The Gift

The Anniversary Gift—

The man cursed God for creating his errant son with sweat glands, the moistness sodden under his armpits and soaked the back of his cornflower blue Oxford dress shirt.  The city was in the gripes of the worst heat wave in years.  His hand shot into his breast pocket, fingers gripping the white handkerchief and brushing the droplets from his forehead, carefully balancing the shopping bag with his free arm.  It was 6:30 and Andrew Canton was riding the eight-train home from another day of work.  His life had become routine, even monotonous some would say.  But this was how he liked it. 

         The man-wall barged through the open doors at the Windall Street stop, pushing past Andrew with a forceful shove.  The brute nearly toppled the bony traveler, hurried and panic, Andrew clutched the shopping bag careful not to allow the contents to topple out onto the train’s floor.  Like a babe to a mother’s breast, Andrew hugged the bag tightly not allowing the treasure to leave his grasp.  It was their anniversary, thirty-years ago he proposed to his lovely Camille, and every season that passed he drew more in love with her.  They had moved to Chicago to start a family and a new life, Andrew taking a job as a local weatherman.  They were kids in love, and nothing is greater than that.

The forecast for today is soaring temperatures with thunderheads forming later in the day.

         The brute grabbed the handrail and wedged his mass between Andrew and a secretary.  The lady was in her thirties, yapping away on her cell phone.  Sprouting gossip of the latest Hollywood affair and secret beach retreat of media martyrs.  She took no mind of the brute, but Andrew did.  Shuffling sideways the man shadowed Andrew, panic rising in his bones as the Weatherman envisioned scenarios of his life being beaten upon the day of their anniversary.  The man was littered with tattoos and Andrew tried hard his whole life to not judge by stereotypes, but this ape of a man was obviously a thug.  What if he had a knife, or perhaps worse a gun?  Andrew’s mind panicked with estrange thoughts that grew beyond his control.  He hugged the shopping bag closer, looking down at his sweating form.  His skin covered his bones in one layer of flesh; collarbones jut through his shirt like a recovering addict or cancer patient.  With nervous eyes like a scolded puppy, Andrew looked up at the towering man, and the brute gave a grunt, his flat nose crinkling at the rotten potent smell that had filled the train.  Like eggs baking in the summer heat, the smell was putrid enough to churn stomach juice into butter, yet Andrew had become accustomed to the smell and the gentle hum of flies.

         It was five years after they moved to Chicago that the Doctors told Andrew and Camille it would be impossible for them to conceive a child.  Something with Camille’s tubing, or other, Andrew hadn’t really paid much attention, but maybe he should have.  Camille was devastated, but Andrew believed all would still be well.  They still had their love, and not even God would dare take that from them.  So Andrew worked, while Camille spent her time draining her sorrows into a bottle, and the days turned to years.  Finally, after a second suicide attempt, Andrew sent Camille to a re-hab clinic for help.  For the next year she was in the care of a Doctor Nelson Potts.  Andrew liked Nelson right off the bat, it was the Doctor’s way, and soon they became friends.  It seemed that Nelson truly cared for Camille, and within a year Camille had regained the twinkle in her eye.  That sparkle where life is treasured rather than snubbed away, Camille radiated with happiness and Andrew took her back with loving arms.

         The forecast called for rays of sunshine and partially clearing skies.

         This was his stop.  East Fort Street.  Shuffling his feet, Andrew left the train swearing at any second he turn and face the tattooed brute as the man drew a weapon or worse assault and battery.  His head slowly turned, cringing at the shadows passing behind him, like flickers of flames upon the cave wall, life went on elsewhere yet his own had grown cold.  Andrew sealed his eyes, like a child fearful of the monster looming under his bed.  But no fist came.  No blade at his throat, or metal stabbing his back.  Andrew slowly opened his eyes and realized he was alone upon the platform, and suddenly a euphoria rose over him.  He cursed his thoughts, like a child allowing his imagination get the best of him.

         The forecast cloudy with bouts of hail and rain.

         Treading the sea of marching people, Andrew made his way home brushing shoulders and lives with strangers lost amongst the confusion of the world. The foot traffic was always heavy at this hour of the day, but he should still be home in five minutes or so.  That would make it four-hours early, and oh would Camille be surprised.  After all it was their anniversary, and after a long day of plotting, Andrew had found the perfect gift for his loving wife.  He couldn’t wait to share it with her, sitting under his desk all day at work.  Finally, like the anticipation of Christmas morning, Andrew asked for the day off and never missing a day in over three years, his boss concurs.  Andrew felt alive for once, his soul was beaming filling him with warmth unlike the black pit of his soul was accustomed to, and Andrew was a child skipping home for summer recess, the shopping bag crinkling under his forearm.

         The forecast calls for bouts of nervousness with envy, fits of jealousy, and a chance for rage.

         Andrew stood in front of his house, the green shutters and white siding looked alien to him, almost as if he never spent the last thirty-years in its residence.  His hand reached up and opened the picket fence; it slowly creaked open as he watched on the upper floor a shadow moving within the bathroom window.  The silhouette couldn’t see anything through the smoky glass, but she would have heard the fence.  Camille was expecting him.

         Andrew entered the house.  It was dark, curtains sealed cutting the sparse arrows of daylight, hiding away from the outside world.  Andrew smiled, kicking his shoes off next to the doormat.  Carefully he made his way up the spiral staircase, each step heightening his anticipation, racing the blood within his heart to the point of the muscle spasming within his chest.  Camille would be in the bedroom.  That is where she waited for him.

         Slowly, Andrew reached forward and grabbed the bedroom doorknob, the metal warm against his sweating palm.  Twisting the handle sideways, the knob nearly stuck, God’s last chance for Andrew to turn around and leave the house at once.  But the Weatherman had come too far now to turn tail and run.  The bedroom’s layout prohibited Camille from seeing Andrew’s entrance, his form hid behind a plywood divider.  It had originally been placed there temporary, part of Andrew’s remodeling plan, which he never seemed to get around to finish.  But Andrew didn’t mind, Camille couldn’t see him but he could see her reflection in the mirror. 

         The Forecast calls for showers of lust and yearning for attentions.

She was beautiful.  Her hair draped like a wedding dress long and silky the mane of red spider-webbed across the pillows.  Her eyes were sealed, but behind their lids, he knew her hazel eyes dreamt of him.  Her nose was sharp, which accented her thin cheekbones in a sculpted masterpiece of a divine loveliness.  Her body was always thin and athletic, breast perky and firm, Camille always swore she could lose a few more pounds, hitting the gym constantly in her free time, but Andrew always revered her heavenliness.  His eyes studied her essence, watching her chest slowly rise and fall as air crest through her thin rosy lips.  Her flesh was bleached like eggshells, teasing him from behind a see through black nightie.  The lace teddy left little for the imagination, Camille allowing her lover to share in her enigma.  He was excited, yet she wore this only for him.

         “Are you there?” Her voice was angelic, jovial and excited with anticipation.

         Andrew didn’t answer her.  Allowing the tension to simmer and brew like a kettle on the stove seconds before boiling over.

         “You just gonna stand in the doorway?  Or are you gonna be a man and show me the love I’ve been waiting here for.”

         Still Andrew didn’t say a word, biting his lip until he drew blood, his hands rubbing repeatedly over the rounded shopping bag.

         “Nelson, stop you’re scaring me.”

         When Camille opened her eyes, she nearly shrieked her face trembling in horror.  Dumbfounded and lost for words, she reacted the only way she could.  The damn broke and the tears poured from her eyes.

         “Were you expecting the Doctor? I’m sorry to disappoint you.” Andrew snapped standing in front of the bed.

         “It’s…I mean…It’s not like you think Andy…” Camille tried to cover herself, panicked like a trapped animal, her brain searching for answers.

         “Shh.  Save your lies.” She only called him Andy when wanted something, after thirty-years of marriage you understand how others perceive and influence you.  “The good Doctor unfortunately couldn’t make it in person, but he did send you a gift for our anniversary.”

         “You’re scaring me…Andrew…” Her make-up ran down her face in tributaries of sorry and apologies that fall upon blind eyes.  A fire was burning black in Andrew’s soul, and for a split instant Camille swore she was staring at a demon.

         “It is our anniversary, dear. And seeing that the good Doctor couldn’t make, I brought you the next best thing.”

         Andrew reached his hand into the shopping bag he had clutched so dearly the entire day.  The contents sounded wet and chunky like stampeding cows through a field of mud.  In terror Camille’s eye glued to her present from her loving husband.  The bottom of the shopping bag was purple and thick like ground beef from the butcher, as the shadow clay-mass rose from the bag.  First it was the hair, drenched and dripping like rat fur, then the eyes sopped over in crimson fluids, the glossy white marbles rolling over like casino slot machines.  The eyelids twitching like a dead fish.  The crushed bridge of a once handsome nose, smashed down upon softball swollen black and blue lips, Camille swore she could hear his caring voice whispering her name from the tendrils of flesh that remained of his severed neck and spinal column.  Most of this was all presumably shock, but as Camille looked at her husband Andrew holding Nelson Potts’s decapitated head, she barely had time to scream before the straight razor tore across her throat with the sounds of whistling winter winds.

         “Happy anniversary, my love…”

         The forecast for tomorrow calls for two dead lovers, one murder trail, and a vacant weatherman job for Channel Twelve Action News.