The Gift

Joe sighed happily, stretched out on the couch, and grabbed the remote. Perfect. He could not understand all the fuss and carrying on about Christmas Eve. He’d a whole lot rather be here in his own place, instead of at his parents. Quiet was not a word they understood at all.
In the morning he’d be there in time for 9:00 Mass, then the big breakfast his mother insisted on, then gift opening, his sister’s kids rampaging around the house, then the even bigger dinner with all the family, then everybody singing Italian folk songs and arias from operas. Great fun. But not quiet.
He knew what to expect from his mother, the grilling over when he was going to settle down, droning on about why had he dumped Maria, (he hadn’t, she’d dumped him, but Mom never got that message) the teasing from his brothers and sister, and the wink, wink, that’s my boy from his father.
He flicked on the TV and settled down for a peaceful evening. As he dozed off he could hear bells ringing, but it was sound of a cat yowling on his front stoop that finally woke him. Stupid cats! Oh, well, they’ll stop in a minute. He glanced at the clock over his new plasma TV screen. 11:45. He closed his eyes again. The cat kept it up. Annoyed, he grabbed one of his shoes to fling at the offender, jumped up and headed for the front door. He could see snow drifting gently down through the storm door window, and he saw the big cardboard box sitting right in front of the door. What? Somebody’s cute idea of a present?
The sounds came from inside the closed box. He grabbed it, pulling it in. Fear, shock, emotions he couldn’t name washed over him like a red wave. It was a baby! Crying frantically inside the box. A baby! His hands shook as he ripped open the top. Inside was a tiny infant, wrapped in a blue quilt, laying on a mattress of diaper packages. Joe’s heart almost stopped. Awkwardly he pulled the wailing infant out of the box, holding him carefully. He noticed a folded note pinned to the blanket. Who the heck would leave a kid on my porch?
Now his heart was doing double time, he headed back to the living room, laying the still screaming baby gently on the couch. Maria, She’ll know what to do! God, I hope she’s home! His hands shook so badly he could hardly dial. He desperately hoped she’d even speak to him, their parting had not been pretty.
“Joe?” Her voice startled him, “Joe? What on earth….?”
“Maria! Thank God! Somebody just left a baby on my porch! It’s screaming bloody murder and I don’t know what to do! Please, please come over and help me out here!” he begged.
“I’m on my way. Call the Police.” She hung up. Bless her, even though they had parted in terrible anger, she wouldn’t say no to anybody in need. Even him.
The baby had worn himself out and seemed to be sleeping. He opened the note.
Please take care of my baby. I love him, but I can’t do it. I didn’t do any drugs while I was pregnant, so he’s OK. His name is Jerome.
Joe crumpled the note and threw it on the table. Who could dump a baby like so much trash? He looked inside the box, beside the diapers there were three bottles, and a couple of cans of formula . But she must have cared, to pack his stuff like that.
The child began to cry again, Joe swore and picked him up, bouncing him in his arms like he’d seen his sister do. It didn’t work. Jerome screamed louder.
“OK, OK! What do you want, little buddy?” Joe asked helplessly. A bottle maybe? He’d watched his sister and mother feed babies, he grabbed one of the bottles and tried to stick it in Jerome’s mouth. It was no go. Jerome revved it up even more. Joe paced frantically, Where’s Maria? I need her now!
As if cued to that plea, the doorbell rang, and Maria came running into the room.
“Joe! What on earth?” She threw her coat aside and grabbed the furious baby, “Oh you poor little guy, you’re starving aren’t you?” Joe held the bottle out and she took it, “It’s ice cold, for crying out loud, go warm it up in the microwave. Minute and a half…50% power.” She knew exactly what to do, and feeling hugely relieved, he headed for the kitchen. This he could handle.
Maria knew all about kids. That had been the cause of their breakup. She wanted kids. He wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if he’d ever be. He’d been surprised at how lonely he felt afterward, and he couldn’t count the times he’d reach for the phone, then stuck his hands in his pockets. They were done. Too late to mend.
She sat in his new leather chair, spotlighted in the golden glow of the floor lamp in the dark room. She cradled the baby in her arms, arching protectively over him, Oh Wow, he thought, this is the way women have held their babies since the first child ever born on the planet! This is the way Mary held the baby Jesus! It’s the way my mom held me! The thought overwhelmed him, and suddenly his knees went out, he sank to the floor and tears sprang to his eyes. It’s the way she would have held our child!
Maria looked up, a smile on her face, then she saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, “Joey! What’s wrong? Are you crying? He’s fine now…just hungry, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, honey-babe” he realized he’d called her by his pet name, and his tears flowed faster, words he hadn’t even thought about, certainly never planned, spilled out of him uncontrolled, “Oh Maria, I’ve missed you so much…” he half scooted on his knees over to the chair, “I…I loved you and I blew it! Big time! I see you with that baby and …My God…what have I done?” He brushed the tears away angrily, and knelt in front of her.
Maria reached out and put her soft hand on his damp cheek, “Joey. I loved you too. You know that. Maybe it didn’t get as thrown away as you think. Maybe it’s still waiting.” She smiled again, “Maybe we can talk about it more later. Right now, we’ve got a baby to take care of. Have you called the police?”
“No! Forgot all about it. It got pretty wild here for a while, y’know!” He shook his head, getting to his feet. “Geeze…I hate to do this. Poor little kid. Who knows where he’ll end up. Could be he’ll have good parents, could be he’ll never have parents at all. Might end up in the dumpster like so many other kids.”
He looked at her. “What if we kept him” he said softly. “I mean, I know we’d have to turn him over for now…but what if we said…” He looked at her. “Yeah, that’s
a proposal,” he grinned. “Kid’s got to have a momma and a daddy.” Maria looked at him in shock.
“That’s going to take some thinking over. And not tonight. You have to call the police. Right now.” She held the sleeping child embraced in her arms. “But we’ll make sure they keep us informed about where he is…OK? Just in case.”
He nodded and reached for the phone even though every fiber of his being fought against making the call. Who’s going to buy him a catchers mitt? Teach him to skip rocks? Who’s going to be this little boy’s daddy?
After the police and the child protective people and about a hundred other nosy people finally left, he sank wearily into the chair. Maria paced the floor.
“I think,” she said softly, “that’s about the hardest thing I ever had to do.” Tears glistened on her long dark lashes, trickling slowly down her cheeks.
Joe stood up, crossed the room and took her in his arms. “ No,” he said gently, “it’s the hardest thing we ever had to do.” He kissed her, first on one tear streaked cheek and then the other. “But, somehow, someway, that little boy is going to be our first real Christmas gift to one another.” He kissed her lips and she sagged happily into him, her arms tight around his neck.
Outside the snow still fell, the sky lightened, and it was Christmas Day again.

SLEEPING IN THE WOODS

©Ginnie Siena Bivona

All Rights Reserved

My friend Earlene called, out of the blue, this past Tuesday morning.

”Why don’t you come on down for a few days?” she asked.

“Oh, I can’t” I replied, “got way too much to do…”

“Well, think about it,” she said. And I did. For about two seconds, maybe not quite that long.

“OK. I’ve thought about it and I’ll leave on Thursday morning.”

Jim and Earlene live in a wonderful house tucked away so deep in the East Texas woods that without one of Jim’s engineer style maps you’d never ever find it.

They are fascinating friends, with a work history that goes way back to the earliest years of the computer industry. I love to hear their stories. And we have a mutual passion for books and writing, so there’s always more than enough topics of conversation.

But to tell the truth, if they were the dullest people on the planet I think I’d still accept an invitation just so I could have another chance to sleep in “my bedroom” at the far end of the house and have breakfast on the deck that stretches all across the back. The view is a movie set of trees all around and off through the trees you can see a small pond glittering in the sunlight.

Inside, the house is long and cool and elegant. Everywhere you look there’s another marvelous piece of art and shelves of books ceiling high in the study. The view out each window is the same and so different. It’s trees, trees and towering trees. Each window frames a new lush green portrait of the forest they live in.

Even in the midst of the blistering July-in-Texas heat, after dark and early morning, sitting outside pleasant breezes fan across my face and arms. In the late afternoon silence I can almost feel the stress sliding off my body and onto the deck floor. The city sounds we strain unknowingly to tune out are utterly gone.

Don’t mistake me though, it’s not quiet. And that’s why I come to visit any time I’m asked. At bedtime, alone in my room, windows wide open, door shut against any stray beam of house light, I lay on cool sheets and listen to the concert. Outside the trees are black against the night sky. Here and there a star twinkles among the leaves. Must be a zillion crickets, frogs, and God only knows what other night creatures are tuning up out there, chirruping, cheeping, cricking and cracking at full blast. I love it. I lay there, me and the night critters at one, reveling in the night. I fall asleep much too soon, waking only to make the required old lady trip or two to the bathroom, then flop back on the bed listening intently, but before I know it, morning is shining through the lofty trees and the concert has been over for hours.

My hosts are considerate, letting me sleep until I want to get up, which is pleasantly different than my usual I need to get up work is waiting start to the day.

Breakfast is on the deck, surrounded on all sides by the woods and if we’re lucky we’ll see a deer. Even so, deer or not, Jim will provide a memorable experience with his home-made-while-you-watch waffles. Bowls of fresh Texas peaches, picked only the day before, strawberries and sliced bananas grace the glass top table.

The waffles come off the waffle maker and onto my plate. Thin and delectably crisp, topped with melted butter and hot sweet syrup and a heap of the fruits…I ask you…is that not a breakfast to drive for? So what if it’s almost 200 miles, at that moment it’s worth every inch of the road.

I’m a city girl, no question about it. I love my little city house and my citified life. But perhaps that is precisely why, when I’m driving down the long green tunnel of trees on the winding dirt road to Earlene and Jim’s I feel so happy. This is beautiful. This is perfect. This is home too.

On Being A Good Mother

When my children were toddlers I taught them not to run out in the street without looking both ways first. It worked fairly well, although we did have a few scary times. Now they are, for all practical purposes, adults, and I can’t stop them from crossing the street whenever they decide they are ready. I can stand on the curb with them and I can see the two-ton truck coming, but I can’t hold their hand anymore. Still, sometimes, oh, how I wish I could. I’ve crossed that same street myself, many times, and without looking either. I didn’t have a mom to hold my hand, and even if I had, I suppose I would have told her (in a very annoyed voice) that I was a big girl and I would cross the street when and where I wanted to.

It was no longer her job.

Now, all these long years later, having been slammed into more than once by the two-ton truck, flung to the side, cut and bleeding, broken of heart if not of body, how I long to reach out one more time to my precious children, to warn them of the dangers I know are barreling around the corner. I can’t. At least not out loud. But in my heart and mind I hold out my hand and call to them, “Wait, wait, my darling. Look both ways, remember? Be careful! Do you see anything coming?”

Then I shut my eyes tight and pray they remember. And if they don’t, I’m still here to kiss away the hurt. But only if they ask. That’s part of being a mother too.