I'm Your Girl. J.J. Murray

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СКАЧАТЬ Williams for losing his nerve, but what did he think he was buying? It’s a used car with close to 100,000 miles on it! I was practically giving it away!

      If he really wanted a safe car for his grandson, he would have bought him a Volvo or something.

      “I filled up the tank,” Mr. Williams says.

      Oh, that makes everything better.

      I nod. “Are all the records in the car?”

      “Yeah,” the grandson says.

      I don’t look at the can’t-drive-a-stick grandson. I open the back driver’s side door and press the “FOR SALE” sign into the window, using my fingernails to smooth out the strips of tape.

      You should trim them.

      Yeah.

      They look like claws.

      They do, kind of.

      And get a haircut. You look like a hippie.

      Thanks for the compliment.

      Mr. Williams takes out his wallet. “What can I give you for your trouble?”

      Well, you gave me your word, and look what happened. “I don’t want anything from you. This is a solid car, and I don’t want you to think I was trying to put one over on you. The gas is enough.”

      Mr. Williams looks at his wallet. “I’m going to do some more investigating on this car. I might still buy it.”

      How can you investigate the car without the car? If I don’t see you or your no-driving grandson again, I’ll be a happy man.

      Mrs. Williams can come, though. She seems apologetic.

      I nod to Mrs. Williams, close the door, and take the key from the grandson. “Good-bye,” I say, and I walk back into the house.

      “Merry Christmas,” Mr. Williams says.

      I don’t return the phrase.

      Why not? It’s Christmas Day!

      It’s a rotten thing to say.

      On the day after Christmas while others are standing in line at the malls returning gifts, I’m giving slightly used toys to the Salvation Army, and I’m not the only one waiting in line at the loading dock. There are other dads and moms with boxes of “last year’s” toys and clothes. I guess they’re making room for the new load while I’m just…making room.

      When it’s my turn, I hand Stevie’s toys to a stranger, a young guy in jeans and a red flannel shirt.

      Let go of the box.

      The man tugs a little on the box, saying, “You need a receipt?”

      Let go.

      I release the box, my hands shaking. “Uh, no.” I look past him and see huge piles of clothes inside. “Um, do you need women’s and children’s clothes?”

      “Sure do, especially boys’ clothes.”

      You have some of those.

      “I’ll, uh, see you later today.”

      “Sure thing, chief.”

      I get into the truck, but I can’t take my eyes off that box, still in—Oh! He’s just thrown it down! There are years in that box! There’s a little boy in that box!

      Get a grip on yourself.

      “I’m sorry, Stevie,” I say, starting up the truck. “I’m so sorry.”

      Back at the house, I wander around upstairs for a few hours, avoiding Noël’s door. The toys were hard enough. But her clothes?

      You can’t possibly wear them.

      I know that.

      Though you’re certainly skinny enough now.

      Very funny.

      They’ll make someone happy.

      Not me!

      This isn’t about you. It’s Christmas. It’s about others. It’s about giving gifts.

      I go to the door to Noël’s—our—room and extend my hand.

      Just turn, pull toward you a little, and push. You’ve been doing it for years.

      “Not today,” I whisper.

      Go in.

      “I just…can’t.”

      The furnace chooses this moment to whirr to life in the basement, and Noël’s—our—door rattles. I had replaced the doorknob, and it had never worked right after that.

      Open the door.

      I grab the knob, turn it slowly, pull back, push gently, and then hear the familiar creak as it swings inside. The curtains are still pulled back, light filtering in through the miniblinds, to reveal dust on the TV, on the mirror on Noël’s vanity, and on the candles resting on the headboard. I look up at the ceiling fan and see more dust.

      You need to dust this room.

      I know that.

      On instinct, I tiptoe between the bed and the dresser, knocking a knee into a drawer that never would fully close.

      When are you going to fix that drawer?

      As soon as I dust; now be quiet.

      I lift and push in the drawer, but it stays put. I never got around to fixing much in this house, and I never got around to building Noël that closet organizer she wanted. They make it look so easy on the box, proclaiming “simple, easy installation with only a few household tools.” It’s still in the box next to the washing machine. Maybe I’ll—

      One step at a time. Dust and fix the drawer first.

      Right.

      I open Noël’s closet and see…twenty or more bags from various department stores, some with flattened white boxes.

      Merry Christmas, Jack.

      Most of them are for Stevie.

      But some of them are for you.

      I pull out all the bags, and arrange them on the bed, the receipts folded neatly in the bottom of each bag.

      She always saved the receipts.

      Stevie would have gotten a new wardrobe complete with four pairs of new shoes, a new church outfit, and…a belt. He used to take my belt and wrap it around him twice. He was such a good mimic of me. I remember one time—

      Look СКАЧАТЬ