give you a little something. Really, don't thank us; it
was no trouble at all. Just a little something to show
how much we appreciate the food you bring to us
each day, and the shelter you have given us." No, no,
she would think me sarcastic if I put it that way. Much
better to say something like this: "Merry Christmas,
we hope you like this gift. We all worked on it, even
Cory and Carrie, and you can keep it so when we're
gone, you'll know we did try, we did."
Just to see me near with the gift held before me
took her by surprise.
Slowly, with my eyes lifting to bravely meet hers,
I held out our Christmas offering. I didn't want to
plead with my eyes. I wanted her to take it, and like it,
and say thank you, even if she said it coldly. I wanted
her to go to bed this night and think about us, that
maybe we weren't so bad, after all. I wanted her to
digest and savor all the work we'd put into her gift,
and I wanted her to question the right and wrong of
how she treated us.
In the most withering way, her cold and scornful
eyes lowered to the long box we'd wrapped in red. On
the top was a sprig of artificial holly and a huge silver
bow. A card was tied to the bow, and read: "To
Grandmother, from Chris, Cathy, Cory, and Carrie." Her gray-stone eyes lingered on the card long
enough to read it. Then she lifted her gaze to stare
directly into my hopeful eyes, pleading, begging,
wanting so much to be assured we weren't--as I
sometimes feared--evil. Back to the box her eyes
skipped, then deliberately she turned her back.