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newest idle time activity, as Ma
had called it. She had handed me a crochet hook and announced last
month I had to start helping her with the pretties she kept in the
house, since I was now old enough to learn how to do it. My
crocheting never looked as nice as hers, and I had to concentrate
as I wove the hook in and out of the thin yarn. Hopefully, this
doily would have an oil lamp on top of it, so no one would ever see
all the mistakes I'd made.
    Pa sat across from me and read from the
Bible. Hearing him telling the story of the fishes and the loaves
helped me focus.
    Mark balanced a thick pad of paper against
his knees from his position on the floor. Wrinkles appeared in his
forehead as he sketched. I stopped working to look at him.
    “Don't move,” he said.
    “Huh?”
    He showed me his latest drawing. Mark was
very good at sketching our lives. Right about now, I wanted to burn
every picture he had ever done. This one showed me with my tongue
peeking from between my lips as I tried to shove the hook into the
doily.
    “Do it again.” He grinned. “I like how you
try to do girl stuff.”
    I almost threw my crocheting at him, but Ma
walked into the parlor with Adam and Bart at that moment. She
picked up her knitting and started on a sock hanging from the
needles. She was so good she made a new pair for all the men every
two weeks.
    I wish I were as good as Ma. She makes it
look so easy.
    Adam and Bart crouched in a corner and pulled
out their knives. After selecting thin pieces of wood from the
container near the stove, they whittled until shapes of a star and
a bell became recognizable. They always started early making the
ornaments we hung off the fireplace mantle since Christmas trees
were as rare as hen's teeth in the desert.
    The sound of a harmonica on the front porch
made me smile. Charles played right before we went to bed, to calm
the animals.
    “No smiling,” Mark said. “I'm not done.”
    I looked down at my crocheting, which wiped
the smile right off my face, and went back to work. He grunted, and
I figured I had made him happy but didn't dare look up, even when
the door thudded against the wall.
    “Don't move,” he said.
    While I wanted to find out what new
excitement had come into our lives, I kept on crocheting.
    “We found something the runt will like,”
Peter hollered.
    “Here it is,” Paul shouted.
    Charles stopped playing his harmonica. Adam
and Bart's knives clattered against the floor. Ma gasped. Tiny,
needle-like claws climbed my legs, piercing my skin through the
stockings. Shrieking, I jumped to my feet and flapped my skirt.
Those claws skidded downward and then began climbing again. One
hand on my shoulder to keep me from bouncing around, Ma reached
under my dress and pulled out a frightened kitten.
    We had what seemed like dozens of cats in the
barn. They loved the sweet smelling hay and begged for a squirt of
milk when we took care of the cows. This one had mottled black,
white, and gold fluffed up fur. His poor body trembled as he meowed
pitifully.
    “You two get in the bunkhouse now,” Pa said
in the angriest voice I'd ever heard. “How is Abigail, Louisa?”
    I was only Abby whenever Ma wasn't around to
object. She believed parents gave a good Christian name to a child
for a reason and objected to us shortening ours. She turned to Pa,
and I took the cat from her, stroking the animal until it calmed
down and purred.
    “I'll let you know as soon as I clean up her
legs.” She headed for the kitchen. “Abigail, get ready for
bed.”
    Still holding the kitten, I walked into the
hallway. The desire to beg my parents to let me keep it raced
through me. I loved just about any kind of animal. Charles looked
at my face and shook his head.
    “Sorry, Abby,” he said. “I know you want to
keep the kitten, but you know the rules.”
    Rules made my life miserable. Everything I
loved was against them.
    “I know.” I handed him the bundle of purring
fur, went into my bedroom, and changed