I wanted to point out that Charlotte having polio and Mama dying might make some people think we didn’t have too much either, but I knew better. And even though I swear I didn’t open my mouth, Granddaddy seemed to hear my thoughts nonetheless.
“Some might say we haven’t been dealt the best cards in the game of life, but it’s not about bellyaching over what happened and what we don’t have, Pixie,” he told me. “It’s about remembering what we do have. Let’s not be forgetting that.”
I didn’t answer Granddaddy, ’cause I didn’t want to admit to him that when it came to being without Mama and Charlotte, my biggest fear was forgetting.
CHAPTER 13
Ricky started working the next afternoon after school. Shook Granddaddy’s hand and only gave me a quick glance before him and Granddaddy headed into the kitchen.
I’d just returned from gathering the eggs, so I wanted nothing more than to warm myself by the fire and read Sissy’s letter again.
And that’s what I was doing when Ricky interrupted. “What ya got there?”
I shoved the letter in my pocket way less careful than I wanted to, but it was too personal to share. “Just a letter.”
Granddaddy cleared his throat behind Ricky. “Pixie, would you take Ricky out and show him where the henhouse is and then bring him to the barn in a bit?”
My toes are finally starting to thaw, and now I’m supposed to give a tour outside?
After putting my coat, scarf, and mittens back on, I noticed that Ricky just had a heavy shirt on. “You really oughta wear a coat. And don’t you have any gloves?”
He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.”
We walked across the yard, and Ricky kept at least two steps behind me, even though he could’ve caught up if he wanted.
“This here’s the henhouse. But I already got the eggs today. Does Granddaddy want you to help with the eggs now?” I liked that idea.
“No, he said that was your job. He wants me to build some more nest boxes now—maybe build a hatchery later on.” He paused. “A hatchery is for hatching new chicks.”
“I knew that!” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what Ricky was talking about. He followed me into the henhouse, and right then Teacher let out one of her deep bellowing squawks.
“Wow,” Ricky said, and I could see he was impressed. “You are the biggest hen I ever seen.”
“Also the meanest. Her name is Teacher.”
“Why do you call her that?” Ricky asked.
“I don’t know. Most teachers don’t like me. And that hen doesn’t like me—so it seemed fittin’.”
Ricky looked like I’d insulted his best friend. “Miss Beany likes you. She ain’t mean at all. She’s the nicest teacher ever. She—”
“Yeah, yeah—I like her just fine. We had us a big talk. I think she’s nice now. For an old teacher.”
“She ain’t old. She’s the same age as my brother.”
I had no idea what made Ricky an expert on Miss Beany, but I was tired of talking about her. “I said I like her fine now. But still, this mean old hen’s name is Teacher.”
Ricky reached his hand toward the hen, like he wanted to pet it or something. “What’s so mean about this here hen?”
But before I could answer, Teacher answered by pecking his hand.
“Ouch!” He drew his hand back. “I see what you mean about this one.”
I wanted to laugh, but instead I couldn’t stop staring. His hand was almost purple from the cold.
He looked at me looking at his hands and put them back in his pockets.
“Speaking of names, why’d your grandpa call you ‘Pixie’ back at the house?”
“It’s just what he calls me . . . Him and Charlotte.”
He nodded real slow. “I remember Charlotte. She was always real nice to me. You miss her?”
“What kind of question is that? ’Course I miss her.”
Ricky leaned against the henhouse door, a sad look on his face. I felt bad I’d snapped at him like that. And even worse when he added, “Yeah. I know how you feel.”
Too late, I remembered his daddy was gone and his brother away at war.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I guess you know about missing people too?”
Ricky shrugged and looked down as he kicked the straw that covered the floor. I suspected my mouthing off had hurt his feelings.
Having Charlotte’s letter in my pocket must’ve been like having her over my shoulder telling me to try harder to be nice. I took a deep breath. “That letter I was reading . . .” He looked up at me. “That was from . . . Charlotte.”
He smiled, and I think he understood what I couldn’t say.
And right there was when I started to realize that Ricky and I had more connecting us than just the apple orchard between our two houses.
CHAPTER 14
The next two Sundays after church found me staying late to practice for that Nativity pageant. It wasn’t too bad, what with the singing and all.
Grandma was right—I was pretty good at singing—plus it reminded me of Mama. She used to love to sing and would make up silly songs all the time. With Mama, there was always music in the house. Being a part of the pageant was something Mama would’ve liked. She’d have probably even been running it with Mrs. Evans.
Mrs. Evans had us all in the order she wanted us to appear during the spoken part of the pageant, but as soon as she started to play the first note of “Silent Night,” Big-Mouth Berta ran from her angel spot over to the shepherds’ spot so fast she might’ve actually flown.
“I’ll stand here for the songs,” she declared as she wiggled her way beside Ricky, pushing me into the row with Betsy and the other little kids, who were going to be the farm animals. Mrs. Evans shook her head but kept on playing the song.
Big-Mouth Berta was so used to being the center of attention, it surprised me she didn’t insist on being baby Jesus himself. Ricky looked at Big-Mouth Berta and then at me like he understood what I was thinking right then.
When Joseph, Mary, and the big-mouth angel practiced their lines, I went to get some water, and Ricky followed me. I could tell he was acting funny about something, but I waited for him to tell me what it was.
I didn’t have to wait long.
“I got something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled something out, but then he hid it again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to share it.