The Twelfth Child by Bette Lee Crosby Read Free Book Online

thinking of how nice it would have been if only her mama had married Mister Callaghan instead of her papa. 
    “How come you married Papa?” she asked Livonia time and time again. “How come you didn’t marry Mister Callaghan?”
    “Honestly, child,” Livonia would say, “you get the craziest notions.” 
    Abigail Anne didn’t think it was crazy, so she kept right on daydreaming of what it would be like to be a Callaghan. It was easy enough to replace the image of Cora Mae with her own and bump Will up to being one of her older brothers, but the two oldest boys and Clifford Callaghan she had to keep exactly as they were. For the remainder of that entire summer Abigail would drift off at the most unexpected times; times such as in the middle of feeding the chickens or setting the dishes on the supper table. Her mama would ask Abigail three or even four times to set out the milk or the butter or the salt, but Abigail forgot anyway, she wasn’t paying one bit of attention because she was lost in her thoughts of the big white Callaghan house. Sometimes she’d picture Livonia standing on the Callaghan front porch calling out that supper was on the table, other times she’d see herself in Cora Mae’s room with its pink flowery wallpaper and a half dozen dolls scattered across the bed.    
    On the day of Livonia’s funeral, Mister Callaghan didn’t have a hearty appetite, nor did he laugh out loud. He carried in the smoked ham they’d brought for the Lannigan family, then sat on the sofa alongside his wife until it was time to leave. It was a noticeable thing when Clifford didn’t eat so William said, “Where’s your manners, Abigail Anne? Go fix a plate of food for Mister Callaghan.”
    “She’ll do no such thing,” Agnes Callaghan said. “He can fix his own plate.” She patted her hand against the sofa. “Abigail, honey, you come sit over here.” 
    Abigail was weighted down by her thoughts and before she could make a move to go sit alongside Missus Callaghan, Cora Mae had already slipped into the spot. For an hour, perhaps more, the awkward little group grasped at straws of conversation, saying anything to fill the emptiness, lingering over details of the weather and precisely where the best blackberries might be found if and when spring should ever come again. Clifford Callaghan, who was generally a man to see the brighter side of things, told of the bloody way a rabid raccoon had torn apart four of his best hens. Everyone mumbled something about what a hard winter it had been then Tom Cooper said he knew the Valley was in for a bitter cold planting season. He claimed for five nights in a row he’d dreamed of hawks swooping down on rats scurrying across an empty bean field, which was more than likely a sign. William agreed, and shaking his head in a most sorrowful way added that he’d already had more than enough bad fortune. Other than a few pleasantries offered up by Agnes Callaghan, the conversation was of a pitiful nature. When the Cooper boy fell asleep in the chair, Clifford Callaghan suggested they call an end to the visit so that everyone might get home before dark. 
    As the Cooper’s and Callaghan’s bundled themselves back into the heavy coats and wool scarves still wet from the rain, Missus Callaghan pulled William to one side. “That girl of yours is hurting way more than she shows,” Agnes said. “She’s got to have a loving hand. Your boy, he’ll do just fine, he’s open about his hurt; but Abigail Anne is froze-up inside so you take special care with her.”
    William nodded along as if he agreed with the statement but Abigail Anne, who had been listening with a sharp ear, knew better. She knew full well that the words would be fruitless, like seeds sown upon bedrock; still, it warmed her heart to hear Missus Callaghan speak in such a kindly way. When the woman turned and hugged Abigail to her chest, the child felt a pang of guilt about wishing her own mother was the one