The Boy's Gift

Thomas Weatherly stared at the box on his porch with a scowl. The elderly gent held the wooden rail for support and bent down to get a closer look. The address was correct, but the name on the package was blank. He wasn’t expecting anything. Must be a mistake.

He looked up to hail the delivery driver, but she was out of sight. She was racing to get all her deliveries made on this Christmas Eve. He shivered in the crisp evening wind and reluctantly reached for the box. It was light, much to his relief, and not too cumbersome for the frail man to carry through the door of his cozy home.

He was greeted by the gray, one-eyed cat who had adopted Mr. Weatherly more than five years past. The feline was welcome company. “What do you think it is, Joe?” The man’s voice was soft and wobbly.

The cat meowed, eagerly awaiting the removal of whatever useless item was taking up residence in what was certain to be his Christmas present. “I don’t think it’s ours, boy.” Mr. Weatherly chucked the box onto the sofa and let out a groan as he took a seat in his favorite recliner.

Joe refused to concede. He purred and rubbed his body on the corners of the box, as if to tell his friend he loved his gift and couldn’t wait to curl up inside it. “Don’t get used to it,” warned the old man as he reached for his TV remote. “We’re just gonna have to send it back.”

After a short nap, Mr. Weatherly awoke to find Joe cuddled up with the box. He managed to pull himself out of his chair and head for the kitchen. The sound of the can opener and smell of fish prompted Joe to abandon his new toy.

Mr. Weatherly stared at the box as the two feasted on tuna and crackers. His curiosity was growing. He hadn’t ordered anything. No one would be sending him a gift. There was no one left in his life. He fell asleep that night wondering which of his neighbors was missing a package.

The next morning, Mr. Weatherly was determined to solve the mystery. Joe jumped onto the couch after breakfast and rubbed the box with his haunches. “OK,” said the old man. “Maybe whatever’s in there will give us a clue. Let’s just open the dern thing.”

He retrieved his pocketknife and sliced the tape down the middle of the package. He felt a tinge of excitement run up his arm. It had been many years since he had opened a gift of any kind. Joe paced and purred. Finally, it was open. Mr. Weatherly looked at Joe with a sparkle in his faded eyes. “Here we go, boy.”

His heart picked up a beat as he reached inside the box. He let out a gasp when he pulled out a brand-new baseball mitt. “Look at that!” He turned it over and studied every detail. “I used to have one of these when I was a boy.” The cat didn’t care. He dove into the empty box and rattled the packing paper with his paws.

Mr. Weatherly rubbed his knobby fingers over the leather. “I used to play, you know.” Joe stuck his head out of the box and replied with a squeak. “My father bought me a mitt when I was about eight years old.” His voice became smooth. “My God, that was so long ago.” He sat back with a melancholy smile. “My friends and I couldn’t wait for school to let out. We’d hit the field every chance we got.”

 The memories became vivid. “I was a pitcher. My best friend, Jimmy, was a catcher.” He looked down lovingly at the mitt. “I can’t count the hours we spent practicing, playing stickball in the street. Rubbing down our mitts. Running through the grass.” He smiled throughout his entire soul. “We played from little league all through high school.”

Joe must have noticed the mist in his friend’s eyes. He leapt from the box and rubbed his face on the mitt. Mr. Weatherly snickered and petted his faithful companion. “I was ‘Tommy’ then,” he said with a grin. “After college, I became ‘Tom.’” His voice became stern. “Then it was ‘Thomas.’” He sat up and stared at the wall, clutching the mitt. “Somewhere along the way, I became ‘Mr. Weatherly.’ I don’t know how it happened.”

He turned to Joe. “How did I get so old so fast?” Joe didn’t have the answer. “I remember playing baseball like it was yesterday. I still feel like that little boy inside, but-” He looked down at his hands. “But I’m leatherier than this mitt now. My eyes are worse than yours, and my ears have failed me. I couldn’t hear the crack of the bat if I hit one out of the park.”

He took a deep breath and dropped his head. Joe pawed at his friend. “Let me just sit here a minute, OK?” I just want to sit here and go back in time for a little while.” Joe jumped back into his beloved empty box and curled up for a nap.

After a few moments of reflection, Mr. Weatherly came back to reality. He was sure the mitt was intended for the boy who lived next door. The family of three had moved into the house in the spring. He had never met them, but he felt he knew them.

After the former neighbors moved out, he saw a “for sale” sign go up then come down. He watched movers unpack the truck. He smiled as the family took a photo in the front yard of their first new home. He watched for hours as the boy played catch with his friends on the quiet street. He witnessed all this from his living room through a window into a world that had forgotten him.

One day, a missed catch caused a baseball to roll into Mr. Weatherly’s front yard. The boy cautiously stepped onto the grass to retrieve the ball. He looked at the window and caught sight of the old man watching them play. Mr. Weatherly waved to let the boy know he wasn’t in trouble for being on his lawn. The boy waved back then scampered away with the ball.

He realized this boy had just awakened on Christmas morning missing one very special gift. He couldn’t let the lad miss out on the memories that had warmed his heart when he saw the mitt. He dressed in his warmest flannel jacket, stocking cap and boots and made the short walk to the boy’s house next door.

As he approached, Mr. Weatherly could hear laughter on the other side of the door. He rang the bell and waited. The door swung open, and a young mother greeted him with a big smile and a bigger “Merry Christmas!” The smell of spices wafted past him.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied with a nod. “I’m Thomas Weatherly. I live next door.”

“Oh, yes! So glad to finally meet you. I’m Allison. Please come in.”

“No, thank you. I’m just here to drop this off. I think it was delivered to my house by mistake.”

Allison turned and called out, “Jake, someone is here for you.”

Mr. Weatherly was relieved. I was right. It’s the missing gift for the boy. She’s probably been looking everywhere for it.

The boy, about eight years old, ran to the door in blue pajamas and bare feet. His mother made the introductions. “Jacob, this is Thomas Weatherly from next door.”

Mr. Weatherly offered a kind smile. “Hello, Jacob.”

“Hi! Nice to meet you, Mr. Weatherly,” said the boy, practicing his best manners.

“You can call me ‘Thomas.’”

“OK, Tommy.”

Mr. Weatherly felt new air fill his old lungs. Did I accidentally say “Tommy?” It didn’t matter. He liked the sound of it.

The boy chirped, “You can call me ‘Jake.’”

“OK, Jake.” He was so delighted by the boy’s youthful energy; he almost forgot the reason for his visit. “This was on my porch, but I think it belongs to you.”

Jake shook his head. “No, that’s not mine.”

Mr. Weatherly paused. He cocked his head and looked to Allison for an explanation. She just smiled. He looked back at Jake and asked, “How do you know?”

“Because I got it for you.”