Miss Julia's Gift: A Penguin Special from Viking

by Ross, Ann B.

  “Come on in, honey. I didn’t hear you come up the stairs.”

  He sidled into the room and stood by the desk where I had been balancing my checkbook—a task still new enough for me to enjoy doing. “I was being quiet in case you were resting.”

  “No, just staying abreast of business matters. See, Little Lloyd, a good manager always knows what’s in the bank and what’s in pocket. Never guess and never hope. Always know.” I felt it was incumbent upon me to instruct the child in good management habits, especially where money was concerned, because he would have so much of it when he reached maturity—half, in fact, of Wesley Lloyd’s sizable estate. “Did you have a good day at school?”

  “Yes’m, I guess.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and took a deep breath. “Uh, Miss Julia, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course you may. What is it?”

  “Well, some of the kids at school are talking about Valentine’s Day and I don’t much know what to do. Because, see, it’s my first year in middle school and none of the teachers have said anything, so I’m thinking it won’t be like in little kids’ school where we put our valentines in a box and the teacher hands ’em out after we have a party.” He picked up the little globe with the flag-waving mouse that I was using as a paperweight and turned it over to watch the snow fall. “And I’m thinking that maybe we’re too old for valentines and that’s why none of the teachers have started decorating boxes. Maybe they think we’ve outgrown little kid stuff.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. But if some of the students are talking about it, they must not think they’re too old.”

  “It’s mostly the girls. So I thought I’d ask you what I ought to do. I don’t want to maybe get one from somebody and not give them one.”

  “That is a problem,” I said, putting down my pen. “Why don’t you ask the other boys what they’re going to do? They’re probably in the same quandary you are.”

  “Yes’m, I guess I could. I just don’t want them to think I’m dopey or something.”

  I could tell that I wasn’t helping him, so I wracked my brain for a solution. “Let me ask you this: Is there someone special you’d like to give one to—even if you don’t get one from that person?”

  He ducked his head and smiled. “Maybe. But I don’t want anybody to know.”

  “Then here’s what you do. It’s the way we did it when I was a girl. Go ahead and buy your valentines, then address them to everybody you even think will give you one. That way you’ll be prepared if the teachers decide to distribute them in school. But let’s say they don’t. And let’s say that your friends give some out—maybe before school or at lunch—then you’ll have yours ready to go when you get home.”

  “But it’ll be too late then. School will be out.”

  “No, the way we did it was to go around right after dark—not too late, mind you—and put a valentine on the porch or stuck in a screen door. Then you ring the doorbell and run.”

  “You run?” He laughed at the thought.

  “Oh, yes, you may have to hide in the bushes if they come to the door too fast, because you don’t want them to know who left the card. Of course, you can sign your name if you want to, but it’s more fun if you use something like Your Secret Admirer or Be My Valentine or whatever.”

  “I like that idea! And it’s even better because by that night everybody’ll think Valentine’s Day is over and it won’t be. And I can give a valentine to everybody who gave me one at school and even to somebody who maybe didn’t, and they’ll have to guess who did it.”

  “Yes, and I’ll tell you something else. Any little girl who gets a valentine from a secret admirer will just be thrilled—she will always wonder who it was and she’ll never forget it. That would be a very nice thing to do, because there are always a few girls who won’t get any.”

  “You mean,” he asked, thinking through what I’d said, “give one to the girls nobody likes?”

  “Who would know?”

  He laughed. “Nobody!”

  “And think how special those little girls would feel. And I think you’d feel pretty special too.”

  “Me, too,” he said, as he turned to leave. “Thanks, Miss Julia.”

  I smiled, pleased at how little it had taken to lift his spirits. Then picking up my pen and turning back to the bank statement, I sighed. It seemed that everybody was having trouble with giving and receiving.

  * * *

  Emma Sue Ledbetter, our pastor’s wife, called to ask me to pick her up on my way to our monthly circle meeting, during which there would be a ten-minute Bible study and two hours of arguing about project reports, eating finger sandwiches and deciding where we would meet the following month.

  “It won’t be out of your way, Julia,” Emma Sue had said, “and I’ll be ready and waiting when you get here. Actually, since I’m teaching the lesson, they can’t start until I get there, so it doesn’t matter if we run late.”

  “We won’t be late. I’ll be by about nine thirty but, Emma Sue, I have to leave as soon as it’s over. So if you plan to linger, it might be better to go ahead and take your car.” Because our circle met in the homes of the various members, some of the group were often reluctant to leave, tarrying to chat and visit with one another until occasionally the hostess felt compelled to offer lunch. Overstaying their welcome, I called it.

  “Oh, I’ll be ready to leave when you are,” Emma Sue assured me. “You won’t have to do anything special for me. I’ll just come and go when you do. Because, see, Julia, I’ve decided to Go Green, like I’ve been hearing about everywhere, and the big thing I can do is save gas by not driving. You ought to be doing the same, Julia. Your big car must take gallons just to go to the store. And you know, we all waste so much gas by taking our own cars everywhere we go, so you really should do whatever you can to be ecologically sound.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said drily, but silently fuming because she was saving gas by riding with me while at the same time having the nerve to lecture me for using it.

  We were meeting that morning on the second Tuesday—our usual meeting day—at Rebecca Tildon’s home, a split-level ranch-style house in what passed for the suburbs of Abbotsville—in other words, outside of town. There were about fifteen or so of us, all milling around the living room where extra folding chairs had been set up in a circle. Hence the name of the group, I suppose.

  Coffee, both regular and decaf, was served and trays of finger food and cubes of fruit on toothpicks were on the table in the dining ell. As soon as Emma Sue and I entered, having left our coats in the front bedroom, we were engulfed by the admiring talk of Janet McDonald’s new diamond tennis bracelet. Everyone wanted to see it, touch it, and exclaim over it, and Janet had worn a short-sleeved sweater to better display it. It was so lovely that not even our worst cynic could think that it might have come from Walmart or Sam’s Club.

  “Jim gave it to me,” Janet kept saying, her face flushed with pleasure. “And for no reason in the world. I still can’t believe it. I have to keep looking at it to be sure it’s real.”

  Janet was such a nice, likable young woman that not a soul in the room would have begrudged her such a beautiful gift. Many of them might have yearned for a bracelet like hers, but none would covet the one she had. All during the lesson and the discussions afterward, I noticed how Janet would occasionally glance down at it, then turn it around on her arm, as if to reassure herself that it was really there. A smile never left her face.

  Now that, I told myself, was the way the recipient of a gift should react. Her husband would assuredly know how well he had pleased her. I tried to make mental notes to follow the next time that Sam astounded me with an expensive and unexpected gift like the diamond studded watch he’d given me on New Year’s Day because, he’d said, time was passing and he wanted us to make the most of each minu
te. I’d still have to work on my reactions to gifts such as buckeyes and Chia Pets. It seemed to me that my expressions of gratitude in those cases should be somewhat less in kind and quality.

  Emma Sue’s Bible lesson was competently delivered as usual, but her subject—the list of spiritual gifts such as faith, wisdom, knowledge, and so on—brought me up short. Here I’d been concentrating on how to properly express my thanks to my husband for tangible gifts, when I should have been focusing on the gift of wisdom by which I could properly discern my responses. It was evident to me that I did not have the gift of appreciation, which wasn’t even on the list but should’ve been.

  When the meeting was over, I drove back to Emma Sue’s house, parked in her driveway, and waited for her to get out. On the way there, I had complimented her on the lesson and told her, without going into detail, that she had made me see a few things in a new light.

  “I’m glad of that, Julia, thank you,” she said, making no move to leave. “I know you need to get home, but did you get a good look at Janet’s bracelet? It nearly knocked my eyes out. You know there are tennis bracelets and then there are tennis bracelets, and that one had the biggest diamonds I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s beautiful, all right.” Then I added, “She’s so happy she’ll probably be showering Jim with hugs and kisses and favorite meals and catering to his every whim forever.” Or maybe, I thought, a more appreciative response would be for Janet to simply wear the bracelet every day and forgo an effusive display. I wished I knew which was the more fitting.

  “Yes.” Emma Sue sighed. “Bless her heart.”

  I glanced quickly at her. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, you know I’m not one to gossip, so don’t repeat this, but the talk around town is that Jim is having an affair with that secretary of his. I’ve had two different people call to ask my opinion about telling Janet.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it wasn’t my business with a strong implication that it wasn’t theirs, either. In fact, knowing Jim, I didn’t believe it. Until now. That bracelet looks for all the world like a guilt gift to me.”

  “A guilt gift? I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Well, I just made it up, but it says it all. I just hope it means he’s come to his senses. And if so, maybe he’s atoning for his sin so he’ll feel better. But then again, it could just be a way to throw her off the track so he can keep on with that woman. Because when a man spends that kind of money on his wife—for no reason—you can bet he has a reason.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, bowing my head over the steering wheel, “I hate to think that.” Even worse, I hated to think that Sam’s gift giving could be spurred by guilt. But no, Sam was not Wesley Lloyd and, besides, if presenting a gift was an indication of guilt, Wesley Lloyd had never felt a twinge. It was all he could do to manage a gift at Christmas, and I tell you, it had become harder and harder each year to appear appreciative for another flannel gown.

  * * *

  Nonetheless, the image that Emma Sue had put in my head about guilt gifts continued to trouble me throughout the afternoon, popping back up each time I thought I’d put it to rest. Once burned, twice shy, as they say, so I couldn’t help but consider the possibility that Sam might be headed down the same crooked road that Wesley Lloyd had trod and that the current showers of gifts, large and small, were precautionary measures against discovery. But so soon into our marriage?

  Impossible. Or so I assured myself. I mean, when had he had time? Or the stamina? But what did I know? Call me blind or naïve—even when half the town had been neither, I’d never for one minute suspected Wesley Lloyd of leading a double life. He’d been much too active in church.

  I had to admit, though, that even if suspicion of Wesley Lloyd’s activities had occurred to me, I wouldn’t have believed it. Who would have wanted him? Only someone at the end of her rope, someone like Hazel Marie Puckett. Which meant that I couldn’t and wouldn’t blame her, for who knew what I might do if I had absolutely nowhere to turn?

  Yet now, even knowing that I wouldn’t have believed Wesley Lloyd capable of what he so obviously was capable of, here I was already wondering if Sam was guilty of the same offense. And doing it not only without a smidgeon of evidence, but merely because I’d once been betrayed by a husband who’d not been half the man that Sam was. And doing it because Sam had a generous soul for which I should’ve been thankful, but instead, was using that same quality to condemn him.

  Lillian had pointed out that, contrary to Wesley Lloyd, Sam was always where he was supposed to be. But was he? I’d never deliberately checked on him. Whenever I’d had reason to call while he was working at his house, he’d always been there. And he was home with me every evening.

  Still, I figured that a man’s eyes begin to roam before he takes actual steps, so maybe Sam was in the prestep-taking stage and was feeling guilty about it. Thus, all the gifts.

  I gave myself a mental shake, wondering why I always slipped back into going over and over the same old thing. Well, of course I knew why—comparing husbands is what I was doing.

  Which brought me back to the fact that Sam was nothing like Wesley Lloyd in looks, temperament, or morals—none of which, however, explained his propensity for offering a gift every time I turned around. To show that he’d been thinking of me? I didn’t believe that for a minute. Sam’s mind was so full of Abbot County judges and law cases and fish and Rotary speakers and local politics and Republican campaigns and Roman wars—when did he have time during the day to think of me?

  Well, obviously he found the time because I was running out of places on shelves and in drawers to put his gifts.

  I declare, by the time I’d reached this point in my thinking, I was about done in. Already entertaining suspicions of my sweet, generous husband and us not married a year. That’s what distrust—no matter how justifiably learned—will do for you.

  Why couldn’t I simply accept whatever he offered and be grateful for it? Regardless of what prompted Jim McDonald to give Janet a diamond tennis bracelet, I had no reason to think there was a similar motive behind a diamond watch. Or a Chia Pet groundhog, for that matter. There were no deep, dark secrets in Sam’s life. He was an open book, even if I was having trouble reading him. That was my problem, not his. And my own insecurity was what it came down to—unable to accept a gift for what it was—just a gift—and unable to suitably express gratitude.

  Well, that could be learned, and I would learn it. Instead of digging around and probing into my reactions to his gifts, I would study how he reacted to me reacting to him.

  So far, though, he’d seemed entirely contented with whatever response I made, so I didn’t have much to go on. Then with a sudden insight, I realized that I did have a little something to go on—the reaction of giftees when I was the one doing the giving.

  At that thought, I got up and walked across to the front window, looked out at the bare trees and empty street, then sat back down again, thinking. What I needed to do was to recollect the times when I had been on the giving end with someone else on the receiving end and try to determine which responses had been most appropriate.

  * * *

  I’d occasionally wondered if Wesley Lloyd had been any more generous to Hazel Marie than he’d been to me. Because he’d been a penny-pincher of the first order, I doubted it. Oh, I knew he had kept her, kept her with all that the word entailed—paying the rent on the rickety little house where she and Little Lloyd had lived and giving her an allowance for food and so forth. But I had seen no evidence of her having received anything over and above the basics, and I could never have asked. I saw no reason to rub salt in my own wounds, so I carefully avoided any discussion of our mutual benefactor. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, so did she.

  As I thought of Hazel Marie, I began to get a glimmer of possible responses to someone’s generosity.
I recalled the state of her wardrobe, if you could call it that, when she and Little Lloyd first moved in with me. The first thing I did was take her shopping for decent clothes, although I had to kindly instruct her on what qualified as decent and what didn’t. I mean, there are some things that one simply cannot wear to church, much less to a ladies’ luncheon.

  The look of wonder on Hazel Marie’s face as I told the salesclerk we’d take it all had been most gratifying. The tears that sprang up in her eyes had touched me, so I’d added a couple of pocketbooks and made plans to go to a shoe store. To me, her response had been sufficiently satisfactory, if she’d left it at that. I’d known she was appreciative and, what’s more, that she would continue to be. It was a pleasure to do for her, but frankly, I could do without her tendency to throw her arms around me and sob on my shoulder. So see, there’s enough and then there’s too much, and that was what agitated me about responding to Sam’s gifts. Some people may like such demonstrative displays and be disappointed when they aren’t forthcoming.

  Take Little Lloyd as another example. I can’t tell you how that child wrung my heart, first with bitterness because of what he represented, but then with an emotion so warm that I had to call it love. That first Christmas when I’d finally been able to stop piling the sins of his father on his skinny little shoulders had truly opened my heart. I will never forget the look on the boy’s face when he saw all the presents under the tree. He couldn’t believe they were all for him. The excitement, the joy, the pure pleasure he exhibited made the mere expression of thanks pitifully inadequate. Displaying the same reserve as I myself have, he hadn’t attempted to hug and kiss and go on and on thanking me. All he’d done was come close to my chair and whisper, “This was the best Christmas I ever had,” which I knew was both heartfelt and heartbreakingly true.

  * * *

  Out of all the thinking and recalling, an idea was beginning to grow in my mind, an idea of how I could show Sam my appreciation—not just for his gifts, but for him. Valentine’s Day was coming.