ABBEY'S CHRISTMAS

[FICTION

Hurrying along the trail, Abbey fingered the orange in her coat pocket and then dug deeper, checking for the little bag of molasses taffy she had received from the men dressed up like the Magi. The long walk to the church for the Christmas celebration seemed worthwhile now, and Abbey smiled wistfully, glad for the treats to share with Mama. She hadn't liked leaving Mama alone all afternoon on Christmas Eve with the baby so close to coming, and it didn't feel anything like Christmas in this unfamiliar southern Arizona desert. But Mama insisted that Abbey not miss out on the only festivity there would be this holiday, when everything about her life had changed. The sturdy frame house that had been her home for all of her 12 years now seemed like a dream to Abbey. She missed Julia, who had played with her and her sister Anna. She missed sweeping the pine needles from the baby's grave and Anna's next to it. She missed quiet evenings with Papa when he thrilled them with stories of tracking Apache raiders. Most of all she missed how Papa would rest his hand on Mama's growing tummy and smile as if promising everything would be just fine. Far away, in the high ranges of the Sierra Madres of Mexico, the ranchers in the remote community had thought they could evade the revolution ravaging the country. But Papa, when he heard rumor of Pancho Villa and his Villistas approaching, had packed the family out so fast only the barest of necessities had been thrown into the wagon: food, quilts, Mama's sewing basket and the box of baby clothes. He hardly stopped until he had delivered them across the border to Arizona, to safety here in the Tucson valley. He set their tent beside the Rillito River, which meandered between the sandy banks of the deep arroyo cut long ago. Abbey's breath caught in her throat as it always did when she thought of Papa. After he'd gotten them safely settled and found a midwife for Mama, he'd gone back to Mexico to save what he could of their home and property. Abbey remembered how he had held Mama and they'd cried before he rode out in late November, assuring her he'd be with them for Christmas. Abbey glanced up, measuring the afternoon by the descending sun. It hung just above the mountains so the saguaros, like soldiers marching up hill, cast long shadows over the low sage and yellow grass. The desert mountains looked so different from the Sierra Madres of

Mama's Gift

[ FICTION ]

home, where pines stretched out their arms to meet each other and meadows wore blankets of snow. With a shudder of longing, Abbey looked east, hoping to see snow on the Rincon Mountains, but gray clouds shrouded the high peaks. Abbey laughed to herself, thinking that even rain clouds, so rare here, reminded her of home, and she absently wondered if the mountain rains would replenish the narrow Rillito River. Knowing the desert evening would become instantly cold after sunset, Abbey buttoned the coat she had hardly needed when she'd set out for the church in the noon sunshine. Then she picked up her step, remembering that Mama would want her across the river before dark.

Hastening on, she recalled her favorite Christmas memories. Every year a piñata burst with candy on Christmas Eve, and surprises appeared in her stocking overnight: bright ribbons for her hair or a new dress for her doll. Aromas of smoked venison and mince pies drifted from the kitchen. Their home rang with songs as neighbors came throughout the holidays to sing with Mama or listen, enthralled, as music flowed from her like breath. Always there had been singing, until the last few years when Mama's sorrow over her lost children faded the music right out of her. Abbey shook her head against such sorrow on the eve of Christmas, as if scolding herself. She conjured thoughts of sharing her treats with Mama, hoping that together they could awaken some Christmas feeling. They would peel the orange slowly, pulling the sections apart and savoring the juice. Chewing the taffy, their jaws would ache and sting with sweetness. Then Abbey would sing the baby Jesus song she had learned at church. Mama would clap her hands and ask Abbey to sing it again and again until all the verses stuck good in Mama's head. She still gathered songs like treasures, but now just kept them to herself.

The tired girl approached the edge of the arroyo, glad to see their camp on the other side, but as she looked she sensed something different. Carefully, she counted off the familiar: the tent, an upended washtub, a fire ring with pots beside it.

The sound. Abbey furrowed her brow, and stood still in the path. The air brimmed with unfamiliar sound. She raced the hundred yards to the arroyo and collapsed on her knees at its edge. She'd heard how desert rivers could flood quickly, but she couldn't have imagined this. The swollen river rushed below her, reclaiming widths of the sandy bed that Abbey had thought dry forever. Wide-eyed, she searched for any sign of the footbridge Papa had hastily laid for her and Mama, but the river had swallowed it.

Some movement drew her gaze up from the water to the tent. To Abbey's horror, the midwife, not Mama, appeared in the opening with her hands cupped around her mouth. Abbey strained to hear, but above the rushing water she made out only "the wagon bridge," and instantly recollected where it crossed the expanse of the arroyo about a mile downriver. Then the woman waved her arms in urgent beckoning.

"The baby," Abbey said out loud as she scrambled to her feet. Abbey began to run. The thought of a new baby blended with the image of two little graves beneath the pines of home as clearly as if she were running toward them instead.

Three-year-old Anna had taken sick with diphtheria and died within days after Abbey's 10th birthday. Mama had rocked Anna endlessly to the rhythm of song after song, all the melodies that she had learned to sing and whirl to.

Abbey thought of her secret, the one little shoe she'd kept. She'd hidden it between some logs outside the house and when lonesomeness for Anna overtook her, she'd press its soft leather to her face, then hide it again.

Mama didn't sing for a season after Anna died, and sometimes Abbey didn't know which she missed more. Before that, Mama's singing and the sunrise had been one and the same for Abbey. It seemed like Mama just hadn't thought to do it since.

As Abbey reached the bridge, she watched anxiously as the sun winked behind the mountains. In the evening silence her feet thunked across the heavy wooden planks; her breath heaved as she pressed on.

And as if her memories pressed forward with similar force, she pictured Papa chipping out "Luke," his own name, in the cross that marked the second little grave behind their mountain home. Only a year ago they'd buried a baby boy on the same day he was born, and no one knew, except God, why he couldn't live. Abbey helped Papa place the marker at the top of the grave that was so much smaller than Anna's, then he'd brought Mama out to pray with them. No one even asked Mama to sing after that.

Close enough now, Abbey could see that a lantern burned inside the tent, and it seemed to draw her weary legs ever faster. She had to get to Mama. What if the baby.

Abbey slowed to catch her breath and gather strength to banish the thought. Stillness enveloped the campsite as she neared. The fire ring remained black, and the cookpots untouched.

Suddenly Abbey jerked her head up, listening. What had she heard? She willed her breath to slow and wished the river would be still. The cacophony of desert sounds sometimes scared her, but they had become familiar. Yet she could identify only the river and the rustle of breeze through paloverde and creosote.

"Mama," she called with caution, and waited. No answer came.

Abbey tried to run again, but her legs buckled under the effort. So as she came close to the tent she walked, exhausted and frightened.

When the sound came again, Abbey stopped and held her breath to hear more clearly. She had to know before she went on. She leaned forward, wanting to be closer but afraid to disturb the moment. Frozen with worry and wonder, Abbey sank down in the path and lay back, perfectly still. Her heart quieted and her breath softened, and this time, as the sound mingled with the wafting breeze, Abbey recognized it. Relief swept her through and through, deeper than any sorrow or fear she'd known, as Mama sang the lullaby. The music sifted into her, filling up places that had so long been empty. Abbey let tears trickle across her face and wet the ground beneath her. She began to follow the familiar song, but didn't sing out, wanting only to hear Mama's voice.

"A tiny turned-up nose, two cheeks just like a rose, I love him heaven knows, this little boy of mine."

A brother, Abbey thought, I have another brother. She pictured Papa's homecoming, how he would hold her baby brother up high in the palm of his hand, like he wanted the whole world to see. Then Abbey's mind snapped back to the word homecoming, and held it as she listened to the melodies Mama sang for the baby, one after another, letting something inside her whirl and sway to the rise and fall of the notes. It seemed to Abbey that all the desert sounds blended in accompaniment, as though they'd needed Mama's voice all along to understand harmony.

Yes, a homecoming. Papa will be coming here, coming home.

Abbey rose and dusted off her coat, noticing the bulge of the orange and taffy still in her pocket. When she pulled open the tent and stepped into the light, Abbey thought that in her whole life no gift would ever be greater than what she received tonight, no holiday ever quite so full of Christmas feeling.