Free The House Without a Christmas Tree by Gail Rock Page A

looks better now than it did before you hit me.” With that, he got back in and started to pull away.
    I was embarrassed because Tony and all the guys in the station were watching and grinning their heads off.
    â€œI’ll get that money out of you one of these days!” Dad shouted at him as we drove off.
    â€œNot in this life, you won’t!” the old man shouted back.
    â€œIs that old man Rehnquist?” I asked, as we drove off.
    â€œYeah,” said Dad, angrily. “Stinking old goat.”
    I had guessed as much, because I had heard the story of Dad’s feud with Rehnquist more than once around home. He was considered an archenemy of my family. He had once hired my father to dig a pond in his far pasture. My father went with his backhoe machine to do the job, and after it was finished, Rehnquist had only paid for half the job because the pond leaked.
    My dad said it leaked because Rehnquist had insisted it be dug in the wrong place, and Rehnquist said it leaked because my father had done a bad job. Dad and Rehnquist never spoke again, until that morning at Tony’s Texaco. The mere mention of Rehnquist in our house was a guarantee of name-calling by my father—something in which he seldom indulged. I, of course, believing my father to be right in all matters of business and tests of honesty, had no doubt that Rehnquist was the villain.
    â€œWhere does he live?” I asked, as we drove toward home.
    â€œWay over on the other side of the Platte River bridge,” said Dad. “End of nowhere. He lives like a hermit.”
    â€œA hermit? You mean he lives in a cave or a hut?”
    â€œNo, a run-down old farm. He won’t let anyone come near the place. Doesn’t talk to anyone.”
    â€œOh,” I said, thoughtfully. “Then he’s a misanthrope.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œMisanthrope. We learned it in vocabulary a few days ago. That’s a word for a person who hates people.” I was always very good in vocabulary and tried to remember to use the new words we learned.
    â€œWell, he hates people all right,” said Dad. “I hear he keeps a shotgun to chase them away.”
    â€œDo you think he’d really shoot anybody?”
    â€œHuh!” said Dad disgustedly. “He’s just the type!”
    Archenemy or not, I was more intrigued than ever with old man Rehnquist now that I had actually seen him.

Chapter Two
    As soon as i got home I started getting dressed for the day’s ride. First, long underwear, wool socks and heavy wool pants; then a carefully planned combination of shirts and sweaters that would fit under my warm, blue wool jacket.
    By this time in November, the Nebraska weather was getting snapping cold. The leaves were down off the trees, the sky was bright, fall blue, and the wind came whipping across the plains, carrying hints of snow from the tops of the Rockies to the West. It was no time to go out biking unprepared.
    I had struggled into almost everything when Carla Mae arrived. She was so bundled up that my Grandmother hardly recognized her when she came in the front door.
    â€œZattie rettie?” Carla Mae asked.
    â€œMy land, Carla Mae,” Grandma laughed. “Can’t understand a word you’re saying. Take off that muffler.”
    Grandma helped Carla Mae unwind part of the long, wool scarf that covered her chin and mouth.
    â€œIs Addie ready?” Carla Mae repeated.
    â€œI’m coming!” I screamed from the bedroom, and waddled out to the living room, dragging my boots and jacket with me.
    Carla Mae and I giggled at the sight of each other.
    â€œYou look like a penguin,” she snorted.
    â€œWell, you look like a fat pig,” I laughed back at her.
    We both hopped and staggered around the living room, making horrible animal noises, while Grandma stood by shaking her head in amusement.
    Carla Mae and I were best friends. She was eleven years old too, and lived in the