By then he was crying so hard my sister came to the door. She didn’t ask, she just came over and helped me hold him, holding me at the same time and boy howdy, did I need it. Eventually this awful sob fest slowed down, and Curly got up to go home. I dried his face and kissed him. “Never mind,” I said, knowing that wouldn’t help him or me much because I knew how much I minded. “Christmas is coming.”
Nell added, “It’s something to look forward to.”
I said, “And sometimes miracles happen.”
And on that unhelpful note, Curly left.
“Poor Curly,” my sister said. Then she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll never do that to you.” As I watched her leave, my heart was breaking with sudden love for her, and I knew that even though I didn’t see any way forward right then, I would not do ‘that’ to her either. And that fast, I was angry at Cal, furious. I wanted to—kill him. I cried myself to sleep that night.
* * * *
I started my Christmas shopping, not that I felt like it, but I was determined to find a Rowdy puppet, doll, whatever it was, for Curly. And something special for my sister, because Mom’s idea of presents was mostly clothes, which was fine, but still…
I bought for Mom and Dad and whatever family was coming. I had Nell and Curly. Nell was easy—she had discovered music, too—and make-up. And boys. I’d wanted to buy for Ada and Van but they wouldn’t be back until New Year’s Day and I didn’t have enough money to do everything anyhow. I contented myself with phrasing how I’d tell them about everything that they were missing. Texts, email, you name it, I was on it. But I missed them madly, mostly Van of course, but I liked Ada a great deal, too. She was open and accepting and used whatever pronouns you asked her to use. And if Van looked like her after he transitioned, assuming he would some fine day, as I hoped to do, he—she—there I go again—would be a knock-out. I couldn’t wait for them to get back.
I hadn’t mentioned Cal’s suicide to them in detail yet. I’d been telling them that when he came to visit, what all we’d do and stuff, but then they found out they were leaving for that time, and then I found out about Cal, and it all fell apart. I spent a couple nights weeping over Cal’s death; my loss, Curly’s loss, my responsibility, if any. Then I’d spend the mornings trying to look like I was all right, trying to be there for Curly, or my sister. Then, well, if you’ve experienced loss, you understand. It was like being on a merry-go-round that refused to stop and that made figure eights or went backward at odd moments instead of going calmly in a circle.
I hit every mall and every toy shop, outlet mall, mart, or discount store I could find. Finally, just before Christmas, I went into the local thrift store. I hadn’t thought of antiques because we didn’t have any antique shops and if we did, I couldn’t afford it. But if I could find Rowdy or anything like it? That would be so cool. Maybe I’d get lucky.
On my way inside, I saw an old guy all by himself, looking at CDs—typical, huh? Nobody bought CDs anymore. At least it wasn’t eight-tracks, though at his age…he glanced at me as I came in, and I caught his eye and gave him my warmest smile. I don’t know why, he looked like he needed one and I was so into that ‘if I can’t be happy then I’ll make someone else be happy, damn it’ mood, you know? He smiled back, his eyes lighting up. I went into the toy section.
Everything stopped. The music, the air, the heater, the people—there it was. An ancient, dirty, and dusty puppet with a red plaid shirt and a wicked, warped smile. I picked it up and checked for a tag—sure enough, it said ‘Rowdy’ on the back, on what was left of the tag. It also had a price. I dug out my wallet and although I counted my money three times I did not have nearly enough and I had no way to get more. I melted. It wasn’t from any heat or effort, but from the feeling of slamming, once again, head first into a brick wall.
It took all I had to breathe again. When I lifted my head, that old man had come over. Talk about an antique—well, I suppose he must have been at least seventy or so. He smiled again.
“You have the most beautiful smile. You made my day. I was kinda feeling a bit lost, you know? And you just,” he stammered, “I don’t know, you made it so much easier for me to go on. I want to thank you—would you take some money from someone whose day you just made?” And he handed me some cash. When I looked down at it, I saw it was exactly the amount I needed. He couldn’t have known, could he? He smiled and I swore I could see my own joy reflected in his eyes.
“Thank you so much!” I got out, and I hugged him to me and kissed his cheek. I didn’t care what had come over me right then or who saw it. I had done a good deed (I thought) and had it returned tenfold. I knew a little boy whose Christmas had just been made, too.
Funny him mentioning ‘being able to go on,’ because while I thought I had come to my own unclimbable wall, at least I was young and healthy and there was a future ahead of me. What did this old guy have? I took a deep breath, patted his arm, and smiled, or maybe I had been smiling all along.
“Thank you so much, more than you know,” I said again with all my heart, and he turned, waved at me as if he’d done nothing, and walked out with his CDs and a couple of books.
Over the last few days till Christmas, I wondered about that old man, and every time I thought of him it made me smile. I had a beautiful smile? Nobody had ever told me that before, not even Cal. Cal…
I couldn’t wait to see Curly’s face on Christmas when he opened my present. Would he cry? Would he understand that it was from my heart, not the grave or anything awful like that? There had to be hundreds, well, dozens maybe, of that particular puppet floating around.
The day came, and it was a big day for both my sister and me. She was ecstatic over everything, pajamas, music, sweaters, music…everything. I wished I was a kid again. I loved my stuff, too, don’t get me wrong, but, well, for the first time I felt like an adult, you know what I mean? It was Christmas, and it was okay, good even, but it wasn’t at all the same. I was glad my sister was still a kid at heart. She brought all the joy of the day to the rest of us. I wondered where the old man was and if he had gifts, or kids around, or family.
I had no idea how much I’d given him as well. I never would know. You can’t tell when an article about an ‘accident’ or an obituary is not in the paper, has not needed to be written. We can only go on faith, that adding goodness and positive vibes, if you will, to the universe, makes the world go round for others, too, like the ripples in a pond.
Anyhow, Curly came over with his family. The adults all had drinkypoos as they called them, and stuffed themselves full of goodies. Curly and I snuggled down in a corner behind the tree. I unwrapped the little toy frog he had given me. He had painted it with glow in the dark paint, so I wouldn’t be afraid at night, he told me. I hugged him. I remembered his frog, the day I met Cal. Then I gave him his gift. My heart was going a mile a minute—but he was so pleased!
“You found it!” he crowed, delightedly hugging the dingy thing to him. Still dingy and old, although I’d wiped its face off, at any rate. Then he did a strange thing; Curly reached around the back and undid a swath of Velcro or buttons or something, and reached inside. He pulled out a tiny box, and handed it to me.
“There it is!” he exclaimed. “Just like Cal said it would be. It’s for you!”
I choked. I mean, I was sucking on a candy cane and I almost really choked. I had to take the thing out of my mouth and then tears flooded my eyes and I shook from head to toe. I could barely reach out to take the present, the gift that Cal—it had to be him, right?—had left inside the toy for me. I was afraid to open it.
Curly was positive it was Cal’s toy, and I wanted so desperately to believe him, but what if I opened this and it didn’t make any sense, if it was something obviously left in there by someone else, for someone else, but I had to open it, Curly was waiting.
“Go on,” he urged. “I want to see, too.”
I knew in my mind that it couldn’t be; but my heart knew it didn’t matter if it was or wa
s not. All that mattered was the magic of connection, of love, of a beautiful smile, of a timely—oh so timely—gift from a stranger. That connection was all that mattered.
I wiped the tears from my eyes, and took the top off the tiny box. I opened it slowly, holding my breath, with Curly’s head almost blocking my view, his arms around Rowdy as tight as they could go. I pulled off a layer of tissue paper, holding my breath. There it was: he’d found one, or had it made, and tears flooded my face. It was a tiny butterfly pendant on a gold chain, an exact copy of the one I wore on my breast, the most colorful butterfly I’d ever seen, so rare, so far away, so seldom seen, but like Cal, once seen, its brightness and beauty were never to be forgotten, like any other rare and beautiful thing.
Curly seemed to understand my tears, for he patted my arm, and said, “It’ll be all right. We still have each other. Cal wouldn’t want us to cry.” But he, too, was shedding tears, me all over my beautiful pendant, and he all over his musty old Rowdy doll. So we sat there behind the Christmas tree, our hearts filled with memories, and joy.
THE END
ABOUT EMERY C. WALTERS
Emery C. Walters was born Carol Forde, a name he soon knew didn’t fit the boy he was inside. Transition was unknown back then, so he married and then bore and raised four children. When his youngest child, his gay son, left home, Emery told Carol that she had to step aside, and he fully transitioned from female to male in 2001.
Emery worked in county government and as a college writing tutor before retiring. He and his wife Robyn, herself raised mistakenly as a boy, live in Hawaii where they combine snorkeling, scuba diving, and volunteer work with activities to boost LGBT rights and awareness.
Interested in Ninjutsu, both land and underwater photography, and writing, Emery can usually be found writing, reading, or sailing on his imaginary pirate ship.
Emery’s 2010 first published novel, Last Year's Leaves, is an intense story of recovery from abuse and loss, finding love, and coming out whole. The book is laced with his trademark humor. His recent publications include four other coming of age novels involving coming out and overcoming obstacles as well as two books of short stories. All are humorous and filled with hope. Drystan the Dire, Emery’s Welsh pirate ancestor, shows up at times to help the heroes and annoy the villains. Emery currently has two more novels in the publishing pipeline.
Between them, the Walters have eight adult children, umpteen grandchildren, and one great grandchild, none of whom can do a thing about the genetic material handed down to them—their gift to the future. So there. More information can be found online at ftemery-theemeryboard.blogspot.com.
ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS
Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance. Visit queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
A Rare and Beautiful Thing Page 4
