The Gift
Date: 13.12.2008
Keywords: The, Gift,
1 2 Next
Paul pulled out of his garage and waited momentarily to make sure the automatic door closed completely. He then eased his old Mercedes 350 out onto the street and headed toward the highway. He was still perplexed about the call he had received the day before from a woman named Becky at "Casablanca" antique shop. It seemed that there was something there he had to pick up this morning; something that, she said, had been left for him specifically and could not be delivered. He asked her to explain, but she had been vague, saying only it was something his late wife, Lorna, had requested. His curiosity piqued, he was now headed across town to find out what was waiting for him.
The store was upscale and tasteful. Paul entered and asked for Becky. The woman behind the counter was she, and she seemed excited that Paul had shown up so quickly. She led him to the back of the store and stopped in front of a magnificent mahogany bookcase. Paul gasped.
He recognized the bookcase immediately as his own masterpiece, one he had hand-crafted years before and lovingly finished as a gift for his wife. It was easily the best work he had ever done and his wife, Lorna, had cherished the piece. But financial times had gotten tough in the 70's and the couple was forced to sell much of what they owned. The prized bookcase had been among the hand-made furniture sold. Paul and Lorna had both regretted the decision to let it go. But now, here it was in front of him—30 years later, and seemingly none the worse for wear.
Becky handed Paul a note and he immediately recognized the handwriting as Lorna's. His wife had been dead now exactly one year today. He opened it with trembling hands.
"My beloved Paul, this is my gift to help you remember me. I found your bookcase last June and bought it back. Becky will help you get it delivered to the home it should never have left. I thought the one year anniversary of my passing would be a good time to remind you I loved you with all my heart. Take care of my gift and never let it go again. Your loving wife, "
"Lorna."
Paul felt tears welling up and he apologized to Becky. She explained that she had worked with Lorna in the months before her death to plan the gift. Lorna's instructions were that Paul was not to be notified until exactly one year after she died. She was also instructed to never reveal the cost of the piece to Paul.
Paul knew Lorna had paid with her own money. Lorna had inherited a large sum from her grandfather just a few years after they had sold the furniture. There had always been an understanding between them that that money was Lorna's to spend as she pleased and that Paul would support their day-to-day lifestyle. He had provided for the two reasonably well but Lorna had often paid for lavish vacations and spectacular furnishings for their home.
As her passion, Lorna was also very involved with the local chapter of the Create-A-Dream Foundation, which granted the fantasy wishes of dying children. She had left all she had—almost a million dollars—to C-A-D when she died. By their mutual agreement, she left Paul nothing but her share of the home and their possessions. The couple had no children, and Paul was glad there were no offspring to fight for their mother's money.
Paul arranged with Becky to have the bookcase delivered the following day and left. He found his hands shaking on the steering wheel. His wife was uniquely creative and that was clearer now than ever. He read the note again as he drove and fought hard to keep his emotions in check. Lorna, how wonderful you were to me, he thought. He lovingly reminisced about his wife and their life together. How angry he still was that cancer had stolen her from him just as they neared retirement age. He had not seriously considered dating or even trying to meet anyone else in the last year.
Paul had entered the northbound freeway heading back toward home and was picking up speed. The sky was gray and rain was predicted. Suddenly he was confronted with an astounding sight. A late-model Cadillac was parked off the highway on the shoulder. A woman of about 50 was raising the hood. She was exceptionally well-dressed, wearing a blue blouse and jacket and a matching knee-length pleated skirt. Knee-length for her right leg, he noted. That was because her left leg was significantly shorter and the left knee was not even visible.
The woman wore Victorian-style "granny" lace-ups with a modest heel on the right foot. But Paul noted a build-up of at least 3 inches on the sole of the left coupled with an elevated, wide heel. Even so, only the front edge of the lift was contacting the ground, her foot stretching downward to accomplish that. Black forearm crutches hung by their cuffs as she raised her arms with the hood. The rubber tips dangled and swayed above the pavement with her movement.
The woman was brunette, with raven-black hair, well-coiffed and shoulder-length. She was pretty, though showing her age slightly in the lines of her face. Other than her atrophied leg her figure was nearly perfect with a thin abdomen and pert, firm breasts. Her right leg was actually rather shapely. The image Paul drew as he approached was of a monied lady who had probably had polio. As he slowed his car he could feel hormones flooding his body and the old passion for handicapped women ignited anew. He knew he had no choice but to stop and offer to help. In fact, he would have done so no matter who it was. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to help a disabled damsel-in-distress and he eagerly pulled the Mercedes over behind her car.
Paul exited his car as the brunette placed her crutches on the ground and began to maneuver herself back toward the driver's door. She walked by first extending the crutches in tandem and leaning into them as she placed some weight on the short left leg and stepped normally with her right leg. She then leaned right and swung the crippled leg in a semi-circular motion until it reached its mate. Then straightening, she repeated the process. It was an awkward walk and did not seem to fit her elegant persona. Paul preferred a full swing-through gait in the women he had admired all his life, and he found himself vaguely wishing this woman used her crutches that way. But, catching and reviling himself for such thinking, he called to the woman.
"Can I help?" he ventured, trying to sound as normal as possible.
"Damn thing died on me again," she returned. "I've had this car in the shop twice for this same thing. They obviously don't know what the problem really is, although they're certainly charging me to get it wrong." She was fuming now.
"Did you just now break down?" Paul asked.
"No. In fact, I've been sitting here for over 45 minutes hoping a policeman might come by or something. I just now decided to get out and raise the hood. I guess that was the right thing to do. Thanks for stopping."
"You don't have a cell phone?"
"I have one and I normally never go anywhere without it. But this day—of all days—I left it home. Not very smart of a crippled girl, now is it?"
Paul felt another surge of excitement simply at her use of the word "crippled." It was a politically-incorrect term these days that perfectly described the women he was so attracted to. In spite of himself he began to think about how he could maximize his time with this lovely thing.
"Can I call Triple-A for you? Or, do you need a lift?" He blushed slightly as he realized the unintended double-entendre of his question. She didn't seem to notice. "I'd be delighted to take you anywhere you need to go."
"I was supposed to be at a luncheon with some girlfriends. I was already over 30 minutes late and I've been here for almost an hour. But, if you could take me to the restaurant where we were meeting I might be able to get a ride with one of them back home. I'll call my garage to go get the car later."
"Sure, no problem. I'd lock your car if I were you. And...I'll put the hood back down for you." Paul was sliding easily into the role of Sir Galahad. "I'm Paul Adams, by the way. What's your name?"
"Andrea Mead." And thank you so much for stopping to help. Andrea Mead was making her way slowly to Paul's car as he pushed the Cadillac's hood down. She was holding her keys and turned momentarily to aim the keyless remote at her car to lock it.
Paul tried not to stare as she first opened the back door of his car and placed her crutches on the floorboard. She closed the door and took two small steps to the passenger door, lurching heavily to the left without support. After opening the door she plunked herself down and sat facing outward, then turned and lifted her thin left leg into the car with both hands. Andrea then brought the other leg in and closed the door.
By this time Paul was in the driver's seat once again and waited patiently while Andrea closed the door and put on her seatbelt.
"Quite a process, huh?" she said with a smile.
Paul took a breath and decided to be as frank as she seemed to be.
"Did you have polio?" he asked, trying to sound simply curious.
"Oh, yes. A gimpy girl since I was three. That's the last time my legs were the same length. I used to walk without the crutches when I was in my teens and twenties, but I screwed my back up in the process and have been back on the sticks ever since."
"You don't like to use a wheelchair?"
"Hate 'em. Always have. I worked hard to learn to walk at all, and as long as I can, I will. Now...let me give you directions to the restaurant." And she proceeded to guide Paul across town.
The two rode in silence for a while. Paul was fighting to keep his composure. He had never been this close to a disabled woman before and he was wildly excited. He had an erection that continued to strain every time he stole a glance at the short leg in the big shoe. He marveled at how the little leg supported Andrea at all; it didn't seem to be much bigger around than a normal arm. Yet she didn't wear a brace.
1 2 Next
Keywords: The, Gift,