The Unopened Gift

The Ungiven Gift

Held by surrounding mountains, Turtleback, Spencer’s Ridge and Big Pine, Grace had never experienced The Narrows that would lead her out of the valley. Not that fear kept her back. She had no curiosity to guide her nor tempt her to lessen the rope-like confinement.

               Late each afternoon, she locked the front door of the women’s clothing store which she managed and jiggled the knob to know the latch was secure. A black metal bench had stood by the door for two decades, but the street was so often empty no one sat there. Mid-winter of her forty-second year, that changed.

One early December evening at closing time, a man rose from the store’s metal bench, tipped his fedora and said, “I’m Miles. May I walk you home?”

Grace eyed him carefully as if he were a shoplifter. Shoe thieves had turned her into a cynic. At least once a month, a customer would pull a box of new shoes from the cubby, try on the shoes, perhaps try another pair, slip her old shoes into the new shoe box and walk out without paying. Grace never realized she had been robbed until a different customer brought the worn shoes in the new box to the counter. She faced scathing remarks about what a poor manager she was without responding. She worked on the theory that “the customer was always right” – even if the customer was a thief.

 She knew the cost of the missing shoes would come out of her Friday paycheck.  The loss of her grocery money struck more deeply than the criticism. But the town realized she was naïve; so, rather than drive out of the valley to shot, women continued to get their shoes at the only women’s clothing store in the area.

The first time the man who called himself Miles stood up from the bench, he wasn’t bent like the homegrown miners. His cuticles weren’t black. His suit, though uncreased and glossy in spots, had not been purchased locally. A wayfarer she assumed, he aroused a strange new interest within Grace that begged to know where he had come from and where he intended to go. Rather than speak for fear the sound of her voice would drive him away, she placed her hand on his bent arm, and they walked each night across the bridge to her yellow shoebox house on the riverbank.

The dusky path was unchanged, as certain in its direction as time in its progress. Keeping pace with the seasons, intense red, orange, maroon leaves had covered the sidewalks and grassy areas, leaving stark branches awaiting snow destined to come down from the high mountains. The lash that held her to the valley lessened a bit more each day Miles appeared, then tightened during the weekends he did not.

Miles proved faithful in walking Grace home, Monday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday he vanished with no explanation. She never questioned. Questions required answers. She had learned early that answers from customers were often not to her liking. So, she let the questions lie hidden in a cloak of silence.

In late December with Christmas nearing, Grace had no answer when she asked herself if she would be too presumptuous to offer him a gift. When her parents were living, she had reveled in the small gifts she could afford to give them. A pair of woolen socks for her father. A tiny bottle of Evening in Paris cologne for her mother. Years had passed since she felt compelled to buy a gift. Uncertainty hovered over her decision. This particular evening the resolution lay dormant, awaiting Grace’s answer.

As they began their journey, he eased his hand into the small of her back. Aware that the weather was colder, she had worn her calf-length overcoat that fit her like a cassock. Without the customary belt on her topcoat, she was aware of the slight pressure holding her in place. He stood close enough for her to savor his aftershave. She edged away.

Miles bent toward her ear to speak. “Now you are safe.”

But Grace did not feel safe. She felt compromised. She was behind the counter facing an irate customer once more, cheated again, this time so deeply that her anxiety took her mind off the cracked sidewalk. She stumbled, falling on her knees. She spoke aloud.  “Oh, my God.”

 Deep pain circled each kneecap and radiated up her thighs. Using her hands, she twisted herself sideways so that she sat on the curb. She dropped her head between her knees and bit her tongue drawing blood. Sweet, sweet blood seeped into her mouth. This was not blood to be spit on the ground. This was blood to be swallowed, it held so much of her essence. She had never lost blood to a man.

Grace sensed Miles move closer to help her rise. She realized then there had been no answer to her prayer. She shrugged him away with a slight shoulder movement. Her head upright, she rose on her own and limped in the direction they had started. She knew not where he had come from nor where he was bound. Uncertainty swept over her, leaving her mind blank. She knew not what to say nor what to do.

A full moon cast a silver glow over the bridge; Venus shone in the Western sky. Grace and Miles needed no light to guide their way. He held her arm to keep her steady. As they came near the end of the bridge, neither had spoken beyond Miles’s question asking if she were hurt.

An unexpected swish came from behind them. As the cyclist stole up on the two, the rider aimed a bawdy wolf whistle at their backs. Grace jerked away from Miles’s touch and attempted to run. Her legs held her back. She looked like an invalid stumbling along without her canes.

When they reached the porch, Grace fell into a straight-backed pine chair carved from a tree up on Big Pine Mountain. Miles sat in her deceased father’s rocking chair. An invigorating wind blew a smattering of winter’s first snow across the porch. Miles commented, “It’s going to be a bitter night. Let’s go inside.”

Grace moved to the door. She paused and said, “I think not.”

“I’m coming back.” Miles thrust his sharp chin in the air.

Comfortable with the sound of her voice, Grace said again, “I think not.”

He walked away, his shoulders pushed back, his chest jutting out.

As she entered the house, a strong breath of warmth covered her like a gossamer nightrobe. What had been unease and despondency became freedom, relief, joy. She recalled customers questioning her: Where’s he from? Can you trust him? Who are his people? What is his work? There are serial murders about, you know. Grace did not want to know. She had waited a lifetime for this unbidden gift to cover her chilled shoulders. She would not deny it now she had told herself. Yet she had.

As darkness gathered around the little house, Grace stoked coals in the fireplace to bank the night against the coming snow. 

Word Count: 1199