Read Quiet Dell: A Novel for Free Online Page B

big chested and strong jowled, but short in the legs and sausage shaped; Hart will catch him easily.
    Her mother stands in the doorway, holding Hart by the arm. “Are we put to rights here? Hart, be still. Let Duty go. He’s running because you’re chasing him. He’ll drop the shoe as soon as he thinks you’ve stopped playing. Charles, here are the paper sacks for the luminarias. Eight should certainly be enough, and I have glass holders for the votive candles.”
    “What are luminarias?” Annabel, pleased, smoothes her lace-curtain cape.
    “For your footlights. Charles’ idea. And you’re to do exactly as he says.” Her mother steps over to give Charles the sacks, and he drapes an arm around her, pulling her companionably close. Annabel notes that her mother fits under Charles’ arm, exactly asthe woman should fit to the man. Perhaps she will write a play for grown-ups, and her mother and Charles will perform it. She could dispense with a narrator and write herself a part at last.
    “I’ll find Duty,” Hart says.
    “No,” Charles replies. “I’ll find Duty. Fill these sacks half full with sand from the bucket on the porch. Then you will take them carefully to the kitchen, and your mother will set the candles. You must all make haste. Dinner is served at noon sharp.”
    “Charles,” asks Annabel, “what is in that very big box behind the tree? I know you won’t tell. Do you know, Mother?”
    “I have no idea.” She steps over to have a look. “Heavens, Charles, when did you bring in such a big box?”
    “Last night. You were all dreaming of sugarplums. It’s for the children.”
    “It’s a race car with a motor,” Hart says. “Or a team of sled dogs, asleep and folded up.”
    Charles gives him the sacks. “To your task, my man.”
    “Hart, your costume is on your bed,” Annabel prompts him. “For when you come in from the porch.” She knows what their mother will say next.
    “Put on your coat and hat,” their mother tells Hart. “It’s snowing to beat the band.”
    •   •   •
    Annabel, her shoe in her hand, gazes at the crèche atop the shiny piano. She’s quite disappointed that the Verbergs aren’t coming, for they always clap loudly and make exclamations. And she will have to put up with Hart’s additions and tricks, as he must amuse himself. Grethe, her stalwart, can be counted upon to strike the right attitudes while Annabel says her words. They always have flowers at the end for Mother, but today there are no flowers. Hart said he had no allowance to spend on them; in fact, they’ve all made their presents for one another this year. Mother said this was the true spirit of Christmas, but Annabel knows they are being provident.
    The piano is shut to save the keys, and Annabel places her shoethere. The living and dining room sconces are gaslit and scarcely used, but one glows now above the crèche, day and night, until Epiphany. Grethe said it means the eternal flame, a phrase Annabel noticed but hadn’t time to question. Her present to her mother, in response to direct request, must be her “Play for Christmas,” and Annabel has typed the words, key by key, on the old Corona typewriter Charles had left in the back bedroom. The pages look well enough, with the cutouts of doves pasted on. Hart consented to type in the lines he planned to ad-lib, though he didn’t promise to say exactly those, for ad-lib meant to improvise, and one could never tell if Duty would perform as instructed. She told him he was so annoying to ruin her play and he lectured her about setting off the serious bits with humor, if she insisted on using a rag doll as a character. To make it up, he stapled the pages into a cover. The glade, he said, was a good idea, at least.
    Annabel leans in to peer at the crèche and wishes for a magnifying glass, to see the faces on the figures. Only Grethe is trusted with the crèche; she prizes the Holy Family, the kings, the shepherds, the angel holding the