The Gift. Cecelia Ahern
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leaned forward and the child returned. ‘Ah, come on, is it snowing? Let me out to see it, will you? I’ll just look out the window.’
Raphie swallowed his sweet and leaned his elbows on the table. He spoke firmly. ‘Glass from the window landed on the ten-month-old baby.’
‘So?’ the boy snarled, bouncing back in his chair, but he looked concerned. He began pulling at a piece of skin around his nail.
‘He was beside the Christmas tree, where the turkey landed. Luckily he wasn’t cut. The baby, that is, not the turkey. The turkey sustained quite a few injuries. We don’t think he’ll make it.’
The boy looked relieved and confused all at the same time.
‘When’s my mam coming to get me?’
‘She’s on her way.’
‘The girl with the’, he cupped his hands over his chest, ‘big jugs told me that two hours ago. What happened to her face by the way? You two have a lovers’ tiff?’
Raphie bristled over how the boy spoke about Jessica, but kept his calm. He wasn’t worth it. Was he even worth sharing the story with at all?
‘Maybe your mother is driving very slowly. The roads are very slippy.’
The Turkey Boy thought about that and looked a little worried. He continued pulling at the skin around his nail.
‘The turkey was too big,’ he added, after a long pause. He clenched and unclenched his fists on the table. ‘She bought the same-sized turkey she used to buy when he was home. She thought he’d be coming back.’
‘Your mother thought this about your dad,’ Raphie confirmed, rather than asked.
He nodded. ‘When I took it out of the freezer it just made me crazy. It was too big.’
Silence again.
‘I didn’t think the turkey would break the glass,’ he said, quieter now and looking away. ‘Who knew a turkey could break a window?’
He looked up at Raphie with such desperation that, despite the seriousness of the situation, Raphie had to fight a smile at the boy’s misfortune.
‘I just meant to give them a fright. I knew they’d all be in there playing happy families.’
‘Well, they’re definitely not any more.’
The boy didn’t say anything but seemed less happy about it than when Raphie had entered.
‘A fifteen-pound turkey seems very big for just three people.’
‘Yeah, well, my dad’s a fat bastard, what can I say.’
Raphie decided he was wasting his time. Fed up, he stood up to leave.
‘Dad’s family used to come for dinner every year,’ the boy caved in, calling out to Raphie in an effort to keep him in the room. ‘But they decided not to come this year either. The turkey was just too bloody big for the two of us,’ he repeated, shaking his head. Dropping the bravado act, his tone changed. ‘When will my mam be here?’
Raphie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably when you’ve learned your lesson.’
‘But it’s Christmas Day.’
‘As good a day as any to learn a lesson.’
‘Lessons are for kids.’
Raphie smiled at that.
‘What?’ the boy spat defensively.
‘I learned one today.’
‘Oh, I forgot to add retards to that too.’
Raphie made his way to the door.
‘So what lesson did you learn then?’ the boy asked quickly, and Raphie could sense in his voice that he didn’t want to be left alone.
Raphie stopped and turned, feeling sad, looking sad.
‘It must have been a pretty shit lesson.’
‘You’ll find that most lessons are.’
The Turkey Boy sat slumped over the table, his unzipped hooded top hanging off one shoulder, small pink ears peeping out from his greasy hair that sat on his shoulders, his cheeks covered in pink pimples, his eyes a crystal blue. He was only a child.
Raphie sighed. Surely he’d be forced into early retirement for telling this story. He pulled out the chair and sat down.
‘Just for the record,’ Raphie said, ‘you asked me to tell you this.’
Lou Suffern always had two places to be at the one time. When asleep, he dreamed. In between dreams, he ran through the events of that day while making plans for the next, so that when he was awakened by his alarm at six a.m. every morning, he found himself to be very poorly rested. When in the shower, he rehearsed presentations and, on occasion, with one hand outside of the shower curtain he responded to emails on his BlackBerry. While eating breakfast he read the newspaper, and when being told rambling stories by his five-year-old daughter, he listened to the morning news. When his thirteen-month-old son demonstrated new skills each day, Lou’s face displayed interest while at the same time the inner workings of his brain were analysing why he felt the exact opposite. When kissing his wife goodbye, he was thinking of another.
Every action, movement, appointment, a doing or thought of any kind, was layered by another. Driving to work was also a conference call by speakerphone. Breakfasts ran into lunches, lunches into pre-dinner drinks, drinks into dinners, dinners into after-dinner drinks, after-dinner drinks into … well, that depended on how lucky he got. On those lucky nights at whatever house, apartment, hotel room or office that he felt himself appreciating his luck and the company of another, he of course would convince those who wouldn’t share his appreciation – namely his wife – that he was in another place. To them, he was stuck in a meeting, at an airport, finishing up some important paperwork, or buried in the maddening Christmas traffic. Two places, quite magically, at once.
Everything overlapped, he was always moving, always had someplace else to be, always wished that he was elsewhere or that, thanks to some divine intervention, he could be in both places at the same time. He’d spend as little time as possible with each person and leave them feeling that it was enough. He wasn’t a tardy man, he was precise, always on time. In business he was a master timekeeper; in life he was a broken pocket watch. He strove for perfection and possessed boundless energy in his quest for success. However, it was these bounds – so eager to attain his fast-growing list of desires and so full of ambition to reach new dizzying heights – that caused him to soar above the heads of the most important. There was no appointed time in his schedule for those whom, given the time of day, could lift him higher in more ways than any new deal could possibly accomplish.
On one particular cold Tuesday morning along the continuously developing dockland of Dublin city, Lou’s black leather shoes, polished to perfection, strolled confidently across the eyeline of one particular man. This man watched the shoes in movement that morning, as he had yesterday and as he assumed he would tomorrow. There was no best foot forward, for both were equal in their abilities. Each stride was equal in length, the heel-to-toe combination so precise; his shoes pointing forward, heels striking first and then pushing off from the big toe, flexing at the ankle. Perfect each time. The sound rhythmic as they hit the pavement. There was no heavy pounding to shake the ground