Read Online The Twelfth Child by Bette Lee Crosby - Free Book Online
Authors: Bette Lee Crosby
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I’d get a real tree, a big one, tall as the ceiling. Of course, I didn’t dwell on how I’d get such a thing home or where I’d get the trimmings for it.
When Sunday rolled around, it was a gray morning with a thick layer of black clouds threatening to let loose a downpour. Anyone could tell this wasn’t going to be a drizzle, it was going to be the kind of driving rain that makes it impossible to see the road even when the windshield wipers are set to their fastest speed. This all happened just after Ben Meyerson had moved away and the place was still empty. If I’d have known Destiny at that time, I could have gotten her to go with me. She was good that way; always willing to drop whatever she was doing to lend a hand. Why one time, she got behind the wheel of my Buick and drove all the way over to Virginia Beach just because I had a yearning to smell the ocean.
Anyway, I fretted about making the trip alone and twice I even dialed Will’s number to tell him I’d come some other day, after the weather got better. Both times I hung up before he answered; probably because I was pretty eager to meet this Elliott. Finally, I started reasoning like a person with some sense—just stay in the right lane and go slow, I told myself, which is a laugh because in those days I rarely drove faster than forty miles an hour anyway. Once my mind was made up, I outfitted myself like a person visiting with the President of the United States—straw hat, silk dress, fancy bloomers, even a brand new hankie tucked into my purse.
As it turned out, the rain clouds drifted off to the east and I got to their house almost an hour early. When Will opened the front door he had this big wide smile on his face. “Come on in,” he said. “Meet Elliott Emerson!”
I had barely stepped through the door when Elliott said in his smart-alecky way, “So, this is Abigail Anne.” A gentleman would have shown the courtesy to stand but Elliott sat there with his lanky frame stretched across the sofa and waited as I walked over to him. “Ah yes,” he said, eying me top to toe, “Abigail Anne, the twelfth child of William Lannigan. As Will here knows, my grandmother was the first .”
Everyone knew Papa had other wives before Mama, but I wasn’t about to give this Johnny-come-lately the upper edge, so pretending that such news was of small consequence, I answered, “Do tell.” Right away, any hope for chubby-cheeked nieces and nephews was gone. It’s funny how you can take measure of some people from the very start; not just by their looks, but things you can’t even put a finger on—a lack of expression, eyes that look right past you, a hollowed out laugh. Elliott had all those, plus a bushy mustache that hung like an awning over his lip and hid the sneakiness of his mouth. When he spoke my name, he gave one of those hollowed out laughs, I suppose it was meant to sound friendly-like, but I could tell behind that bushy awning he had gritted-together teeth.
“Emerson?” I said, “I’ve no knowledge of any Emersons in our family.”
“Emerson is my father’s family name, but my mother was most certainly a Lannigan,” Elliott stated emphatically. “William Lannigan was my great grandfather. Bertha Abernathy, his first wife was my great grandmother.”
To my way of thinking, having a blood line that could be traced back to Papa didn’t say much for anyone. I was of a mind to say so but Will seemed to be taken by the man so I kept my opinion to myself. Of course, Will was the kind of person who could never see the bad in anyone. Once we were watching the television news and there was this story about a man who’d murdered his own mother—I said they ought to string him up; but my brother felt sorry for the guy. “Just think how troubled that poor soul must have been,” was all Will had to say. I’ll grant you Elliott and me might not have gotten off to such a poor start if I’d have been a bit more
When Sunday rolled around, it was a gray morning with a thick layer of black clouds threatening to let loose a downpour. Anyone could tell this wasn’t going to be a drizzle, it was going to be the kind of driving rain that makes it impossible to see the road even when the windshield wipers are set to their fastest speed. This all happened just after Ben Meyerson had moved away and the place was still empty. If I’d have known Destiny at that time, I could have gotten her to go with me. She was good that way; always willing to drop whatever she was doing to lend a hand. Why one time, she got behind the wheel of my Buick and drove all the way over to Virginia Beach just because I had a yearning to smell the ocean.
Anyway, I fretted about making the trip alone and twice I even dialed Will’s number to tell him I’d come some other day, after the weather got better. Both times I hung up before he answered; probably because I was pretty eager to meet this Elliott. Finally, I started reasoning like a person with some sense—just stay in the right lane and go slow, I told myself, which is a laugh because in those days I rarely drove faster than forty miles an hour anyway. Once my mind was made up, I outfitted myself like a person visiting with the President of the United States—straw hat, silk dress, fancy bloomers, even a brand new hankie tucked into my purse.
As it turned out, the rain clouds drifted off to the east and I got to their house almost an hour early. When Will opened the front door he had this big wide smile on his face. “Come on in,” he said. “Meet Elliott Emerson!”
I had barely stepped through the door when Elliott said in his smart-alecky way, “So, this is Abigail Anne.” A gentleman would have shown the courtesy to stand but Elliott sat there with his lanky frame stretched across the sofa and waited as I walked over to him. “Ah yes,” he said, eying me top to toe, “Abigail Anne, the twelfth child of William Lannigan. As Will here knows, my grandmother was the first .”
Everyone knew Papa had other wives before Mama, but I wasn’t about to give this Johnny-come-lately the upper edge, so pretending that such news was of small consequence, I answered, “Do tell.” Right away, any hope for chubby-cheeked nieces and nephews was gone. It’s funny how you can take measure of some people from the very start; not just by their looks, but things you can’t even put a finger on—a lack of expression, eyes that look right past you, a hollowed out laugh. Elliott had all those, plus a bushy mustache that hung like an awning over his lip and hid the sneakiness of his mouth. When he spoke my name, he gave one of those hollowed out laughs, I suppose it was meant to sound friendly-like, but I could tell behind that bushy awning he had gritted-together teeth.
“Emerson?” I said, “I’ve no knowledge of any Emersons in our family.”
“Emerson is my father’s family name, but my mother was most certainly a Lannigan,” Elliott stated emphatically. “William Lannigan was my great grandfather. Bertha Abernathy, his first wife was my great grandmother.”
To my way of thinking, having a blood line that could be traced back to Papa didn’t say much for anyone. I was of a mind to say so but Will seemed to be taken by the man so I kept my opinion to myself. Of course, Will was the kind of person who could never see the bad in anyone. Once we were watching the television news and there was this story about a man who’d murdered his own mother—I said they ought to string him up; but my brother felt sorry for the guy. “Just think how troubled that poor soul must have been,” was all Will had to say. I’ll grant you Elliott and me might not have gotten off to such a poor start if I’d have been a bit more
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