Christmas Eve seems made to be full of possibility.

I fetched carrots from the sand barrel under the porch and left them washed on the sideboard for Daddy. I’d hoped to catch a whiff of summer in their bright color but was disappointed. They smelled a bit earthy, like the last of autumn.

I had something to talk over with Momma, so I went out to the pecan tree.

Back to the kitchen, Daddy was chopping up those carrots to bake with honey; it was the dish Miz Justice agreed we could bring, on account of how much her boys like carrots. After supper, we’d all go on to church.

“Daddy,” I said, “I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I think we should give Baby’s clothes to Miz Justice for their new little fixing-to-be-a-baby-soon.”

Daddy stopped chopping but kept his back to me.

“You hear me, Daddy? The clothes Momma made.”

He still didn’t turn. “What makes you think that’s your decision to make, girl?” His voice was rough, and that was not what I had expected, not in the spirit of Christmas at all.

I had thought he’d be glad to be shed of the reminders of Momma and Baby, since he was so intent on acting like we never even had two people that we loved and lost and could go on missing for forever, which was about how it seemed.

Still, what I said was, “Don’t be that way, Daddy. We don’t need that tin of sweet things. It’s not doing us any good except maybe to make us sad remembering better times, and you know well as me the Justices haven’t got but two rags to tie together to put that baby into.”

Daddy turned and leaned against the counter, hugging himself so each orange-tinted hand slipped under the opposite arm. He squinted like seeing me for the first time. “You know how many hours your momma put into them tiny things, sittin’ out back under that tree?”

I swallowed hard and stood up straight. “Yes, sir,” I said, “so many that she’d want them not to go to waste.”

I had to keep going.

“Daddy, as much change as we’ve had around here, maybe you’d like to forget there ever was a Momma or Baby. If it would make the hurting stop, I maybe would too, but I can’t. I can’t turn around without feeling Momma because she’s in me, in us. She’s part of us. We don’t need a biscuit tin to remind us who she was. We don’t need it.”

“Possum!” Daddy picked up the chopping knife and threw it into the dishwater with a dull plop. “How can you have any idea what I need when I don’t know myself?”

I wanted to run to him, but my feet rooted. Trav came to stand by my side; surely he did not know this white-faced, whiter-lipped man staring me down. I certainly did not.

My hand brushed Trav’s neck, and I felt his hair up.

“I don’t know myself,” Daddy repeated, voice so low I could barely tell his from the growl coming up deep in Trav. He turned, stiff as a lead soldier, and went out the door. I heard the door of his shop open and close.

When I remembered to shut my gaping mouth, I started getting ready to go out, trembling the whole time like birch in autumn. When it was time, I stood outside the shop and called, “I’m fixin’ to go now.” Church-truth, I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to answer, but he didn’t, so we’ll never know.

I wished I could split myself in two or disappear altogether, but neither of those seemed likely miracles with God so busy for Christmas and all. So instead I told Trav to stay put and keep an eye on things, and I took myself out of there.

CHRISTMAS AT THE JUSTICES’ was something to see, not the least being all those boys lined up like a fence getting taller by the picket—or shorter, depending on how you looked at them.

Only Jump at the far end seemed to stand out to me for some reason, maybe because his outgrown bib overalls, though clean and pressed as usual, seemed too short for his arms and legs. His worn, patched shirt was too small too, and he looked lean and strong as a racehorse underneath it. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before, but his curly eyelashes were as thick as horsetails around marble-green eyes.

It was a revelation, and I might have lingered on it if June May hadn’t been jumping all over to show me the Christmasing of their home.

The house was strung up with every kind of greenery at the windows and on the tables so it smelled like piney forest. In the corner stood a fine proud tree, which the littlest boys told me they had cut and drug home themselves. It near brushed the ceiling even before they put on a tin star. The tree was done up with popcorn balls and red crab-apple ropes and paper chains that June May and I had colored red or green or left white and glued into links with flour paste.

Momma and I had done up our tree each year pretty as a twelve-point buck, but this year Daddy hadn’t even brought one home. I could’ve felled one for us, but what was the point? I didn’t think I’d miss it either, till I was standing in that warm, glowing room full of Justices and all the sounds and smells of a happy family that was more bound together than torn apart.

With a pang, I wished Daddy was there with me and not home being someone I barely knew. Then I heard in my head that awful voice and felt a chill. I was nothing but relieved when Miz Justice called over the noise, “Well, what you all waitin’ for? Food’s not gonna eat itself.”

THAT MEAL WAS ONE FOR history books, I swear. I thought I was pretty good, planting and weeding the garden and cooking and cleaning and even helping keep the wood box filled. Still, I could see it was handy to have a boy or six around to catch grouse and snowshoe hares or jackrabbits. I can shoot squirrels and catch fish just fine. Church-truth, I do not care for the gutting, though I don’t mind burying entrails in the garden. And I do enjoy a fine fresh fish dredged in flour and fried in lard—so crispy brown outside. Mm.

June May had put the jawbreaker I gave her into a pocket, and during dinner, she kept taking it out and looking at it. “Possum, what kind of candy you figure a cow would eat?”

You had to stay alert to keep up with June May. “You mean like would Dusty eat root-beer barrels?” How could she even think of such things with all that people-food making the table groan?

She turned to look at me. “Root-beer barrels would cut her tongue!”

I shook my pigtails to behind my back. Miz Justice had done them up real nice, like Momma used to. “What you gettin’ at, June May?”

She smiled. “I was pondering,” she said, “would Dusty ruther have hay candy or grass candy?”

I was saved from answering this riddle when Miz Justice said, “Let’s leave the table to clear and sit by the tree a bit.”

“I’ll get the chicory coffee, Ma,” said Jessup.

“No, I’ll get it,” said Jarvis, and shoved his twin.

“Boys!” said Miz Justice, strong but somehow without yelling. They froze. “It’s Christmas. What would your pa say?”

They hung their heads. Jump said, “Pa’d say, ‘Jarvis get the coffee, Jessup get the milk, and the next one who fights on Christmas gets coal in his stocking.’ ”

Everyone laughed then, even me. I hadn’t realized Jump was getting so wise. Also, had his voice always been like July honey straight from the comb? I guess I could have listened to it all day. If I had a mind to.

We moved to sit around the tree, and June May, like to explode with excitement, dragged me to it. What I had not noticed was that under the tree was a pretty package of butcher paper that looked to have been colored by some of the smaller Justices, and it had my name on it. It was the only parcel under the tree.

I stared and stared until Miz Justice had to say, real gentle, “Go on, Possum.”

Folded neatly was a cotton jumper in red paisley on yellow, just my size and pretty as an orchard of ripe apples. Underneath it was a jumpsuit of flying geese against a fall blue sky. I knew them at once as coming from Momma’s dresses that Daddy had given to Miss Arthington.

As I held up one piece in each hand, I heard a couple of the boys wolf-whistle, like from way far off.

“But—”

I stared at the dresses like they might sprout teeth and snap off my arm.

“It wasn’t easy, Possum.” Miz Justice’s voice reached my slow-hearing, ringing ears. “She tried her best. Like we all do.” The stitches did not have the precision I knew to be Miz Justice’s work, though the dresses seemed sturdy enough. Then it came to me. Miss Arthington! Daddy gave her Momma’s dresses to fix up for me?

At that moment, I was flooded so full of comprehension there was no room left for words. I wished more than ever that Daddy was there and that we’d had a package for Baby Justice under that tree.

I wanted to cry, wishing to take back every mean thing I’d ever felt and thought. I might have too, if June May hadn’t been dancing all around me in excitement—“Try it on, Possum! Possum’s got a dress!”—and taken that moment to nearly knock over the tree, tin star and all.

Yet that was not to be the biggest surprise of the night.

In all the commotion of the tree nearly a-tipping, no one except the dogs heard the front door open and close.

When we all turned to see about the baying and barking, the laughter turned to screams and tears as a blur of Justices ran to the door and nearly trampled the dogs that had nearly trampled Mister Justice, who looked stunned like he’d just won a pie-eating contest, only not as sick. All the children climbed him like he was the sturdiest oak, arms waving every which way. He rubbed heads and hugged boys and kissed June May.

Then Mister Justice looked up and let his eyes wander to the table and fix on Miz Justice with her hands on her belly. The children quieted and parted, and with four quick strides, he covered the distance to her. He grabbed Miz Justice into such a lock that, had it gone on a second longer, I might have feared for their air supply.

I don’t think Mister Justice saw me, rooted as I was, for his family filling his eyes with love.