“Hit aint observed much these days,” I said, “but Aunt Becka allays did like it. Hit’s the day the wise men brought their presents to the Baby Jesus. And the night before, that is, tonight, the animals go down on their knees in homage. Some even say the animals talk on Old Christmas Eve. Once when I was a youngun I went out to the barn at midnight. And the animals did kneel. I saw it myself. It was like a miracle.”

His lip curled scornfully and when I bent to kiss the top of his head he looked away. I went on, determined that he would not ruin my evening. When I returned a few hours later, he said, “Let’s go out to the barn at midnight.”

“What?”

“I want to see them animals kneel. Ifn they can kneel, maybe I can stand up.”

“I dont think—Rondal, hit will be so cold, and you’re up late already.”

“We can wrap up warm. And I aint tired.” His eyes challenged me. “You’re the one claims it happened. Well, I want to see it. I want me a miracle.”

I dressed him in two layers of clothing and wrapped several quilts around him. At eleven-thirty I wheeled him out the door and down the ramp Ben built for his chair. We only had a milk cow, because I borrowed Ben and Flora’s mules. I positioned his chair near the cow’s head. I expected more backtalk from him but he ignored me and watched the cow intently. I sank down into the hay and shivered, wondering what had possessed me.

He fell asleep well before midnight, his chin dragging on his chest. I looked back and forth from my watch to the cow. She still stood and nuzzled her feed bag at ten after midnight. I wheeled him back inside and dumped him into his bed.

When I woke the next morning he was already awake and watching me across the room. I scuttled across the cold floor, my teeth chattering, to build the fire.

“Werent that something?” he said.

I paused at striking the match.

“What?”

“You must have fell asleep,” he said.

I was weary to death of his mocking. “I dont see your legs moving,” I said, astonished at my cruelty even as I spoke. I turned back to the stove.

“I seen what you seen,” he said stubbornly.

He was quiet all the day. He read Life on the Mississippi and fixed a wobbly chair for me. When I put on my nightgown he said, “Sleep over here tonight. I want to feel that baby kick.”

I went to him, laid my head on his shoulder and twined my fingers in the hair of his chest. The next morning, slowly and awkwardly, we made love.

When our son was born in April, Rondal wanted to name him Dillon.