Fiction |
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THE GIFT |
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(March 27, 2007) |
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By Jennifer Rozens Six years ago, Kitty’s father had died on Christmas Eve. Since then, sadness always tinged Christmas and her birthday. Get busy, make coffee, smoke cigarettes, consider life’s meaning -- those were her plans for the day. While puttering in the kitchen, Kitty recalled her father’s death. Amazingly, his last lucid remark to her was, “What do you want for your birthday?” Kitty smiled. Each Christmas, she and her dad had shared a joke. After opening beautifully wrapped presents, she’d grin and say, “Guess whose birthday is 10 days away?” He’d laugh, and reply, “You owe me a lot of money. I lost a tax deduction that year.” They laughed a lot. Pensively, Kitty sighed. No more teasing with Dad. Pausing, she peered at a family portrait taken when she was three. Mom held her while Kitty’s sister Kay leaned on Dad. Her mother had told her how she used to show that picture to visitors and say, “Here’s me and Dad.” Mom would joke, “Your sister and I must be invisible. You always were your father’s daughter.” Kitty remembered her birthdays, the sense of excitement and the thrill of small family parties. The first one etched into her memory had happened just after the family left tiny Gibson City and moved to a university town where her father worked. Kitty had forgotten her gift, but not the cake and candles. She’d disliked living there. Snakes from an empty lot next door often slithered into the yard – until Dad came home. Kitty had believed that he magically made the snakes vanish. Of course, he returned home in darkness, having toted toolboxes, worked on hot roofs or installed flooring all day. Immune to magic, the snakes simply took cover from the cool night air. But Kitty sensed magic. One night, Mom and Dad came home as Kitty and Kay watched “Ozzie and Harriet” on TV. They told the girls that they’d move to a newly purchased home of their own. Kitty imagined a place resembling Rickie’s home with two floors, big rooms and lots of bookcases. But Kitty’s parents weren’t Ozzie and Harriet, and the new home wasn’t a TV set. It was a small bungalow with a nice backyard. As usual, Kitty reminded her father on the next Christmas Day, “Guess whose birthday is 10 days away?” “Mine?” asked Dad. “No, Dad. Your birthday happens in November, remember?” Each year, Dad’s birthday present to Kitty would be what she most wanted -- a garnet ring, a Betsy Wetsy doll, a typewriter or a star-sapphire necklace. Kitty knew that her mother chose the gifts, but Dad gave them and made her feel special. Smiling, Kitty lit another cigarette. Her parents had beamed in pride when she’d made the junior-high-school honor society. The family had lacked money for new shoes, yet suddenly Dad took her shopping. Kitty had wondered if his check might bounce, but later she’d climbed on stage, to receive her honor’s pin, wearing a pink dress made by Mom and pink shoes paid for with Dad’s last few dollars in the bank. Both parents attended to applaud her. Kitty recalled her 13th birthday when Dad took her to his workshop. She’d learned to paint and loved it. Two hours plus tiny pieces of scrap-wood later, she had a new easel as a gift. Oddly, Dad didn’t complain about the turpentine odor, although bad sinuses and intolerance for strong smells often troubled him. Basking in memories, Kitty missed him horribly. Her father had felt devastated when her mother died prior to their 50th wedding anniversary. He’d looked lost and wanted to be with Kitty’s family. Each November, she’d bought him gifts for a change – a peanut-butter maker, a Rubik cube, plaid pants. No more fights that Dad called “debates” or political chats that left them both cursing, she mused. For six years, she’d missed the teasing, arguing, laughing and just-what-you-want birthday gifts. She peered out at the pond behind her home. She’d bought the place because Dad enjoyed fishing. He even helped her husband to build the deck. At age 83, he’d toted boards, made the staircase and instructed her husband. As Kitty sipped coffee nearby, her father had lamented, “I tell your husband what to do. He looks at me, turns and does the exact opposite.” A few hours later, her husband had wiped at his forehead and told her, “Your Dad drives me nuts. He won’t quit yelling at me.” Remembering, Kitty smiled. Sunlight glistened on the pond. Kitty spotted her son, Dad’s namesake, photographing the new snow and frost-covered trees. She recalled asking her husband and son to scatter Dad’s ashes in the pond because she couldn’t, but that had struck her as an ideal place for his body while his spirit soared. Her father had lived just a few months after building the deck. Like a good carpenter, he’d gone home on Christmas Eve. But not before asking her, “What do you want for your birthday?” The back door slammed. Moments passed. “Mom, look,” said Kitty’s son. “I got some great pictures of the pond.” Approaching, Kitty gazed over her son’s shoulder at a photo on his computer screen. There she saw her father’s latest birthday gift to her. Amid shadows from the trees, a huge glowing heart reflected in the pond’s water. “Thanks, Dad,” she whispered. “That’s exactly what I want.” The author thankfully dedicates The Gift to Ruskin Lewis Cunningham (1916-2000) and to Lucy Keller Cunningham (1929-96). |
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