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By Cynthia M. Saracco |
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The little box wrapped in red silk taunted Vicki Sanders every morning. Perched on the kitchen table beside the plastic salt-and-pepper shakers, it glistened beneath the bare overhead light. “Don’t you touch that, girl,” Vicki’s mother warned. “You heard Uncle Li – not until your birthday.” “But that’s a whole week away!” “Don’t matter none. No peeking, you hear?” Mrs. Sanders cocked her eyebrow to show she meant business. “Can’t I jus’ hold it and try to guess what’s inside?” Mrs. Sanders slid Vicki’s jelly sandwich into an old paper bag. “Oh, I s’pose. . . . But don’t you dare open it.” Uncle Li was really just a neighbor, but Vicki knew her mother wouldn’t tolerate any disrespect – not to the nice Chinese man who helped out after Vicki’s daddy ran off. Besides, Vicki didn’t want to get Uncle Li mad, anyway. She looked forward to the times he came over to show her things, like how to turn an old sock into a doll or how to make “grow-strong tea” out of dandelions. Vicki grabbed the tiny box with both hands. It felt light – too light for jacks or little chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. She pressed the gift with her fingers and felt the flimsy cardboard yield. Still, she couldn’t make out a shape inside. Cradling the box next to her ear, she jiggled it, hoping to hear something shift inside. Frustrated, she shook it hard. “Give me that,” Mrs. Sanders snapped. “Your uncle goes and does somethin’ special for you, and now you’re ready to ruin it. Go on – get to school.” All day long, Vicki couldn’t stop thinking about the gift. Her mother had warned her not to expect much. She reminded Vicki how Uncle Li scrounged for soda bottles to help feed his four grandchildren. How Chin walked to school with newspaper stuffed in the soles of her boots. How Ming wore three shirts at once because he didn’t have a coat. None of that mattered to Vicki. While her teacher drew cursive letters across a dusty chalkboard, Vicki squirmed in her seat, picturing paper dolls and dollar bills tucked inside the little box. When school let out, she raced home, cutting through a field choked with nettles. The stings on her bony shins didn’t bother her. All Vicki could think about was the gift. She just had to hold it one more time. Vicki’s mother was still asleep when Vicki ran through the door. Ever since the cancer took hold last year, Mrs. Sanders needed a nap everyday. But made sure she got up early every morning to fix Vicki oats in boiled water. Or milk, if she had it. Vicki didn’t find the shiny red package on the kitchen table. And the counter held only empty tin canisters for FLOUR, SUGAR, and COFFEE. Tiptoeing into the family room, Vicki eyed the couch where her mother dozed. A dirty water glass, crumpled tissue, and bottle of aspirin cluttered the end table. Back in the kitchen, Vicki pawed through drawers and cabinets. She searched the room until she spotted her prize on top of the refrigerator. Vicki climbed on a chair and snatched it. Cradling the package, Vicki admired the tiny butterflies embossed on the delicate red fabric that concealed her treasure. Again she shook the present, and again she heard nothing. Again she squeezed its sides, and again she felt nothing. Vicki peeked back at the couch. Her mother rested on one side, jaws slack and eyes shut. Vicki studied the gift. A small piece of twine held the four corners of the cloth together. She hesitated, then pulled the string. In an instant, the wrap unfolded. Holding her breath, Vicki tore off the lid and peered inside. Hot tears welled in her eyes and stung her cheeks. Seconds later, she wailed. “Vicki, is that you?” Mrs. Sanders bolted into the kitchen before Vicki could move. A look of fear turned to fury when Mrs. Sanders saw the unwrapped gift. Mother and daughter locked eyes. Then Mrs. Sanders slapped Vicki across the face. “Didn’t I say to leave that be?” Vicki sobbed. “Don’t go cryin’ to me. You gone an’ messed up everythin’ now. Jus’ ’cause you couldn’t wait. Well, if that ain’t jus’ like you,” Mrs. Sanders fumed. “Now what’ll Uncle Li think?” Vicki’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. “Mommy, you don’t understand.” “Oh, I understand jus’ fine.” “No you don’t! Uncle Li didn’t give me nothin’.” Vicki cried and handed the empty box to her mother. “He played a trick on me. A mean one.” Mrs. Sanders frowned. “Uncle Li ain’t like that. You must’ve dropped it.” “I didn’t drop nothin’. I hate him! I hate Uncle Li!” Vicki screamed. Mrs. Sanders scoured the floor for the lost contents. Vicki kept crying, and no amount of shushing would stop her. Only an urgent knock on the front door brought quiet to the house. A thin man poked his wrinkled head inside. “Everybody OK?” Mrs. Sanders stiffened. “We’re fine. Vicki’s jus’ a little upset.” Uncle Li looked at the red fabric and bare box. “You open already? I tell you, ‘Wait for birthday.’ Why you not listen?” “You didn’t give me no gift,” Vicki snapped. Fresh tears filled her eyes. Uncle Li clasped his hands. “I try give you something.” Vicki grabbed the box, convinced Uncle Li had really hidden something inside. “I know you have special day. I ask myself, ‘What I do for my Vicki?’ Must give something very valuable. Something to last whole life.” Uncle Li paused. “I think hard. I get idea to give important lesson. ” Vicki’s cheeks flushed. “You open on birthday, I see you learn. Then I make big party to celebrate.” Uncle Li’s mouth sunk into a frown. “Maybe next year you listen. Then you understand gift.” |
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