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FORTY-THREE DOLLARS by
Edward M. Baldwin Copyright © 2005
DEPARTMENT STORES. Malls. Game Boutiques. For his seven-year-old son, Jared, Herbert Ingalls braved them all—well, a GameStop, a Toys R Us, and a Wal-mart. Still, for a laid-off, warehouse worker with very little to spend, he sailed the sea of people on this post-Thanksgiving Friday like a man rowing a boat filled with overtime pay and a yearly bonus. But his quest was unsuccessful. Now, sitting in his favorite lounge chair, handed down to him by his father—well, given to him because the reclining handle sticks a bit, and his father wanted a new one—he broods over his recent failure to find Jared a Christmas gift. One that would light up his son’s face for forty-three dollars or less. Truth be told, he has yet to find a gift that ignites his son’s face, that causes the excitement and joy he remembers feeling when his dad had bought him both a fishing rod and a .22 rifle. His dad had saved whatever change he could spare for almost a year. Boy! Was his dad a good dad in his eyes that Christmas; and Man! Did he love that pole and rifle. Just thinking about them makes him smile a little. Unfortunately, nowadays, kids are looking for electronics and gadgetry, things Herbert knows little about. Still, he tries to keep up with the times as best he can, though his wallet is always lagging behind. He wants to give his son as much stuff as he can, the kind of stuff a good dad is expected to give. Stuff that will light up his son’s face with joy and happiness. For the past three years, he’s tried to bring the light, but has fallen short. Perhaps his failure has gone on longer, but at four years old, Jared’s facial expressions had become more identifiable. Showing Herbert the shortcomings of a father who can’t afford to buy his son true joy and happiness, even on the one holiday that’s notorious for it. And now the lay-offs at the warehouse, lasting through the New Year. The mountain of hours Herbert’s given to that dingy warehouse—working seven-day weeks, holidays, anniversaries, birthdays—hovering just above minimum wage, only to be a candidate for the first lay-off in eight years. But he counts his blessings. The utilities are paid and the fridge and freezer are stocked. His family will survive until he’s called back to work. But with forty-three dollars left to his name, his son will not experience joy and happiness this Christmas. Not the kind Herbert has tried to bring him for three years now. Forty-three dollars. Fifty-seven short of a hundred. Two twenties, three ones. No matter how he counts it, his son will be shortchanged. Never has Herbert felt like so less of a man than now, so less of a good dad. If only he’d started saving earlier, the way he promises himself to do every year, maybe he would have— “Honey, he’ll understand,” says Peggy, his wife. She stands behind the recliner and drapes her arms over his shoulders, snatching him from his thoughts with the tenderness of her touch. “Jared will love whatever you get,” she assures him. “He always does.” He takes her arms and kisses the back of her hand. How lucky he is to have such a woman in his life. How many gift-giving occasions have they been forced to go without exchanging presents? Too many to count. And this Christmas will be another. “I know, Peg,” he says in a gruff voice laced with tenderness. Being sentimental has never been his way, but he pats her on the arm and adds, “I know—thank you.” But knowing doesn’t erase all he knows—no matter what he buys, a spark of joy and happiness may appear on Jared’s face, but not the brilliant light he’s been searching for. When the sound of their son playing in his room reaches them, Peggy rubs her nose on her husband’s cheek and whispers, “Go talk to him, Herb. He’s old enough to understand these things now.” Herbert turns his head toward the short hallway leading to Jared’s bedroom. “What’s he doing in there?” he grunts. Peggy chuckles. “Last time I saw, he and his imaginary friend were saving the world from that remote-control robot he loves so much.” She hugs him tighter. “The one you bought him last year.” Herbert wrinkles his forehead. “That thing still works?” Peggy nods her head. “Amazing, isn’t it?” Herbert falls silent again. Peggy pats him on the shoulder. “Here’s an idea,” she says. “Since his birthday isn’t until February, why don’t you ask him to name some things he’d like for his birthday. That way, if he mentions something in our price range, we can surprise him with it on Christmas day.” Herbert sighs deeply, gnawing on her words. Pride doesn’t allow him to embrace her idea. After all, a good dad doesn’t need clues. But what really bothers him is the chance that Jared may name over a dozen things, all costing more than forty-three dollars. Still, in his mind, he knows it’s worth a try. He looks up at Peggy and gives her an approving nod, despite the ache in his heart. She kisses him on the forehead. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she says. “I’ll set the table.” He watches her disappear into the kitchen, the smell of Thanksgiving leftovers in the air, then grunts to his feet, pausing to roll the idea in his mind for another moment. Finally, he lumbers to Jared’s open bedroom door and stands in the doorway, watching his son playing with the eighty-one dollar Mr. Robotnic, while talking to his friend “Dale” who’s never there. After a moment, he raps gently on the door with calloused knuckles. When his son turns to him, Herbert says the first thing that comes to mind. “Dinner’ll be ready soon.” He wanted to say it in an upbeat voice, but he even fails at that. “Yes, sir,” Jared says, and then scoops up Mr. Robotnic to put him away. Herbert juts his hands deep inside the pockets of his tattered jeans and leans against the doorframe. “Uh . . . son?” Jared carefully positions Mr. Robotnic on his dresser, as if there’s an importance to the direction the toy faces. “Sir?” Herbert gropes for the words. “If you had . . . uh—well, I know your birthday’s a ways away, but . . . .” Jared stands in the center of the room, arms to his side, as if listening to a judge sentencing him for a crime he didn’t commit, but with a child’s smile on his face. For Herbert, it’s a smile that’s only a glimmer of the light he’s looking for, a glint of the expression of joy and happiness every good dad is supposed to invoke. And he feels he’s about to wipe even that away. Nevertheless, he clears his throat, shuffles his feet, and decides to plow on. After all, what is is what is, and there’s no changing it. “Jared, let me ask you something,” he says, trying a conversational voice, as if there’s no weight on his mind. “If your birthday was tomorrow, and you could have ten things—” Jared’s face lights up. Not quite the joyous, happy glow, but as close as Herbert’s ever seen. “Ten things!” he asks excitedly. “No, you can’t have . . .” Herbert sighs deeply. “I was just wondering,” he continues softly, “if you could have anything you wanted, what would it be?” Jared’s face curls up in thought. “Anything I wanted . . .” Herbert watches him, his heart on edge. “Dad?” “Yeah, son.” Jared lowers his eyes to the floor as he fidgets with his hands. “Can I have . . . maybe . . . a Checker board set?” A Checkers set costs under seven dollars, so Herbert’s eyebrows lift in astonishment, but they quickly drop into a glare. “Did your mother ask you to say that?” Jared’s puzzled expression says no. Though still baffled, Herbert’s face relaxes. “Sure,” he says. “If that’s what you really want.” He scratches the side of his head. “That it?” When Jared’s face contorts with thought, Herbert holds his breath. “Well,” starts Jared, “how about a Hangman game?” Herbert watches his son as if the boy is turning green, and sprouting a second nose below his chin. Hangman costs well under ten dollars, along with other classic games shelved with it. He knows because he’s often eyed their prices wistfully, as he searched through the high-tech, high-priced toys for bargains. “Are you sure you ain’t been talking to your mom?” Jared gives a quizzical expression, as if to ask, What’s Mom got to do with anything? So Herbert shrugs his shoulders, still perplexed, and says, “Sure. Hangman’s good.” Then his eyes become slits. “That all?” “Well . . .” Jared starts, but pauses. Ah-ha! Herbert thinks. I knew it! But instead, he sighs and says, “Go ahead and tell me.” Jared looks at the floor as he timidly grinds his left heel into the stained carpet. “Could you play Checkers with me,” he murmurs. “Teach me how to play good?” Herbert grins a little and says, “Can I? Son, I’ll have you know that your old man used to be one of the greatest Checker players this side of anywhere. I’ll show you moves and strategies that’ll put you in the same league as me someday, but we’ll have to practice a lot. I’ll show you how to win when it looks like you’re about to lose. I’ll show you the ins and outs of protecting your flanks. I’ll teach you the . . . .” Herbert stops in mid-sentence, mouth still open, staring at his son’s face. A face filled with more joy and happiness than he had ever thought possible. A face he’s never seen before, but he suddenly knows why. Of all the things he’s wanted to buy for his son, he’s never once thought to buy some time. When he was a kid, that’s what the fishing pole and the .22 rifle had really meant to him—promised time spent with his father. He tussles his son’s hair in a manly, affectionate sort of way and says, “Yeah, son. We can start playing Checkers together, and Hangman too . . . and more.” When Peggy summons them to dinner, Herbert leads his smiling, beaming son to the kitchen table, with both the holiday season and the love for his family swelling in his heart. Tomorrow, he will brave the stores again, looking for the best price for both Checkers and Hangman, but he’ll check the thrift stores first. He’ll also look for the biggest darn jigsaw puzzle he can afford—one that will take days, even weeks to complete, even with Peggy’s help. After all, nothing’s too good for his family. And he smiles genuinely as he thinks of this, feeling like the man he’s always wanted to be. A good dad.
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Copyright © 2009 Edward M. Baldwin |
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Short stories |
