The gravel in my father’s side drive down near Poplar Bluff had this hollow, crunchy sound that hadn’t changed in the forty-odd years I’d been walking on it, and as I cut the engine of the truck that New Year’s Day, I remember thinking how quiet the morning felt. My boots hit the frozen ground with a dull thud, and the air had that sharp, thin edge to it that makes your knuckles ache before you even get the porch door unlocked.
Josephine was sitting in the passenger seat, her little knees pulled up against the denim of her overalls, blowing little plumes of steam against the cold glass of the window. She had her mittens on already, the blue ones with the thumb holes I had mended with dental floss three nights before because we didn’t have the extra six dollars for a new pair at the dollar store. I reached across the shift lever and gave her knee a little squeeze through the thick yarn. We’re going to go in, we’re going to say our polite how-do-you-dos, and we’re going to eat whatever Evelyn put on the buffet table before we head back home to the wood stove.
That was the whole plan, simple as a fence post, and I figured we could get through three hours of it without anyone starting up about how I should have stayed in the union hall or how Josephine ought to have a mother who went to church on Sunday mornings instead of working the second shift at the laundry plant.
The front door didn’t even have to be turned; Arthur never locked it during the day because he liked to pretend we still lived out in the open country where nobody locked anything, though the neighborhood had put in chain-link fences and security lights five years back.
The smell hit us right as we stepped over the threshold, that heavy, greasy mix of baked ham, wood polish, and the peppermint potpourri Evelyn kept in a chipped glass dish by the hall mirror. It was warm inside, almost stiflingly so, the kind of heat that comes off an oil furnace that’s been cranked up too high to cover up the draft coming through the window frames. Clara’s twin boys, Brayden and Beckett, were already tearing through the hallway on those battery-powered four-wheelers my parents bought them, their new sneakers squeaking hard against the hardwood floor right where the varnish had worn thin near the coat rack.
They didn’t even look at us as they blew past, just kicked up a little dust cloud of pine needles from the stray bits dropping off the nine-foot balsam fir Arthur insisted on dragging home every December. Josephine stayed close to my leg, her fingers hooking into the side pocket of my canvas coat the way she always did when she felt like she was stepping into deep water. I could feel her little knuckles pressing against my thigh, cold through the cloth, and I told myself it was just because she was shy around her cousins, who lived fifty miles north and went to a private academy where they wore plaid skirts and navy sweaters.
We made it into the front room where the tree took up half the space, its branches hung with heavy glass ornaments that had belonged to my grandmother. Evelyn was sitting on the floral sofa with a cup of weak tea in her hand, her silver hair pinned up into that stiff bun she’d worn since I was ten years old, looking like she was waiting for a church board meeting to start. Clara was standing by the radiator with her husband, Greg, both of them holding matching travel mugs of coffee and laughing about something to do with a cabin they’d rented up near Branson for the spring trout run.
Arthur was standing right by the base of the tree, his thumbs hooked into his leather belt, looking down at the pile of shiny gift bags and ribbon-tied boxes that looked like they belonged in the window of a department store down in St. Louis. When he saw us, his chin didn’t lift so much as it set harder, the way it always did when he was about to give someone his opinion on how they were running their acres into the ground. Well, look who finally decided to burn a gallon of gasoline, he said, his voice carrying that dry rattle from forty years of smoking unfiltered Camels behind the barn.
Thought maybe you got lost on the paved road, Mark.
I just nodded, keeping my hand on Josephine’s shoulder, and said we had a little ice on the culvert back home that took an extra ten minutes to salt over. Evelyn didn’t get up from the sofa, she just raised her tea mug an inch or two and told us to wipe our feet real good before we came onto the rug because the salt stains were devilish to get out of the wool. Clara didn’t even look up from her phone for a solid three seconds, her thumbs still flying across the screen before she finally gave us that tight, closed-mouth smile she used whenever she ran into someone she went to high school with who hadn’t turned out quite as well as she had.
Josephine, honey, go on and say hello to your grandmother, I whispered, nudging her forward just an inch so she wouldn’t look like she was hiding behind my trousers. She took three steps across the carpet, her little red boots making barely a whisper, and stood right in front of Evelyn with her hands folded over her denim bib. Happy New Year, Grandma, she said, her voice small and careful like she was talking to a bird that might fly away if she got too loud. Evelyn gave her a dry peck on the top of her head that didn’t even dent the curls, then pointed a skinny finger toward the corner where a single brown grocery bag sat shoved behind a basket of pinecones.
Arthur didn’t wait for Evelyn to finish her tea; he reached down and hooked his toe under the bottom of that greasy brown paper bag and kicked it across the floorboards until it stopped right by Josephine’s red boots. Go on then, pick it up, girl, Arthur said, his tone flat and heavy like he was dropping feed to the hogs. Your aunt Clara brought that down from the attic back when we were cleaning out the old toy chest from the back bedroom. It’s got some miles on it, but it’ll hold you. Josephine knelt down right there on the rug, the paper crackling loud in the quiet room while Brayden and Beckett skidded their four-wheelers to a stop by the grandfather clock to watch.
She reached inside her small mittened hand and pulled out a plastic horse that looked like it had been run over by a tractor back during the Johnson administration; it was missing its left rear leg entirely, and someone had gone over its white mane with a thick black laundry marker until the plastic was greasy and smeared. She turned it over once in her palms, her little thumb brushing against the jagged edge where the plastic had snapped clean off, leaving a sharp little burr that looked like it could snag a sweater. Nobody said anything for a second, and honestly that felt worse than if they’d shouted.
Clara took a slow sip from her travel mug, her eyes still flicking between her phone screen and the floor where Josephine was sitting. Well, it builds character to have something that’s already been loved by the family, Clara said, her voice smooth as lard. Besides, you know how hard it is to find anything decent these days with the supply chain the way it is, and the twins have such specific lists for their robotics kits. Arthur let out a short, dry bark of a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, his boots shifting on the edge of the rug.
He didn’t look at me; he looked down at Josephine, who was still holding that broken plastic horse like she was afraid if she dropped it she’d get in trouble for making a mess on the carpet. The good presents are for the grandchildren who actually matter, Arthur said, his voice dropping into that register he used when he was laying down the law about property lines or who had grazing rights on the bottomland. Josephine didn’t cry. She didn’t even make a face. She just stood up slow, let the broken horse slide out of her hands so it hit the floor with a dull, hollow clatter, and then she walked over to me and pressed her face right into the side of my canvas coat.
Daddy, she whispered, her breath hot against my ribs through the cotton shirt, maybe my real present is hidden somewhere else? I just stood there because my brain kind of stopped working for a second, the blood ringing in my ears like the sound of the old threshing machine when it hit a stone in the alfalfa. I looked up at Evelyn, who was staring down into the bottom of her teacup like she was reading tea leaves, and then at Clara, who had gone back to scrolling her phone with that little look of satisfaction around her mouth that she always got when she figured she’d won an argument without having to raise her voice.
Arthur was already turning away, reaching down to hand Brayden another heavy-wrapped box that looked like it had an electronics logo printed on the side under the ribbon. The whole room felt smaller suddenly, like the walls were leaning in to see how much more they could pile on top of us before we finally broke. My hand went down into my pocket and felt the cold metal of my truck keys, but I didn’t reach for them yet. Instead, I unhooked Josephine’s arms from my waist and told her to go stand by the front window where she could watch the blue jays fighting over the suet cage hanging from the porch rail.
She didn’t ask questions; she just walked over there in her little boots, her small back turned to the room, her shoulders slightly hunched under her green wool sweater. I didn’t say a word to Arthur, and I didn’t look at Clara as I crossed the braided rug toward the corner where our gifts were sitting stacked on the side table by the record player. I had spent two whole weeks of overtime down at the plant to buy those things, a genuine leather handbag for Evelyn that cost more than my first secondhand pickup, and a self-winding stainless steel watch for Arthur that was supposed to show him I wasn’t just the son who stayed behind to work the failing acreage while Clara went off to college in Kansas City.
I picked up the heavy black shopping bag with the gold foil lettering first, the tissue paper rustling loud in the dead quiet of the room, and then I picked up the smaller box with the watch inside. I didn’t rush. I took my time, the way my granddaddy used to take his time unlatching the gate when he knew the bull was watching him from the far corner of the pasture. I walked right back over to the coffee table where Arthur was standing with the twins, and I dropped both bags right back down on the wood surface with a sharp, heavy thunk that made Clara jump.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, his head coming up slow like an old turtle poking out of its shell. What in the hell do you think you’re doing with those? he asked, his voice hardening up the way it always did whenever someone didn’t step back the second he spoke. I looked at him, and for the first time in thirty-five years, I didn’t feel that little knot of panic in my gut that usually told me to keep the peace and swallow whatever dirt they were shoveling my way. I’m taking back what belongs to someone who clearly doesn’t consider my daughter family, I said, my voice sounding stranger to me than it did to them, level and flat, like I was reading a parts list off a manifest.
Clara dropped her phone onto the sofa cushion, the plastic case hitting the fabric with a hollow slap. Are you out of your mind, Mark? Mom and Dad spent good money on those bags for the tree, and you’re throwing a tantrum over a five-dollar thrift store toy? Evelyn finally set her teacup down, the china clinking hard against the saucer so some of the brown water sloshed over the rim. Mark Allen, you put those things back right this minute, Evelyn said, her voice shaking with that thin, old-lady anger that used to make me back down when I was twelve years old.
We raised you better than to come into this house and steal back gifts you already handed over in front of company.
They weren’t gifts, Evelyn, I said, and I heard myself say it without raising my voice an inch, which seemed to rattle her worse than if I’d yelled. Gifts are something you give someone because you love them. These were just admission tickets to your little club, and we’re done paying dues. Arthur took a step forward, his chest puffed out under his flannel shirt, his knuckles red and swollen from fifty years of handling frozen wire and greasy iron. You take those bags and you get out of this house, Arthur snarled, his face getting that dark, liver-colored shade around the edges of his beard.
And don’t you ever come back expecting a dime of what’s left of this place when the county splits the deed. You’ve made your bed with that girl, now you can sleep in the dirt with her. Clara was already standing up, her hands on her hips, her voice going high and thin the way it did whenever things weren’t going exactly according to her schedule. You’re punishing Mom and Dad because you can’t provide a decent Christmas for your own kid, Mark, and everyone in this county knows it! Brayden and Beckett had stopped their four-wheelers entirely now, their little mouths open as they watched the grown-ups go at it over the wrapping paper.
I didn’t argue with her. There wasn’t anything left to argue about once Arthur said those words out loud in front of the kids, because the truth of it was sitting right there in the middle of the room like a dead calf in the well. I reached down and picked up both shopping bags by their rope handles, the weight of them feeling entirely different now than it did when I loaded them into the truck that morning. Come on, Josephine, I said, turning toward the front window where she was still standing with her small nose almost touching the cold glass.
She turned around instantly, her blue mittens clutched in front of her like she was holding onto a shield, and she walked over to me without looking once at her grandfather or her aunt. We walked out through that front door and let it slam shut behind us, not a hard slam, just the solid, heavy click of a latch falling back into place where it belonged. The cold air hit us like a bucket of well water the second we stepped off the porch, and I could hear Clara shouting something behind the screen about how we were dead to the family, but the sound didn’t carry over the gravel as I started the truck engine and let the heater blow white-hot against the windshield.
We didn’t go straight home. I drove us six miles down the highway toward the county seat where the road leveled out past the grain elevator, and I pulled the truck into the gravel lot behind the Star Diner where the neon sign was buzzing and flickering in the grey afternoon light. The place smelled like fried grease, stale coffee, and floor wax, and the waitress, an old woman named Loretta who went to school with my mother back in fifty-eight, just looked at us once as we slid into the back booth by the jukebox. We don’t have much left in the way of hot plates, Loretta said, wiping down the laminated table with a grey rag that had seen better decades, but I can drop two orders of pancakes on the flat top if you’ve got the stomach for it, Mark.
I looked down at Josephine, who was staring out the diner window at the empty highway running north toward the hills, her small fingers tracing the seam of her wool mittens. You want pancakes, Jo? I asked, my voice catching just a little bit on the last word. She turned her head slow, her eyes bright and clear in the dim light of the diner, and she nodded once. Can we get the ones with the real butter, Daddy? she asked. We sure can, honey, I told her, and I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the small leather wallet where I kept the grocery money.
While Loretta was back by the grill flipping the batter, Josephine reached into the front pocket of her blue overalls and pulled out something small and shiny that she’d slipped off the counter while we were waiting. It wasn’t the broken plastic horse from my father’s house; it was a little tin toy horse she’d won at the county fair back in August, the one she’d dropped down the storm drain and I’d fished out with a bent coat hanger and some grease. She set it right down on the Formica table beside her syrup glass, the little metal wheels catching the amber light from the window, and she didn’t say another word about her grandfather or the tree or the cousins who lived fifty miles away.
I sat there across from her in that vinyl booth, watching the steam rise off the plates as Loretta brought them over, and I knew the silence we were driving back into tonight would be heavy and long. But for the first time in my life, the house we were going back to was going to be ours, and nobody was ever going to hand my little girl a broken piece of junk and tell her she didn’t count.
