Chapter Nine

The next afternoon after lunch, Grandma and I started our annual Christmas project—baking dozens of gingerbread men. My special job was to decorate them after they came out of the oven. We talked as we worked.

“That was a wonderful thing you did with the tree, Addie,” she said.

“Oh, well,” I said philosophically, “I’m too grown up for trees. Trees are for little kids, like Gloria’s brothers and sisters.”

“Can’t be a very good Christmas at their house, poor souls, him out of work and all.”

“She doesn’t know how to figure out the odds the way I do, so she’d never have won it,” I said.

“I know.”

“The only way for her to get a tree was for me to give it to her.”

“I’m sure you made her real happy,” said Grandma. “I never got around to askin’ you—how’d Tanya Smithers like her gloves?”

“She hated them!” I said gleefully. “I knew she would!”

“Call that Christmas spirit?” Grandma asked disapprovingly.

“Tanya Smithers is my worst friend in the fifth grade. I don’t want to give her something she’d like!”

“Oughta be ashamed of yourself,” said Grandma, trying not to smile. “Who got your name?”

“I’m not telling.”

“Was it a boy or a girl?” she asked. “Someone you like or don’t like?”

I shook my head silently. I wasn’t going to tell even Grandma about the horrible, embarrassing locket from Billy.

“Did he give you a present you like or don’t like?”

“How do you know it was a he?” I asked.

“Was it a she?”

“No more questions,” I said firmly. “I’m not going to talk about it.”

Then Grandma put her hand in her apron pocket, and walked over to the table where I was working. She brought her hand out of her pocket and dangled Billy’s locket in front of me.

I grabbed it quickly out of her hand. “You looked in my private drawer!”

“Nobody looks in anybody else’s private drawer in this house, Addie.”

“Oh, I know where you found it,” I said, turning crimson with embarrassment.

“Under your pillow,” she said, nodding her head.

“I meant to hide it this morning, but …”

“You’ve had a lot of things on your mind,” she said, smiling. “Besides, it sure wasn’t hidden last night at the pageant. Sparkled like a star itself up there, even with you fussin’ around tryin’ to cover it up!”

I opened my hand and looked at it again. “Isn’t it disgusting?”

“I think it’s real pretty,” she said. “From Billy Wild?”

“How did you guess that?” I asked, more embarrassed than ever.

“Because I’m a smart old character!”

“I’m never going to wear this disgusting thing again as long as I live!”

“Why not!”

“If I wear it again, he’ll really think I like him!”

“Guess he likes you all right,” said Grandma.

“Ha!” I said derisively. “How do you know?”

“Wouldn’t give a heart locket to a person he didn’t like,” she said, matter-of-factly. “You like him a little too …”

“I’ve told you a thousand times I despise him!” I said angrily. “I won’t even speak to him!”

“Mmmmmmm,” said Grandma.

“What do you mean, ‘Mmmmm’?”

“Some people don’t speak much. Doesn’t mean they don’t feel anything.”

I thought about that for a minute as I finished another row of gingerbread men. Finally the delicious aroma got the best of me, and I chose one to eat.

“Doesn’t he look just like Billy Wild?” I asked Grandma, as I held the little man up in front of me.

“Yes,” she laughed, “I guess he does a bit.”

“Good!” I said. “I’m going to bite his head off and chew him up!”

“Glory, Addie!” she said, laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I pity the fella you really fall for some day,” she said. “He’ll be black and blue before he realizes that’s your way of likin’. Heavens! It’s all right to let on you like people, if you do!”

I looked at her skeptically, then picked up the gingerbread man and bit his head off.

We had almost finished decorating all the gingerbread men when I heard Dad’s truck in the driveway. Instead of coming in through the kitchen door as he usually did, he walked slowly around to the front door.

“Addie, open the door!” he shouted, pounding on the door.

I couldn’t imagine what was going on, and I ran into the living room and pulled the front door open. I couldn’t see Dad at all—the whole doorway was filled with a huge Christmas tree. He pushed it inside and shoved some boxes of ornaments toward me.

“Don’t stand there,” he said, in his usual impatient manner. “Help me.”

I was speechless.

“Careful, now,” he said, as I took the boxes. “Those are breakable.”

Grandma came into the room, and stopped, staring at the tree. “Oh, James!” she said softly.

“If we’re going to have a Christmas tree, we can buy it ourselves.”

“Isn’t it beautiful!” said Grandma, coming over and putting her hand on my shoulder. I just stood there holding the boxes, frozen to the spot.

Grandma took the boxes from me. “Oh, look, Addie. Decorations—silver icicles and lights!”

Dad was setting up the tree at the end of the room, and I finally came out of my daze and looked down at the boxes I was holding.

“Is there a star?” I asked.

“Oh, James,” said Grandma. “You forgot to get a star.”

“The one I made is still on the other tree,” I said.

“Maybe you can make another one,” said Grandma.

“I haven’t got any foil left,” I said.

“Maybe Carla Mae has some,” Grandma suggested, “You can go over and ask her.”

“She won’t have to do that,” said Dad quietly. “Just wait a minute.” He went through the kitchen and downstairs into the basement, and came back with a dusty box. He handed it to me.

I looked at him for a second and then sat down on his footstool and unwrapped the box. Inside was a wonderful glittery gold star with tiny bells and shiny Christmas balls trimming the front of it.

“It’s the niftiest star I ever saw in my whole life!” I said. “Where’d you get it, Dad?”

“It was … put away,” he said hesitantly.

I saw Grandma smile and go back into the kitchen then, as though she wanted to leave us alone.

“I … I was saving it,” he said.

“For what?”

“Well, for our tree, I guess.”

“It shines! Gee, Dad, it must’ve cost a lot of money!”

“Your mother made it,” he said quietly, and he sat down in his chair beside me.

“My mother made this? She must’ve been an artist!”

“She … liked to paint and draw, the way you do.”

“I didn’t know that! Nobody ever told me that!”

“She made this star for your first Christmas tree.”

“I don’t remember … I don’t remember.”

“You were only a few months old. She made presents for you, too.”

“What?”

“Knitted booties and a sweater. And she made you a bib with a … a big yellow duck in the middle of it.”

“A bib? Was I a messy eater then too?” I asked, laughing. “Didn’t my mother give me any toys?”

“There was a thing—it was like a bunch of jingle bells suspended from a ribbon. We tied it across your crib, and when you kicked at it, the bells rang.…”

“Wow. Do you think I look like my mother? Grandma says I do!”

He gave me a look that seemed a little sad, and then smiled. “You’ve got the same hair … you look like her, especially when you smile.”

“Did I smile a lot when I was a baby?”

“Yeah, but your mother said it was indigestion. She’d put you on her shoulder and rub your back …”

“Oh, I wish I could remember! What else did my mother do?”

“Well, she sang to you …”

“Is my voice like hers? When I sing?”

“The other night, during that Christmas carol … you sounded like her.”

“I’m a real combination, aren’t I? Because I’m going to be very tall, like you!”

He smiled at me, and I held out the star to him.

“Put it on the tree, Dad.”

Instead of taking the star from me, he picked me up in his arms and held me up high so I could put the star on the tree. I placed it carefully on the top branch, and he put me down.

“It looks terrific, Dad!”

“It’s yours now, Addie,” he said, and I turned and put my arms around him, and he hugged me close.