Finally, I could see it—an envelope addressed to Ricky from the US government. And then, he handed me the letter. I stood there looking at the envelope while Ricky watched me. I figured if somebody handed you a letter in an envelope, they either wanted you to mail the letter for them or read it.
Since the letter had already been delivered, I opened it up. The handwriting was the smallest handwriting I ever did see, but I could make out the words if I squinted a bit.
Dear Pip-Squeak Ricky,
I think it’s time I stop calling you Pip-Squeak, since you are the man of the family now. Seems only fair. Makes me feel good knowing you are there for Ma and Betsy.
Hope Ma is doing better. I know she struggled with Pa leaving—and now me. This is all so hard on her. I wrote her three times but haven’t heard back. Did she get my letters? We only get mail here once a month. We can’t even say where “here” is. It’s a security thing. They go through our letters to make sure we aren’t giving too much away. For example, if I told you we were in the XXXXXXXXXXX and headed to the XXXXXXXXXX, they would cross it out before they mailed it. Please tell Ma I’m sorry I can’t be there with you all. Tell her I promise I’ll come home.
How’s Betsy? Tell her I think of her laugh often. I think of her laugh mostly when things are rough and I get scared. (But don’t tell Betsy that part.) Please give her piggyback rides for me and tell her I’ll give her one as soon as I’m home.
Thanks for taking care of everyone. And remember to be extra nice to your teacher.
Love,
Bill
“Bill sounds like a great brother,” I told him as I handed back his letter.
“The best,” he answered, folding it as carefully as I fold Charlotte’s letters.
We didn’t say anything more right then. I’m pretty sure we were both thinking about the importance of holding on to a letter when you could no longer hold on to the person who wrote it.
CHAPTER 15
I found Granddaddy in his chair, listening to the radio with his eyes shut. I cleared my throat to get his attention before I asked, “If you made something for somebody but found out somebody else needed it more, would it make the first somebody sad if you decided to give it to the second somebody?”
Granddaddy opened first one eye and then the other. “Well, Pixie, I’d have to say I got no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind.” He patted his lap.
Even though I was getting too big to sit on Grand- daddy’s lap, I climbed on up, since this talk seemed to be one that needed a lap sitting to tell.
“You know Grandma’s been teaching me to crochet?”
He chuckled. “I caught wind of some of those lessons. Sounds to me like there’s as much scolding going on as crocheting.”
“Yeah, Grandma says I’m too impatient,” I told him. “But I’m getting better.”
Granddaddy gave me a squeeze. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
“So for Christmas, I’ve been making you a scarf to wear when you’re working in the barn.”
“Thank you kindly, Pixie. But Christmas is still two days away. Isn’t that supposed to be a secret?”
“I know.” I looked up into Granddaddy’s dark-brown eyes. “Every day, Ricky comes over to help outside, and he only has that shirt that really can’t be called a coat.”
Granddaddy nodded. “I tried to give him an old jacket of mine, but he said he couldn’t accept charity.”
“Well, I was thinking—a person couldn’t turn down a Christmas present by claiming charity, could they?” I asked.
“I reckon they couldn’t do that.”
“And a person could always make another scarf for the person they started making the scarf for, couldn’t they?”
“Reckon they could do that too. Reckon that’d be a mighty nice thing to do.”
I looked back into his eyes, which were glistening now, and hugged him.
“You’re something else, Pixie.”
Grandma sometimes says that same thing to me, only when she says it, I don’t think it’s a compliment. But when Granddaddy said it right then, I just had to hug him tighter.
* * *
* * *
Ricky was finishing up the extra nesting boxes he’d been making for the henhouse. He was so busy hammering, he didn’t hear me behind him until I tapped him on the shoulder, surprising him so much he jumped a foot off the ground. “Don’t never sneak up on a man with a hammer!” he yelled.
“I wasn’t sneakin’. And you’re not a man.”
He cracked a smile at that, then asked, “What ya got behind your back?”
“Maybe it’s a Christmas present.”
He turned back to his hammering. “You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he said, and continued pounding a nail that had long disappeared.
When he finally looked at me again, I pulled the scarf, tied up in a ribbon, from behind my back.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered, since I didn’t trust my voice not to crack if I tried to talk any louder than that.
He stared at the scarf like he was making out whether it was friend or foe. He must’ve decided it wasn’t that bad, since he reached out and took it from me and untied the ribbon. The scarf was uneven, and some of the stitches were bigger than the others. Ricky inspected it, nodding, like he knew something about crocheting. “You make this?”
I nodded, and he wrapped it around his neck. “It’s nice. Real nice.” And then he went back to his hammering.
I turned to leave, but I heard the hammering stop for a minute. “Hey . . . um . . .” I looked back. Ricky touched the scarf real gentle, like it was the prettiest scarf in the world, and then his eyes met mine. He cleared his throat, but still his words weren’t much more than a whisper. “Thank you, Pru—I mean, thank you, Pixie.”
“You’re welcome,” I told him. And I really meant it.
CHAPTER 16
“Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.”
With the last bars of “Silent Night” echoing throughout the church, the congregation applauded and the Nativity pageant was over. I didn’t know you were allowed to clap in church, but right then it seemed like a fittin’ thing to do.
I looked out in the seats, surprised to see Daddy. Ever since Mama’s funeral, Daddy hadn’t set foot in church. That didn’t make Grandma and Granddaddy happy, but every Sunday—even in the frozen winter—Daddy claimed to have something on the farm that needed his attention.