The Christmas Gift
The old man straightened his collar as if there was a tie there to straighten. Should I? No... The young were less formal. The old man felt young, younger than he had felt in... In forever. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror and smoothed his hair, mostly salt among the pepper, the rough curls were smoothing as the strands thinned with age. No, he didn't feel a bit of his fifty—eight years, not a bit!
He patted his pocket, yes, the velvet jewelry box was there. He smiled again at the old man in the mirror. No, it didn't make a telltale bulge in his coat pocket. His heart was young. His heart was light.
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He turned from the bureau dresser with a spring in his step. OH! His leg collapsed. The pain was intense. He limped, dragging his useless limb to a close—by chair. He massaged the old wound until the agony ebbed. Who am I fooling!? I'm an old man. He rubbed the thick scar tissue that marred his thigh. "I am an old fool," he said aloud.
He was speaking to no one in particuliar, certainly not the maid or the cook. There was no one to speak to. His towering stone house had been empty from the day he built it high on the hill above the west bay. He built it to be the home of true love, a love he had found in maturity, one he'd been blind to in youth. He'd woken from the dream too late. He could build a castle of wood and stone for Cabot Vanderbilt... But in the end, all he could do was bring her to a simpler palace. He gave her a cold wooden box instead of the warm cherry floors; a marble headstone, in memory, rather than the warm browns and greys of Rhode Island fieldstone.
The daffodils were for her, hundreds of them on the hills. She would have loved them, Cabot would have. He looked at the wide windows which graced the front at the old steel Johnstown bridge that crossed from East Greenwich to Conanicut Island. It was winter, the daffodills were sleeping safe beneath the browned grass of the rocky hillside. He had built the beautiful stone castle to be home to true love. He had not known it would wait for thirty years for love to grace it's airy rooms.
But if all went well—
All would go well! Nothing could go wrong.
The old man limped out the bedroom door and paused at the opening of the small bedroom which overlooked the meadow. He smiled. No father could have outfitted a nursery with more care. The toys, the bedding, the decorations, the furniture, each item was chosen with professional care by a children's designer. He bought only the best for his little one... For the little girl soon to be his little one.
He couldn't wait to see her big blue eyes get wide with pleasure when she saw the cozy little wonderland. Anything and everything a child could want. He couldn't quite understand why the ugly baby doll with Xavier Roberts on it's behind was such a necessity, but the designer assured him that a Cabbage Patch Original would be just the thing.
He turned from the small room, closing the door. Not that there was any chance of the tot wandering upstairs. She was a shy little thing. She stayed close to her mother always. The old man had not been able to tempt the tiny elf from her mother's side... But maybe today... He would have to today.
He hobbled down the stairs, cluching the thick banister, cursing the castle's thirty year old heating which left the halls and grand stair a virtual deep freeze. The etched glass of the front door did not show any welcome figures through its frosty haze. He checked his watch, there was time yet. His nephew would not arrive with his last chance at true love until seven at least.
A douglas fir stood in the parlor, stretching nearly twelve feet towards the thick beamed ceiling. Golden afternoon sun shone in through a wide window. It flickered across the silvery tinsel, shining through crystal icicles and turning the white lights a thousand colors of the rainbow.
It was understated compared to the riot of color beneath the tree. There were the usual presents for the directors of the foundation who traditionally stopped in on Christmas day for eggnog. There were small boxes for his business associates and their wives. There were a few small gift to be sent to his neices and nephews, who were really the sons and daughters of his cousin... but those were always small ones. He would not insult his cousin's widow by giving rich gifts of the kind that she, herself, could never give. He saw his family connection lacked for nothing important, each one had an education, a start... More than he'd had, for sure, but he had never had the pleasure of watching a small child tear through a Christmas like a joyous nor'easter.
This year would be different. This year, one tiny, three year old girl would have a rich Christmas. There would be gifts for her, for her mother and for the nephew that had first introduced them and had finally brought her to visit. He had spared no expense.
He poured himself a snif of brandy and went to sit in the big arm chair. It was wide enough for two, if they were slim. He smiled to himself, it was true, his last glide on the ice was many, many years before, he was still as slim as the young skater he'd been in the forties. She was slim, too. She wasn't that far away from her skating days after all. She would sit beside him for many years while the young one played on the floor and grew... And skated.
He favored one box under the tree with a particuliar smile. More than the toys, more than the ugly, custom—made, baby doll, more than anything, the contents of this box would bring a cry of joy from the baby's tiny elfin lips. This would bring her running to climb in his lap to kiss his weathered cheek. The old man knew, this was her heart's desire.
His eyes drooped shut. All the excitement. He felt the gentle hand of the maid take the deep bowled brandy glass from his fingers and heard her set it on the side table. "Thank you," he murmurred.
"Dong.... Ding... Dong!" The chimes sounded, somber, but melodious.
The old man started awake. "I'm coming!"
The door was already opening. "Uncle!" A young man shouted as he ushered a small woman though the frosted glass portal.
The old man nodded, drinking in her flushedcheeks, red from the wind. Her gray blue eyes were bright sapphires above her sharp cut cheekbones. The red from the foyer's christmas lights shone off the auburn in her hair. She was slim and spare, but womanly. There was an innocence to the way she looked and the way she moved which was belied by the presence of the tiny elf—child who normally clung to her hand.
The hand was empty.
The old man stood with his mouth open for a moment. The tiny girl, with her brown pigtails and her bright crimson cloth coat was riding high on his young nephew's shoulder. She shouted with glee as he tossed her high in the air and caught her before setting her on the fanciful marquetry floor.
"She's quite a little flyer, isn't she, Uncle?" his nephew asked, as the toddler grabbed his hand and commenced to swinging on it as if it was a rope over water.
The old man nodded. Struck stupid.
"Oh ho! I'm getting too old for that!"
The child shrieked as he swung her into the air. "[Again! Again!]"
"Shhhh, [Baby, Do not be so loud here]," the young woman whispered, holding out her hand, which the child ostentaciously ignored. "Please forgive, she is a... a busy baby."
"She's active, she is!" his nephew laughed, throwing the girl into the air again. "She loves to be tossed, though." He caught the girl and hugged her to his breast. She nestled her cheek against his. "Would you like to see the tree, pumpkin? You did make a tree, didn't you, Uncle?"
The old man nodded, suddenly feeling very, very old indeed. He led his nephew into the room, the tiny girl still in his arms. He watched her eyes go wide and her mouth form into a pretty little "O" of pleasure at the sight of the glittering tree. His nephew knelt with her still in his arms. The woman had come to stand behind him, her hands resting unconsciously on his nephew's shoulders. A tiny frigid seed took root in the old man's stomach.
She turned from the tree. Her eyes were as wide as the baby's. "Oh, friend mine, it is beauty."
The old man nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. He tried to think of any one of the many pretty things he had practiced to say, but not one of them would form on his lips. "Supper is waiting."
He offered his arm to the woman and led her through the formal dining room, set with the delicate crystal and fine china which he'd bought for a daughter of the Vanderbilts and then put away unused. "We're going to eat in the kitchen, I hope you don't mind. The diningroom is set for Christmas dinner. The directors of the foundation will be making their annual visit." He spoke slowly, knowing that she had difficulty following his New England accent if he spoke quickly.
He seated her at the heavy wooden table in the kitchen and served the simple meal that the cook left. His nephew wandered in with the child still clutching his hand. He lifted her into the high chair beside her mother. The child wailed, refusing to leave his arms. The old man looked up. His nephew was looking at the woman and shaking his head. He grabbed a chair with one hand and used it to push the highchair out of the way. Then he sat in it with the suddenly angelic child on his lap.
The meal was quiet. The old man felt a growing unease where that tiny seed had taken root. Only the sound of tinkling silverware and giggling toddler broke the otherwise tense atmosphere. Finally his nephew cleared his voice. "Anna and I have something to tell you, Uncle."
The old man looked up, mid—bite. He froze. "Yes," he said. His voice did not sound like his own.
The old man's nephew reached out and took the woman's hand. She was blushing. "As soon as I can save up for a ring and a down payment on a house, Anna and I are going to be married."
The old man forced himself to begin chewing again. His knuckles were white where he gripped his dinner fork. He put it down, afraid that he would bend it. "I see," he said.
"I know there's an age difference," the young man continued, "Thirty—seven isn't that old and twenty isn't that young... Not when she has a baby already." The young man looked at the woman's small hand in his. "Mother is so... We were hoping..."
The old man forced himself to smile. She was looking at his nephew and the old man could not fail to see the love in her eyes. "Could I talk to you in the other room for a moment?" He felt the fear in his nephew's manner as he stood. He listened to the footsteps behind him and knew the tread, fear.
In his pocket—yes, it was still there.
He turned on the his nephew and drew the box from his pocket. He cleared his throat but found he could not trust his voice. He shoved the velvet box in his nephew's hand and limped into the foyer and grabbed a key ring off a row of hooks. It had one key hanging from it. He limped back. The twinges in his leg couldn't begin to blot out the other pain.
His nephew was standing in the darkened diningroom holding the ring between his fingertips. His mouth was hanging open. The old man took his other hand and pressed the key into it. "This is the stone cottage on the salt marsh."
"But, Uncle—"
"You are the only family I have!" the old man said, his voice gruff. "Wedding gift."
"But, Uncle!"
The old man half was stumbling through the dark again, into the livingroom, where he pulled a large flat box out from under the tree. He tottered back into the diningroom. "This is for the baby. Tell Anna... She can have ice as long as... As long as I'm alive." The old man tried to bolt from the room, but his leg did not allow it. His nephew helped him to a chair where he sat rubbing the old scar tissue. He gulped hard against the tears that had nothing to do with the pain in his thigh. Old wounds.
"Uncle," his nephew begged, his tone overflowing with concern. The old man waved him off. The younger man hesitated. "Uncle... I never expected... Thank you."
"Don't." The old man turned away. "I am going to bed." With main force of will, he levered himself to his feet, the agony in his old scar finally blotted out the stabbing pain enveloping him. He was half his painful way up the stairs when he felt a nudge against his hand.
It was the tiny, elfin girl, still a baby almost, her normally serious blue eyes sparkling and her hands full of a pair of shiny white figure skates. She climbed three steps up and leaned towards him, beckoning with one skate.
"You want to be friends, do you?" the old man asked. The child nodded and beckoned again. The old man leaned forward and he felt a tiny pair of lips lay a soft kiss on his cheek. "Would you like to skate tomorrow?"
The child nodded solemnly.
"Merry Christmas, Lenochka."
"Merry Christmas, Unca 'Bert."
Copyright © 2000 Mary E. Tyler. All Rights Reserved.
"The Christmas Gift" is a prequel to the novel On the Edge.
