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A Small, Simple Gift
Floyd checked every word on the stack of brown plastic bottles, Gladys Brackett's weekly prescriptions, before adding them to the bag. If any were wrong, they would have to be returned on the Rockland ferry within the hour. He arranged them in the bag with the milk, canned salmon, salad dressing, and oatmeal bread.
"How are those new neighbors of yours?" he asked. Gladys's family settled on the island just after the Revolutionary War.
She raised a seagull-shaped eyebrow at him. "Don't like 'em one bit. Started off on the wrong foot putting up that big fence around their property. Must think I've got nothing better to do than sit on my porch and watch them sip
cocktails."
"Well, do you?" Floyd raised his eyebrow back at her.
She waved off the comment, and then dug into her crocheted purse. "Be better all around if they went back to where they came from."
"Don't suppose that'll ever happen. I shouldn't complain. They keep this place open." He walked the bag of groceries around the counter and placed it
in her wagon.
"You shoulda sold out and moved inland when your mother died's what you shoulda done. How old are you now? Sixty, Sixty-two?"
"You know I'm forty-three. I went to school with Tom, remember?" The sides of her mouth twitched up, then down. She pawed things around in her purse, but watched him out of the corner of her eye.
"Well, you don't look it. I'll die here, but you don't need to. You should get out while you still can. Get yourself a lady friend." She flashed a wink at him, and then returned to her purse. "Ah hell, the island's going to pot anyway, might think about coming with you."
Floyd laughed and slumped on the counter. Gladys pulled a quarter from the purse, handing it to him as she picked up the wagon handle. "I'll be in to pay you off when my check comes in."
"See you tomorrow, Gladys." She raised her hand high as she left.
Floyd picked up a pen and his inventory sheet. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and rubbed his itchy eyes. He looked down the list three times before making a mark. He leaned his face on his hand, forcing himself to concentrate.
Charlie would be in from school soon. Floyd had started to let him handle the register so that he could catch a nap during the afternoons. Floyd opened the register and took out his pills. He shook one into his hand, and turned toward the cooler.
A boy of eight or nine stood a couple of feet from the counter. He held his hands cupped together like he had something caught between them. His sharp blue eyes fixed on Floyd from under straight, shiny, brown bangs.
Floyd blinked hard a couple of times. "Help you young fella?" He didn't recognize the boy as a usual island visitor. Floyd stared at the boy's mouth. The puffy lips were lifted at just the corners, between smile and smirk. The boy shook his head.
"Your folks around here?"
The boy shook his head again. His bangs shimmered back and forth like a tassel. His eyes didn't move. Floyd sighed, and walked to the door. He looked around outside expecting to see a couple flitting their heads around the way panicked parents do. The road was empty except for the usual pickups in front of the hardware store.
"Where'd you come from, boy?" Floyd whispered into the window. When he turned around, the boy stood at the counter, holding his hands out above it. Floyd ran around to the cash register, and slammed the money drawer closed. He frowned down, opening his mouth to say something.
The boy smiled bright white buckteeth. He opened his hands above the counter and three pieces of sea glass plopped onto the wood-worn Formica. The boy spun around and ran out the door.
Floyd watched the sea glass rattle to a stop. He laid them out on his palm. They were perfect pieces the size of half dollar coins. In his years on the island, he'd seen plenty of sea glass, mostly brown and green, but these were extraordinary. One was blue like a sugared piece of mentholated candy. The red piece, hardest to find, reflected like a ruby. The third piece looked like it was made of hard amber honey. Floyd smiled at them in his hand.
He shook his head clear, and ran outside. The bell on the door rattled as he propped himself on his knees wheezing at the sidewalk. Pain pounded his temples and his lungs were shriveled. He looked up and down the street, but the boy was gone. Floyd ground his knuckles into his pants legs as he counted the sidewalk bricks.
At number twelve, Charlie came around the side of the store whistling and tossing his car keys in the air. "Jeez, Floyd. You okay? You gotta puke or something?"
Floyd looked over his glasses at Charlie. He pushed them up the bridge of his nose, gulped a breath, and stood. He stretched his stiff back muscles. "You see a little boy in the parking lot?"
"Why? One of those Anderson punks try to lift a candy bar again? Say the word Floyd and I'll-"
"No, no, nothing like that." He looked down at his fist. He had clenched it so hard, it was numb. He couldn't tell if the glass was still there, but he didn't want to open his hand in front of Charlie in case they still were. "Watch the store for me this afternoon will you Charlie?"
Charlie puffed up and patted Floyd's shoulder. "Sure Floyd. You just get yourself some rest old boy. You don't look so good. I'll call you down if it gets too busy, but it's never gotten too busy for me to handle yet."
Floyd knew Charlie would spend the afternoon reading magazines and sneaking soda, but he felt determined, strong-willed for the first time since the doctor's. "Not going upstairs, Charlie. I'm gonna take a walk down to the beach."
"What for? Jeez, Floyd. It's the middle of September."
"Best time to go. No snow yet, not a lot of people. I'm going to the beach." Floyd said over his shoulder as he started, stoop-backed, down the sidewalk. He waited to hear the bell on the door behind him before he opened his hand.
[Index]
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