Gifting

GIFTING

  By Edward J. Yaeger, Jr.

  Copyright 2010 by Edward J. Yaeger, Jr.

   

  Wilta and I were the best of friends. Her mom and my mom met in school when they were little girls. They were best of friends too. They did everything together just as Wilta and I did. If I were forced to compare the friendships, though, I'd say that our friendship was stronger than that of our moms. For one, Wilta and I were much less afraid to do certain things together, like strangle old people in their sleep or feed infants to alligators. I think our mutual brazenness only intensified our bond, you know? My mom claimed it was because Wilta and I had been afforded more opportunities than she and Wilta's mom.

  "Cities today are a lot different from when I was young," she asserted, "they're bigger, denser and a whole lot more anonymous."

  My mom was probably right, but I still think Wilta and I were closer. We were so close in fact that every Sunday morning we'd leave a very special gift in the form of a severed human head by each other's door. Man, woman or child, it didn't matter whose head it was, just as long as it was completely bled out, as neither of our moms would stand for a mess of any kind. I learned that the hard way.

  Since Wilta and I lived right next door to each other, above Mr. Stillman's butcher shop, we didn't have to go very far to drop off the heads. Plus, Mr. Stillman, ever the gentleman, let us use his special tools and appliances to clean and prepare the heads so long as there were no bodies lying around and we locked up before 4:30 a.m. Wilta and I had an unspoken pact that she would use the shop first and I second. When she was finished with her head she would keep it somewhere in her apartment until later in the morning so I wouldn't sneak a peek when I returned home from preparing my head.

  Waking up every Sunday morning to a new severed head was such a treat, undoubtedly the highlight of my week. As time wore on we became quite expert at "gifting," which is what Wilta and I secretly called what we were doing. Eventually our gifting turned into a friendly competition of who could find the uglier head. Then we began experimenting with facial expressions – the more hideous, the better. I tell ya, there were some real gems over the years. Even Mr. Stillman couldn't help but take a two-minute break from his work to check out our prizes. He would come upstairs at precisely 7 a.m., just as we were opening our doors. I think he enjoyed seeing our expressions of delight as much as our clever handiwork. He would always give a wink to the one whom he thought did a better job that week. Wilta and I trusted his objective opinion and tacitly competed for his approval. At last count I was behind by only two winks. But then Wilta's mom became very sick.

  I knew something was wrong when Wilta left a head that had leaked spinal fluid and a few bits of brains by my door. I remember Mr. Stillman shaking his head in disappointment at Wilta and only half-winking at me before going back to work with a sigh. Not caring about the wink, or the mess Wilta's head had left, I approached Wilta and asked her if everything was all right. She said that her mom had fallen ill and that she had become all but distracted trying to take care of her.

  "Then we'll stop gifting immediately," I said, "at least until your mom recovers."

  "No, please no," Wilta pleaded, "we've been gifting forever and I don't want it to end. Not now. It's the only thing in the world that I look forward to."

  "Are you certain, Wilta? I want to help you help your mom get better."

  "Yes, yes, I'm absolutely certain. We mustn't stop. Please."

  Although I was not convinced, I honored her request.

  Not surprisingly, I didn't see much of Wilta the following week. When we did spend time together she just seemed lost, always on the verge of tears. I tried comforting her with a hug or a joke, but I'm afraid I provided little solace.

  The following week's head from Wilta was far worse than the prior week's. It was missing both of its eyes, and large amounts of blood seeped out of the lips and tongue. Upon closer inspection you could see Wilta's thumb prints all over the face as well as little cracks across the back of the head where the hair was completely disheveled, mangled in dried spinal fluid. Mr. Stillman's expression that morning was unforgettably stoical. No smile. No grimace. No wink.

  I saw Wilta only once the following week. She was leaving to fetch some medicine for her mom and I asked if I could join her. She obliged but said next to nothing the entire time. My initial animated chatter quickly waned to a silent vicarious suffering. Wilta was somewhere else. When I got home my mom told me that Wilta's mom was dying and that there was nothing that could be done. I wept that night, for Wilta's mom, but mainly for Wilta, who had to go through the whole thing alone. She had no other parent or siblings or even extended family. My mom and I were her extended family, but she had shut us out. Why did she shut us out?

  The next week's head from Wilta was both shocking and disappointing. For starters, it wasn't even a human head. It was a pig's head. And it had to be at least four or five days old. Judging by the skin tone and the congealed blood it was likely refrigerated during that time. Mr. Stillman was beside himself in anger as I stood at my door stupefied. Wilta didn't even come out to see what I had gifted, which was one of the best heads I had prepared in years. It hurt my feelings that she didn't take just one minute to look at it, but I tried putting myself in her shoes. She hadn't been herself for several weeks now and probably was very embarrassed by having to resort to a pig's head from Mr. Stillman’s shop.

  I didn't see Wilta at all that following week. I knocked on her door every day but there was no response, not a peep. I had my mom phone Wilta and Wilta's mom several times, but there was no answer from either one of them. It made me so anxious not having any idea what was going on that I assumed the worst – Wilta's mom had passed and Wilta was left behind, all by herself. My mom and I talked about adopting Wilta, which my mom assured me she was prepared to do. This made me feel so much better. We'd not only be best friends but also sisters! I couldn't wait to share the news with Wilta as I was convinced it would make her feel better too.

  As the weekend approached I wasn't quite sure whether or not to gift. Ultimately I decided to do it. I didn't expect Wilta to, but I wanted to demonstrate to her my commitment to our friendship, to continuing our tradition forever no matter what. Even if she didn't step out on Sunday at 7 a.m., I knew she'd eventually come out, see the head, and discretely take it inside with her as she had the previous week. I figured this time I'd leave a note next to the head detailing the plan my mom and I had discussed. It was all set.

  That Saturday night well into Sunday morning I prepared a masterpiece out of not one but two heads – from identical twins, representing Wilta and me. The twins resembled us in a multitude of ways, from our ivory skin to our black hair to our deep-set eyes. Even in death the twins' purity was breathtaking, heartbreaking almost. I knew I had captured something truly incorruptible. And so I therefore fashioned from the heads not hideous but solemn facial expressions, expressions that spoke from the heart, my heart.

  I couldn't sleep at all the remainder of that morning. As I lay in bed my mind raced with images of Wilta and me, some from past times and some from times that never occurred. It's peculiar, and sometimes frightening, what the mind can devise when left to its own devices.

  When 7 a.m. finally came I gingerly opened my door and looked down upon the floor. At first I saw nothing and my heart immediately sank. I had no expectations, true, but I was not without hope. I think it was hope that compelled me to open my door wider instead of closing it shut and going back to bed. When I opened the door all the way, I was instantly awestruck by the most splendorous severed head I had ever beheld. It was almost entirely jewel-encrusted with precious stones that shined and sparkled from the soft light of surrounding candles that smelled like fresh dew and rose petals. T
his was the work of a true master, I thought. It couldn't have been Wilta's work. And it wasn't. For the head itself was Wilta's!

  The rest of the morning was a blur. I had never felt so inspired and yet so dejected in all my life. And to feel both feelings simultaneously only made everything more complicated and confusing. I must've cried a river, a river deep but murky, before gathering myself and descending to the butcher shop, where Mr. Stillman was busy gutting a small lamb. When he noticed me he ceased for a moment, his hands and arms bloodied by animal entrails, and a look not of pity but of compassion waxed across his face. Our eyes locked for what seemed like forever, and then, putting a proper and decisive end to forever, I did what I had to do – I winked.

   

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2012 by Edward J. Yaeger, Jr.

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