Simple Gifts

by Lori Copeland

  “Oh, it was mentioned, but R J told them we’d fight, and they gave in, as long as we promised to take you.”

  “And they never wanted to see me?”

  “No. You belonged to Herman.”

  “I belonged to Lexy too.”

  “They didn’t see it that way.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maybe it was partly our fault. We didn’t encourage them to come around. There were too many hard feelings.”

  My birth. Not exactly a time to break out the gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

  Ingrid patted my hand. “None of this was your fault, Marlene. It was an unfortunate situation. We did the best we could.”

  I leaned and kissed her cheek. “I’m just beginning to realize how much you and Beth did for me. I’ve not done a good job of showing my appreciation.”

  She frowned. “No need to get mushy.”

  No, Ingrid wouldn’t get mushy. I’d never acknowledged it before, but we were more alike than I’d suspected. I noticed her eyes were shiny with tears. I’d bet mine were too.

  I settled her for the night and returned to Beth’s house, which was beginning to feel more familiar. Even the rocks in the living room didn’t bother me anymore. I fixed a cup of tea and carried it out to the porch swing, my nightly ritual now. Lights burned in the windows of Vic’s cottage. I pushed the swing with my toe, the rusty chains squeaking with each forward motion.

  Vic.

  He’d been pleasant tonight, but distant. A barrier stood between us. Or maybe it was always there and I hadn’t noticed.

  I needed to talk to him, but what could I say? I stared at the lighted windows. Was he thinking of me tonight? Were his thoughts friendly? I retreated to my earlier decision: I’d wait and let him make the first move.

  My cell phone rang. Sara.

  “Mom? Did you make it back okay?”

  I blinked. When had my daughter ever started her conversations by asking about me? “Just fine. Why?”

  “I just wondered. How are you—you’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “Fine, sweetie. Has something happened?” Not the baby…Please Lord, not the baby.

  “No, I love you, you know. A lot.”

  She clicked off after a few minutes of chatting, leaving me to stare at the phone in disbelief. Was that my daughter or an imposter? I suddenly found a wry grin forming. I’d lost control and struck her. Remembering the incident, shame filled me. It wouldn’t happen again, and I needed to apologize to her.

  Waiting for a phone to ring was like waiting for water to boil. You couldn’t hurry it. Tuesday morning, the instrument remained silent. It wasn’t like Vic to let something like my colossal deception pass without comment. He’d known I’d been lying for a couple of months. Why was he letting me stew in my own juices? To torture me?

  Because he no longer gives a rat’s nest.

  That had to be it. He didn’t care enough to challenge my deception. My perceived insight into his psyche hurt, yet I knew he had every right to ignore me. We’d had the world by the tail during our youth, but I’d destroyed our relationship when I took my life, and his, into my own hands.

  How could I have ruined something so beautiful?

  Water over the dam, Aunt Ingrid would say, and she would be right.

  I pushed the kitchen curtain aside and stared out at the rainy day. Widening puddles stood in Ingrid’s drive; street gutters overflowed with heavy runoff. Even Sara was acting weird.

  “How are you mom? “ I still couldn’t get it out of my head.

  I let the curtain drop into place. I’d come over to see what Ingrid was doing and found her napping and the house a dank tomb. I wandered around, then decided to make a peach pie for dinner. Peach was Ingrid’s favorite. I wasn’t exactly Martha Stewart in the kitchen, but I could bake a decent dessert.

  Flipping on the basement light, I descended the narrow steps. I’d always hated coming down here when I was a kid. Ingrid piled everything she’d accumulated the last forty years in the cellar. The place needed a good cleaning.

  I located the shelf of canned peaches and started back up the stairs, pausing on the first rung. My eyes traveled the musty-smelling room—old bicycles, trunks, boxes upon stacked boxes. Eugene’s workbench still sat in the corner, tools in place.

  Poor Uncle Eugene. I remembered him as an odd but lovable sort. We’d play dodgeball in the driveway and occasionally I’d help with one of his carpentry projects. One Christmas we made thirty wren houses and gave them to everyone we knew. I’d bet if I looked closely, I’d still see some of those bird houses in neighbors’ trees.

  Ingrid always badgered him, demanding that he come to dinner, cut the grass, fill the bird feeders, weed the flower bed, oil the lawn mower, paint the shutters, fix the roof.

  I knew she loved him, but Ingrid had always been Ingrid, determined to be in charge. Eugene hadn’t seemed to mind…Or was that the reason for his desperate search for acceptance, why he seized upon so many women? Why he’d run off with Prue? She didn’t seem any more agreeable than the wife he’d already had. Had Ingrid’s constant list of chores been a way to keep her wandering husband at home, where she could keep an eye on him? I’d been too young to understand back then, and time had dulled my perception of reality.

  I recalled the way he’d look at me, eyes twinkling. “Want to go get a soda pop?”

  Off we’d go, with Ingrid’s voice bellowing from the open window. “Eugene! The car is filthy. And I can’t see a thing out of these windows.” Uncle Eugene needed two extra hands and one less prison guard.

  I set the jar of peaches on the step and headed back down, eyeing one large camelback trunk I’d never noticed before. What secrets did Ingrid store in that chest?

  Locating the latch, I lifted the heavy lid with an air of anticipation. Junk. I picked up stacks of moldy old clothing and set them aside. Discarded items my frugal aunt couldn’t bring herself to throw away. My eye caught the corner of a cigar box, but I continued to dig deeper through old clothing, surprised at the items Ingrid had kept.

  I rocked back on my heels. Beth and Ingrid had money, lots of it. They’d inherited it from their parents and handled the money judiciously. If rumor was true, the two women had more than quadrupled their funds over the years through investments and shrewd real estate transactions. They never spoke of their wealth, and if I asked, I was told it was none of my beeswax.

  That’s why I hadn’t gone to them during the troubling years of Sara’s childhood. I knew they would refuse to help, citing my impulsive marriage. I could hear Ingrid now: “Don’t come to me with your problems. You made your bed, now sleep in it.”

  Aunt Beth would have said, “I told you so.”

  I wasn’t there when Aunt Beth’s will was read. I knew her holdings were tied to Ingrid’s and nothing would be settled until Ingrid passed or my aunt agreed to sell off mutually owned property and allow me to settle Beth’s estate promptly. She’d held out for two years, and I still didn’t know why she’d suddenly grown willing to comply. The gesture was unlike her, but maybe, with Beth gone, she realized that years were passing and she wouldn’t live forever.

  Ingrid had been grasping, stingy, and reluctant to spend more than she needed for her own use. Beth had been the town bag lady, scuffling along in worn-out shoes, carrying her grubby tote bag. She’d been a fixture at local garage sales, rooting out the free boxes, bringing the most forlorn items home with her, whether she had a need for them or not. I’d sorted through piles of discarded bits of junk in the last weeks, all to be hauled away.

  I folded the clothing and placed the items back into the trunk, willing to leave them for another day. I was about to close the lid when the cigar box caught my eye again. Digging deeper, I pulled the box from the heap. Worn, time faded. Someone had taken a crayon and drawn what looked to be a fire truck with a large bell on the side. I studied the childish rendering, my gaze shifting to the bold lettering.

  HeRRmaN

  Herman’s earthly treasures.

>   Was it right of me to invade my father’s private world? Would the intrusion be unfair, even callous, considering Herman’s mental state?

  Or was I entitled to know what went on in his mind, what he valued most here on earth. I pushed aside a stack of magazines and sat down on a rickety wooden chair. After a moment, I carefully opened the box. Inside, Herman’s world quickly materialized: a shiny agate marble; a soiled and tattered piece of twine—one that undoubtedly had gone wherever Herman had traveled. I held up a yellow hair ribbon that once belonged to me. Herman brought it to me the day I started kindergarten. I remember Aunt Beth questioning him about how he’d acquired the trinket and he said he’d found it. Turned out he’d taken it from a girl at Sunday school. When asked why, he’d said, “It would look prettier on Marly.”

  An eraser.

  A red Duncan yo-yo.

  A piece of tablet paper with a large red heart with the initials, H. L.

  A baby tooth in a baggie marked Marly. Various pictures of me: blowing out birthday candles, tumbling with kittens. A faded picture of Butchie standing beside the large mimosa tree in Aunt Beth’s front yard.

  A lacy white handkerchief with “Lexy” embroidered in pink thread. Lexy. My mother. I held the handkerchief, my mind racing with intriguing thoughts. Had Herman had a boyish crush on Lexy? Had that fascination gotten out of hand?

  In the bottom of the box I found a ring. Cheap, Cracker-Jack quality.

  Sighing, I closed the lid on the box, thinking how sad it was to hold a man’s entire life in my hand, yet the items here represented what God intended men to be: childlike, trusting. Loving.

  Sitting there, I suddenly realized that man, when given a full IQ and educated, was sometimes more mentally challenged than Herman had been. I understood why I was so embarrassed by Herman’s attempts at fatherhood—my reaction was typical enough. Even my resentment wasn’t all that mysterious. I was fallible. I had hurt because Herman wasn’t like everyone else.

  What I couldn’t explain then, but knew better now, was my love for this child-man, this man who was more like a puppy—a defenseless puppy—than a parent. Had I even once shown him compassion? Unconditional love? I couldn’t recall a single instance. He hadn’t required hugs and kisses; he was happiest when we played ball or roller-skated, most content when Butchie and I went to the park with him.

  My whole life had been avoidance—avoidance of Herman, avoidance of difficult adult choices, like childbearing and divorce.

  Avoidance of Vic.

  Even after I’d fled Parnass Springs, married Noel, and had Sara, I’d still continued to run, to evade God’s plans for my life. I should have known my rebellion would bring upheaval upon upheaval. I hadn’t known then what God wanted of me, I’d second-guessed him, and he’d allowed me to have my way. He gave free choice, didn’t he? But my choices had been far from his. And now I, and others, were paying the price.

  It was high time to rethink my life. I closed the trunk and took the cigar box with me. I couldn’t let it go.

  It was all I had left of my father.

  Rain drops spattered the windshield as I drove into the cemetery. Was there a more depressing place on earth than a cemetery on a cool rainy afternoon? I got out of the car and zipped up my slicker, then hiked across soggy ground. A north wind cut through the thin vinyl. Aunt Beth would call this weather Blackberry Winter—one of the last cool spells before warm weather came to stay. Across the fields and fencerows, blackberries would be in bloom, their white blossoms hinting of the dark, juicy fruit to come.

  Herman’s headstone lay there, bleak, small, and unimportant. I stood in front of the grave, uncertain where to start. Confession would be as good as anything.

  Clearing my throat, I began. “I’m sorry, Herman. I’m here to ask for your forgiveness. For all the times I made fun of you so I could be one of the kids, for all the times I embarrassed and hurt you. I showed disrespect, when in my heart I loved you—but I never told you so.”

  I fought back tears. “There were so many things I didn’t tell you, Dad. Things like I got married. My husband walked out on me and left me with a two-year-old child, Sara. He was a bum, but a bum with a silver tongue and a brilliant mind. Sara’s your grandchild. You met her once when I came home to see Aunt Beth after one of her strokes. Of course you didn’t know she was your grandchild. I don’t think I said over two words to you during that short visit. I’m sorry; I’m so sorry for all the times I failed you. I was a different person then—-young and self-centered. Thought-I-knew-it-all Marlene. But I was the one with problems.

  “Like Uncle Eugene used to say, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Well, it took awhile, but I see those trees, Dad.” It was getting harder to hold back the emotion. “I know I’m not the only person with problems, and whatever they are, I can’t outrun them. Believe me, I’ve tried and failed. I have to face them head-on and that’s not easy.

  “You never knew—or maybe you did know about Vic and me. I loved him.” I hugged myself. “I loved him so much it hurt, but I knew I couldn’t give him children. I couldn’t or wouldn’t because I was scared. Scared that my child would be like you, Dad. Now I realize there are worse things than having a childish mind, like having an adult mind but a child’s behavior. That’s me, Dad. Adult-challenged. I’ve tried to solve my problems on my own and made a big mess of my life. I’ve finally decided I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be a martyr. I can choose to let others validate my happiness, or I can make my own.”

  I looked up at the gray sky. “I’m thinking on this cool, chilly spring day that I’m going to choose to be happy—to choose to be responsible for my actions and not lay blame to them. I think, Dad, that maybe I’m starting to grow up.”

  Tears finally coursed down my cheeks as I dropped to my knees beside his grave, cleansed, like the Sunday morning I’d been baptized, dipped in water made whole by the grace of God. Could Herman hear me? Would he ever know that the daughter he loved, loved him back?

  I think he did. If not back then, he certainly knew now.

  On the walk back to the car I passed the remainder of the family plots. I spotted Eugene’s foot’s grave. In the past, the story had meant nothing to me but a rather bizarre tale from an even more bizarre family. Suddenly I knew he could use a word of encouragement too. Poor Uncle Eugene’s remains were being fought over like two hens squawking over the same kernel of corn.

  What would he think of this disgraceful fight for his foot? Not much, I’d guess. The Eugene I’d known wouldn’t have approved of spending good money on trivial pursuits. Eugene had been a giver, not only of his time to women—all women—but deep inside the man’s perfidious soul, goodness lurked.

  I recalled when a tornado had once cut a large swath through the county. Eugene had barely slept for days as he went about helping the victims restore order to their lives. I’d watched him stack cases of bottled water and canned goods in the trunk of his old Chevy. Then he invited me to drive the storm-ravaged neighborhoods and distribute the gifts. The distribution made an impression. And since the drive ended in an ice-cream cone for me, I enjoyed the time I spent with him immensely.

  “Thanks, Eugene.” I brushed my hand across his marker.

  On the way home I stopped by the market for fresh ground sirloin. Ingrid liked meat loaf. Adding mashed potatoes, green beans, and peach pie would make my curmudgeon aunt all smiles this evening. I longed to ask Joe to dinner, but I wouldn’t, not without Vic. And I wasn’t going to invite trouble.

  Yes, it was my place to go to him, but I hadn’t matured quite that much.

  As plans often are, mine were altered when I ran into Joe at the market. He was leaving as I was walking in. He paused, his eyes skimming my muddy clothes and rain slicker. “You been pig wrestling?”

  “Nope. Conscience wrestling.” I grinned. “Funny, but I was just thinking about you.”

  “You were?” He winked. “Women. I attract them like flies to watermelon rind.”

/>   “Before your head swells and your hat doesn’t fit anymore, I hasten to tell you that my thoughts have no romantic intonation.”

  “None?”

  “Not even a tiny bit. They’re more gluttonous in nature.”

  “Dinner!”

  “Meat loaf. Ingrid’s house. Five-thirty.” I might as well have said he’d won the lottery.

  “You’re on.” He smacked my hand in a playful high five. “Can I bring anything?”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Can’t fry a decent egg.”

  “Then please attend with an empty hand or dish.”

  The unspoken words hung between us: what about Vic? Not including Vic in the invitation was equivalent to not brushing my teeth in the morning. In the past he hadn’t needed an invitation, but Joe must have known the silent war waging between us. Thankfully, he let the prickly moment pass without comment.

  “Well…I’d better get Mrs. Kelp her milk. Her arthritis is acting up and she didn’t want to get out in the damp air.”

  He walked off, and I continued into the store, suddenly feeling less buoyant. Without Vic, the dinner was just…food.

  Late Tuesday afternoon the house swam in the fragrance of pie baking in the oven and meat loaf browning on the rack. The persuasive aromas drew Ingrid from her lair. She rolled into the kitchen around four, her lap full of the afternoon mail. “We having company?”

  I peeled potatoes and rinsed them under running water. “Joe’s coming over around five-thirty.”

  “What about Vic?”

  I pretended to be absorbed in filling a pan with water. “Haven’t talked to him.”

  She sniffed the fragrant air. “Is that peach pie I smell?”

  “I thought you might enjoy one.”

  “Hope you got enough sugar in it.” She picked up a stack of letters and leafed through them. Her fingers slowed as she held an envelope up to the light, squinting. “What’s that say, Marlene? I don’t have my glasses with me.”

  I dried my hands and reached for the letter, eyes drawn to the Maui postmark. In the upper left-hand corner, Claybridge Law Firm jumped out. Prue Levitt Moss had volleyed the ball back into our court.