The Gift
Michael T. Rupp, PhD
Professor of Pharmacy Administration
The old Roi-Tan box was right where I’d
left it; top shelf, far left corner of the garage.
We’d lost Mom in 2003, and now Dad. Each
of us had taken something of sentimental
value from the house. The rest was sold,
given away or thrown away. Now there was
just one last piece of unfinished business.
I blew 46 years of dust off the top of the
cigar box and opened the lid.
It was May, 1967. Western Kansas had
staggered through another brutal winter and
was preparing to lurch into another
oppressive summer. “Don’t like the weather
in Kansas? Just wait a few minutes and it’ll
change!” Yeah, right. If only that were true.
Still, today was beautiful. I guess if you
place an ice cube on a hot stove there is a
fleeting moment when the temperature is
perfect. Today was that day in Western
Kansas.
My 13th birthday was approaching and I
was lost in my favorite fantasy: Mom and
Dad had surprised me with a red mini bike
just like the ones the Shriners ride in the
July 4 parade. There I am, sitting on 50cc’s
of rumbling thunder: Collar up, hair
dangerously askew, I look just like James
Dean. The vision is so real I can taste the
cigarette between my sneering lips.
A banging on the front door shook me
from my dream.
“Michael? Michael, are you in there?”
Mrs. Hanson was frantically ringing the
doorbell with one hand and pounding on
the screen door with the other. I stumbled
to the door and tried to catch what she
was saying.
“You lost your boots?”
“No, Mr. Boots. I’ve lost Mr. Boots!”
“Oh, your cat. Hey, I’m sorry, Mrs.
Hanson, I haven’t seen him.”
“Could you help me look for him? He
bolted out the door when I got home from
the grocery and I think he headed for the
park.”
The park, that was trouble.
“Sure thing,” I said. “You take the
neighborhood and I’ll check the park.”
Little more than a grove of trees bounded
by raw prairie, the Town Park was a
microcosm of the food chain: Birds
hunted worms, cats hunted the birds and
coyotes hunted the cats.
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Occasionally, a passing pickup would
slow and someone would complete the
cycle by popping a coyote from the
window. The park operated by one law;
the Law of the Claw and the Fang.
I found what remained of Mr. Boots in a
patch of clover under an old elm tree. Poor
Mr. Boots, he had almost made it. I
kneeled, smoothed his black fur and
marveled one last time at the perfectly
white feet.
“Socks,” I had suggested when he had first
turned up at Mrs. Hanson’s door.
“No, that’s too wussie,” she’d said. “Boots,
that’s his name. Mr. Boots”
I gently removed the tattered collar. Below
the collar hung the ultimate expression of
Mrs. Hanson’s affection; a tiny silver bell.
Ironically, it was probably the bell that had
led to his tragic end. Poor Mr. Boots.
“No sign of him at the park,” I told her
later. “I’ll bet Mr. Boots is just off visiting
one of his girlfriends. You know how he
is; he’ll be back when he gets hungry.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. “He’s a
scamp, that one.”
We lost Mrs. Hanson during my
sophomore year at college, still waiting for
Mr. Boots to return and imagining all the
adventures he must be having.
I closed the old cigar box and put it under
my arm.
“We’re done here,” I said to no one in
particular.
-
End
► Empathy
Katherine Chen, AZCOM 2020
Soft pastel
THRIVE 2018
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