The Drifter's Gift. Lauryn Chandler

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      Dani rolled the blue cotton socks over his feet, tickling the arches as she went, filling with pleasure when he dissolved into giggles.

      When the socks were in place, Timmy sat up on his knees. “Okay, Mommy, you go out now.”

      “You haven’t said your prayers yet.”

      “I know, but I’m going to do it myself tonight.”

      I can do it was becoming an increasingly common refrain around their house, but rarely at bedtime. Resisting the urge to show her disappointment, Dani smiled and stood.

      “Okay, pup.” She bent, kissing his downy cheek. “Lights out when you’re through.”

      A stack of clean, folded towels awaited her atop the dryer, and more laundry tumbled inside, so Dani decided to busy herself with hausfrau duties until her own bedtime.

      On her way to the hall closet, she glanced into the living room and saw her pop sitting on the couch, just as she and Timmy had left him, head back against the cushion, neck arched, mouth open wide as he snored. His hands lay on his lap, palms up—an unconscious yogi.

      From the TV came the sound of voices raised in song. “Auld Lang Syne.” Dani grinned. The last scene in It’s a Wonderful Life. He’d watched that weepy old flick twice already this holiday season, and if she knew her father, he’d watch it twice more before Christmas. He saw things so simply, her sweet dad. Jimmy Stewart was still the best actor going, Donna Reed was the cutest girl, pumpkin pie with whipped cream turned a meal into a feast and…it was a wonderful life.

      Pressing her face against the top towel of the stack she carried, Dani let the material absorb her deep sigh. She stood a moment longer, watching her father’s glasses slip by tiny degrees as he snored, then she moved down the hall.

      When she reached Timmy’s door, she stopped. Prayers usually lasted all of thirty seconds—forty if there was a pet frog involved—so the muffled sounds coming from her son’s room drew her like a magnet. Sidling alongside the door, she peeked in. The teddy bear lamp was turned off. A night-light provided the only illumination. Timmy spoke to a group of toy figures he’d assembled.

      “One more glass of water, that’s all.” He lowered his voice to as deep a register as he could manage—a child’s version of a baritone.

      “You were a good boy today.” He jiggled one of the toys, making it speak. “Tomorrow you can have a treat. We’ll go see Santa Claus. Would you like that?” he asked a figure lying on his pillow and in his own voice responded, “Oh, boy! And Mommy will make cookies. Them ones Santa likes.”

      “Yes, pup,” he answered in the deep, manly voice again. “Now go to sleep. Mommy and I will watch you.”

      Mommy and I? Dani leaned farther around the door. Timmy returned to his normal register. “Kiss Mommy,” he commanded the toy in his right hand—the father. Bringing the two figures together until they clacked heads, he made a noisy sucking sound. “Now tell Mommy you love her.” And once more in the baritone, “I love you. Now go to sleep.”

      Walking his makeshift family across the bed, he seated them on the nightstand, positioning the plastic figures so that the two parents were standing protectively over their son.

      Tucking himself beneath the quilt, Timmy curled up on his side, eyes open, curly head craned, watching his “family” watch him.

      Frozen in the doorway, Dani forgot she was holding towels until the stack began to topple. Making a quick, noiseless save, she backed into the hall. Her steps to the closet were so automatic she barely registered she was taking them.

      In the living room, her father’s snoring intensified to buzz-saw decibels. Dani stowed the towels, her hands shaking, her movements clumsy. Jelly seemed to have replaced the bones in her knees.

      She remembered the promise she’d made her son the day they’d left the hospital together—she lonely and scared at twenty-three, he a tiny, defenseless bundle wrapped in her arms. We’ll be a family, you and I. I promise.

      Pressing her palms against the oft-painted panel of the closet door, Dani touched her forehead to the wood and squeezed her eyes tight. Oh, God, had she failed? They were a family, weren’t they? She hadn’t blown it too badly yet, had she?

      She certainly hadn’t meant to wind up broke in the boondocks of Idaho, in a house that was a paint job away from dilapidated, on a farm that barely supported itself. She hadn’t meant for them to be alone on Thanksgiving or Christmas or New Year’s.

      Hearing the sudden snort that signaled her father wakening from his nap, Dani pushed away from the closet, wiped her eyes and hurried into her bedroom. She closed the door softly behind her, moving toward the window without flipping on the light.

      With the curtains drawn, moonlight cast silver beams into the room. Dani stood close to the cold glass, arms wrapped around her waist, staring out.

       I should have moved to Los Angeles, some city where the local chapter of Parents Without Partners is bigger than the PTA.

      This time her sigh was ragged and tired. It fogged the glass. Everywhere she looked, stars seemed to be winking.

      “Whatever the joke is, I wish you’d let me in on it,” she whispered to the cosmos.

      Somewhere under this very same sky were people who still made wishes, people who still believed. She’d been like that once, dreaming with her eyes wide open. That’s what she wanted for her son—enough innocence to believe that dreams came true. Five was too young yet to learn about life’s disappointments.

      Shivering inside her thick sweater, Dani hugged herself more tightly. What, she wondered, could this nighttime sky with its moon and its stars and its mystery have to offer a not-so-young-anymore single mother who’d stopped believing in wishes long ago?

      Letting her hands drift up until they were linked beneath her chin, she closed her eyes. And then, because she had no idea what else to do, for the first time in more years than Dani could remember, she prayed.

      

      “Girl, you are out of your gourd!”

      “Shh, Pop, Timmy’ll hear you.” From the kitchen doorway, Dani glanced into the living room to check on her son, who was still engrossed in running his dump truck up and down the legs of their sofa. His pliant lips sputtered as he made engine sounds.

      Turning toward the oven, Dani removed a pan of oatmeal-coconut crunch cookies.

      “Want coffee?” she asked her father. “There’s one cup left in the pot.”

      Eugene Harmon shook his head. “Nope. I had three cups already. Too much caffeine.” He watched Dani cross to the fridge to pour herself a glass of orange juice. “’Course, I don’t want it to go to waste if you’re not going to have any.” He rose with his mug. “Pour it in there.”

      Blinking rapidly behind his glasses, Gene hitched his trousers higher on his waist—his characteristic gesture when he anticipated something enjoyable. Dani smiled. Timmy had adopted the same habit of late.

      “Want СКАЧАТЬ