“I’ll serve.”
“Good. These parties are so much fun,” she said, her eyes shining. “We always have a live band and dancing and a visit from Santa.”
Her enthusiasm was catching, and before I knew it, I was in the Christmas spirit. We spent all afternoon baking cookies.
I was doing fine until the red icing triggered the memory of Mom decorating Punky’s birthday cake. I laid down the icing bag and stared off into space.
Aunt Queenie came over and put her arm around me. “It’s hard, isn’t it, especially during the holidays? I lost my mother five years ago, and I still sometimes forget she’s gone. Just last week, I saw a sweater at Penney’s and thought, Mama would like this.”
I nodded. It helped to know that someone understood.
“I’m tired of this mess anyway,” said Aunt Queenie. “Let’s clean it up, freeze the cookies, and finish decorating them another time.”
“Another time” never came. On Monday afternoon, I was in science class when the secretary called for me on the intercom.
I went to the office, where I found Aunt Queenie pacing the floor, her rouge resembling spilled paint on her white cheeks. “Get your coat,” she said. “I’ve already signed you out.”
“What’s the matter? Is it Punky?”
“Just get your coat. I’ll wait for you outside.”
Willing myself not to think, I ran to my locker, grabbed my coat, then ran to the car. Before I got the door completely closed, Aunt Queenie had us moving down the drive.
“Punky’s sick,” she said. “It‘s—it’s pretty bad.”
Panic rose in my throat. “How bad?”
“He might not make it this time.”
“No!” I screamed. “No! He’ll be all right. He’s been sick before.”
“Not like this.”
“What—how—when?”
“At work. Boss called. Punky’s on his way to Se dalia in an ambulance.”
“The nitroglycerin—didn’t Boss use it?”
“He used it. It just didn’t do much good.”
“Where’s Uncle Bert?”
“With Punky.”
Aunt Queenie drove like a wild woman while I hung on to the armrest and prayed that Punky wouldn’t die.
Within a half-hour, we were racing down the hospital corridor toward Intensive Care.
Uncle Bert met us, his face ashen. “We can’t go in yet,” he said. “We’re allowed ten minutes every hour, two visitors at a time. I just came out.”
“How is he?” I croaked.
Uncle Bert’s face crumpled, and he shook his head.
The next fifty minutes were endless as we sat in the waiting room. My eyes hurt from staring at the clock on the wall. When its big hand reached the twelve, I stood up and said, “It’s time.”
Uncle Bert took my hand and led me into the ward, where four patients were hooked up to wires and monitors and scary-looking machines. After a second I located Punky, from the cowboy hat and the lunch box at the foot of his bed.
“Punk-Man,” whispered Uncle Bert. “Delrita’s here.”
Punky’s eyes fluttered open, and he murmured, “My girl.”
My eyes burned, and my mouth wouldn’t work. I could do nothing but grab Punky’s hand and squeeze.
I don’t know when Uncle Bert left and Aunt Queenie came in. I know only that before I was ready, she was telling me we had to go.
“Bye, Punky,” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”
He held up his right hand. Through blinding tears, I gave him five.
That afternoon and into the evening, I lived for those ten-minute visits, terrified that each one would be the last.
Once, Punky looked at Uncle Bert and said, “My home.”
“Soon, Punk-Man, soon.”
We stayed at the hospital all night, camping out in the waiting room with borrowed blankets.
Dr. Howe awakened us at dawn. “Mr. Holloway,” he said, “there’s no change. Your brother’s heart is so damaged there’s nothing we can do but wait. It defies my medical knowledge why he is still hanging on.”
Uncle Bert, looking washed-out and old without his toupee, buried his face in his hands and cried. Aunt Queenie comforted him while I pulled fuzzies off the blanket.
Aunt Queenie went home that day and returned with clean clothes and toiletries for Uncle Bert and me. Neither of us wanted to take the chance of leaving the hospital and coming back to find Punky... gone.
We bought a box of crayons in the hospital gift shop. When we next went to see Punky, Uncle Bert sat down and rested his arms on the bed. “Punk-Man,” he said, “we brought you something.”
Punky opened one eye to look at the crayons and pointed to his lunch box. My heart ached as I slipped the crayons inside, knowing they’d never be peeled and broken.
“Home,” whispered Punky. “My home.”
“Not yet, Punk-Man,” replied Uncle Bert in a strangled voice.
“Bald-head,” said Punky, still getting the last word.
The next day, Dr. Howe told us he was moving Punky out of Intensive Care.
“But why?” asked Aunt Queenie. “He’s still the same.
Dr. Howe’s ears turned red. “That’s right, but we’re not able to do anything except keep him comfortable—make his breathing easier with that machine. That can be done in another part of the hospital.”
At that moment, the ward door whooshed open, and a large nurse bustled out behind a cart, her fat thighs in nylons swishing against each other.
From the ward came a faint cry, “My box. Hands off.”
Punky’s belongings were on the cart. I bolted from my seat and said, “Wait!”
The nurse just looked at me and moved the cart to make room for Punky, who was being wheeled through.
“Wait,” I said again, plucking the cowboy hat and the lunch box off the cart.
The nurse snatched them back and said huffily, “I’m just moving them to another room.”
Punky was trying to raise himself up off the bed.
“Young man,” said the nurse, “you lie still. You’ll fall.”
I grabbed the hat and plopped it on Punky’s head, but the nurse held tight to the lunch box.
Punky reached for it, and the nurse pulled it back.
“My box,” said Punky.
“Miss Hawkins, what’s going on here?” asked Dr. Howe.
“I’m just trying to transfer Mr. Holloway to a different room.”
“Give him the lunch box.”
Reluctantly, Miss Hawkins laid it on Punky’s bed.
“You’re fat,” said Punky, nestling the box under his arm as he was wheeled away.
“Dr. Howe,” said Aunt Queenie, “we want to take him home.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re giving Punky medicine and oxygen when he needs it, and that’s all, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t we do the same thing at home?”
“I suppose, but—”
“But what?” asked Aunt Queenie.
“It may be two days. It may be two weeks. But Punky’s going to die. Are you prepared to deal with that?”
With tears in her eyes, Aunt Queenie looked at Uncle Bert and then at me. “Yes,” she said softly, “we’re taking Punky home, where he belongs.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Home
Aunt Queenie left the hospital to rent the necessary equipment. A few hours later, Uncle Bert and I went home with Punky.
I looked at the house with new eyes, so very thankful that Punky was here to see it. Christmas lights twinkled in the window, and when Aunt Queenie came out rolling a wheelchair, carols wafted through the door.
I was overwhelmed when I saw what she had done to the family room. Except for the couch, the television set, and the Christmas tree, everything had been moved out to make room for a hospital bed, oxygen equipment, and Punky’s punching-bag clown. His clown posters plastered the walls.
Aunt Qu
eenie smiled at me as she helped Punky into bed, saying, “It’s good to have everybody home.”
Punky was never alone. At night, Aunt Queenie and Uncle Bert took turns sleeping on the couch, and at least one of us sat with him throughout the day.
Not even Mom could have cared for Punky better than Aunt Queenie. She gave him oxygen, washed him, shaved him, fed him when he was too weak to lift a spoon.
I had to go back to school, but my heart was never far away from the family room. Every afternoon, as soon as the last bell rang, I raced out of the building and home.
Home. The word turned over and over in my mind. Punky and I no longer had Mom and Dad, but at last we had a home.
There were days when Punky did nothing but sleep, and others when he wanted his bed cranked up so he could watch TV. I lived for the chance to switch channels for him.
Boss called often, and one afternoon he brought Barney and Susie over for a visit. It broke my heart to see them sitting quietly, their eyes big with anxiety. When it came time for them to go, Susie kissed Punky’s cheek and asked, “You come back to work?” Barney gave him five and said, “You’re my fwiend.”
I tried to carve on Ronald McDonald, but often I’d catch myself just sitting there with the little clown in my hand and my thoughts a million miles away.
When Punky’s waking hours became shorter, I forced myself to keep carving so Ronald would be finished in time for Christmas. Deep down, though, I feared Punky wouldn’t live that long. Uncle Bert and Aunt Queenie feared it, too. Sometimes in the night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d go to the family room and find them both keeping watch over Punky.
Early one evening, Aunt Queenie seemed to be waiting for something. She kept watching the clock and looking out the window. When footsteps sounded on the porch, she jumped up and ran to the door before the visitor could knock. In a second she was back, and I did a double-take. Behind her were Boss and ... Santa Claus.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Santa said, winking at me, and I realized he was the general. “Merry Christmas!”
Punky’s eyes flew open. “Santy Claus!”
“That’s right, my boy, and I’ve got lots of presents for you in my pack.”
Uncle Bert and I helped Punky unwrap his gifts—a T-shirt emblazoned with the American flag, socks, crayons, a wind-up clown, a silly pencil with a fuzzy head on one end, and a soft yellow blanket decorated with figures of Jellybean the Clown.
Tears scalded my throat, and I looked at Aunt Queenie, wondering when she’d had time to do any shopping. Her face was wet. Boss, Uncle Bert, and Santa were crying, too.
Only Punky was happy, and his face practically lit up the room. Within five minutes after Santa and Boss left, he was sound asleep, wearing his new shirt and socks and cuddled in his new blanket.
Aunt Queenie turned down the lights and sat watching TV with Uncle Bert. I sat cross-legged on the tarp on the floor, adding the finishing touches to Ronald with the V-tool, then sanding him and painting him in bright acrylic colors. Bedtime came, but I stayed in the family room. With my family, I thought, as a warmth I hadn’t felt for a long, long time enveloped me.
Suddenly Punky sat straight up in bed and pointed at a darkened corner of the room. “Look!” he said.
We looked and saw nothing.
“What is it?” asked Uncle Bert in alarm.
“Shirley and Sam. Come home,” replied Punky, smiling. He lay down and went back to sleep.
Punky died that night. I held him in my arms and prayed that God would give him back, but it was not to be. The last thing I remember was Aunt Queenie hugging me and saying, “Punky’s not handicapped anymore. Now he’s like everybody else.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Flying
I cried until there was nothing left but a searing pain in my throat and chest. I felt empty and lost and unattached, as if I were floating in the blackness of space, where the lack of gravity would keep me bobbing uselessly forever.
I knew Punky was with Mom and Dad in heaven, but he had left a hole in my life that nothing in the world could fill.
The next morning, Aunt Queenie came to my room and asked gently, “Delrita, honey, can I get you anything?”
“Yes,” I said, crawling out of bed to plead with her. “You can get Uncle Bert to have a private funeral. No outsiders. Nobody but family.”
“But—”
“Please, Aunt Queenie, please.” I couldn’t bear to have people laughing and talking around Punky like they had with Mom and Dad. I couldn’t bear to think of anyone gawking at him one last time.
Aunt Queenie pushed my bangs off my forehead and gazed into my eyes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “Now, why don’t you take a hot shower?”
After the shower, I hid my shampoo in the drawer before it hit me that I’d never have to hide it again. I wandered into Punky’s room and sank down at the sawed-off table where he had spent so many happy hours.
Under the TV, curled up in the dust, was a crayon wrapper. On impulse, I checked behind the set and found three horn bones. They were precious jewels, a reminder that no one, ever, would fling horns as well as Punky. I dug them out and took them to my room.
On the day of the funeral, I sat on my bed with my coat on, wondering how I’d make it through the next couple of hours... and the rest of my life ... without Punky.
From the other part of the house came the muffled sound of voices. Uncle Bert had agreed to a private service, but there were still plenty of relatives on hand. Once again, I had become a blank wall, only vaguely aware of what they were saying: “What a shame... Only thirty-five years old... He had a happy life.... The Lord called him home just when he was beginning to spread his wings....”
“Delrita,” said Uncle Bert from the doorway, “we’re ready to go.”
Numbly, I dropped Ronald McDonald into my coat pocket and went to slip my hand in Uncle Bert’s.
During the service, I pretended I was somewhere else. I stared at the floor, my feet, the back of a chair, anything to avoid seeing the place where Punky lay.
Later, as we rode to the cemetery, Aunt Queenie murmured, “So many flowers. Did you ever see so many flowers?”
Uncle Bert said no and blew his nose, while I stared at my hands in my lap, thinking how the roar of the wind was like a waterfall.
When we reached the cemetery, I hunkered down inside my coat, clutching Ronald McDonald in my pocket as I plodded toward Punky’s final resting place. Mom and Dad had been buried here in the early fall, when the grass was still green and birds swooped and chirped nearby. Somehow it seemed more appropriate to see dead grass and to hear nothing but the wailing of the wind.
“Well, I declare,” said Aunt Queenie, stopping so fast that I bumped into her.
I glanced up and was shocked to see the gravesite hidden by a mountain of flowers. But Aunt Queenie was looking in the opposite direction. I turned and caught my breath at the sight of a parade.
It looked as though half the town had come to pay tribute to Punky. In the lead were the Veterans of Foreign Wars bearing the American flag. Behind them came Boss, escorting Rudy, followed by the other employees from the sheltered workshop and members of our church. Hot tears sprang to my eyes when I saw Miss Myrtle Chambers, who might have toppled over if it hadn’t been for Brother Hicks’s wife and Mrs. Shackleford steadying her. Marcus Gregory let go of his mother’s hand to wave shyly at me. There were even strangers I had never seen before, and I realized with a start that they somehow must have crossed paths with Punky at the workshop.
I choked back a sob when Coach and the football team marched by in formation, followed by Tree and Avanelle struggling to hang on to a banner that flapped and cracked in the wind. The tears boiled out as I read the words on the banner: “We’ll miss you, you old goat.”
The people huddled around the grave as if sheltering Punky from the wind, and Brother Hicks began reading from the Bible. Still clutching the little clown in my pocket, I stared at the solemn faces of the crowd
. Was it possible that they had all loved Punky, too?
Susie and Barney and Rudy hadn’t known him very long, but they were crying. So was Avanelle. And did Tree have dirt in his eye, or was he brushing tears away?
I was squeezing the little clown so hard that a cramp shot up my arm and electrified me with a revelation. Punky had built a fortune in friends, and until this minute, I hadn’t seen it. I thought of Whittlin’ Walt’s advice about using life wisely to carve out a niche for ourselves.
Punky had used his time wisely. While I had been learning to carve beautiful things with my hands, he had been carving a beautiful niche for himself with his heart.
My fingers holding Ronald McDonald tingled, and I took it as a message from Punky, telling me what to do with the carving.
“...In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen,” said Brother Hicks.
“Bang!” I whispered, and gave my body a shake as I felt my invisible shell sliding away. I walked over to Rudy and passed on a tiny part of Punky’s happy-go-lucky spirit by placing the clown in his hand. “For you,” I said. “It’s Ronald McDonald.”
Running his fingers over the carving, Rudy questioned me with eyes that couldn’t see.
“Because you’re a man who loves clowns,” I said softly, remembering that Walt had said those same words to Punky at Silver Dollar City.
Tree and Avanelle were near Punky’s grave, driving the sticks of their banner into the ground. I hurried over to them, and as they straightened up, I opened my arms and laid them across their shoulders. The gesture reminded me of Herkimer’s outstretched wings, and I smiled a secret smile.
“I’m sorry, Delrita,” murmured Avanelle, sliding her arm around my waist.
“We’ll all miss him,” said Tree, as he, too, joined in on the hug.
I closed my eyes and breathed a silent “Thank you” to Punky. No more hiding from the world. No more pretending to be something I wasn’t. From now on, I would be myself. Punky had shown me how to make friends, how to be free, and I was going to spread my wings and fly.