Page 140 of The Story of You
“We’re going shopping,” I told him.
The crease formed between his brows. The one that told us he was having worried thoughts. “Did Baba say we could? Last time we went shopping, he was mad.”
I ruffled his hair. “Nope. But we’re going to anyway. It’s Baba’s Day. You’re going to get him a present.”
“I know it’sFather’sDay, Darry. Our teacher taught us. I already made him something … even though he’s not my dad. Mrs. Amundson made me.”
“What? Some crappy ashtray from kindergarten clay? Silas doesn’t smoke.”
“No. It’s a hand.”
“A hand.”
“On a circle.”
It was a plaque with his handprint. He didn’t know what to call it. I’m not sure that I know what they’re called now.
“Sounds lame,” I said.
“It’s not lame. The teacher said it was special.”
“I saved my extra money for this, kid. We’ll get him something we buy, and you can give him your dumb hand circle.”
He pushed his hair off his face, using the same mannerisms Silas used, his palm pushing the front back, squashing it to his scalp. “Yeah, okay.”
We found him a high-quality version of the toffee he loved and a book that he had his eye on he’d put off buying for himself because it was a want and not a need. He wanted to have extra money in case Oliverwantedsomething. There wasn’t a lot of extra money around.
I helped Oliver wrap the gifts, including his hand thing-y.
On Sunday morning, he crept out of bed before us. I was tuned to hearing him and I had a feeling as to what he was up to, so I kept my eyes closed—it was too damn early to open them—my ears catching his every movement. He was pulling out the gifts we’d “hid” under the bed. Silas knew they were there, but he pretended not to see them.
When I didn’t hear anything for a bit, I pried an eye open to see what the fuck he was doing. He’d tugged the gift bags out and was sitting on the floor, his white-blond hair standing up like a rooster, his legs—that were already taking on dancer-level extension—in a “V” around the gifts.
He looked up at Silas and then at the gifts. He shoved the blue bag back under the bed—the one that held his homemade gift—then he stood to tug on Silas’s pajamas.
“Um, Baba,” he said, nerves pouring forth; why, I couldn’t imagine. Those two had been inseparable since he was born.
Silas sprung up. “Oliver? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I … Darius said we should get you something, so we did. I know you’re not my dad. Here.”
Oliver shoved the gift at him and looked ready to flee. Silas knew him well. He used his large hands to encircle Oliver’s waist and lift him into his lap. “What a good idea. I love presents, Eaglet,” he said.
Oliver relaxed. “You do?”
“I do.”
That emboldened him. “Okay, well, open it then.”
I sat up—fully awake now—to watch them.
Silas made a big deal about the gifts. Oliver’s nerves fell away. He chattered like he does in his happy babble. “I remembered you liked books and Darry said you wanted to read this one. I don’t know what it’s about. Will you read it to me?”
He gave a half-smile, kissing Oliver’s crown. “If you like, but I don’t know that you’ll find a book about investing terribly interesting.”
“No. I like toffee though.”
“We’ll try it after breakfast.”
