Chapter 10 The Year that Could Not Be Undone

A few days before Christmas, Father sat looking at his empty plate. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair. “I can’t let any more time pass before I say something to you, Ruth. You haven’t paid your dues for leading your sister out into the storm. It’s time we discussed your punishment.”

“But Father. She didn’t lead me,” Suzanna said. “I wanted to go. I’ll be fine. Don’t punish her. She meant well, we’ve all been through so much already.”

“Let me speak,” Father said calmly, “You won’t be fine, Suzanna. The consequences of that day will follow you for the rest of your life. I agree it's been a mighty bad experience that's affected all of us, and that’s why I’ve waited.

Your mother and I took a long time to decide on an appropriate discipline. But, Ruth, I want you to understand that we cannot let your actions that night go unpunished. You disobeyed us.” He looked at Mother, and she nodded.

“Thank the Lord God Almighty there weren’t worse consequences. Our family endangered the whole town by searching for Suzanna and me,” Father said. “We’ll be moving soon, and we need to repay our debt, especially to Señor Abel and his family.”

“Can you imagine if he or his boys had been hurt?” Mother asked. “How could we have lived with that on our conscience?”

“I’ve already spoken to Señor Abel,” Father continued. Starting tomorrow, until we move, Ruth, you are to go to their house every afternoon and help with the chores. Señora Teresa will tell you what she needs you to do. Then you will come home and do your chores, after which you will keep up with your schoolwork.”

“Yes, Father. I’ll be good, I will,” I said, on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry, you both got hurt because of me—and my, my im-pet-uousness. My teacher taught me that word just last week.”

“You are impetuous, Ruth, and I hope this will teach you to think before you act.”

“I’ll do anything to make amends, sir.”

➰

My birthday snuck by this year in November, with hardly a hoot nor holler. Mother made me a cake, but as far as celebrations go, no one was much in the mood. Not even me, with all the extra work.

Then the December and the cold weather came with it. The long shadows of naked trees danced on the damp ground. I shuffled my feet through the leaves between Señor Abel’s house and ours. Señora Teresa let me off easy and taught me to make tortillas with her daughters. We all laughed at my misshapen attempts at patting out the round corn cakes. As time went on, I got better.

At home, my added jobs were not so pleasant. Mother made me soap down the outhouse. The smell was especially bad on rainy days, and I had to keep myself from retching. The second chore was to scrub the pots after dinner while the rest of the family retired to the living room. I stood alone at the sink, my hands raw from using the steel wool, but I was determined to pay my debt and make those pots shine.

On December 23, Father and I went to pick a Christmas tree from the land down by Coleto Creek. Traditionally, we hunted the tree as a family, and remorse filled my soul that Suzanna and Mother couldn’t come this year.

Bless Mother, for she had bought some suet and red ribbon at the market. She and Suzanna were going to make ornaments for the tree, rolling balls in suet with birdseed, and they would tie them with a small piece of red ribbon to hang on the tree when we returned.

By the creek was a grove of young cedar elm trees that had not been washed away in the flood. After looking at tree after tree, Father threw up his hands. “Ruth, just pick one. They all look the same to me!”

“No, Father. It can’t be too tall or too short. The trunk needs to be straight, especially at the top for the star, and it needs to be full all around.” I left Father sitting on an old log and tromped through the bog until I found one that filled all my criteria. “Found it,” I yelled. But Father was nowhere in sight. Marking the tree with my scarf, I went to find him and lead him back to the spot. Father grumbled that it was so far from the wagon. But I’d found just the right one, and I wasn’t about to give up on it. He sawed it down, leaving a small stump and some sawdust. I offered to carry the top, but instead Father slung it up on his shoulder and lugged it to the wagon.

Arriving home, Father backed the wagon up, getting near the front door where it was wider and closer to the living room. Mother and Suzanna gushed over the beauty of the tree, and we inhaled the piney smell of the forest, as the tree filled the corner of the room between the windows.

On the twenty-fourth, Mother prepared beef chips and gravy over mashed potatoes. After dinner, we sang Christmas carols and sat around the tree until bedtime. I heard Mother and Father’s low voices as they talked until sleep finally won me over.

Suzanna and I woke early. It was almost dawn when the light flickered mutely through our window.

“Are you awake?” Suzanna whispered. “I’m getting up.”

I propped myself on my elbows. “Wait, I’m coming with you.”

On her crutches, she thunked out of our room. With me right on her coattails. In the dimness, I saw the handsome tree festooned with all the forest gatherings. Mother must have added red bows to the branches after we went to bed. Our stockings on the hearth were bulging.

“Suzanna, come on,” I ran down the hall to Mother and Father’s bedroom and jumped on the bed. It creaked and threatened to fall through when landed and wiggled in between them. Suzanna tromped along behind me and stood at the door, watching.

“Ah, Ruth, give them space,” she said.

Father rolled over and grumbled. “What are you doing, squirt? It’s still the middle of the night.”

“It’s not, Father. It’s Christmas morning! Come on, get up!” I pulled on Father’s hand, but he pulled back in a game of tug-of-war. Finally out of bed, he stood there in his nightclothes, yawning and stretching, taking his time.

“Merry Christmas,” Mother said, putting on her wrapper. “Mighty chilly this mornin’. Let me get some coffee and hot chocolate on.”

“Hot chocolate!” Suzanna and I said in tandem.

The light of day filtered through the lace-covered window. Father lit the candles on each branch of the tree and the wick on Mother’s Tiffany lamp.

“You can see what’s in your stockings, but wait for me to open your presents,” Mother said.

I handed Suzanna her stocking, and we emptied them of the oranges, nuts, and ribbon candy. There was a new pair of socks with tatted lace and a little felt booklet that held a variety of pins and needles. We marveled at the contents, broke off a piece of candy, and stuck it in our mouths. Sucking on the candy, we whispered about what could be in the little bundles that waited under the tree.

Mother passed mugs of hot chocolate all around. “Let’s take a minute to thank the Lord for our blessings,” she said.

Prayer? Couldn’t we pray afterward? Spittle dripped from my mouth, and I wiped it with the back of my hand.

“Ruth, use your napkin,” Mother said. “Now bow your head.”

Father opened the Bible and read from Luke, “Mary gave birth to Jesus, wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger. An angel appeared to nearby shepherds with good tidings of great joy. The angel told them the Son of God had been born, and they hurried to find their newborn Savior.” Father led us in prayer.

When we raised our heads, Mother finally handed us each a gift wrapped in red tissue paper.

Suzanna’s present was a doll similar to Josie's .

“She’s beautiful, Mother,” Suzanna said

“I can’t replace Sally, but I hope she helps. What will you name her?” Mother asked.

Although she was almost thirteen, Suzanna hugged it to her chest and kissed the top of its head.

“I’ll call her Bonny since she is such a bonny little girl,” she said. “Her dress is beautiful.”

I wasted no time tearing the paper off my gift to discover a handsome pony made from felted sheep’s wool. Mother had shaped the ear by sewing wee bits of suede into a cone, with a mane and tail of long cashmere goat’s hair. I fingered the soft hair. I guessed it was from Father’s prize goat. A bridle of leather hung loosely from the mouth. Mother had stitched a saddle onto the backside. It was the perfect size for Josie to ride on.

“Oh, Mother, thank you,” I said. “It’s as pretty as…as Basil used to be.”

“Basil,” Father exclaimed! He slapped his knee and chuckled. “Sur’ do miss that old nag.”

Suzanna handed me a present. I expected nothing from her. It was a wonder she didn’t harbor hard feelings for me. I was the reason she was sitting here with a broken leg. Yet she had made me a gift. I pulled on the ribbon to open it and unfolded the surrounding tissue. Suzanna had made a cape for Josie with spiderweb roses and green leaves embroidered on it.

“Thank you so much, Suzanna. I will cherish it, and Josie will look so smart in it.”

Then it was my turn to hand Suzanna her parcel. I could hardly contain my delight when she peeled back the paper on the small yellow sweater I had crocheted for her new doll.

“Mother helped me make it to fit.”

“I love it. Thank you, Ruth. It’s so pretty and soft.”

Father sat back in his chair and began to rock. “Well, those are nice presents. But gosh darn it, somethin’s been a poking me right here in my back,” he pulled out a small box and handed it to Mother.

She untied the string that bound it. “A pearl brooch. You shouldn’t have, Joe. With the Cattle Horn gone and everything that has been happening, I didn’t think to get you anything.”

“We’ve been through a trial. Over the last few months, you worked so hard to keep this family going. Having my family healthy is enough for me,” he said.

There was a tear on Mother’s cheek when she got up to kiss him.

➰

Earlier in the week, Mother had sugared the candy pecans, made hand pies, and shortbread cookies for the occasion. Jars of her famous bar-b-cue sauce wrapped in scrap pieces of cotton calico tied with hemp string sat on the sideboard, ready to gift when visitors came-a -calling. We welcomed friends as they joined us that afternoon for a little Christmas cheer.

After everyone had left for their homes, the candles on the tree were burning low. Mother let me use her candle snuffer to extinguish the ones on the lower branches. She spat on her fingers, and you could hear the little sizzle when she pressed on the wick, and the flame extinguished on the upper candles.

My favorite time of year had come and gone once more. Christmas, at least, had been a good one. The year itself was another matter entirely. The flood had changed everything, washing away more than fields and fences. With the Cattlehorn gone and Suzanna forever maimed. She would never recover and run freely as she had before. The course of our lives had been altered. Or perhaps it was not the flood at all. Perhaps it had been me.

Mother always said, “It’s too late to shut the barn door after the horse is stolen.” What was done could not be undone now. Still, with the turning of the year came the promise of new beginnings out at the farm. I promised to do my best not to repeat my past mistakes and dedicated myself to healing my sister.