THE GIFT

On any given day, Pierre, my seven-year-old kid brother likes to show his affection for Mother by giving her a gift. However, on Mother’s Day his talent for gift-giving usually goes into overdrive. And this year he may have out-done himself.



It was Saturday evening, I was watching the Ed Sullivan show with my folks, when Father turned to Mother and said: “You seem distracted tonight.”

Mother was staring off into space, biting her lower lip: something she does when she’s worried. “Mother’s Day tomorrow,” she said.

“So it is. I would think you would be happy about that. I know the kids are. They promised to let you sleep in and they plan to serve you breakfast in bed.”

“I know, I know. And I appreciate it, although, I wish you would give them a helping hand.

“I don’t want to deprive them of the pleasure. Besides, I’ll take them off your hands for the rest of the day. So cheer up!”

“Cheer up, he says. Hah!”

“Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

“The gift… Pierre’s gift… I’m afraid of what it’s going to be.”

“What could a kid with a one dollar weekly allowance possibly give you that should cause you to worry?”

“Do you remember Mrs. Susskind, our next door neighbor on Huron avenue?”

“Mrs. Susskind…sure I remember her. If I recollect, you two were no longer on speaking terms when we left for Montreal.”

“I tried to make up, but to no avail. And I can’t entirely blame her. Poor woman, she did pride herself on having the most diversified and largest private tulip collection in Ottawa. It was her misfortune that the flowers should be in full bloom at a time when Pierre was searching for a Mother’s Day gift. When your son presented me with a basket containing more than four dozen short-stemmed tulips, I didn’t need to look far for the source. A clean swath of stems left over from four dozen decapitated tulips cutting through the middle of Mrs. Susskind’s garden was all the evidence I needed.”



It’s early Sunday morning, and Pierre, after much hauling and heaving, has delivered his gift at the foot of Mother’s bed. When I arrive with breakfast she is hugging the kid to the point of smothering him, and keeps repeating: “Merci mon choux,” like a hiccup. I couldn’t tell if her shoulders were heaving from laughter or from crying.

Later, when I pick up the hallway phone, intending to call a friend, I hear dialing from the upstairs phone and a voice answer: “St-Germain Pharmacy!”

“Bonjour! May I speak to monsieur St-Germain?” Mother says.

“How may I be of service, Madame?”

“Bonjour, monsieur St-Germain, this is Mrs. Chatelaine speaking. Would you by any chance be missing a large bottle of Chanel No.5 from your window display?”



















Word count: 473