Lynnette Kent - Abby's Christmas

“I don’t think he had time, Ma.” Noah moved up beside her. “He’s a pretty small dog.”

She turned toward him and glared at the dog. “What are you doing with a dog, anyway? You know I don’t like dogs.”

“Sorry. I forgot.”

“Like you forgot to call and tell me you were coming? Like you forgot to come home since you were eighteen? Like you forgot to let me know you were still alive for the last four years?” She snorted and turned toward the house. “You have a serious memory problem.”

Noah took one step in the same direction.

“And don’t think you’re bringing that dog into my house,” she said, without looking back. “I won’t have any filthy animal in my home.” The screen slapped shut, then the front door.

The dog squirmed in his arms, but Noah stood still. His first impulse was to run as far and as fast as the full tank on the bike would take him. His second impulse was to slam inside the house and tell the bitch exactly what he thought of her, then take off for the farthest corner of the country.

“Noah?” He’d forgotten Abby entirely. “Noah, I’ll take the dog.”

He looked over at her, not understanding. “What?”

“I’ll take the dog home with me. We’ve got a fenced yard and an enclosed porch where he can sleep.”

“I can just—” He didn’t really have another option. “I guess that’ll work for tonight.”

“What’s his name?” she asked, reaching around the dog so that she was practically in Noah’s arms. He got a whiff of the sweet flower scent in her hair. When she drew away, with the animal cuddled against her own chest, he missed her warmth.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes widened. “You didn’t name him?”

“No. I didn’t—” This might not be the best time to confess that he hadn’t planned to keep the mutt. “I didn’t have time to think up a name.”

“I guess not.” Her smile was a flash of brightness in the darkening afternoon. “We’ll work on that tomorrow. See you then.”

“Sure.” She made tomorrow sound like something to look forward to. Noah watched her leave the yard and cross the street to her car, an old red Volvo, where she settled the dog on the passenger seat before getting in herself. The sound of the engine, when it finally started, called for a major tune-up, but Abby gave him a cheerful wave and another smile before she pulled away from the curb.

As she left, Noah realized his first impulses had weakened, letting a certain degree of reason take hold of his brain. He wasn’t going to run out on his mother again. Not before they’d had a chance to…settle things. Not before he made sure she would be taken care of for as long as she needed. He owed her that much.

So he opened the screen and pushed back the door into the house. A wave of heat hit him—the thermostat must be set at eighty degrees—along with the scent of onions and hot grease. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to walk to the kitchen.

His mother glanced at him. “I was beginning to think you’d just run off again.” With a tilt of her head, she directed him to the table by the window. “I was cooking when you showed up. Sit down. Go on, sit. This’ll be done in a minute.”

Noah eased out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Even his sweatshirt was too hot. Since he wasn’t sure he was staying, though, he wouldn’t take it off.

“There.” A plate thumped onto the table. She still used the same dishes he remembered from fifteen years ago, made of unbreakable white glass, with blue flowers around the edges. Two hamburgers anchored the meal, framed by a pile of potato chips and a couple of pickles.

“Here’s some rolls.” A bowl of hamburger buns plopped onto the table. “I’ve got mustard and mayo. No ketchup.”

“This is good, Ma. Thanks.” He only hoped he could eat without choking.

She set a soda can by his plate, and then brought her own dinner plus a cola to the table and joined him. Her eyes closed. “Thank you, Lord, for this day and the blessings it has brought. Amen.”

Noah barely got his own eyes shut before she finished, and was a little slow in opening them. The first thing he saw was his mother’s fork, carrying a piece of dull gray hamburger, pointing into his face.

“So why don’t you tell me,” she suggested, “just where you’ve been for the last fifteen years?”

He took a deep breath.

“And why the hell,” Marian Blake continued, “you bothered to come home now?”

The Diary of Miss Abigail Ann Brannon

September 2, 1981

Dear Diary,

The first day of fifth grade was just like the last day of fourth grade. We got our books and they all look boring. Why do we have to study North Carolina history? We live here, so what’s to learn? I want to know about England and Africa and Japan. No such luck.

They mixed up the kids in different classes, like they do every year. Dixon and Rob and Jacquie are with me in Mrs. Davis’s room, but Adam and Pete have Miss Lovett for a teacher. We get to see one another at recess and lunch, though.

Mrs. Davis made us sit in alphabetical order. How stupid is that? The boy in the desk next to mine is Noah Blake. He’s shorter than me and really skinny. I heard he went to Porter Elementary but got transferred to New Skye Elementary because he caused so much trouble. I didn’t see him do anything wrong today. His T-shirt was too big and his jeans were too short and his arms were covered with purple bruises. He didn’t say anything all day, and sat by himself at lunch and recess. I think he’s scary.

And I think Dixon has a crush on Kate Bowdrey. I’m glad it’s not me—boys are too much trouble.

April 1, 1982

Dear Diary,

Mrs. Davis assigned partners for our end-of-the-year project today. April Fool’s for me—I have to work with Noah Blake. He hasn’t said a word to me all year long, now we’re supposed to work together on the biggest project all year. We have to pick a historic building, make a model and write about it. A North Carolina building, of course, not something neat like the Taj Mahal or the Eiffel Tower. We got fifteen minutes at the end of the day to talk about what building we want. Noah just shrugged when I asked him what he wanted to do. But when I named some buildings—the state capitol, the courthouse here in New Skye, the lighthouse at Cape Hatteras—he rolled his eyes or sneered. He doesn’t like my ideas, but he doesn’t have any of his own. Stupid boy. I don’t think he has lunch money—I hardly ever see him eat.

June 4, 1982

Dear Diary,

This was the last day of fifth grade and the worst day of my life. I stayed up until almost midnight writing the paper for my history project with Noah. He built the model of Fort Fisher at his house and was bringing it in this morning for our presentation. When I got to school, the model was on my desk—smashed to pieces, like somebody punched their fist into the fort about ten times. Noah didn’t show up for school. I read the paper to the class, and Mrs. Davis said she wouldn’t take marks off on the model—you could tell it had been beautiful, made out of little sticks like the boards at the real fort, with bunkers covered by green felt for grass and a flag and cannons. I don’t know what happened to it. I’m wondering if Noah’s okay.

August 13, 1982

Dear Diary,

I saw Noah at the county fair tonight. I was behind this guy in line, and something about his shoulders, about the way he stood, made me sure it was him. But he was with a girl—she looked like she was about sixteen. I didn’t say anything to make him turn around. I decided I didn’t want a funnel cake after all and went for a pretzel instead.