generator, and a concrete statue of Jesus.
Dwight shook his head in amusement as he repeated that last to me. “Who steals Jesus?”
“Any luck with the mistletoe?” I asked, pausing in the archway between the living room and dining area.
Cal giggled as Dwight put away his phone and stood to give me an exaggerated kiss. I looked up and there hanging from the arch was a healthy sprig of green. It still had a few glistening berries on it. You’re supposed to pull one off every time someone gets kissed, and when all the berries are gone, no more kissing.
I left those berries right where they were.
“Dad was awesome,” Cal reported. “We got enough for Grandma and everybody else. Lots of berries, too.”
“How’d
“Pretty good. I hit the can the first time.”
“He’s got a good eye,” Dwight said, smiling at his son. “We dug some cans out of Seth’s barrels for target practice. Too bad I took all our trash to the dump yesterday.”
As Cal chattered on about how amazing the whole experience had been, I made a mental note to buy a pad of paper targets for an extra Christmas gift. And maybe I’d get Robert or Andrew to sell us a few bales of hay and deliver them to the far side of the pond. When Daddy was teaching us to shoot, he always made a point of setting up our targets on a downward slope so that there was no danger of the bullets traveling anywhere but into the ground. I figured Dwight would want to do the same with Cal.
And that reminded me: maybe Dwight would appreciate finding a box or two of extra cartridges under the tree if his own were going to be digging themselves into hay or dirt. Something else to add to that mental list.
Outside, that mixture of sleet and freezing rain continued to fall as twilight faded into darkness. Supper was a salad and toasted ham and cheese sandwiches, and I diced a little ham over some greens to take for my lunch tomorrow so that I could go shopping during my lunch recess.
“Long as you’re making lunches,” Dwight said, “how about fixing me a sandwich? Tomorrow’s shaping up to be real busy.”
“And both of you do remember what tomorrow is, don’t you?” I asked.
“Tomorrow? December twenty-second?” He tried to look as clueless as Cal, who was shaking his head. “Is there a Hurricanes game? An eclipse of the moon?”
I laughed. “No, and it’s not the opening of snipe season either.”
“There’s no such thing as snipes,” Cal said. He got up to check the calendar that hung on the side of the refrigerator. “Hey, winter begins today? I thought that was before Thanksgiving.” His finger moved to the next square. “What’s Ha-NOO-ka?”
“Hanukkah? The Jewish festival of lights,” I explained and gave him an encapsulated version of the Maccabees, the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days, and the symbolism of the menorah.
“We’re going to celebrate that tomorrow?”
“No,” Dwight said. “Think about it, buddy. What were you doing this time last year?”
A sudden grin lit his freckled face. “Oh yeah. Y’all got married!” He paused and looked at us. “I guess I’m spending the night at Grandma’s again?”
“You got it,” his father said.
Because there was no school for him the next day, we put another log on the fire and watched a Christmas special that lasted till ten. Eyelids drooping, Cal didn’t argue about going to bed, and I was ready for pajamas myself.
But Dwight was worried about his young trees, so we bundled up and went out with flashlights and hiking sticks to knock ice off the tender new twigs of the dogwoods and crepe myrtles he’d planted the length of our driveway before the weight of the ice could bow them down and snap the branches.
Pine branches at the edge of the woods were sagging almost to the ground. It’s like dipping candles. Rain coats the needles, then freezes. More rain, another coat of ice. If the rain continued, by morning each pine needle could be glazed in a quarter-inch thickness of ice. Multiply that by the number of needles on a pine tree and their combined weight would leave the ground littered with snapped branches.
We walked along the drive, gently tapping the trunk of each small tree, and shards of ice tumbled down like broken glass. The wind and rain tore at our exposed faces and I was glad when Dwight’s phone rang a few minutes after we got outside, so that I could retreat to the house before I was chilled to the bone.
I headed straight to our bathroom, shed my clothes, and stood under the hot shower till my circulation returned to normal. I had expected Dwight to join me, but when I walked back into our bedroom, he was still wearing his hat as he took his pistol out of the gun safe in his closet and buckled it on. His badge was clipped to his jacket.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Trouble with one of the Wentworths again. Two bodies out at a trailer on Massengill Road. No ID yet. Don’t wait up for me.”
CHAPTER 14
—
MAJOR DWIGHT BRYANT— SUNDAY NIGHT, DECEMBER 21
Dwight reached the end of his long driveway and turned onto the hardtop that ran past the farm.
Literally.
