Snow in Summer: Fairest of Them All: Fairest of Them All by Jane Yolen Page B
Authors: Jane Yolen
Ads: Link
scalp showed through in places, looked straight at me. She lifted her finger, it all crooked from the arthritis, and said warningly, “Little pitchers . . .”
I knew what that meant. “Little pitchers have big ears.” Meaning me. Meaning I would probably report back to Stepmama every word I heard. Only I wouldn’t, though how were they to know?
At that warning, they all four sat straight-backed in the pew and began to sing “Away in a Manger” at the top of their lungs and all on different but interesting keys.
Cousin Nancy held tight to my hand, her face flushed and her hand much too warm around mine. I suppose I’d become accustomed to Stepmama’s cold hands by then.
I kept thinking about how warm Cousin Nancy seemed as the priest droned on and on in his Christmas sermon, talking about heresies and Pharisees and the like, none of which I quite understood except that they all happened a long time ago. All the while, Cousin Nancy was like a regular furnace. I felt almost burned up sitting beside her.
Then, when the congregation began to sing, I realized I’d forgotten the words of most of the carols. My neighbors seemed sudden strangers. All I had was Stepmama now. I shuddered and felt cold. Cold was comfortable. Cold was common. Cold was what I’d become used to.
Afterward, Cousin Nancy delivered me home from church, lifting me over the heavy snow plowed against the curb. Stepmama was waiting at the door, scowling, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Been long enough,” Stepmama commented. “I’ve been that worried. Lemuel has been asking after her and I didn’t know what I could tell him.”
“Tell him Merry Christmas,” Cousin Nancy said, smiling sweetly, but there was tartness in her tone.
“Thank you,” Stepmama said to Cousin Nancy, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “I’m certain Snow had a good time.”
“Summer certainly did,” Cousin Nancy countered.
I remember thinking that it sounded like some kind of contest between them, their own version of the Europe War. I didn’t quite understand it then, except that it made me uncomfortable.
Once Stepmama closed the door firmly behind us, I asked why she’d said I had had a good time.
“Form,” she answered. “Give them little to complain of. Did you have a good time, Snow?”
Suddenly I was not sure and took a while in answering. I had to think about the day in church. About how strange everything had seemed. How overly warm Cousin Nancy had been.
“I think so,” I said at last.
If she heard something else in my answer, she kept it to herself, but the scowl was gone. She looked satisfied, a snake just swallowing its kill.
Remember, I was eleven. Stepmama was all I had, the only one who paid the slightest bit of attention to me every single day. I thought that made her a good person, only just someone not able to give any more than that little. That little had become enough.
For a while.
In fact, when we got inside, Papa didn’t look a bit anxious. He was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall, though he could just as easily been on a far shore gazing at a horizon he never expected to reach. His face, always long and a bit mournful-looking even when he’d been young and happy, seemed extra long now. Bony. He stared out of eyes that looked encased in bone.
Old, I thought, and reached out for Stepmama’s hand.
•11•
PAPA SINGS
A week or two later, I woke in the middle of the night and heard a strange sound, like a buzzing or humming. I tiptoed to my door and pulled it open. It hardly creaked at all.
A
The sound was coming from the living room and when I got halfway down the hall, I realized it was Papa. He was half singing, half chanting, and little of it made sense.
“I am the Green Man, the growing man, my mouth full of leaves,” he said. “I wake in the spring, am reaped in the fall, slumber all winter dreaming of green.” And then he sang out, his voice clear as in the past,
“Do I
I knew what that meant. “Little pitchers have big ears.” Meaning me. Meaning I would probably report back to Stepmama every word I heard. Only I wouldn’t, though how were they to know?
At that warning, they all four sat straight-backed in the pew and began to sing “Away in a Manger” at the top of their lungs and all on different but interesting keys.
Cousin Nancy held tight to my hand, her face flushed and her hand much too warm around mine. I suppose I’d become accustomed to Stepmama’s cold hands by then.
I kept thinking about how warm Cousin Nancy seemed as the priest droned on and on in his Christmas sermon, talking about heresies and Pharisees and the like, none of which I quite understood except that they all happened a long time ago. All the while, Cousin Nancy was like a regular furnace. I felt almost burned up sitting beside her.
Then, when the congregation began to sing, I realized I’d forgotten the words of most of the carols. My neighbors seemed sudden strangers. All I had was Stepmama now. I shuddered and felt cold. Cold was comfortable. Cold was common. Cold was what I’d become used to.
Afterward, Cousin Nancy delivered me home from church, lifting me over the heavy snow plowed against the curb. Stepmama was waiting at the door, scowling, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Been long enough,” Stepmama commented. “I’ve been that worried. Lemuel has been asking after her and I didn’t know what I could tell him.”
“Tell him Merry Christmas,” Cousin Nancy said, smiling sweetly, but there was tartness in her tone.
“Thank you,” Stepmama said to Cousin Nancy, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “I’m certain Snow had a good time.”
“Summer certainly did,” Cousin Nancy countered.
I remember thinking that it sounded like some kind of contest between them, their own version of the Europe War. I didn’t quite understand it then, except that it made me uncomfortable.
Once Stepmama closed the door firmly behind us, I asked why she’d said I had had a good time.
“Form,” she answered. “Give them little to complain of. Did you have a good time, Snow?”
Suddenly I was not sure and took a while in answering. I had to think about the day in church. About how strange everything had seemed. How overly warm Cousin Nancy had been.
“I think so,” I said at last.
If she heard something else in my answer, she kept it to herself, but the scowl was gone. She looked satisfied, a snake just swallowing its kill.
Remember, I was eleven. Stepmama was all I had, the only one who paid the slightest bit of attention to me every single day. I thought that made her a good person, only just someone not able to give any more than that little. That little had become enough.
For a while.
In fact, when we got inside, Papa didn’t look a bit anxious. He was sitting in his chair, staring at the wall, though he could just as easily been on a far shore gazing at a horizon he never expected to reach. His face, always long and a bit mournful-looking even when he’d been young and happy, seemed extra long now. Bony. He stared out of eyes that looked encased in bone.
Old, I thought, and reached out for Stepmama’s hand.
•11•
PAPA SINGS
A week or two later, I woke in the middle of the night and heard a strange sound, like a buzzing or humming. I tiptoed to my door and pulled it open. It hardly creaked at all.
A
The sound was coming from the living room and when I got halfway down the hall, I realized it was Papa. He was half singing, half chanting, and little of it made sense.
“I am the Green Man, the growing man, my mouth full of leaves,” he said. “I wake in the spring, am reaped in the fall, slumber all winter dreaming of green.” And then he sang out, his voice clear as in the past,
“Do I
Similar Books
