“But it was Glenna—” she began.
Glenna was in tears. “I didn’t share,” she sobbed. “I didn’t share my book and now—” The tears came too fast for her to continue. “I’ll pay,” she finally managed. “I’ll pay, Mama.”
“You don’t even have money,” an angry Berta flung at her younger sister. “You spend it all on candy.”
“Then I’ll—I’ll—” Glenna could come up with no scheme to pay off the debt.
Mrs. Berdette rose to her feet, shaking her head, obviously not knowing what to do with the pair of them.
“I think you should both go to your room,” she said quietly. “We’ll need to sort this out later when your father comes home.”
She returned to her supper preparations. After several moments had passed she peeked in on her two daughters. They were both curled up on Berta’s bed, Glenna’s dark hair fanned out over the white pillow, her deep blue eyes wide with fascination as Berta read to her from the torn first-grade primer.
———
Their father, after giving them both a stern talking-to, paid for the damage to the book. From then on, Glenna brought her new books home and dutifully—though somewhat mournfully—handed them to Berta for the first reading. Then she felt free to read the stories over and over to herself. But it wasn’t quite the same. She never got to discover the “surprise” in the story.
Berta secretly exulted. Her role had been firmly reestablished. She was the older. She was in charge.
———
“We need to hurry,” urged Berta.
They were almost ready to leave for the Sunday morning service. Mrs. Berdette was making the final loops in Glenna’s hair bow. Mr. Berdette had already left the house to hitch up the cutter, his heavy coat bundling him against the chill of the winter’s morn.
Mrs. Berdette let her eyes travel to the mantel clock. “We have plenty of time,” she responded.
“But we don’t,” chafed Berta. “We need to be there early. They are choosing parts for the Christmas play this morning.”
“Well, I’m sure they won’t make their choices before everyone gets there,” said Mrs. Berdette.
“But they might ….” Berta’s words trailed off. She had never yet been chosen for Mary. This year—
this year
she was determined to convince her teacher that she was the most suitable one for the part.
“I wanna be an angel,” put in Glenna cheerily.
“You’d make a lovely angel,” said Mrs. Berdette, a smile tilting her lips.
Berta cast a cross look at the two of them. Glenna, with her frills and bows, smiled up into the face of her mother. Berta tossed her short hair. She didn’t want frills and bows. She insisted on plain dresses. She didn’t even want lace on her shirtwaists. At first her mama had quietly argued, but at last she had conceded. Berta noticed that her mother seemed to take special delight in sewing pretty things for Glenna.
Berta kicked her toe against the table leg. If they didn’t hurry she’d be sure to lose the part.
By the time Mrs. Berdette had helped Glenna with her coat and muff and buttoned her own coat firmly about her slim form, Mr. Berdette was at the door with the cutter and team.
Berta tried to get Glenna to settle quickly as she tucked the blankets closely about them to ward off the cold.
The horses snorted and tossed their heads, puffs of frosty breath making little clouds that traveled up the front of their long faces.
At last they were on their way. Berta ached to tell her papa to hurry the team—but she knew it wouldn’t work. He did not like to run the team in cold weather. He did not wish them to be sweaty when he tied them to the hitching rail and threw the coarse blankets over their broad backs. They had to wait in the cold until the service ended.
“I bet they’ll be all chosen,” Berta grumbled to herself.
But when they arrived at the little church, others were still pulling into the yard. Mothers and children were delivered to the steps while fathers or older sons drove on to tie the horses to the hitching rails.
Berta didn’t even call greetings to her church friends. She was fearful that if she acknowledged them the teachers might notice their appearance and consider one of them for the cherished role.
Heavy coats were hung on pegs by the door and children were bustled off to the small side room where parts were being decided.
“Let’s all sit down,” said elderly Mrs. Twing. She had been doing the Christmas program just forever.
The children obediently took seats. Wishing to be noticed, Berta made sure she was in the front row.
“Let’s begin with the shepherds.”
Three junior boys were chosen for the shepherds. Another three were picked for the wise men. Four preschoolers beamed as they were designated as sheep.
“We’ll need an angel choir,” said Mrs. Twing, “but we’ll leave that for last. Anyone without a speaking part will be in the choir. It’s very important that we have a good choir.”
Berta understood the words in spite of Mrs. Twing’s effort to hide the meaning. The angel choir would simply be the leftovers. Berta did not want that.
“We need an innkeeper.”
Mrs. Twing’s eyes traveled over the three older boys who sat on the very last row trying hard to look inconspicuous in spite of red faces and jabbing elbows.
“Carl? How about being the innkeeper?”
Carl reddened and was poked in the ribs from each side. He managed to nod.
Berta watched. She had hoped with all her heart that Mrs. Twing would choose Carl for Joseph. Secretly she liked Carl.
“The angel Gabriel,” said Mrs. Twing. “Luke—you would make a good Gabriel.”
It was Luke’s turn to blush.
Berta squirmed. Only one older boy was left. Thomas Hawkins. She didn’t like Thomas Hawkins. She would hate playing Mary with him as Joseph. She wanted to protest. She almost raised her hand. But Mrs. Twing was continuing.
“Now—all we have left are Joseph and Mary. Let’s see. Thomas—you will be our Joseph.” Mrs. Twing stopped and cast her eyes over the row of older girls. Berta squirmed. It seemed to take forever before Mrs. Twing spoke again.
“Oh, my. This is a very hard decision. We have so many fine choices for Mary. Let’s see. Oh, my. Well … ”
Berta wriggled on her seat.
“Berta would make a good Mary.” It was Glenna who spoke up, her childish voice trembling with her excitement, her blue eyes shining.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Twing, “yes—Berta would make a fine Mary, I’m sure.”
Berta breathed in deeply. She was in.
But Mrs. Twing was continuing to speak. “This year, though, I think—yes—this year it will be Emelia’s turn. She has not yet been Mary, and this is her last year in our program.”
Berta felt the breath leave her lungs and the hot flush of anger stain her cheeks. It wasn’t fair. Emelia would make an—an
ugly
Mary. It would be all wrong. Her bright red hair and freckled face would not go at all well with the blue robe and white head veil. She would make an awful Mary. The whole play would be all wrong. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
Berta dipped her head. She knew all eyes must be upon her. They would all know that she had been slighted. They would—
Berta lifted her eyes again. To her surprise they were not all looking at her. They did not even seem to notice her discomfort. Only one pair of eyes was studying her face—the blue eyes of her little sister, Glenna. Such agony—such sympathy—showed in Glenna’s eyes that Berta felt even angrier.
“And the rest of you,” Mrs. Twing was saying, “will be our special angel choir. You—”
“I won’t,” shouted Berta, jumping up from the bench where she sat. “An angel is no part at all. It’s just a—a—”
But she could not go on. Her voice choked up with her anger. She wanted to cry but she refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing that they had wounded her.
Mrs. Twing’s eyes opened wide with surprise and shock.
“Why, Berta—” she began but seemed not to know what else to say.
In the back row the big boys were tittering.
Berta stood her ground. She crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head with each angry word. “I won’t be an angel. Glenna can be your angel. I’m not a little kid anymore. I won’t be an angel.”
She cast a disdainful glance toward Emelia. “An’ Mary doesn’t have red hair,” she said with emphasis.
“Berta,” said Mrs. Twing firmly. “Berta—sit down.”
Berta tilted her chin stubbornly.
“Sit down,” the words came again.
She had to do it. She knew that—but, oh, how it rankled to give in. She plopped down on the bench, making it quiver with her forcefulness. Her arms were still crossed in front of her, her face was tipped forward so that her hair almost covered the crimson of her flushed cheeks.
“I think you and I need to have a talk,” said Mrs. Twing. “Mrs. Lawlor, will you take over the class, please?”
The “talk” did not result in a change in the assigned parts. It did result in a further talk in the Berdette household.
Berta sang with the angel choir—but inwardly she hated the assignment. Glenna tried to cheer her by telling her “how pretty” she looked in the white flannel robe and “how nice” she sang the songs.
Berta took no comfort from Glenna’s compliments. Outwardly she performed as she had been bidden by her father. Inwardly she protested with every breath she took.
But the words of her mother lingered in the back of her mind to trouble her.
“Oh, Berta. I don’t know what to do with you. I fear what that defiant spirit and quick temper might cost you in life.”
Anxious footsteps awakened Berta from a sound sleep. She lifted her head from the pillow and listened. She could hear the troubled voices that drifted down the hall, but she could not understand the words.
She sat up and swung her feet to the area rug beside her bed. It was still dark outside. Something strange was going on.
She looked over at her younger sister. Berta could see her faint outline beneath the bulk of Granna’s pieced quilt. Glenna still slept on.
Stealthily, so as not to awaken Glenna, she moved toward the door, her white flannel nightgown swishing about her bare ankles.
There was a light on in the living room. She could see its faint glow from the hallway. She moved toward the light, wondering what had brought her folks from their beds at such an unearthly hour.
She stepped to the door of the room and was shocked to see the doctor. No one was sick.
Then her eyes moved to Pastor Jenkins, the minister of their small church, sitting on the settee, his hand sympathetically placed on the robed arm of her mother. A strange fear gripped Berta’s heart.
Berta took a step into the room. Three heads lifted. Three pairs of eyes fastened on her face. She could tell her mother had been crying.
“What is it?” Berta managed to ask. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, Berta,” sobbed her mama, and she extended a hand toward the young girl.
Berta moved quickly to her and knelt in front of her, one hand going to her mother’s dampened cheek. “What happened?” she repeated, but her mother was unable to answer because of the sobs that shook her body.
It was the minister who spoke. “Your father,” he said slowly, sadly.
Berta’s head jerked up, her eyes wide with fear. “What?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“It was a heart attack,” responded the doctor, sympathy deepening his voice. “We were unable to save him.”
“You mean—?” began Berta, looking from one drawn face to another. She couldn’t finish the sentence. Would not even allow herself to finish the thought.
Pastor Jenkins nodded. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” he said. “He’s gone.”
Berta stood quickly to her feet. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She had seen her father just a few short hours before. They had spent the afternoon tramping through the meadow by the creek searching for leaf specimens for her biology class. He was fine. Just fine. There was some mistake.
She looked again at her mother. The woman was still weeping. Berta knelt again by her side and took her hand in both her own.
“Mama?” Her one word was a question. A plea.
Her mother reached out to her and placed her hands on each side of her face. The anguish in her mother’s eyes answered the question for her. It was true. It was real. They had lost her father. Berta buried her face in her mother’s lap and wept unashamedly.
What would they ever do without him?
Her thoughts went on. He had been so much more than a father. He had been her friend, her encourager, her constant source of love and acceptance. Whatever would she do without him?
———
Somehow the two girls and their mother made it through the difficult days that followed. Somehow they stood by the open grave as the last words were spoken by Pastor Jenkins. Somehow—somehow—they made it through the first agonizing weeks, the months—that eventually stretched into a year. They clung together. Sharing—yet keeping secret thoughts from one another.
They discovered that life went on. They even managed to establish some sort of daily routine to replace the familiar. The girls continued on with their schooling on weekdays. Their mother spent her time in baking, sewing—family chores. But Berta felt that the glow had left her mother’s cheeks, the light had left her eyes. She wondered just how often her pillow was soaked with tears after she retired to an empty bedroom at the end of the day.
Glenna was their one bit of sunshine. In spite of her own pain, she found little ways to bring some joy and laughter into the otherwise somber household. At length, even their mother managed to laugh again.
But Berta found it hard to laugh. Though she never would have said so, she was angry. Angry with life—and even angrier at death. What right had death to steal away her father? To destroy their happy home? Berta buried her thoughts deep inside and lifted a stubborn chin. Her father had been a good man. Unselfish. Giving. Seeking to fulfil God’s command to love and serve others. Perhaps it didn’t pay. What good had it done him?
Berta would never have expressed her angry thoughts, but inwardly she gave them room to grow. She had no intention of standing idly by and letting anyone, or anything, take from her what she deserved. Nor would she bear pain simply because she couldn’t fight back. No one was going to rally to the aid of a passive soul, she decided. She would fight on her own behalf. She would look after her own interests.