Miss Julia's Gift: A Penguin Special from Viking

by Ross, Ann B.

  He smiled as soon as he saw me. “Come sit on the sofa with me, sweetheart.”

  I got up from the wingchair and met him, getting a warm embrace before I sat down beside him. I was beginning—just beginning—to become accustomed to the way he greeted me every time he entered the house, even if it was two or three times a day. It was taking awhile, because for forty-some-odd years when Wesley Lloyd came home, all he wanted was an accounting of how I’d spent the day.

  “Did you have Lillian straighten that linen closet upstairs?” he would ask. “It’s a mess.”

  Or: “I expect dinner to be on the table at six o’clock, Julia. You know that.”

  Or: “I hope you called a plumber about that leaking shower head. The water bill will be sky high if you don’t get it fixed.”

  But here I now was, snuggled up close to a man who made no demands, although I fully expected he would sooner or later. Honeymoons don’t last forever, do they?

  “Here, honey,” Sam said, stretching out to reach into his pocket, “I brought you something.” He handed me a small object wrapped in his handkerchief.

  “Oh, Sam, what have you come up with now?”

  “Just a little something to let you know I was thinking of you.”

  I unfolded the ends of the handkerchief, gazed at a round, brown object and asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s a buckeye. They say it’ll bring good luck, and I can testify that it does.” The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled as he went on. “I always carry one, and just look what it’s brought me.” He kissed me then, and a warm feeling spread throughout my bosom as he demonstrated the kind of luck that a buckeye could bring.

  Well, of course, neither Sam nor I believed in lucky charms or amulets or, for that matter, buckeyes, but what a sweet and loving thing to say. But you can see what I’ve been talking about: gifts of every variety from something he picked up off the ground, plucked from a flower bed, bought in a store, or special ordered—gifts to show that he always had me on his mind. I should’ve been getting used to it, but I wasn’t. Did he want me to respond in kind? I didn’t know, so I hadn’t. I didn’t have his imagination for coming up with gifts—I depended on the bridal lists in department stores. And men are so hard to buy for anyway.

  * * *

  LuAnne Conover, a friend I’d known from the first week Wesley Lloyd brought me to Abbotsville as a bride, dropped by the following day. She was known for dropping by on her way to and from Main Street. What she found so enthralling about downtown Main Street I couldn’t understand, but she did like to shop. It wasn’t that she bought a lot, it was more that she liked to see what was there. Not that Main Street was a shopping mecca, but it was all we had unless you wanted to go to Asheville or Atlanta, which LuAnne never saw the need to do.

  She once let slip one of the reasons she made two or three trips a week to downtown: She was checking out the newsstand, specifically that revolving rack of paperback books next to the display of newsmagazines. LuAnne loved to read, an avocation that had impressed me until I learned what it was that she chose to read. She liked the Harlequin and other such romances—the ones with the lurid covers of long-haired and bare-chested men—and when she learned that many of those writers put out a book every month or so, she was right there at the newsstand waiting when the delivery trucks arrived.

  This day, however, she had Leonard on her mind. Leonard was her husband—I started to say her long-suffering husband, but to hear LuAnne tell it, it was her husband that she had long suffered. Which was completely understandable for Leonard Conover was the most boring man alive. Every time I saw him, I found myself wondering why it was that at a certain age so many men turned their stomach muscles loose. It was as if all of a sudden they got so tired of holding those muscles in that they just gave up and let them balloon.

  “Julia,” LuAnne said as she balanced a cup of tea on a saucer, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. I need your opinion.”

  “Don’t ask me, LuAnne. I don’t have any advice to give.” Besides, I didn’t know what to do with mine, but that was a matter I was unwilling to reveal to LuAnne, who couldn’t keep a confidence if her life depended on it. “I have my hands full with a new husband, you know.”

  “Well,” she said dismissively, “it’s not like he’s brand new. We’ve all known Sam forever, and he is one man who really knows how to treat a lady. I mean, every single or widowed woman in town would’ve given their eyeteeth to have attracted Sam Murdoch’s attention. It’s still a wonder to me that you ended up with him.”

  LuAnne had no compunction in saying what she thought, never, or at least rarely, intending to be cruel. She just opened her mouth and out it poured. Aware of her tendency to hurt without meaning to, I tried to let her last sentence roll off. I had learned that LuAnne often said what other people were thinking, so by listening to her I could pretty well keep abreast of current opinions. And to tell the truth, it was still a wonder to me, too, that I had ended up with Sam.

  “Anyway,” LuAnne went on, as she selected another Moravian sugar cookie, “I have tried my best to get Leonard to change. I mean, he’s always been this way and I don’t know why I ever expect anything different. But I’m an optimistic person and hope springs eternal, as they say. But, Julia, what’s a wife to do when her husband never gives her a thought? I used to think it was because he worked so hard and had his mind on the bureaucratic stuff he had to contend with all day long, so I overlooked it. But it hurt, I won’t say it didn’t. But now that he’s retired, you’d think he’d do better. But no. All he has on his mind is what’s on television and what’s on the table.” She took the last bite of her cookie. “These are awfully good. Did Lillian make them?”

  “No, I think she got them at the Fresh Market. But, LuAnne, just how do you want Leonard to change? He’s always seemed fairly easygoing to me.”

  “Oh, he’s easygoing, all right! So easygoing that one day is just like another. I mean, it doesn’t matter if it’s my birthday or our anniversary or some other special day, it’s all the same to him. He never remembers, never!”

  “Even Christmas?”

  “Oh, well,” LuAnne said with some sarcasm, “of course he doesn’t forget that. How could he with all the ads on television from Halloween on? Even he would get the word from the Budweiser horses or that electric shaver sliding over a hill. So what does he do? Waits till Christmas Eve and picks up one of those gift boxes of bath powder and soap and lotion, and it’s only by chance that he gets a name brand.”

  “That’s too bad, but at least he remembers to get something.”

  “I should be thankful, I know, but it hurts my feelings after I’ve spent weeks trying to find just the right thing for him.” She reached for another cookie. “But that’s not the worst of it, Julia. I hate having to remind him over and over about my birthday every year that rolls around. And our anniversary? Don’t even ask.”

  “Maybe you could leave little reminders around a week or so before—like a note or maybe you could circle the day on the calendar. I heard Helen Stroud say she had to do that for Richard, so it’s not that unusual. And Leonard gives you something when you remind him, doesn’t he?”

  “Well, I don’t want to have to remind him,” LuAnne snapped. “If he doesn’t think enough of me to even remember my birthday, I’ll just do without.”

  “I don’t think you’ll do without,” I said, smiling to remind her that I never forgot her birthday or those of any of my friends—never with anything lavish or expensive because I didn’t want to set a precedent that would obligate them to reciprocate in kind. One does have to be mindful of that. But I did make a mental note to put aside the bath powder set that I’d already purchased for LuAnne’s birthday in favor of some other gift.

  “Oh, I know, Julia, you’re always so thoughtful, but it’s not the same. I just wish Leonard had a bett
er memory, or that he’d at least work on having a better one. It’s not as if somebody’s birthday is a surprise. I mean they do come around every year.” She leaned over to put her cup and saucer on the tea tray. Then with a start, her face lit up. “I just thought of what I can do. My birthday is next week, as you know, and I’ve just decided that I’m not going to say one word to Leonard about it. No reminders, no hints, no suggestions, no nothing. I’ll wait to see what he does on his own. And when he forgets, as I know he will, I’ll tell him the day after! Won’t that serve him right? He’s going to feel so bad, he’ll never forget again.” And up she stood, picked up her pocketbook, and headed for the coat closet in the hall. “Thanks so much, Julia. You’re always such a help to me.”

  When I closed the front door behind her, I leaned against it wondering if anybody ever got what they wanted, and I wasn’t thinking of presents. I was thinking of husbands, and decided then and there that if I had to make a choice between one who gave too much and one that gave nothing at all, I’d keep the one I had.

  * * *

  That afternoon I expected Sam to come home empty handed because, as far as I knew, the day had no special meaning. I looked forward to a quiet evening with no surprise gift for which I’d have to sputter thanks and afterward wonder if I’d been appreciative enough. But it was January when a lot of presidents had been born even though by some fairly recent congressional action the days of their births had been reassigned for commercial convenience. So I had no idea if the day had any significance or not. For all I knew there could be celebrations in Thailand or somewhere, and if so, Sam would use it as a reason to bring a gift.

  Since he had retired from the practice of law, he’d occupied himself writing a history of the 150-year legal scene in Abbot county, researching old cases and interviewing lawyers and judges, retired and otherwise. He had set up an office in his house where he could spread out his notes and papers and books, knowing that James, whom he had kept on to care for the house, would never feel the urge to dust or straighten or in any way disturb his desk.

  Sam had kept the lovely old house only four blocks from mine that he’d lived in for so many years, and I’d tried to live there with him after we married. It hadn’t worked. I was too worried about leaving Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd alone in mine. Besides, no woman wants to live in the same house as her predecessor. At the time it didn’t occur to me that Sam might’ve had the same problem with Wesley Lloyd’s house, but he’d never voiced any concern and seemed perfectly happy regardless of where he was. Of course there was little left to remind either of us of its former resident for after I learned of Wesley Lloyd’s deceit, I’d cleaned house. In a fit of righteous outrage, I’d rid my house of all tokens of my first husband’s presence, including pictures, clothing, shoes, cufflinks, watches, razor, and shaving cream. Even his Sunday-school book and annotated Bible went the way of the rest—the self-righteous, old hypocrite. But be that as it may, because I don’t let it bother me anymore.

  When Sam came in that particular afternoon, he greeted me as warmly as he always did—right in front of Lillian too, which embarrassed me. I was not accustomed, at the time, to such public displays and, to be truthful, still have a problem with them.

  So after dinner, I kept waiting for him to pull out some little gift—not that I wanted one, you understand, it was just that I’d come to halfway expect and halfway dread being presented with something for which I would have to worry about exhibiting the correct and expected amount of appreciation.

  We were sitting in the living room, Sam with the newspaper and I with a needlepoint piece. Hazel Marie was upstairs doing something to her hair and Little Lloyd was in his room doing schoolwork. So I was a little on edge since nothing had been forthcoming in the way of a small token of his thinking of me during the day. If he planned to give me something, I wished he’d go ahead and do it, and get it over with. My problem was not that I was eager to get a gift. My problem was that I was hard pressed to react appropriately to such manifestations of his regard. How many ways can one say, “Oh, Sam, you shouldn’t have”?

  To be so well and often thought of was unsettling.

  As if aware of my thoughts, Sam lowered the paper and said, “I have something for you, sweetheart. I hope you like it.”

  “Oh, Sam, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, it’s something a little different, but I thought you’d appreciate it. And it is a holiday, you know.”

  I let my needlepoint fall to my lap. “No, I didn’t know.” Almost afraid to ask, I did anyway. “What holiday is it? Or was it?”

  “Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and that’s worth commemorating, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never thought about it.” Increasingly leery, I prepared myself to be properly impressed and delighted with whatever he’d deemed appropriate for this momentous day that was almost over.

  He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. I scanned the official-looking document, noticed my name typed in, frowned, and asked, “What is it?”

  Sam came over and sat beside me on the sofa. “It’s an official notification that a contribution has been made in honor of you and the Reverend King to the Boys and Girls Club of Abbotsville.”

  “Oh, Sam,” I said, a pleased smile spreading across my face as I saw how generously he had shown his esteem for me and my co-honoree. “You shouldn’t have, but . . .,” I leaned my head against his shoulder, “I’m glad you did.” It was the best I could do.

  Yet for days afterward I mulled the incident over in my mind, feeling that I had fallen short in some way. It had truly been a thoughtful gift and one that would, as they say, keep on giving. Maybe I should’ve shown more pleasure, maybe even gushed, although to be truthful, I didn’t know exactly how to gush, having more of a composed and sedate nature that limited the range of my emotions—limited them, at least, for public consumption.

  * * *

  It was a few gift-free days later as we sat around the dining-room table finishing the tasty lemon chiffon pie that Lillian had served. Sam, at the head of the table, had been telling Little Lloyd about a certain Roman emperor who’d had a marvelous vision while Hazel Marie and I listened in, completely entranced with the story. Have I mentioned that Sam loved history—and not just the history of Abbotsville, but further back than that? He had books around the house that I could barely pick up, much less read, the current one on the bedside table by another Roman named Tacitus, whose innumerable tales of war put Sam to sleep within fifteen minutes.

  Just as his story ended, Lillian came into the dining room, removed our dessert plates, and said, “You ready now, Mr. Sam?”

  Sam nodded and smiled across the table at me. “Yes, let’s have it.”

  With a laugh, Lillian went back to the kitchen and came back bearing a beautifully wrapped gift about the size of a bread box. She set it down in front of me. “Mr. Sam, he say this is for the holiday.”

  I looked up at Sam in surprise and some dismay. “What holiday?”

  “I know, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd said, squirming in his chair with excitement, “I know. It’s Groundhog Day!”

  Hazel Marie looked perplexed. “I thought that was about the weather. I didn’t know you were supposed to give gifts for it.”

  “I didn’t either, Hazel Marie,” I said, wondering what in the world Sam had come up with this time. His gifts ran the gamut from the fairly expensive to something he picked up in the yard. Like a buckeye. I never knew whether I was supposed to lavish gratitude on him or laugh at his wild imagination.

  “Open it, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd urged. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Yes’m, I helped pick it out. Hurry so we can all see.”

  So I did, with Lloyd coming around to my chair and Hazel Marie leaning forward and Lillian standing
beside me, all of them waiting for my reaction. Which is what I so disliked about getting a gift—everybody waiting to see how surprised, delighted, or disappointed I’ll be. I never liked being the center of so much attention. So uncomfortable, you know.

  Glancing again at Sam’s expectant smile, I untied the bow, opened the box, and pulled out . . . I didn’t know what it was.

  “What is it?” I asked, frowning as I turned the object around. It had the head of a pig—I figured that out right away—but the body was only a rounded lump.

  “It’s a Chia Pet!” Little Lloyd exclaimed, laughing. “See, Miss Julia, you water it and little plants grow all over it. Then it’ll look like a real pig.”

  “Oh,” Hazel Marie said, “it’s so cute.” Then she frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “I guess I don’t, either,” I said, thinking it might be a joke but not sure enough to actually laugh.

  Little Lloyd jiggled with excitement. “Can I tell ’em, Mr. Sam?”

  “Go right ahead,” Sam said, beaming with pleasure as I studied with, I knew, a perplexed look on my face, the denuded pig.

  “See, Miss Julia,” Little Lloyd said, “it’s a pig because it’s Groundhog Day!”

  * * *

  Well, you can see how I was kept off balance by Sam’s gifts, which went from the sublime to the ridiculous—the Chia Pet Pig belonging in the latter category. Nonetheless, it took pride of place on the window sill above the kitchen sink and Lillian took on the care and feeding of it. Actually, it turned out to be quite remarkable and we all enjoyed watching it fill out as it began to bear a vague resemblance to a groundhog—if you already knew what you were looking for.

  * * *

  “Miss Julia?” Little Lloyd stuck his head around the door frame of my bedroom, a hesitant smile on his face.