AMY
After Thanksgiving, Mom started calling Aunt Val and saying, “We want the kids to come for Christmas. If you’ll tell me how to find your house, I’ll come get them,” but Aunt Val wouldn’t. Mom finally gave up, but four days before Christmas, this little bald man showed up to drop them off. He didn’t even bother to take the cigarette out of his mouth to introduce himself to Mom. His name was Butch, and he was a “business associate” of Uncle Liam’s, he said. He told Mom that somebody else would come pick Wavy and Donal up, but he didn’t say who or when. Until then, they were all ours.
Dad made Wavy promise not to sneak out, but that didn’t keep her from doing other weird things. At the rehearsal for the church Christmas pageant, Donal got cast as a shepherd and the choir director cast Wavy as an angel.
“That’s probably not a good idea,” said Leslie, who had been passed over as the Virgin Mary every year and twice was stuck being the Innkeeper, the jerk who makes Jesus get born in a barn. Now that she was too old to be in the pageant, she helped the choir director corral angels. She didn’t want to corral Wavy.
“Why not?” the director said.
“She won’t talk. Or sing,” I said. In my last year in the pageant, I was the third wise man. That’s the problem with the Christmas story: most of the roles are for boys. The only girl is there because men can’t have babies.
“And she does things,” Leslie said, but the choir director wasn’t listening.
Wavy already wore a white dress, so for the rehearsal all she needed was a halo and a pair of wings. Even without those things, she looked like an angel.
The rehearsal went fine until we broke for our snack. When we returned to the sanctuary, the Baby Jesus was missing. Like in a crime drama, the only things left behind in the straw were his swaddling clothes.
The adults searched through piles of costumes and boxes of decorations. The church ladies accused each other.
“I put it in the manger. I always put it in the manger,” said one.
“Him!” another lady said. “Our Lord Jesus is not an it.”
The choir director accused the Virgin Mary, who cried, and then the Virgin Mary’s mother yelled at the choir director.
In the middle of the drama, Wavy leaned close to me and whispered, “Dust Bunny.”
“This isn’t just some baby doll,” I said. “This Baby Jesus has been in the church’s Christmas pageant every year for a long time.”
Wavy gave me the small, sneaky smile I knew so well.
She had Dust Bunnied the Baby Jesus.
“Let’s look under the pews,” I said to Leslie. So we crawled through the sanctuary, searching under the pews. The other kids started looking, too, and five minutes later, the head shepherd said, “I found it!”
I cornered Wavy on the steps to the choir loft and said, “Why did you do that?”
“Easter egg hunt.”
That’s what church was to Wavy: a set of games she didn’t quite understand. I laughed, Wavy laughed, and the choir director yelled, “Who’s giggling in the loft? And where’s my third wise man? Please, can we focus?”
*
In Sunday School, we were supposed to make Christmas cards to deliver to church members who were too sick to come to church. Wavy cut out the wise men and the livestock, colored them in shades of purple and green, and glued them all around the edge of her card. She left Mary and Joseph and Jesus in a pile of cut out paper on the table.
Inside her card, where we were supposed to write Bible verses, Wavy wrote, “Dear Kellen.”
I didn’t get to read what she wrote after that and neither did anyone else. When the teacher came around to look at our cards, Wavy wouldn’t let her.
“Why not, sweetie? Just let me see.”
The teacher took a step closer and Wavy ran. For the rest of Sunday School she hid, and for the pageant, too. So the choir director didn’t get her perfect blond angel to stand front and center and refuse to sing. After the pageant was over, as Mom was about to panic, Wavy walked out from behind the baptistery.
Back at home, Dad sat on the couch, reading his work papers, while Leslie, Donal, and I tore into our presents. Wavy had presents, too, but all she wanted for Christmas was an envelope and a stamp.
“Who’s the card for?” Mom said.
Once it was safely sealed in the envelope and addressed, Wavy passed it to her.
“Jesse Joe Kellen? This is the boy who calls you Wavy?”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Leslie was in eighth grade that year and had gone completely boy-crazy, and Dad’s mom was just as bad.
“What color are his eyes? Blue? Brown?” Gramma Jane said.
Wavy nodded and said, “Soft.”
“Soft brown eyes are very nice. Is he in your class at school?”
Wavy shook her head.
“Well, is he younger than you? Or older?” Gramma Jane said.
Older.
They went on asking questions about Kellen and, to my surprise, Wavy answered. He had a shy smile and Wavy got to ride on his bike.