One Shining Moment Page 4

  “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” Christie cried. Her eyes were bright as she played the fish skillfully, not yanking the hook from his mouth by pulling too hard and not giving any slack to let him shake it free. Finally she worked him to the bank and with one swift, firm gesture lifted the pole.

  “It’s the dad-gummed biggest perch I ever seen!” Logan said, watching with admiration as Christie grabbed the fish by the back, avoiding the dorsal fin. “He’d make a mess all by himself!”

  Christie admired the beautifully colored pumpkin seed perch, all blue and green and silver. He was thicker through the body than any she’d ever caught, and she laughed, saying, “He’ll look good in a frying pan, won’t he, Logan?”

  Removing the hook, she pulled up a small, loosely woven feed sack from the ground and slipped the fish inside. Pulling the neck tight with a drawstring, she tossed it into the water, tied the string to a projecting root, then proceeded to bait her hook again. “Wish everything was as much fun as fishing, Logan,” she observed, swinging the line back so that the cork fell into the same position.

  The casual observation seemed to strike Logan with force, for he gave her a quick glance, then nodded. “Reckon I wish the same, but it ain’t so, is it?” He stared moodily at his cork, then shook his head with a gesture of infinite sadness. “Guess most of us just have to eat our peck of dirt.”

  “Logan, are you sure you can’t find a better farm than this?”

  “Don’t have the money.”

  The simple statement was a credo for most of the hill people. They rose early, worked late, and fell into bed exhausted, then rose again to repeat the operation. Their lives were measured out by minor pleasures and major tragedies. Women had their children in an endless succession, many of them dying young in the process. It was a common saying of men, “He done wore out three wives already.”

  Christie said nothing, for she had no answers. She knew that it hurt Logan that Anne had no pretty store-bought dresses, and the children had none of the pleasures of town children. She determined at that instant, I’m going to see that Anne and the children have some nice things. When I get married, I’ll get Mel to help. I can come and visit and take the kids places, maybe to town to a circus . . .

  But even as she thought of this, a doubt rose in her mind. She had heard enough of Mel’s philosophy to understand that he grudged every penny that was not put back into his business. Her face grew sober, and she wondered again if she was doing the right thing by marrying. She felt keenly the shame of being an old maid and now asked herself, Am I marrying because I’m afraid of what people will think if I don’t?

  She thrust the thought away, and for the next two hours, she and Logan enjoyed themselves. They caught sixteen fish large enough to keep, then Logan said regretfully, “Guess I’ve got to get back to the fields, Chris. You can stay though.”

  “No, I’ll go clean these fish. We’ll have hush puppies and fried potatoes with them. My favorite supper!”

  They went back to the farm, and after Logan returned to plowing, Christie took the fish to the back of the house and got a sharp knife and a spoon from the kitchen. The children came to watch. As she took the knife and prepared to take the head off, Violet, aged five, inquired, “Does it hurt a fish to get his head cut off?”

  Ray, three years older, gave her a look of infinite disgust. “Course not,” he pontificated. “They ain’t got no feelings, fish ain’t!”

  “How do you know, smartie?” Helen, aged ten, with red hair and blue eyes, challenged. “You’d have to be a fish to know a thing like that!”

  “Would not!”

  “Would too!”

  The argument went on as Christie took the knife and, holding the fish firmly with her left hand, sliced downward just in back of the two small fins behind the eye. Then putting the knife down, she took the head in her left hand and grasped the body of the fish in her right. With one sharp motion she snapped the head off and pulled the entrails free. Tossing the offal into a bucket, she handed the decapitated body to the oldest girl, saying, “You want to scale this fish for me, Helen?”

  Helen started to say no, but Ray grabbed it, saying, “No, I’ll do it, Aunt Christie!”

  Hearing Ray call her Aunt Christie, she thought, I’m so glad Anne’s allowed these three to become a part of our family. Logan is wonderful with them. He treats them like they were his own kids, just like he will treat Clinton.

  Logan had married Anne Wilson Ballard two years earlier, after she had lost her first husband, George Ballard, to pneumonia in 1916. Logan’s love for Anne had taken in her three children as well, and the children were hardly aware of any father but Logan.

  Christie’s thought was broken by the three children squabbling over the fish.

  Helen snatched the fish back, saying, “She asked me to do it!” A quarrel started, and Christie stopped it by saying, “All three of you can scale. There are plenty of fish.” She showed them how to pull the edge of the spoon against the scales, and soon all three of them were taking turns at making scales fly. When the fish were clean, she washed them in water and threw the offal out into the edge of the woods where the coons and possums would have a feast.

  Putting the dressed fish into a flat pan, she went into the house where she found Anne in the kitchen churning butter. “Oh, those are nice ones!” Anne Stuart was a small, plain woman, but she had nice brown eyes and was as loved by her husband as if she were a beauty queen. “Put them in the pie safe so the flies won’t get them, Christie.” When she saw that done, she said, “Sit down and tell me all about the family.”

  The two women talked as Anne churned, and finally Christie said, “That soap ought to be about done, Anne. I’ll go take it up.”

  Making her way to the hopper, she looked into the depths of the kettle, then nodded with approval. She pulled away the fire to let it cool, then covered it with boards. While it cooled, she worked in the garden, answering the multitude of questions the children asked her. They were very lonesome, and when visitors came, they swarmed them, hungry for attention.

  Finally Christie said, “Let’s go get the soap.” She led the three of them to the soap, dipped some of it into a bucket, then took it in for Anne’s approval.

  Anne sniffed at it and nodded. “Just right, Christie. You done good.” The soap was thicker and darker than sorghum molasses and smelled of wet ashes. They carried the soap to a barrel in the small storehouse, and then Christie took a gourd and dipped some into a pan of hot water. She watched as the water turned milky white, and she stirred some foam to the top. “Turned out good,” she murmured. She liked to do things well, and even such a simple thing as making lye soap gave her pleasure. She set one gourdful by the dishpan and another on the wash shelf on the back porch.

  When Logan came in at dusk, hot and worn, he sat down and washed his feet in a basin. Covering them with the soap, he groaned with pleasure, saying to Christie who came to watch, “Just right. You get it too strong, it burns. But this just feels plumb good, Christie!”

  By the time he had finished washing, Anne called, “Come and eat!”

  They all hurried to the table, and when they sat down, Logan asked a simple blessing. Looking up he shook his head, “Don’t reckon the king of England and all his dukes got a supper like this!”

  Anne had felt better that day, and the table seemed bowed with food. A heaping platter of fresh fish, another of fried potatoes, and a third of hush puppies formed the heart of the meal, but there was yellow squash, fried okra that crunched between the teeth, purple-hull peas that smoked in their white bowl, and fresh-baked bread.

  Christie gave Violet a lesson in eating a whole perch. “Look, hold it like this and pull this top fin out,” she demonstrated. The entire fin came out, exposing white meat that gave off steam. “Now, don’t burn yourself—put your teeth against the top, see? Like eating corn on the cob. This way you don’t get any bones in your throat.”

  They ate while Anne nursed the baby,
then Christie rose and said, “Got a surprise for you, Logan.” Going to the top of the cookstove, she opened the warming door at the top and took out a pie. Turning to Logan she smiled, “Don’t guess you’d like a piece of fresh pecan pie, would you, Brother?”

  “My, oh, my!” Logan said, very reverently. He took the pie, holding it as if it were the crown jewels of England. “Why didn’t you tell me you made a pecan pie? I’d of ate it first!” He grinned and looked around, asking innocently, “Didn’t you make one for the rest of you, Christie? I shore don’t aim to share my pie with anyone!”

  At this the children began pestering him, but he teased them for a long time. “No, siree, I’ll share anything I got—except pecan pie. You’ll jest have to eat more fish!”

  Finally he reluctantly agreed to let them have “just a leetle taste” of the pie, and Christie began to cut it into wedge-shaped slices. As she did, Logan lifted his head, a puzzled look on his face. “Somebody’s comin’,” he announced. “In an automobile.”

  At once they went outside, Logan picking up a lamp. The yellow glare of twin automobile headlights broke the darkness. The cone-shaped lights juggled up and down violently as a car came bobbing over the rough dirt road.

  “Don’t rightly know who it could be,” Logan said. He waited until the noisy vehicle came to a stop in front of the yard, then when the engine cut off, he called out, “Who is it?”

  “Don Satterfield.”

  “Why, Preacher, whut you doin’ way out here this time of the night?” Logan lifted the lamp, and when the tall figure emerged from the darkness, he said, “Come inside . . . you young’uns get back and let Brother Satterfield in.”

  Christie had a premonition as soon as she saw the face of the minister. Before he could speak, she asked, “Is somebody sick, Brother Don?”

  Satterfield’s face was etched with lines of fatigue. He clamped his jaws together, then nodded. “It’s Lenora,” he said grimly. “She was thrown by a horse—going over a fence.”

  Fear surged through Christie, and she swallowed, then asked, “Is . . . is she hurt bad?”

  “I’m afraid she is. I came to get you, Christie.”

  “I’ll get my things.”

  As Christie moved swiftly out of the room to get her few belongings, Logan asked, “Is she dying?”

  “No, she’ll live, Logan.” Satterfield noticed the instant relief in the farmer’s face and added quickly, “But she’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

  “Can’t they do something, the doctors?”

  “They say not. I’m afraid she’ll be crippled the rest of her life.”

  Anne began to cry, and this frightened the older children. They drew close to her, staring almost angrily at the tall minister. He was the bearer of evil tidings, and they had only him to blame.

  Logan got the details from Satterfield, and when Christie came out, her face pale, he moved to give her a hug. “You go see to Lenora. Tell her we’ll be there soon as we can.”

  Christie nodded, hugged him, then each of the children. She kissed the soft cheek of Clinton, the newborn, then Anne. “I’ll write and tell you. I’m sorry I have to leave you with all the work.”

  “We’ll make out,” Anne nodded. “Tell Lenora we’ll be praying for her.”

  Christie moved out into the darkness and got into the car. Soon they were bumping over the rocky road. “A dog frightened the horse just as he was jumping,” Satterfield told her. “He swerved, and Lenora was thrown. Wouldn’t have been hurt, but she landed right on a sapling stump. It caught her right on the back of the neck . . .”

  Christie listened as the minister related the story. Her throat was thick, and she wanted to weep, but she knew she had to keep herself strong. Finally she said, “She won’t ever walk again?”

  “The doctors say she won’t.”

  “But we can pray for her to walk!”

  “I’ll do that,” Satterfield said. “God can do it . . . and he’ll have to. The doctors say that they can’t do anything for her.”

  The ancient Essex bounced over the road, finally turning onto a better highway. As they headed toward the hospital in Fort Smith, Christie broke the silence. “I’ll take care of her—as long as she lives!”

  Satterfield was startled at the defiant tone in Christie’s voice. He twisted his head, caught a quick glimpse of the young woman’s profile. “That’s a hard thing, Christie. She’ll need a lot of care.”

  “I can do it.” Christie’s voice was even, and she added, “She’d do it for me.”

  Satterfield swerved to dodge a possum with a cluster of babies clinging to her tail. The ratlike beast had red eyes, and he missed her by only a fraction. When Satterfield got the car under control, he nodded, then said in a whisper, “Yes, she would, Christie. Lenora’s that kind of woman.”

  “Well, time for you to come home, Daughter.”

  Will Stuart came into the hospital room, a piece of paper in his hand. He paused before the wheelchair, then added, “Don’s getting the car around to the front. You had enough of this place, I reckon?”

  Lenora’s face was thin, and she had lost her healthy color. The days at the hospital had been torture for her, though she had kept up a good spirit. Now she smiled, saying, “I’m ready, Pa.”

  “Well, let’s get goin’.” Will moved to the back of the chair, saying, “Christie, you get her things, will you?”

  “Yes, Pa. They’re all packed.”

  As her father shoved the chair out of the room and down the hall, Christie followed. She’d already said good-bye to the orderlies and the nurses, but they all greeted her. Several of them stopped the progress to say good-bye to Lenora. The whole hospital staff had taken a vital interest in her, and when they came to the front door, they were greeted by Doctor Henry Miles, the chief of staff. He was a tall man of fifty with fine gray eyes and a cheerful manner.

  “Well, we’re losing our star patient,” he smiled down at Lenora. He took her hand, saying, “I’ll expect to hear from you.”

  “I’ll miss you, Doctor,” Lenora smiled back. “And I’m not giving up on you. You need Jesus Christ as your savior.”

  The physician hesitated, then gave a despairing look at Will. “This girl of yours won’t give up on me, Mr. Stuart. I’ve told her I’m too hard a case, but she just won’t quit.”

  “No, I won’t—and neither will God.”

  Lenora had been a faithful witness to the hospital staff—from Doctor Miles to the maintenance crew. In the midst of a life-wrecking tragedy, she told all who came into her sphere of their need for Christ. Doctor Miles had come in once to find his most hard-bitten nurse sitting beside the stricken woman, stroking her arm gently. Nurse Biddle had given the doctor a defiant look, stating, “Whatever she’s got—I need it!”

  Now the doctor lost his smile and said gently, “I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for you, my dear. We doctors can’t really do much.”

  “All things are in God’s hand,” Lenora said evenly. “It’s more important that you find peace with God than for me to walk. I’ll be praying for you, every day.”

  “I can use it!”

  And then the doctor turned and left abruptly. “He’s a nice sort of feller,” Will observed, then pushed the chair down the hall. When they reached the door, Christie saw Mel Tolliver entering. He had been to the hospital twice, and now she saw that he was startled to see them.

  “Had to get somebody to work for me,” he excused himself. “Sorry not to be here sooner.” He followed them outside, and as Satterfield and Will carefully put Lenora in the seat of the car and loaded the wheelchair, he asked, “She not going to get better?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How’ll she make out?” Tolliver asked.

  Christie knew he was asking her how much time she herself would give to her stricken sister. She had prepared herself for this moment and now said, “I’m going to take care of her, Mel.”

  Tolliver gave her a startled glance. “But w
hat about . . .” He broke off, but his thoughts were clear. He glanced at Lenora and shook his head. “A shame,” he muttered. “Young woman like that. Never have a home now, except with her folks.”

  “She’ll have me.”

  Tolliver stared at her, then shook his head. “We’ll talk about it. There are nursing homes, things like that.”

  Christie said, “They’re ready to go, Mel.” She left him, and when she got into the car, she saw that he was staring at her in a peculiar way. When the car moved away, Satterfield inquired, “Mel feeling bad about something? Guess he’s upset about Lenora.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Satterfield exchanged a glance with Will, and the two men fell silent. Each of them knew the tragedy that had brought Lenora down might still have potent effects.

  Christie sat beside Lenora, keeping up a cheerful flow of talk as the car moved along. She held her older sister’s hand, stroking it from time to time. And she wondered what would come of this. One thing she was determined about. I’ll take care of Lenora—no matter what it takes!

  A NANNY FOR ADAM

  Cut!”

  Lylah was so mesmerized by the making of the motion picture that she jerked with surprise as a balding man who looked as if he were dressed for a polo match shot out of his chair and came to stand before a woman in a nurse’s uniform. “That was excellent, Mary! Just the right expression.”

  The actress was tiny, almost diminutive. She looked up, smiled sweetly, then said, “Thank you, Mr. DeMille.”

  “America’s Sweetheart, that’s Mary Pickford.”

  Lylah felt her arm seized and turned to look into the face of Howard Duncan. “She’s a fine actress,” she murmured, then managed to retrieve her arm from Duncan’s grasp—without making an issue of it. Duncan was the male star of Over the Top and had been at her side since she’d come to the set of the picture. “Has she ever done anything on the stage?”