The Gift

“You know too much, Annie Whittaker. Aren't you supposed to be playing with dolls or something?” He tried to look unaffected by what she'd said, and then reminded himself of how dumb it was to worry about how he looked to his five-and-a-half-year-old sister.

“You really like her, don't you?” She was needling him then, and giggled as she asked him.

“Why don't you mind your own business?” He sounded sharp with her, which was rare, and Annie didn't pay any attention.

“I think her older sister is a lot cuter.”

“Ill keep that in mind, in case I ever want to go out with a senior.”

“What's wrong with seniors?” Annie looked baffled by the distinction.

“Nothing. Except that she's seventeen years old,” he explained, and Annie nodded wisely.

“That's too old. I guess Emily is okay then.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” she said seriously, as they reached home, and went inside to drink hot chocolate and get warm. In spite of her comments about the girls in his life, he really liked being with her. Annie always made him feel enormously loved, and extremely important. She worshiped him, and she made no bones about it. She adored him. And he loved her just as much.

She sat on his lap that night before she went to bed, and he read her her favorite stories. He read the shortest one to her twice, and then their mother took her off to bed, and he sat and chatted with his father. They talked about Eisenhower's election the month before, and the changes it might bring. And then they talked, as they always did, about the business. His father wanted him to get a degree in agriculture, with a minor in economics. They believed in basic, but important things, like family, and kids, and the sanctity of marriage, and honesty, and being helpful to their friends. They were much loved and respected in the community. And people always said about John Whittaker that he was a good husband, a fine man, and a fair employer.

Tommy went off with some of his friends that night. The weather was so bad he didn't even ask to borrow the car, he just walked to his closest friend, and then came home at eleven-thirty. They never had to worry about him. He'd sown one or two wild oats by fifteen, all of which consisted of two instances of drinking too much beer and throwing up in the car when his father brought him home. The Whittakers hadn't been pleased, but they hadn't gone crazy about it either. He was a good boy, and they knew that all kids did those things. John had done them too, and a few worse, especially while Liz had been away at college. She teased him about it sometimes, and he insisted that he had been a model of virtuous behavior, to which she raised an eyebrow, and then usually kissed him.

They went to bed early that night too, and the next morning, as they looked out their windows, it looked like a Christmas card. Everything was white and beautiful, and by eight-thirty that morning Annie had Tommy outside with her, helping her build a snowman. She used Tommy's favorite hockey cap too, and he explained that he was going to have to “borrow” it that afternoon for his game, and Annie said she'd have to let him know if he could use it. He tossed her into the snow then, and they lay there, on their backs, waving their arms and legs, making “angels.”

They all went to Tommy's game that afternoon, and even though his team lost, he was in good spirits afterwards. Emily had come to see him too, although she was surrounded by a group of friends, and claimed that they had wanted to come, and she had just “happened” to join them. She was wearing a plaid skirt and saddle shoes, and her long dark hair was in a ponytail down her back, and Annie said she was wearing makeup.

“How do you know?” He looked surprised and amused as the whole family left the skating rink at school and walked home together. Emily had already left with her gaggle of giggling girlfriends.

“I wear Mom's makeup sometimes,” Annie said matter-of-factly, and both men grinned and looked down at the little elf walking beside them.

“Mom doesn't wear makeup,” Tommy said just as firmly.

“Yes, she does. She wears powder and rouge, and sometimes she wears lipstick.”

“She does?” Tommy looked surprised. His mother was nice-looking, he knew, but he never suspected that there was any artifice involved, or that she actually wore makeup.

“Sometimes she wears black stuff on her eyelashes too, but it makes you cry if you use it,” Annie explained, and Liz laughed.

“It makes me cry too, that's why I never wear it.”

They talked about the game then, and other things, and Tommy went out with his friends again, and a classmate of his came to baby-sit for Annie that night, so her parents could go to a Christmas party at a neighbor's house.