Stories from the Heart

Looking for Christmas
Pamela J. Tinnin

Soon as I started school I learned that my brother James Allen wasn’t like other kids. I was only five—my birthday didn’t come til November 14th, just one day before the State of Kentucky said you had to turn six.

I remember how Mama fussed over me that first mornin’, braided my hair so tight I thought my eyes’d pop right out a my head. I had three new dresses made from flour sacks she saved. She always had a way with a needle and thread—almost looked like they come from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. She’d torn apart an old coat and sewed me a jacket with a little fur collar made from a rabbit skin my daddy give her from his traps.

We set off down the trail, me, Mama, and James. It took us the longest time. James’d wander off, lookin’ at the sky and rockin’ back and forth like he does. Course, we didn’t know about autism back then—when I asked why James Allen was like he was, my Gramma Mamie, who had taught school, read all kinds of books, and had some strange notions, told me that God had made life to be like a dance. “James Allen just hears different music, Merrilee,” she said. I wasn’t sure what she meant, not for a long time.

I remember that first day of school, walkin’ down the trail hearin’ the songbirds and the low hum of bees in the early mornin’ air. Like always James stopped at the old footbridge that crossed over Blue Crick. Mama had to coax him across. The old log was slick and mossy and he’d slipped off when he was little. Was carried downstream a couple hundred feet before he grabbed a hold of a limb that hung out over the water.

We finally got to the school and there was my very best friend Molly Kennedy jumpin’ up and down in front, her red curls bright in the sun. That girl still has more freckles than you can count, but her hair went plumb white before she was 40. Well, she started squealin’ my name and I broke away from my mama and run to her.

Molly and me were huggin’ and laughin’ and that’s when I heard Corey Hargrove. The Hargroves had lived just up the trail from us since before I was born, seven kids crowded in that little cabin and Corey the oldest. Like his daddy, Corey’s voice could cut like a whip. “Hey, Dummy,” he yelled. “Hey, you—dummy!” There was a crowd of big boys with him—Ralph Teeter, Andy Watson, and my own cousin, Donald Arthur. They were all in fifth grade, same as my brother, if he had ever gone to school, that is.
James Allen had bent down and picked up a maple seed, called ’em airplanes, the kind with two little wings. He held it high, then let it drop and followed it with his eyes, round and round, he watched it flutter to the ground.
“Retard!” Corey Hargrove shouted, then Ralph and Andy joined in. “Retard.” I saw my cousin Donald give a quick look towards my mama, but then he yelled it, too. “Retard, retard.”

It seemed like ever person there stopped and looked at my brother, that name ringin’ out across the playground. Worst of all, James Allen never paid no mind, just kept pickin’ up that maple seed, holdin’ it high and droppin’ it, watchin’ it float to the ground. Before I even knew I was gonna do it, I ran over and started beatin’ on Corey with my fists, hittin’ him over and over, and kickin’ at him.

He just held me off, then I felt somebody grab ahold of me. It was my mama and her face was so red, there was no mistakin’ she was mad as an old settin’ hen. “Merilee Wilcox—do you know Jesus is watchin’ you right now? How can you disappoint our Lord? Don’t you remember his words about turnin’ the other cheek?”

My mama was the most devout Christian you have ever seen, more faithful even than her own mama who some said had the gift of healin’. Talkin’ to Jesus was as natural as breathin’ to Mama. After all, she told us, Jesus came to earth to show us how to live—why not go to him with our troubles?

Right then I was more worried about my troubles with Daddy when he heard how I had spit on Corey’s boots and kicked him in the shins, and it bein’ the first day of school. I was gonna get a lickin’ for sure.

“But Mama,“ I started, “They called James a retard…”

“Hush, girl,” she said, and I knew she meant business.

I didn’t get a lickin’, though waitin’ for it through supper was almost as bad as gettin’ it. Mama never told Daddy, not then and not later. Ever day after that Mama walked me to school; ever day James Allen went with us. I begged her to let me walk on my own, but she didn’t, not until I was nine years old and in the fouth grade.

Well, I kept turning’ the other cheek. Finally the boys got tired and quit callin’ my brother names, but I saw the way the kids looked at ’im, and year after year I heard the whispers. Truth is, I was ashamed of him—By the time I was in high school, I had lived for a long time knowin’ my only brother was never gonna make the winning basket at state or place first in the science fair, much less remember to tie his shoes. But the year I was 16, I made a big mistake— brought home papers that told about a place where people like James Allen could stay. Mama was as mad as I’d ever seen— threw the papers in the fire and told me not to bring it up again.

By the time I started senior year, I had the prettiest little promise ring from Hubert Mason and we was plannin’ to get married come summer. That year started out slow, what with me thinkin’ it was a waste of time, me feelin’ all grown up, bein’ engaged and all. Halloween come and went, then it was Thanksgiving. We piled in the truck and drove over to Gramma Mamie’s. Daddy had shot a turkey and nobody could make sweet taters like my gramma. Mama had baked two dried-apple pies and a mincemeat.

After that, Christmas seem to come on us all at once. Maybe it was cause of the bad news—Daddy come home the first week of December and said the bosses back East had closed down the mine. Put near every man in the holler out a work.
We all knew there wasn’t gonna be much Christmas, but even at 17, I still had hopes. On Friday I had seen the Christmas things Mr. Clayburg had put in the store window. Molly had her eye on a plaid pleated skirt, but I wanted this blue angora sweater set with tiny pearl buttons.

The night before Christmas Eve, word went around that there was a giveaway down at the First Methodist. Church folks up to Cincinatti had sent boxes of toys and clothes. I heard my mama and daddy arguin’ in whispers—Mama said, “These kids is gonna have a Christmas whatever it takes.” They went down there, though I could tell Daddy’s pride was hurt somethin’ fierce. I knew how he felt—back then I’d do without before I’d wear folks’ charity and hand-me-downs.

About 8 o’clock there came a poundin’ on the door. Like always James Allen paid no mind. When I opened it, there stood Corey Hargrove.

“It’s my mama,” he said, “Dadddy went to the giveaway, but she wasn’t feelin’ good. Now the baby’s comin’ and somethin’s wrong.”

“My folks is gone,” I told him.

“Somebody’s gotta do somethin’,” he said. “She’s gonna die.”

We bundled up and followed Corey up the trail. Inside their cabin, the kids huddled near the fire. There was with a little bedroom off to the back with a big high bed and Corey’s mama in it. I could see the sheets dark with blood.

I went to her and took her hand. Her eyes was wild with the pain of it and she was talkin’ crazy. I hadn’t never been to a birth except for the calves and the kittens that come every spring, so at first I just kept strokin’ her hand.

That’s when James Allen stepped forward, his eyes as wild as Mrs. Hargrove’s, his hands shakin’ like he had palsy. He reached out and put a hand on the mound of her belly and closed his eyes. I could probably count on my fingers the number of times James speaks in a week, but he surely did that night. “Jesus,” he said, his voice as gentle as a breeze. “Save them…save them.“ I just closed my eyes tight and prayed and prayed, sendin’ the words silently up to where I hoped He was listenin’—“My mama says you’re always with us, Jesus—be with us tonight.”

That was it, that is until the baby slid right out on the bed, silent and still. I bent over and wiped its little face, then put my lips on the baby’s mouth and breathed as soft as could be; then again, just like I knew what to do. The baby let out a cry, at first as weak as a new lamb, then gettin’ louder and stronger. I put the baby girl in her mama’s arms. I was cryin’ and so was Mrs. Hargrove. Corey turned away from me, but I could see him wipin’ the tears.

I got things cleaned up, put the little kids to sleep on the pallet up in the loft, and then told James Allen it was time to go. He was settin’ at the kitchen table, twirlin’ a bowl round and round, watchin’ it spin. I called him again and he pulled himself up from the table. Corey come up—he put out his hand to me and shook mine, sayin’ “Thank you, Merrilee…thank you.” Then he put out a hand to my brother, but James Allen was looking at the fireplace, watchin’ the flames.

Corey put his hand down, but he didn’t turn away. “Thank you, James Allen,” he said, though James never looked up. “Thank you.”

Walking down the path toward home, I saw the first flakes of snow. James Allen kept stoppin’ to look at the sky. Down by the big elm tree, he stopped and pointed up through the branches. Sure as I’m standin’ here, there was one star brighter than all the rest, way up in the sky right over the Hargroves’ place.

“The Jesus star,” James whispered. “The Jesus star.“ Then he began to rock back and forth like he does. I put my arm around his shoulder real careful, knowin’ how he hates bein’ touched. I just held it there, lookin’ up at that star and then back at my big brother standin’ there in the snow, his tongue stuck out to catch the icy flakes.

Right then I thought about Pastor Hodgkins always preachin’ how Jesus was comin’ again. He’d pound the pulpit and shout, “You better be ready…you better be ready.” You know, ever since the night Merilee James Hargrove was born, I know as well as I know anything that Jesus is here with us, as real as you and me, and like my Gramma Mamie told me, he never gives up on us—not a one of us—just keeps invitin’ us to listen to the music and join in the dance.

Now you be careful goin’ home—and don’t forget—Jesus loves you and so do I.

copyright 2005 Pamela J. Tinnin
All Rights Reserved