I turned my head and nestled it down on his boyish shoulder, grateful he was always so optimistic, always so cheerful. It felt good to have his strong young arms about me--almost as pro- tective and good as Daddy's arms had been.
Chris was right, too. Our happy time would come the day we left this room and went downstairs to attend a funeral.
Holidays
. On the tall stalk of the amaryllis a single bud appeared--a living calendar to remind us that Thanksgiving and Christmas were drawing nigh. It was our only plant alive now, and it was, by far, our most cherished possession. We carried it down from the attic to spend warm nights with us in the bedroom. Up first every morning, Cory rushed to see the bud, wanting to know if it had survived the night. Then Carrie would shortly follow him, to stand close at his side and admire a hardy plant, valiant, victorious, where others had failed. They checked the wall calendar to see if a day was encircled with green, indicating the plant needed to be fertilized. They felt the dirt to see if it needed water. They never trusted their own judgment, but would come to me and ask, "Should we give Amaryllis water? Do you think she's thirsty?"
We never owned anything, inanimate or alive, that we didn't name, and Amaryllis was determined to live. Neither Cory nor Carrie would trust their frail strength to carry the heavy pot up to the attic windows, where the sunshine lingered but shortly. I was allowed to carry Amaryllis up, but Chris had to bring her down at night. And each night we took turns marking off a day with a big red X. We now had crossed off one hundred days.
The cold rains came, the fierce winds blew -- sometimes heavy fog shut out the morning sunlight The dry branches of the trees scraped the house at night and woke me up, making me suck in my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting for some horror to come in and eat me up.
On a day when it was pouring rain that might later turn into snow, Momma came breathless into our bedroom, bringing with her a box of pretty party decorations to put on our Thanksgiving Day table and make it festive. She had included a bright yellow tablecloth and orange linen napkins with fringe.
"We're having guests tomorrow for a midday dinner," she explained, dumping her box on the bed nearest the door, and already turning to leave. "And two turkeys are being roasted: one for us, one for the servants. But they won't be ready early enough for your grandmother to put in the picnic basket. Now don't worry, I'm not allowing my children to live through a Thanksgiving Day without the feast to fit the occasion. Somehow I'll find a way to slip up some hot food, a little bit of everything we have. I think I'll make a big to-do about wanting to serve my father myself, and while I'm preparing his tray, I can put food on another tray to bring up to you. Expect to see me about one tomorrow."
Like the wind through the door, she blew in, blew out, leaving us with happy anticipations of a huge, hot, Thanksgiving Day meal.
Carrie asked, "What's Thanksgiving?" Cory answered, "Same as saying grace before meals."
In a way he was right, I think. And since he'd said something voluntarily, darned if I was going to squelch him by any criticism.
While Chris cuddled the twins on his lap, sitting in one of the big lounge chairs, and told them of the first Thanksgiving Day so long ago, I bustled about like any hausfrau, very happy to set a festive holiday table. Our place cards were four small turkeys with tails that fanned out to make orange and yellow honeycombed paper plumage. We had two big pumpkin candles to burn, two Pilgrim men, two Pilgrim women, and two Indian candles, but darned if I could light such pretty candles and see them melt down into puddles. I put plain candles on the table to light, and saved the costly candles for other Thanksgiving Day meals when we were out of this place. On our little turkeys, I carefully lettered our names then fanned them open and placed one of them before each plate. Our dining table had a small shelf underneath, and that's where we kept our dishes and silverware. After each meal I washed them in the bathroom in a pink plastic basin. Chris dried, then stacked the dishes in a rubber rack under the table to await the next meal.
I laid out the silverware most carefully, forks to the left, the knives to the right, blades facing the plates, and next to the knives, the spoons. Our china was Lenox with a wide blue rim, and edged in twentyfour-karat gold--all that was written on the back. Momma had already told me this was old dinnerware that the servants wouldn't miss. Our crystal today was footed, and I couldn't help but stand back to admire my own artistry. The only thing missing was flowers. Momma should have remembered to bring flowers.
One o'clock came and went. Carrie complained loudly. "Let's eat our lunch now, Cathy!"
"Be patient. Momma is bringing us special hot food, turkey and all the fixings--and this will be dinner, not lunch." My housewifely chores done for a while, I curled up happily on the bed to read more of
Lorna Doone.
"Cathy, my stomach don't have patience," said
Cory now, bringing me back from the mid
seventeenth century. Chris was deep into some
Sherlock Holmes mystery that would be solved fast
on the last page. Wouldn't it be wonderful if the twins
could calm their stomachs, capacity about two ounces,
by reading as Chris and I did?
"Eat a couple of raisins, Cory."
"Don't have no more."
"The correct way to say that is: I don't have
anymore, or there aren't anymore."
"Don't have no more, honest."
"Eat a peanut."
"Peanuts are all gone--did I say that right?" "Yes," I sighed. "Eat a cracker."