I was learning fast.
I learned why you have to have Christmas Eve Day before you can have
Christmas. It's so you can sit on the kitchen floor and string popcorn
to hang on the big tree at church. Mierd told me that. And she was in a
good humor, even laughing, when she said it.
The next minute, though, Mierd was fussing, saying I was bad, tattling
to Mama.
"Mama, just look at Bandershanks! You ought'a get a switch to her!
She's eating up every grain of this popcorn! Won't be enough left to go
from one limb to another, much less all round the Christmas tree!"
Mierd jerked the pan of popcorn out of my hands and held it up toward
Mama. "Look, Mama!"
"Mama, Mierd's telling you wrong! I just eat the ones that crack when I
punch my needle in 'em!"
Mama didn't even look around. She spread another dampened pillowcase on
the ironing board and pressed her hot iron back and forth, back and
forth, along the crocheted trimming.
As soon as Mierd set the pan back on the floor between our feet, I
reached for more corn.
"Bandershanks, you're clumsy with your needle on purpose! See how long
my string is? And look at yours! I bet you ain't got fourteen grains on
it. Quit grabbing all the biggest grains!"
"You're making me spill it, Mierd!
"Girls! Girls! Christmas Eve's no time for sisters to be quarreling."
Mama folded the pillowcase as fast as she could and gave it a final
lick with the smoothing iron. She glanced down at Mierd and me and at
the half-empty pan of corn. She couldn't see the sour face Mierd was
making at me. "Now y'all make haste and finish stringing your popcorn.
We've got to go on up to the church and help Aunt Vic. She's worked so
hard getting up the program, the least the rest of us can do is have
the church ready tonight."
"Are we gonna just stay till the program?"
"No, Mierd. The cows have got to be milked, and I'll need to fix supper
for your grandma and grandpa. So we'll rush back home as soon as we get
the cleaning and decorating done. Thank goodness I'm through with this
eternal ironing one more time."
Mierd hopped up off the floor and asked Mama where Wiley was.
"I thought you knew he went with a bunch of boys to look for the
tree—this morning."
"No'm."
"I wish I'd gone."
"No, no, Bandershanks. Girls don't go tramping through the woods to cut
down Christmas trees. The place for girls is in the house. Mierd, see
if Grandpa Thad has finished hitching up the wagon for us."
I grabbed myself a handful of corn and ran with Mierd.
Lots of folks were going in and out of Papa's store as we passed there.
Mama said they had waited till the eleventh hour to buy presents to put
on the tree.
We could see several people up at the church, too. Uncle Dan and
Wallace Goode's papa were at the woodpile chopping kindling. Mrs. Goode
and Mrs. Hansen were stooping down by the church doorsteps. At first I
couldn't imagine what they were doing. Then, as we got closer, I saw
that they had the wall lamps and tin reflectors lined up on the bottom
steps and were cleaning globes, trimming wicks, and polishing the
reflectors.
Mama told Mierd that the Missionary Society had bought extra oil.
"Y'all gonna light all sixteen lamps, Mama?"
"Every one! After all, it's Christmas Eve!"
As soon as Mama went inside, she and Aunt Lovie started talking about
the sagging old benches. They looked at the one with the bad bottom.
"It ought'a be either fixed or thrown away," Mama said. She took hold
of one slat and shook it. The whole pew almost fell apart.
"Every last one of them should be taken out and chopped up for
firewood!" Aunt Lovie declared. "Then we'd have to get new benches. Pa
used to say that when the old church was built the carpenters just
nailed together some scrap lumber to use temporarily—till the
congregation could buy regular pews. Then, when we put up this church,
we foolishly brought the old things on over here."
"Yes, I know," Mama said. "That temporary business turned into a long
time. Forty years or more!"
I left Mama and Aunt Lovie still talking about the pitiful condition of
the church. Mierd and Sally were shrieking and fluttering around like
two young setting hens, so I had to find out what they were looking at
out the middle window.
It was just Wiley and Wallace Goode and the big boys with the Christmas
tree. They were at the corner of the building trying to slide the tree
out of Mister Goode's wagon. We couldn't hear what they were saying,
but from the way Dorris and Jim-Bo were waving their arms, they were
all trying to decide whether to pull the big holly toward the front of
the wagon or toward the back.
The boys finally got the tree out of the wagon and a base nailed on it.
They carried the tall tree to the front of the church, but they
couldn't get it to stand straight. In spite of long, stiff wires
fastened to its limbs, the tree kept leaning toward the pulpit. Aunt
Vic said that would never do. She had Dorris and Jim-Bo turn the tree
around this way and that. Still, it wouldn't stand straight.
Finally, Mister Shepherd sent Wallace Goode home to get a hand saw so
he could trim off the bottom of the trunk. Then he showed Jim-Bo how to
brace the tree by nailing on three short boards.
Mister Shepherd and Jim-Bo and Dorris raised the big holly again. This
time it stood straight, but the top scraped against the ceiling, just a
little bit.
"Miss Vic, will this be all right?" Mister Shepherd asked.
"Oh, sure. A bent twig or two won't matter. Our star will cover the tip
top anyway. One of you tall boys—Dorris, you'll do—climb up the ladder
and fasten on the star. And wire it tight! It fell last year,
remember!"
I didn't remember, but the boys did. They laughed.
"Boys, y'all lend a hand," Aunt Vic said, "and let's get the
decorations on. Somebody tell those ladies in the back to put down
their dust cloths and come help fasten the candles. Let's see, we
ought'a drape the strings of popcorn around first. Here, Wallace, you
and Wiley tie the popcorn balls on the low limbs. Oh, goodness! These I
brought are sorta sticky!" Aunt Vic stopped talking only long enough to
lick off the candied syrup that had stuck to her finger.
I picked up a popcorn ball, thinking maybe some of the sweet goo would
stick to my fingers. But the schoolteacher saw me, so I had to drop it
back into Aunt Vic's box real quick. I licked my fingers, but not much
sweet stuff was on them.
"Bandershanks," Aunt Vic said, "com'ere a minute." Aunt Vic sat down on
the organ stool and swung herself around toward me.
"Now, Bandershanks." Aunt Vic put her arm around me and drew me up
close. "Tonight you're gonna be the little walking Christmas tree and
say a recitation too!"
"Me?"
"Sure. All the older children will be in the part Mister Shepherd's
putting on. So we saved the walking tree bit just for you."
"What does a walking tree do?"
'Ill tell you that in a minute. Your mama is gonna get you here early
tonight, and you bring one of your papa's old, worn-out felt hats with
you. Before the program starts, we'll wrap your tree costume around
you. Then, when the time comes—I'll tell you when—you'll step out front
and recite your piece."
"My piece?"
"Right! A little recitation all your own! Now don't mention what you're
gonna say to anybody. It'll be a big surprise!"
She leaned closer and whispered a short rhyme to me. "Can you remember
that?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, sure you can. Whisper it back to me."
I said it for her.
"Good! Now, tonight after you say it, I want you to walk through the
church with your papa's hat, and everybody will put in money. That will
be for poor people. Then you come back to me, and I'll get some of the
little presents off the tree and pin them on you. Then you'll walk up
and down the aisle so that folks can take off their gifts. What do you
think of that? Can you do it?"
"Oh, yes Ma'am! I can do it!"
On our way home I thought I'd absolutely pop wide open with excitement.
But I never did. At supper I gulped down a whole big glass of
buttermilk with corn bread crumbled in it, and not a drop leaked out of
me! Even after we got our stockings hung up and our Sunday clothes on,
I was still in good shape.
I kept whispering my Aunt Vic piece over and over to myself. But as we
were going back toward the church, Mierd and Wiley talked so long about
how many nuts and apples and oranges we might get in our stockings that
I forgot every word Aunt Vic wanted me to recite!
"Don't cry, for goodness sakes!" Mama told me. "Aunt Vic will tell you
again what to say."
It was dusk before we got within sight of the grist mill and cotton
gin. Mierd and Wiley were quiet. Mama wasn't saying much either.
When we were about halfway between the gin and Papa's new store, three
men on horseback streaked past our wagon, their horses running neck and
neck!
"I wonder," Mama said, "who's in such an all-fired hurry to get to the
Christmas entertainment."
"That's just them Bailey boys," Wiley said.
"How do you know it's them dumb clucks?" Mierd asked.
"I'd know their bays day or night. They're the prettiest horses in
Drake Eye Springs, and them boys are the meanest."
"Y'all mustn't talk so about them wild, mischievous Bailey boys.
'Course it's true they sorta took after their ma's folks, and to my
knowledge none of Lida Belle's kin—or Wes's—ever killed many snakes.
But at the same time, I figure Addie Mae and the three boys do the best
they can."
"But, Mama, they—"
"Anyhow, Wiley, I thought you told us the other night that the
schoolteacher goes over to the Bailey place on Saturdays to hunt
squirrels with the boys and learn them how to read."
"He does. But, Mama, they're still the worst boys in the whole school.
Don't nobody like 'em."
As we rode by the store, we saw Papa standing at the back door. Mama
pulled up on the reins to make Belle and Pud-din' Foot slow down and
called to Papa, "You coming on now?"
"Yeah! I'll be up there in a few minutes! Soon's I can blow out the
lights and lock up."
It took Papa more than a few minutes to get to the church. When the
house was getting filled up with folks and the tree was sagging with
presents and I was already in my Christmas tree costume and it was
almost time for the Christmas Eve program to begin, he still hadn't
come. I was afraid he wouldn't get to see me being a tree or hear me
say my Aunt Vic piece.
"When's Papa gonna get here, Mama?"
"Pretty soon. He'll be in before we start singing. Let's me and you sit
on the front bench. That way, you can see good."
The mourners' bench?"
"Sugar, it's not the mourner's bench, except during protracted Meeting
time."
Mama and I sat down and waited—and waited.
All the school kids, ganged up in the corner behind the stage curtain,
were getting noisy. It sounded like fun, but we heard Aunt Vic ask them
to please be quiet.
Mama wanted me to be still. "Quit twisting around, Bandershanks!" she
said. "You'll tear up your costume!"
I hadn't been doing any twisting, except when I slid down to the far
end of the bench to watch the folks hang gifts on the tree, or when I
looked back to find out who else was coming in the door, or when I
turned so I could see everybody sitting behind us. Mama should have
known that bit of twisting around wouldn't hurt my walking-tree dress.
Mama turned sideways herself to see what Ginger was gonna do, as he
kept trotting up and down the aisle. She said he was trying to find
Aunt Vic.
Instead of looking behind the curtain, Ginger kept going down to the
bench where he sat by Aunt Vic on Sundays. Finally he gave up his
looking and his trotting and lay down by the wood box.
I stretched both my arms out straight.
"Mama, how come y'all wound this green paper 'round my arms?"
"They're tree limbs. And your pointed hat is the tip top of the tree.
See?" Mama reached over and set my paper hat farther back on my head.
"It's got to sit straight up to look right."
I smoothed out the wrinkles at my elbows and fluffed the leaves across
my shoulders. Aunt Vic had told me I looked pretty. I thought so too.
Papa didn't know what to think when he finally walked in and saw me
sitting there in my shaggy dress. Mama told me to stand up and turn
around so he could take a look at me.
"Good gracious, Bandershanks, you're all diked out here tonight!"
"I'm a Christmas tree, Papa!"
"I believe you are!"
Papa sat down on the front bench by us instead of going over to his
Sunday place in the corner, where he always sat with Captain Jones and
Uncle Dan and the other men.
I noticed Captain Jones wasn't in the men's corner either. He was
standing near the organ talking with the schoolteacher and my big
sister Bess. As they talked, Captain Jones kept waving his walking
stick toward the stage and the curtain. Every time he spoke, his chin
jiggled his beard up and down. His beard, I decided, was even longer
and whiter than Grandpa Thad's.
The three stood talking only a minute longer. Then Bess sat down on the
organ stool and started looking through her hymnbook. Captain Jones
leaned on the teacher as they went slowly up the platform steps. Mister
Shepherd had to help Captain Jones get seated in the high-backed chair
Brother Milligan used on Preaching Sundays.
"My, Nannie, what a crowd!" Papa had turned to look over the church.
"Seems like everybody in the settlement is here, yet I see folks are
still coming in."
"I'm afraid Doctor Elton won't make it. He said when he passed the
store that there's a regular outbreak of influenza down below the State
Line Road."
"I hope and pray it don't spread up here!" Mama pulled her cape closer
around her shoulders. "Wind must be rising. Every time that front door
opens, I feel it."
"Yeah," Papa told her, "the wind has come up. A pretty night, though.
Stars out. The moon full. Perfect for Christmas Eve."
I twisted round to see who was letting more of that Christmas wind
swoosh through the church door. It was stirring up the leaves of my
dress, and they had to stay down smooth and nice!
It was Miss Ophelia, bringing in her string of little red-headed
young'uns and Miss Dink. But Miss Ophelia didn't have her new little
baby with her. It was just as well that she hadn't brought him. She was
having to use one hand to lead her two little girls down the aisle and
the other to guide Miss Dink along and keep her from bumping against
the heater. Why'd Miss Dink come, anyway? She couldn't see our high,
sparkling tree, or the toys and presents, or the red paper bells and
streamers hanging in clusters from the ceiling. Miss Dink couldn't even
see my tree dress!
There were so many of Miss Ophelia's kids I could tell it was going to
take nearly two benches to hold them. Wallace Goode's mama and her
sister got up and moved across the aisle to another bench so the
Lawsons would have plenty of room. Miss Ophelia sort of bowed and told
them, "Much obliged, much obliged," over and over.
Finally, she got all the young'uns in place and Miss Dink settled, and
she sat down on the front slat of their bench. I thought she would lean
back and start smiling and talking to the folks around her, the same as
everybody else. She didn't. She just stayed perched there on the edge
of that one thin plank like a scared bird, afraid of having to fly away
any minute.
"Bandershanks, turn around!" Mama whispered, _"_and quit staring at
people. It's impolite."
Papa started talking and worrying about Grandpa Thad. "Nannie, I do
wish Pa had come. He would've enjoyed it."
"I tried to persuade him, Jodie. But 'course he felt like he had to
stay with your ma."
"I reckon so."
"Guess who did come in a few minutes ago?" Now Mama was talking louder,
and like she was happy.
"Who?"
"Lida Belle and Wes Bailey. They're sitting back yonder on the last
bench."
"I saw their rip-snorting boys ride past the store. Wes'd better watch
out. Them boys will run his bays to death."
"They passed us just a-galloping. You know, Jodie. I don't reckon Lida
Belle and Wes have been to a tree in this church in ten years—oh,
longer than that. Wonder what's come over them."
"Funny thing. Wes Bailey came into the store day before yesterday and
bought an expensive blue silk tie. Said it was for the tree."
"I helped Vic put on the toys for Ophelia's young'uns and looked at all
the presents, but I didn't notice whose name was on that blue tie."
"And, Nannie, Lida Belle bought twenty-one yards of piece goods! First
thing when she got in the store, she went 'round behind the counter and
began fingering every bolt of cloth on the shelves. Why, it took her a
good half hour to settle on what she wanted; and when she did, she got
seven yards of purple calico, seven of yellow, and seven of the red."
"Well, Jodie, I wonder if the reason Wes and Lida Belle haven't been
coming to church on Christmas Eve is 'cause all these years the
schoolteachers have never once given Ad-die Mae or the three Bailey
boys a part on the program. 'Course I doubt if any one of them could,
or would, learn a recitation, even if a teacher assigned it to them."
"I don't know. I always thought the reason they hadn't been coming was
because of the old feud."
"Lida Belle and Wes weren't mixed up in the feud, were they, Jodie?"
"No, they weren't old enough. But Old Lady Bailey lived with them so
long and harped on the feud so much, I reckon maybe they got to
thinking they could get tangled up in its aftermath. Sometimes, you
know, old folks can hand down hate and spite easier than they can pass
on a single idea worth a hoot! The old soul probably raved most about
the Christmas Eve her pa's cousin was murdered in Millers Chapel."
"In Millers Chapel? That's new to me, Jodie. I never heard of a killing
in that old church!"
"Folks quit talking it, it was so bad. I don't know what year it was,
but that final and worst killing was when I was still a boy. It was on
just such a fine Christmas Eve night as this."
Papa took off his heavy jacket and kept talking.
"Folks from Drake Eye Springs and Tubal and Millers Crossing had come
for miles. You couldn't find one empty bench in the whole meeting house
that night; in fact, a good many had to stand. That was the only church
in these parts then.
"The shooting was right after the program. There was the usual
confusion as everyone began going up front to claim their gifts. Folks
said afterwards that some of the Williams men and grown boys had been
drinking pretty heavy. The one they called Jake was talking uncommonly
loud. He was, by the way, a great uncle to Ward Lawson.
"So, when Jake Williams kept making such a nuisance of himself, Old
Mister Gus Parker—he was sitting across the aisle from him—hollered
out, 'Jake Williams, you get quiet! We can't hear 'em readin' out the
names!'
"Jake hollered back, 'Here's you a Christmas present, you old Parker
coot!' And he grabbed out his pistol and shot the old gentleman dead,
right there in the church!"
"No!"
"Mrs. Parker started screaming, Jake run out the door, and somebody
blowed out the lights! Then every man in the house took to the woods.
Left women and young'uns to get out and get home the best way they
could!"
"It must've been a frightful thing!"
"It was, Nannie. 'Course the next morning the Parkers went back to the
church to get Old Man Gus's body. But the tree with all the Christmas
stuff was left standing there for weeks. Folks didn't have the heart to
go back in the building.
"The following spring when the trial came up, Jake was convicted, but
he broke jail and got away. Old Judge Crawford had all the rest of the
Williamses, by name, to clear outta the country. And what few Parker
men were left took their families and moved off too. They figured the
killing could flare up again among some of the Williamses' blood
relations, and there wouldn't be a Parker man or boy left to carry on
their name. Wes Bailey's ma was one of the few who stayed behind.
'Course she was already married. Anyway, all the Baileys, except Addle
Mae, are here tonight, and I'm glad. It's not good for a family to live
to themselves so much. Besides, it's Christmas, and we ought'a all
share it together."
"Looks to me like Wes and Lida Belle would've had Addle Mae come home
for Christmas. There's something mighty strange about them letting her
stay down in Louisiana so long."
"I reckon that's their business, Nannie."