”

“Your dad and mother waited for you for a long … they thought you were the greatest baby in the world!” She shook her head at the memory. “They didn't give a fig whether you were a boy or a girl.”

I fidgeted around the table for a moment, clearing dishes, then suddenly changed the subject. “Don't give me a doll or anything like that this Christmas.”

“Well, I sure wouldn't,” she said. “The way you got all them poor dolls stuffed in the old dresser drawer in the basement, you don't deserve another one.”

“I want a pair of cowboy boots.”

“Cowboy boots? What for?”

“To wear to school, like Billy Wild.”

“Thought you didn't like Billy,” she said, giving me an amused look.

“I despise him!” I said haughtily. “But I love his boots.”

I went on putting things away. Grandma was not going to let me off the hook.

“That's enough,” she said. “I'll finish up.”

“I'll dry!”

“No, you go speak to your father.”

“Shall I cover this pie with wax paper?”

“I'll do it,” she said. “You've got something to ask your father. Go ask him …”

“Well, what's all the hurry?” I asked. “Maybe I'll wait and ask him tomorrow.”

“Never put off until tomorrow …” she started to say.

“I know, I know,” I said, nervously hanging onto the back of a chair. “OK, I'm going.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“OK, OK.” I somehow let go of the chair and went into the living room.

Dad was settled in his big chair reading the newspaper. I eyed him surreptitiously to see what mood he was in. It was hard to tell, because, as Grandma had said, he wasn't much on showing his feelings.

There were a lot of things I liked and respected about my father. I liked that he was tall and slender and had slightly gray hair and looked a little like Randolph Scott, who was always the star of cowboy movies. Dad was an expert with his crane and even though he had his hands in machine grease all day, his fingernails were always clean. He could whistle through his teeth, which I never could learn to do. I liked the way he smelled—of To A Wild Rose hair tonic and tobacco and shaving cream and leather. He knew how to fix his own car and he always beat me at cards and anagrams and checkers.

I knew there were things he liked about me too, but we never told any of this to each other. Instead, we waged a constant, subtle war of irritation, sometimes going at each other “like two cats in a sack,” as Grandma would say. On those occasions, she would usually be in the middle, trying not to undermine Dad's authority and at the same time, trying to dispense a little justice on my behalf. I never actually kept score, but I think I broke even in the long run.

I thought I would busy myself with something before I approached him. Our living room was so small, though, that whatever I did always seemed to involve everybody else, especially because I was a bit noisy and Dad was the quiet type. There was Grandma's rocking chair, our small sofa, which was my domain, and the writing desk, where we each had drawers of belongings. Dad's drawers were full of receipts and insurance papers; and Grandma's, full of her stubby pencils and writing tablets and her ubiquitous scraps of paper; and mine, full of playing cards and marbles and jacks and other important things of that nature.

I tried not to disturb Dad as I looked through the drawers. I spied my bag of marbles in the back and pulled the drawer way out to get at them. Of course, it dropped with a tremendous clatter, and Dad put down his paper and looked very annoyed.

“I'm sorry,” I said meekly.

“You left the paper in a mess again,” he said. He liked to have it folded up neatly, just the way it came, and I almost always forgot to do it after I read the comics.

“Sorry, Dad.”

He showed me where I had made a mistake on the crossword puzzle too. It didn't seem to be my night, but I saved the situation a little by complimenting him on how much better he was at crossword puzzles than I was. I couldn't tell if it helped or not. He went back to reading, and I got busy with my marbles on the floor. It was so quiet in the living room that every little click of the marbles seemed tremendously loud. I could tell he had stopped reading and was watching me. I deliberately made a couple of sloppy shots.

“No, no,” he said, “not like that.” He got out of his chair to show me how. I had known he would fall for it.

He spent a few minutes showing me how to get my knuckle flat on the floor for a smooth shot. I already knew, but I figured being sneaky and making him feel good was fair play when I had an important question to ask.

“Play a game with me, Dad?”

“Nope,” he said, getting back into his chair. “Going to bed early.” He lit a cigarette and tossed the empty package to me. “Here's something for you …”

“Thanks,” I said, and started to take out the foil to add to my collection. “Don't know what to use this for …” I said, under my breath.

“What?”

“Can't use this to make tree decorations because we don't have a tree.”

“Are you starting that again?” he asked.

“Won't you please buy me a tree, Dad? Please? Just a little tree?”

“I've already told you no, and no means no!”

“A tiny tree? That wouldn't cost very much. You spend more on cigarettes in a week than a tree costs! I added it up!”

I could see that had struck a nerve. He was angry.

“Addie! I told you …”

“Please! I
implore
you!”

The big word seemed to annoy him rather than impress him.

“You do not need a tree!”

“I do! I do!”

“What for? We're going to Will's.”

“It would make this house happy-looking.”

“Looks all right to me,” he said.

“But it doesn't look like Christmas in here! It doesn't feel like Christmas either,” I said, babbling on. “I don't see why I can't have a tree! All the other kids do!”

“You don't have to do everything the other kids do!”

“Why not? It's not like it's doing something bad. Having a tree is a good thing.”

“Will you stop pestering me and go to bed?” he said, raising his newspaper in front of his face to shut me out.

“It's not my bedtime yet!” I shouted angrily.

“Addie!”

“Dad, if you'll let me have a tree, I won't ask for another thing for a whole year!”

He put the paper down, disgusted.

“Will you bet me something?” I asked. He was always making bets with me, and sometimes I could win. “If I win I get the tree, and if I lose, I'll never ask you again.”

“All right,” he said, looking smug. “I'll make you a bet.”

“What is it?”

“I'll bet you can't drink a glass full of water.”

“The heck I can't,” I said excitedly, and ran to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Just to make sure there would be no question of my integrity, I filled a big, tall jelly glass full and carried it carefully back to the living room. Grandma came in and sat in her rocker to watch. I stood by Dad's chair and gulped it down quickly.

“I won!” I said triumphantly.

“I said you had to drink a glass full,” he replied.

“I did!”

“Oh, no,” he said, laughing. “You drank it empty.”

I was so furious I couldn't speak. I wanted to throw the glass at him. Grandma was reading my mind.

“Give me the glass, Addie,” she said gently. I handed it to her and ran into our bedroom. I leaned up against the door, shaking with anger. He had been mean and unfair, and there was no way I could get back at him. I hated being a kid at moments like that. I wanted to be grown-up so I could get even.

I could hear Grandma talking to him from the living room.

“James, that was cruel,” she said.

“Where's your sense of humor? It was just a joke.”

“You wouldn't play a joke like that on one of your friends. What a thing to do to a child, over something she wants so much.”

Dad didn't answer. I knew he hated it when Grandma scolded him as though he were still her little boy.

“James,” she said quietly. “Let her have a tree this year. It means so much to her. Why not? Have you forgotten what it's like to be ten years old?”

“She has to learn. In this life you can't have everything you want.” I could tell from his low voice that he was angry.

“It's Christmas, for goodness' sakes,” said Grandma. “A tree's such a small thing to make her happy. You might be surprised at yourself. You might enjoy it too.”

“You're one hundred per cent wrong about that.”

“You've let your whole life turn sour,” said Grandma. “You've no right to sour Addie's life too.”

“I don't want to talk about it …”

“You don't want nothin' around to remind you. Well, Addie's around. You can't look at her and not be reminded.”

I didn't know what they were talking about, but I could tell they were both upset.

“I don't have to listen to this!” he said angrily, and I heard him get up from his chair and start toward the kitchen door.

“For two cents I'd buy her a tree myself,” Grandma called after him.

“Don't you do it, Mother!” he said angrily. “She's my daughter and I'll decide what she can and can't have.”

Then I heard him go out and get in his truck and drive away. I had made a mess of things again.

Chapter Four

I stayed in bed late the next morning, making sure Dad had left for work before I got up, so I wouldn't have to face him at breakfast. Then I gulped down my own breakfast quickly and headed across the snowy lawn toward Carla Mae's house next door.

Carla Mae and I always used our special path between the row of poplar trees that separated our yards, and at any time of the day you were likely to see one or both of us come shooting through the trees in mid-air and land with a thud on the lawn. Now, with snow on the ground, and big, clunky overshoes and a heavy coat, and an armload of books, it wasn't easy to make the leap, but I got a running start and landed almost standing up in Carla Mae's yard. I thought of going back and trying it again to see if I could get a better landing, but it was getting late.