The Gift

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit.
It was now Mid-August which meant that he had been 
separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months,
 and all he had to show was three dog-eared
letters and two when school had ended and she'd returned to
 Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania. She had sworn 
to maintain a certain fidelity, she would
date occasionally, but only as amusement. But lately Waldo 
had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and 
when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay
awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his quilt 
protector, tears welling in his eyes. As he pictured 
Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the
smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to 
the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the
 human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime 
fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the
 thing was they wouldn't really understand how
she really was. He, Waldo, alone, understood this. He had 
intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He
 had made her smile, and she needed him,
and he wasn't there. The idea came to him on the Thursday 
before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear. He had 
just finished mowing and etching the
Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the 
mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. 
There was nothing more than a circular form the
Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his 
awing needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the 
mail. Then it struck him, he didn't have enough money to go
 to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true,
but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would 

ship himself parcel post special delivery. The next day 
Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the
necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun 
and a medium sized box, just right for a person of his 
built. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he
could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, 
of course, midnight snacks and it would probably be as good
 as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was packed and the 
post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. 
He'd marked the package Fragile, and as he
sat curled up inside, resting the foam rubber cushioning 
he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of
 awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened
the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then 
opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She 
would kiss him, then, maybe they could see a
movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough 
hands gripped his package and he felt himself barne up. He 
landed with a thud in a truck and then he was
off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had 
been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink
 like that. Bill had been nice about it though.
After it was over he'd said that he still respected her 
and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and 
even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an 
affection
for her. And, after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what 
Billy could teach Waldo - but that seemed like years ago. 
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in
through the porch screen door and into the kitchen. Oh, 
it's absolutely maudlin outside. Ach, I know what you mean,
 I feel all icky! Marsha tightened her cotton
robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over 
some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her fingers 
and made a face. I'm supposed to take these salt
pills, but she wrinkled her nose, They make me feel like 
throwing up. Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, 

an exercise she'd seen on television. God, don't
even talk about that. She got up from the table and went to
 the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue 
vitamins. Want one? Supposed to be better than
steak. And attempted to touch her knees. I don't think I'll
 ever touch a daiquiri again. She gave up and sat down, 
this time nearer the table that supported the
telephone. Maybe he'll call. she said to Sheila's glance. 
Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. After last night, I thought 
maybe you'd be through with him. I know what you
mean, my God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the 
place. She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. 
The thing is after a while, you get tired of
fighting with him, you know, and after all he didn't really
 do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to 
him, you know what I mean. She started to
scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. 
I'll tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while,
 here she bend forward in a whisper, wanted to,
and now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameison of the Clarence 
Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large colored 
stucco frame house. When Marsha Bronson
opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had
 his yellow and green slips of paper signed and left with a
 fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of
her mothers small beige pocket book in the den. What do you
 think it is? Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her arms 
folded behind her back. She stared at the
brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living
 room: I don't know.

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as he 
listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail 
over the masking tape that ran down the center of
the carton. Why don't you look at the return address and 
see who it is from? Waldo felt his heart beating. He could 
feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched 

label. It's from Waldo. That schmuck! said Sheila. Waldo 
trembled with expectation. You might
as well open it, said Sheila. Both of them tried to flip 
the stable flap. Ah, said Marsha groaning. He must have 
nailed it shut. They tagged at the flap again. My
God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened. They 
pulled again. You can't get a grip! They both stood still, 
breathing heavily. Why don't you get the
scissors, said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all
 she could find was a little sewing scissors. Then she 
remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in
the basement. She ran downstairs and when she came back, 
she had a large metal cutter in her hand. This is the best 
I could find. She was out of breath. Here,
you do it. I'm gonna die. She sank into a large fluffy 
couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit 
between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard,
but the blade was too big and there was not enough room. 
Godamn this thing! she said feeling very exasperated. Then 
smiling I got an idea. What? said
Marsha. Just watch, said Sheila touching her finger to her 
head.

Inside the package, Waldo was transfixed with excitement 
that he could hardly breathe. His skin felt prickly from 
the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his
throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood upright and walked 
around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down
 to her knees, grasped the cutter by both
hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade 
through the middle of the package, through the middle of 
the masking tape, through the cardboard through
the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo
 Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little 
rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning
sun...