Christmas with Tucker Read online

  Chapter 6

  DECADES LATER, I would constantly tell my son to remove his ever-present headphones so that I could speak to him. I sounded like a broken record—“Todd, take those things off so you can hear me.” When I was thirteen, the constant refrain was “George, please put your book down and come in here and talk to us.”

  At the sound of Grandma Cora’s voice, I shook myself into the present and walked into the kitchen. She was finishing cleaning up from dinner and Grandpa was still reading the paper. Without looking up, he asked his question.

  “Is this nameless dog of Thorne’s any good?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Well, he seems all tuckered out right now.”

  With the water running as she washed the dishes, my grandmother misheard my answer, with interesting results.

  “Well,” she chimed in brightly. “Tucker is a very nice name for a dog.”

  My grandfather looked up from his paper and smiled at me. Neither of us saw any reason to correct her. So I just went along. “Good a name as any.”

  “I want to see this Tucker for myself,” she said, drying her hands on her apron. She held open the back porch door. “Why don’t you come and show him to me?”

  I stayed on her heels, curious to know what she’d make of the dog. She knelt beside the setter, who opened his eyes and gave her a trusting look as she gently massaged his ears.

  My grandfather got up from the table and joined us. He smiled as she conversed with the dog.

  “Tucker, you are a fine dog.”

  It took less than five minutes. Tucker could say goodbye to the back porch and hello to inside living quarters.

  “George, please take Tucker inside right now where we can properly care for him.” She followed me into the house and pushed a pile of scraps into a steel bowl. Tucker did not bother to chew much of anything; he just gulped it down. When he finished, he settled down beside Grandma, who’d joined my grandfather at the table, and stretched his paws out in a contented way. She continued to scratch his ears and pet his red coat, praising him for no discernable reason, though she used his new name every chance she could, as if to teach it to him. “Sweet Tucker, nice boy.… Tucker, you’re going to like it here.… Are you still hungry, Tucker?”

  Retreating again to the sofa, I left Grandpa in the kitchen reading the paper. Occasionally, he would look over at Grandma with a raised eyebrow as she kept up her patter with Tucker.

  It was getting close to bedtime when what remained of my living-room reading time was again interrupted. My grandmother was still in the kitchen, now carrying on an intense conversation with my grandfather that was quickly losing the casual tone that I could naturally tune out while reading. The rising volume of her voice reflected her agitation.

  “All of those years of John wanting a dog and you were so stubborn about it—now you bring home a dog. How did you think it was going to make me feel?”

  “The dog needed a home. What else was I to do? Besides, I thought it would do George some good.”

  “George is going to Minnesota and that dog is going back to Frank’s when he gets out of jail. How is that going to work?”

  “Not so loud, Cora, he’ll hear us.”

  Soon there were muffled sobs from the kitchen.

  “Do you want me to find another place for the dog?”

  “Bo, it’s not that.”

  “Then what?” he asked.

  I heard her let out a long, low moan. “When I glance at our little George, I see John. It makes me want to bust inside.” She tried to hold back her tears, but she just sobbed. “Oh, Bo, even the smallest things trigger memories and make me think of John. First we lost him, and soon enough we’re going to lose George, too. He may not even last here till Christmas—he just told me so. Nothing is going to be right on this farm.”

  “Don’t say that, Cora.”

  “What else am I to think? My insides have been chopped to pieces. I don’t understand. How do you stay so calm?”

  My grandfather let out his own long sigh and spoke in a determined way. “It’s like this, Cora. We can’t afford an avalanche. For now, that’s all I am trying to do.”

  “What do you mean, Bo?”

  “One loss triggers another, and another, and before you know it, the whole family is busted apart at the bottom of the hill. Just a pile of rubble.”

  Unable to resist, I peeked, unnoticed, into the kitchen. My grandmother’s head was buried in my grandfather’s massive chest. She hugged him tighter. “I know,” she told him sorrowfully.

  “We can’t let that happen. I’ve got to stay tough—for you, for George, and for the whole family.”

  “You’re my granite. You’ve always been. Nothing ever has and nothing ever will knock us down from the top of McCray’s Hill.”

  He pulled her closer. “I won’t let it.” He plucked four or five pins from her hair, loosening it from its knot and letting it fall down her shoulders, the way she wore it at night. He ran his fingers through it in a comforting gesture.

  “What am I going to do? I can’t go on like this anymore.”

  “It’s November. You’ll do what we do every year.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “After you make the best Thanksgiving dinner in Cherokee County, you’ll waste weeks of time putting up all of your Christmas decorations, just like you always do.”

  “How can I do that, alone, without John and Sarah helping me? You know how much they loved Christmas. The girls were always the first ones to drag the decorations out of the basement and string the lights. Now they are all gone.”

  “I’ll help you. George is still here. We’ll do it, somehow.”

  “I’m sorry, but right now Christmas seems frivolous.”

  He held her cheeks in his hands. “You’ve got more substance than any person I know. There is nothing frivolous about keeping our traditions alive. It may be just what we need to stay propped up. I need you to do it.”

  I crept upstairs, not wanting to disturb them and feeling vaguely guilty for listening in and watching them. It was only November, but it was cold getting ready for bed. Tucker followed me up the steps and sniffed about my room. I pulled a blanket down from the top closet shelf and put it on the floor. He stared at it and then leapt up onto my bed, apparently not that interested in cold oak floor planks. After shutting off the light and situating Tucker at the foot of the bed, I pulled the covers over my head and tried to get warm. The “Minnesota” debate continued to rage in my head. It was easy to picture my mother near a cozy fire, resettled in the beloved hometown she’d always missed, laughing with family and old friends and enjoying the evening in front of a television, something no one around here seemed to think we needed. I loved my McCray grandparents deeply, but I had fond memories of the Peterson side of my family, too.

  My mother’s parents lived in a grand house near Minneapolis that was not only equipped with a television but also filled with cousins and an endless parade of friends and neighbors. It was a wonderful place where we had spent several joy-filled summers. Now my mom deserved and needed that love and support. I just didn’t know about myself.

  When she met my father after the war, moving to a farm had been a compromise for a city girl who’d fallen in love with a country boy. Though she went willingly, the farm no longer made sense, not for her. The McCray farm was now merely a painful collection of reminders. She agreed I could manage for a few months without her, safe in my grandparents’ care, while she resettled our family in Minnesota. After Christmas, which she and my sisters would spend on the farm, I would go back with her to start fresh, too.

  For me, though, moving away from the farm seemed like a betrayal of my father. I thought perhaps I’d get over that feeling, but as the weeks and months passed, I could not let it go. There was part of me that hung on to a hope: if I just had enough patience, my dad might still walk right through that back kitchen door. For after all, he had
been doing it every day of my entire life. He would be laughing with Grandpa Bo. On his face would hang the outdoors, punctuated with little bits of grease, grass, and dust cemented to his face by sweat and sun. He would be tired, but it was farm-tired: sore muscles, sun-bleached hair, and the ever-present assortment of scrapes and bruises that marked one day of simple toil.

  Through it all, over the years, no one ever looked more alive to me than my father when he came home at the end of the day. If it happened, if this was all just really one long, cruel dream, I wanted to be there when the screen door slammed shut and he walked back into our lives.

  So I stayed and waited and pretended that maybe tomorrow would be that day. My mother made it clear that she had not wanted to leave me behind, but she understood and allowed that I needed a few more months on that farm. So, in early September and with my full approval, she packed the car and drove off.

  With my father gone, my mother moved to start over, my sisters away at college, and my grandparents lost in each other’s arms, I was not sure where that left me, but I did know that I felt very much alone on top of that windswept hill.

  Before long I could hear, like sand blowing hard against glass, the sound of little bits of snow and sleet tapping out a haunting rhythm on the windowpane. Tucker sneaked up from the foot of the bed and squeezed into the space between me and the wall. He felt warm and comforting.

  Tucker’s ascent from the back porch and into our home was now complete, but my work was just beginning. Very soon, things would begin to change.

  Chapter 7

  “TUCKER NEEDS his breakfast, too,” my grandmother said as she set his bowl on the kitchen floor. He lapped up his food with vigor while we looked on.

  “He eats more than George!”

  “Very funny, Grandma.”

  My grandfather stood near the kitchen window, surveying the yard. “All we got was a dusting.” He then turned his attention to a quick study of the dog. “He looks better. Food and a comb can do wonders for man and beast alike.”

  It took only moments for me to recognize what a good dog Thorne had stumbled on to. As I got ready for school that morning, it was clear that both my grandparents had reached the same conclusion.

  No one in the house could pass the dog without petting him and making some favorable remark about either his appearance or his friendly demeanor. When I got out of bed that morning, I almost tripped over him. He had spent the rest of the night on the floor, at my bedside. Having a dog felt so normal, if not necessary—it was as if the McCray family had suddenly discovered the benefits of running water.

  Looking back on it now, Tucker was the only living creature in our house who wasn’t feeling sad, and perhaps that’s why he established himself so easily in our hearts and minds. When he wagged his tail and acted content, he reminded us how happiness looked and joy felt. We sensed that there was a huge absence in our lives, and though Tucker couldn’t fill it, his presence hinted, gave us some hope, that those vast empty spaces might someday be full again.

  On Thursday afternoon, after dropping my lunch pail and books in the house, I trudged around the farm, doing my chores with Tucker by my side. It had been a while since I strayed far from the barnyard, and I thought today would be a good day to do some exploring. Grandpa caught up to us and seemed to have a new project in mind for us.

  “Hold him for a second.” He slipped a bit of twine around Tucker’s neck and roughly measured its diameter, tying a small knot in the twine and stuffing it into his pocket. “I’ve got some leather scraps around the shop. I’ll make him a collar. Do you want to help?”

  “Nah, I think I’ll take him for a good long walk down to the creek.”

  Grandpa reached into his jacket and pulled out a letter. “I almost forgot. This is from your mother.” He handed the slim envelope to me, along with the rope we were still using for a leash. “You better take this, too. Just in case he tries to run off. Don’t let him in the barn when I’m milking. I don’t want him spooking the cows.”

  “I won’t. Thanks, Grandpa.”

  I pocketed the rope and the letter. I wondered if he’d speculated on its contents and how he felt knowing that I’d told Grandma I might want to leave the farm before year’s end. I knew that my grandfather, like Grandma, wanted me to feel that I would always have a home with them. I didn’t want to hurt him in any way.

  As Tucker and I walked away from our homestead, the late-afternoon sun reflected off his brushed coat in hues of deep burnt pumpkin and cinnamon that reminded me of autumn. The clouds hung low in the sky and made the blue space above us seem closer, yet still immense. It was brisk for November, but bearable with a sunny and gentle breeze that carried a musty timber smell up from the creek.

  As we walked out of the barnyard, we passed by Dick and Dock. Both of the giant beasts were resting their heads on the top rail of their corral. Tucker ambled over to investigate the pair, but when he got too close, they kicked up their heels and disappeared into the barn.

  “Come on, Tucker, let’s go.”

  We headed east along the path that went past Thorne’s cabin. At the edge of the fence line, we turned south, through the hay-fields, and down to Kill Creek. Once we crossed under the fence, I slipped the rope around his neck so we could practice working on the leash.

  When we got to the creek, I released Tucker and skipped stones. While I counted skips, Tucker sank down to his eyeballs in the creek, holding his head just above the water and lapping up cool drinks of the murky water with his tongue.

  While resting in a little patch of grass by the bank, I watched the dog play in the water and tried to take in the pleasing aroma of the wild onions that were the last remaining bits of plant life tenacious enough to stand up to the advancing march of winter.

  I pulled the envelope from my pocket, removed the letter, and started to read:

  Dear George,

  Everyone misses you terribly, but I’m at the top of the list! I like my new job and still can’t believe how much they are paying me … three times what I made working for the telephone company when I was a teenager. I am enclosing a few pictures of your new house and your bedroom that I thought you might like to look at so they will feel more familiar to you when you get home. The house is only 5 minutes away from Grandad and Grandma Peterson! They spend lots of time over here and can’t wait to see you. How are things there on the farm? I’m sure your grandparents are glad to have you around and I know they will miss you very much when you leave. Please assure them that we will all come and visit as much as possible! Trisha and Hannah are still loving college life—especially since they’re at Grandad’s alma mater and he and your grandmother join them for all the football team’s home games. They were both home for the weekend and insisted that we make “George’s Oatmeal Cookies.” I told them I would not dare make them until we could share them with you.

  Grandma and Grandad Peterson asked me to tell you “hi,” too. We’ll see you at Christmas. I can’t wait … miss you so much. I’ll try to call you before we leave so we can start planning, packing, etc.

  Love,

  Mom

  p.s. When I come back to Kansas for Christmas, I am going to make you a whole sack of your cookies!

  I folded up her letter and put it back in my pocket. The house in the picture seemed huge by our standards and my bedroom was already decorated with a football bedspread and bookshelves. I had always wanted bookshelves in my room.

  When I turned to the north, a growing chill was in the air. The sky was going from blue to gray and puffs of darker clouds were rolling in on the horizon. With each gust of wind, the few leaves that remained on the trees were letting go, accepting their place. Unfortunately, I had no such clear convictions. Kansas. Minnesota. Minnesota. Kansas. Where was my resting place?

  The dog’s nose was deep in a mouse run and his tail wagged rhythmically. I wondered how dogs sensed or thought about home and if Tucker might have something to teach me on the subject.

 
“Tucker, come on. It’s time to walk back.”

  Chapter 8

  “SNOW DAY!” my grandfather yelled, his voice booming up the staircase.

  Nowadays, when children hear grown-ups say “snow day” they rejoice because it means school is canceled, and they can sleep in and dream of a day spent sledding or building snow forts. But back then, those two words meant something entirely different in our house. It did not necessarily mean that I had no school. What it did mean, I did not especially want to hear at 4:30 on a Friday morning.

  Tucker liked bunking with me, and I was happy to have a warm furry thing near me in the early-morning hours. He seemed ready to do his part to make sure I got up on time. Try as I might, he was hard to ignore. Once he heard my grandfather’s call, he began yawning, scratching, and stretching.

  Already my grandmother was brewing coffee, and when its aroma mixed with that of fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon, it was a strong call to draw me out of bed, though I remained huddled in a cocoon of warm covers for a few more precious minutes.

  There was an additional sound on that November morning: the powerful, deep rumble of the diesel engine on the maintainer as it first turned over. As the engine smoothed out, the muffled coughs of that old steel dragon gave way to a roar that was out of place on a cold winter morning.

  I could hear my grandfather put the throttle into idle, allowing the engine to warm up; he often let it warm up for a good half hour, especially on very cold mornings. The cab door slammed shut. Grandpa was on his way to the house to make sure I was moving around. There was no need to pull back the curtain from the window; I knew what I’d see outside—snow.