Read Christmas Visitor for Free Online

idea who he was, so they’d never meet again. If he wanted to be so bold as to let her know he was watching, then, well, so be it. Sorry.
    She told her sister, Verna, about it after services. They were busy putting red beets and pickles in small Styrofoam bowls to be put on the table with the rest of the traditional food that was served every other Sunday at church.
    Verna watched her sister’s face — the soft rose of her blush — and tried to laugh. But her mouth took on a squarish quality, and she became quite hysterical as she turned her face away. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
    When Verna finished, she lifted her apron and dug out a wrinkled, not-so-white handkerchief and honked mightily into it. Then she lifted red-rimmed eyes to Ruth and said, “Ruth, I don’t care if you think I’m not quite right, but you need to think about marrying again someday. Your row is long, and the sun is hot, and you have it tough. I would wish for you a nice and decent young man, a special one for your children.”
    She again honked her nose into the questionable handkerchief, blinked her eyes, and lifted her apron to return the cloth to her pocket. Then she turned back to the task of fishing sweet pickles out of their brine with a spoon that had no slots in it. Silently, Ruth handed her a slotted spoon. Verna took it, and they finished filling the bowls.
    The next time Ruth looked at Verna, she nodded her head ever so slightly, and they shared a watery smile of sisterhood and love and understanding.

As the late summer sun burned the cool mists of September mornings into glorious fall, the leaves turned slowly into vibrant shades of red, yellow, and orange. The garden was cleared of its tomatoes and brown, rustling cornstalks and diseased marigolds.
    Ruth gathered an armload of cornstalks, walked to the white board fence, and flung them over. Then she stood to watch Pete hungrily bite into one, allowing Oatmeal, the small round pony the color of her name, none of the tender evening snack.
    â€œPete, come on. Stop being greedy. Get over here, Oatmeal. He’ll let you have some.”
    She turned in time to see Roy chasing Barbara across the lawn with a cornstalk held aloft, a banner of intended harm. Barbara was not crying out. She simply lowered her head in determination and outran him, her blue dress flapping as her knees pumped and her brown legs churned. She dodged Roy with the agility of a small rabbit.
    Triumphantly and clearly the winner, though her chest was heaving, Barbara turned to face him. Roy swung the cornstalk futilely, accepting defeat, until she charged after him, neatly swiping the offending stalk and racing off with it. Roy took pursuit once more.
    Ruth watched, laughing to herself, until Lillian ran directly into Roy’s path, where he crashed into her. She fell back, hitting her head on the corner of the wooden sandbox and sending up a series of shrieks and howls, her face turning burgundy, her mouth open wide.
    â€œStop! No, no, Lillian. Don’t cry,” Roy said, bending to help his youngest sister, rubbing her head, sliding her onto his lap as he sat down.
    Barbara dropped the cornstalk and came running to see how bad it was. She told Roy it was all his fault, because he had started it. Roy asked who had been running away when this happened, and Barbara retorted that that was not what she had said.
    When Ruth reached them, Lillian was still emitting howls of outrage. Good-natured Barbara was bristling with anger, while Roy was determined to prove his point and trying to drive home the blame with his words.
    Calm. I will remain calm, Ruth thought. She scooped up Lillian and checked her head for injuries. Her searching fingers found a large goose egg protruding from her daughter’s scalp.
    â€œHush. Hush, Lillian. It’s alright,” she said softly, which did no good as her words were buried under a fresh supply of howling.
    â€œRoy. Barbara. Stop. Go sit