CHAPTER 26

The morning before Christmas all was quiet in the Franklin household. Everyone slept late. Paul and Dove had been at the hospital until after 2 a.m. Millie thought ten o’clock was plenty early to get up on a non-school day simply because she was a teenager. But as peaceful as it seemed, a missing component spelled an underlying sadness. They missed the childish thrill of expectancy. The fact that tomorrow was Christmas should have brightened the household. But Millie wanted nothing this year and felt little passion about giving. There were no festive secrets. No last-minute surprises. No hidden gifts. No scheming. Christmas 1958 promised to be the least memorable of their collective lives.

Paul was in his study putting the final touches on his Christmas Eve sermon. He was reading, typing, reading, erasing, and reading again. He had been doing this for at least an hour and would have already been finished except for all the distractions that kept popping uncontrollably in his mind. He thought about the argument he and Dove had gotten into yesterday. The surprise walk together from downtown in the snow. His decision to look for a new church come January. Millie’s brush with the law. Dove’s insistence that she go to the hospital with him last night with the weather as bad as it was. And the final worry, the uncomfortable silence he felt when he walked into in the waiting room after talking to Buddy Briggs in the hallway. He had wanted to ask Dove about this on the way home, but it never seemed to be the right time.

Dove was in the kitchen making sugar cookies. It smelled like Christmas Eve even if it didn’t feel like it. As he put the cover on his old Underwood, he considered all the ways he might get back that old Christmas feeling before the day was over. But first things first. He got up from his desk just as Millie was coming into the room.

“Daddy, what are you doing?”

“Working on tonight’s sermon. I didn’t know you were up.”

“Daddy, can I say something to you?”

“Sure, sweetheart. You can say anything to me.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I’ll pay back all of those things out of my allowance. And in case you’re worried, I promise I’m not going to do it again, ever.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that on your own volition. But, sit down, honey, what I really want to hear from you is why you did it. What prompted you to take things that didn’t belong to you?”

Tears welled up in her eyes and the willingness to talk she had brought into the room quickly faded.

“Don’t get upset. You wanted to talk and that’s what we’re doing. We’re talking. So talk to me. Tell me what was on your mind or in your heart.”

There was a long pause. Paul waited patiently. If he failed her now, she might never talk to him again. She had made the entrée and he was just pushing the door open further.

“I wanted to hurt someone.”

“Okay. Who did you want to hurt? Me?”

“Maybe.”

“What if I told you I understand that? I understand why you might want to hurt me. Maybe you want people to see you as more than just the ‘preacher’s kid.’ That’s fair, Millie. I have no problem with that. But, honey, you don’t break the law to prove a point. Any point. Not God’s law and not man’s law. And if the point you wanted to—”

“That’s not it.”

“What?”

“That’s not it. You’re not who I wanted to hurt.”

It was time for Paul to take a pause.

“I wanted to hurt Mr. Sandridge.”

“Milton? Milton Sandridge?”

She merely nodded her head.

“Why? Has he ever done anything to you?”

“I wanted to steal things from his store and get him in trouble so he would be fired. That’s not the first time I did it. I did it three other times and most of the stuff I just threw in the trash. Some things I kept, but I really didn’t want them.”

“You wanted him to get fired.” This was more of a statement from Paul than a question. A statement to establish firmly the new information he was still trying to digest. “Millie, why?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t like him.”

“You don’t like Mr. Zirk, your science teacher this year. Are you trying to get him fired too?”

“No.”

“Then why Milton Sandridge?”

“Paul? Millie? Is there something wrong?” Dove was standing in the doorway with dustings of flour on her apron and her hands. “Have you heard something from the hospital?”

“No.”

“It’s just that I heard you mention Milton Sandridge. I thought maybe you had heard—”

“Who’s in the hospital?” Millie asked, looking first at her mother, then her father.

“Mr. Sandridge. Your father and I were there last night. I left you a note on the bathroom door in case you got up and missed us.”

There were plenty of currents in the air between family members, but none of them were connecting. Dove stood stillest of all, hoping her husband would pick up the conversation. Millie gave her attention to the edge-worn, room-sized rug in her father’s study. And Paul, not focusing his eyes on any one thing, searched his mind over what had just happened. Aware that Millie had yet to tell him why she didn’t like Milton Sandridge, he was even more interested in knowing if Dove had interrupted their conversation on purpose or if it was simply God’s timing in forgoing an unpleasant situation. Millie was the first to speak.

“Are the cookies ready to be decorated?”

“They certainly are. That’s why I came looking for you. Twenty-four Santas and twenty-four reindeer. Do you want to help, Paul?”

“No, I have to finish up in here. You girls go ahead. I’ll be along in a bit.”

He would talk to Millie later. He would talk to Dove later. Right now he would pray.