The Perfect Gift

It's gifts from the heart that make all the difference.

 

The bitter cold on Front Street swept through the night, chilling everything in its path. It was not your typical winter night in downtown Toronto, Ontario; -40 degrees, snowy and icy with looming death for anyone misfortunate enough to be out in the elements. Such was the case for sixty-nine year old Bernie Matthewson, who bravely trudged the dirty, littered sidewalks in a desperate search.

He couldn’t rest until he found what he was looking for; the problem was, he himself did not even know what he was searching for. I’ll know when I find it, he thought to himself.

He had no money in his pockets, having spent the last of his change given to him out of pity by the many Christmas shoppers roaming the downtown shops on booze to keep him warm. He would have to either steal what he wanted or come across it by some fluke. He hoped dearly for the latter, but he would steal tonight if he must. Tonight was different.

Frantically, he peered into every window of every shop and restaurant on Front Street; expensive leather boots, perfumes, designer label clothes, handbags and purses, delicious-looking gingerbread cookies and cinnamon rolls. “Not good enough,” he murmured to himself in a wheezy rasp. It had to be special. It had to be unique. It had to be meaningful. This was his last chance and he could not afford to waste it.

Coming to the end of Front Street, Bernie had not found a single thing worthy of being what he needed. He could continue on up Jarvis Street until he hit Queen Street, but he knew it would be another fruitless search. He would just find the exact same worthless material items on that street as well.

A dry sob escaped the old man’s throat and he curled up on top of a warm subway vent. He lay there, hopelessly weeping. He was oblivious to the dirty looks and scowls of the bustling shoppers and partiers who were deliberately giving him a wide berth as they passed, as if homelessness were a contagious disease they were afraid of catching.

“Hey! Get off our sidewalk, ya filthy bum!” a gruff young man passing by shouted, wearing a Rolex which gleamed brightly on his wrist as he kicked him off the vent. Bernie staggered to his feet and continued on, no longer searching. He had given up. He was going back to her empty-handed.

As he passed by the familiar recycling dump where he often found morsels of food still good for eating, a sound stabbed his ears. Bernie tried to just ignore it and keep walking. He needed to get back as fast as possible. She said she’d wait for him, but he knew there was no guarantee of that. He heard the sound again, and stopped. He might find what he had been looking for in that dump. “Just a quick peek,” he told himself, slipping through the hole in the wire fence.

He heard the sound again and followed the noise to a cardboard box that was sagging under the weight of the snow and slush assaulting it. Whatever was making the squeaky, yelping noises, there was more than one of them. Tentatively, Bernie opened the flap of the box. A smile warmed his face. “Why hello there, little ones. It’s darn cold for you critters out here, ain’t it?”

Three shivering puppies yelped their agreement and huddled next to him for warmth. A large, shaggy female with laboured breathing and listless eyes gave a groan as she tried to protect her young, but settled for allowing Bernie to scratch behind her ears instead. “Poor Mama,” he sighed. Suddenly, his wrinkled grey eyes brightened and he cracked a wide, toothless smile. He found what he was searching for! “I’ma bring you with me for just a while. Yer babies’ll be fine right here,” he promised her, lifting her skeletal frame into his arms. The starving puppies whimpered their protest. “I’ll be back fer you. Don’t you worry,” he promised them.

“Bernie? Is that you? You were gone so long…” Reeta wheezed. Bernie knelt beside his wife and wrapped the thin blanket tighter around her, taking her into his arms.

“Shhh, it’s alright, Love. I’m here now,” he soothed, stroking her whisps of thinning silver hair. “I brought you something.” He gingerly placed the ill dog in her arms. “Merry Christmas, Reeta,” he whispered. Reeta’s glassy eyes filled with tears.

“It ain’t Christmas yet, Bernie,” she gasped between painful coughs.

“I know, but I wanted to give her to you early…” he muttered. They both knew why. It didn’t need to be spoken. Reeta placed a trembling, transparent hand to his stubbly, weathered cheek.

“She don’t got much time left, neither,” she whispered, nodding her head towards the dog. “I was so scared of going alone. I’ve got a friend to come with me now, ain’t that right, girl?” The dog licked her nose and Reeta chuckled. Bernie leaned down to kiss her pale, wrinkled forehead. When he broke apart from her, his beloved wife and her Christmas present were gone.

Tears streamed down Bernie’s cheeks as he gazed at the woman he had spent his life with. She was pale and ghostly, her white strands were so sparse, she was nearly bald, there was not a single cell of her skin that wasn’t wrinkled, she was barely more than a skeleton. “You’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw, Reeta,” he wept.

              Remembering his promise to the puppies, he sombrely covered up the shell of his wife and returned to the dump. As he sat with the orphans, he watched the sun come up on another Toronto morning. It was now officially Christmas day. “Merry Christmas, puppies. Reeta needed me, an’ I needed her. You needed yer Mama. Now they’re both gone, so I guess we need each other now,” he murmured softly, stroking the smallest one’s matted fur.

 

Author's Note

This was a winning contest entry for a daily writing contest on another website. I had a 1000 word limit, so it's rather short; however, I still like it. I hope you like it, too.

Reviews

[Sagemind]

Very good, and touching. However, there was one thing that was a little jerking to read--I think you changed fonts about three quarters of the way through the story, and then changed it back. Not a huge deal, but one to just take a quick second to rectify (just like I did with my Dead Space poem).