When I married her, luxury was an extra tablespoon of sugar in the coffee. Forty years later, they would have been her first proper gift; pearls from pathetically dwarfed oysters, but as pure and luminous as she was. I’d stopped thinking how much overtime went into them, picturing instead her face as she opened that brown box Christmas day.
The night before Christmas there was a knock on our door. A young man in a thin, wool coat, his hair obscuring deep set eyes, tipped his hat to my wife. There’s a blizzard, he told her, like he was delivering a prophecy.
He’d been shopping for the little ones and his car was snowed in. It’s getting late, he said meaningfully. Mary smiled as she opened the door wide and offered our couch for the night. He thanked her from the depths of his heart.
I could help you with your car, get you home in time to put those gifts under the tree, I said as he eased himself onto the faded green davenport. He politely declined.
In the morning there was only an indent in the sagging couch to prove that anyone had been there. Lovely, Mary exclaimed, he’ll be with his family.
I grinned and reached under our drooping tree for the pearls. My hands swept only dead pine needles. I methodically searched the postage stamp sized room, unwilling to admit they were gone. All I found was a scrap of brown wrapping paper.
Mary came whistling from the kitchen. I dropped my head in my hands. I couldn’t get you a gift this year, Mary, but if I could, you’d have the most beautiful string of pearls money could buy.
Her smile unfaltering, she said, I suppose I’ll put the chops on.