An Angel Smiled | ||||||||||||||||||||
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"Fourteen ninety-seven." "Fourteen ninety-seven," he repeated. It seemed like such a large amount, almost impossibly large. He was sure that he could never get that much, and yet he must. Somehow, some way, he would do it. Surely there had to be a way. It had to be done and he would do it. "Now, let's see," he thought. There was the piggy bank, of course. And there were the two dollars that Aunt Martha had given him for his birthday. They were supposed to go for having his bike tire fixed, but this was far more important. This was way more important than any old bike tire. "Let's see, what else is there? Where else can I look?" There was his stash of cans and pop bottles. He could turn them in, and maybe Mr. Hartman, the man next door, would let him sweep out the garage and mow the lawn for a dollar. "Sure, Mr. Hartman would help out!" Christopher was certain of it. The boy hurried home and ran immediately up to his room. Quietly he stood on a chair and took his piggy bank down from the shelf in his closet. Taking it down the stairs, he peeked into the kitchen to see that she was busy fixing dinner. Then he sneaked the bank out the back door and into the tool shed behind the house. The bank was in the shape of a plaster pig. It was mostly pink with gaudy red and green designs hand painted on the sides. On the bottom, in the middle of the pig's belly was painted "Heche en Mexico". The only opening was a slot in the middle of the pigs back. Once the money went in, there was only one way to get it out. Placing the pig on the cement floor of the shed, he picked up his dad's heavy claw hammer from the work bench and hit the pig, right smack in the head. The plaster pig died a quick, painless death. The deed, once done, yielded three dollars and sixty-nine cents. Christopher quickly picked up all of the money and swept together the pieces of plaster. He then disposed of the evidence by hiding the pieces under some paper in the large waste container that his dad kept in the corner of the shed. There was no turning back now. Something had been set into motion that couldn't be stopped. He was committed and, somehow, he felt good about it. Once back in the house, he got an old sock out of the rag-bag and took it up to his room. This was the bank now. He got the two crisp one-dollar bills out of his drawer and added them to the other money. Carefully he put the five dollars and sixty-nine cents into the sock and rolled it up. He then stuffed it under his dresser, way back in the corner. | |||||||||||||||||||
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The rest of the day was spent in the usual manner. Playing in the yard and going to the park with Billy, the little boy next door. He wouldn't tell anybody about his plan, not even Billy. He didn't want anything to go wrong and he wasn't taking any chances. That night after supper, while mom and dad were in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes, he quietly and carefully searched all of the furniture in the living room. Down in the cracks, between the cushions, he searched for coins. In the couch he found three quarters, two dimes, four nickels and seven pennies. The love seat only yielded one quarter and one dime, but dad's recliner was a gold mine. Five quarters, seven dimes, two nickels and three pennies. He was going to have to remember this. Furniture was almost better than banks. Another three dollars and sixty-five cents. That money went into the sock and made a grand total of, "Hmmmm, let's see now. Nine dollars and thirty-four cents. How much does that leave? Five dollars and sixty-three cents." He was getting close. Of course, this had been the easy part. It was going to be harder for him to get the balance. He was only seven years old. It isn't easy to make big money like that when you're only seven. The next day, he went into the garage and got his wagon. Going back to the storage shed, he loaded all of his cans and bottles into it. His mother watched from the kitchen window as he trundled off down the driveway with his wagon piled precariously high, full of empty bottles and cans. She met him at the corner of the house, "Where ya goin' sport?" she wanted to know. "To the recycling center. I'm gonna turn in all these old bottles and cans." "And what will you do with the money?" she asked. He had hoped she wouldn't ask that. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell anybody, but especially not her. "I don't know, maybe I'll just save it for a while. Would that be okay?" "Sure, you can put it in your bank and save it for a rainy day." Of course she had no way to know about the pig's untimely demise. With that, he said that he would be back in a little while and started off down the driveway again, turning left at the sidewalk and going towards the recycling center down by the gas station. When he left the recycling center, he had another three dollars and fifteen cents to add to his sock. The money was just piling up, only another two dollars and forty-eight cents to go now. All that week, he looked for change wherever he could think. He watched the sidewalks and gutters for dropped pennies. He never passed a pay telephone or pop machine without checking the coin return. He checked the cushions in his dad's car. He collected another dollar and sixteen cents. It was coming together but he was running out of time. He needed another dollar and thirty-two cents and he needed it by next Saturday. When Mr. Hartman came home from work one afternoon, Christopher steeled himself and asked for the job of sweeping out his garage and mowing the grass. "Well, I don't know about mowing the grass, Christopher. That's a pretty big job, but I will give you a dollar for sweeping out the garage if you'll promise to do a good job. "Oh boy! You bet, I'll do it right away." And he did. He swept under the work bench, behind the tool rack and in all of the corners. He gathered up all of the dust and debris and put it in a bag which he deposited in the trash can. When Mr. Hartman went to inspect, he remarked what a fine job Christopher had done and not only gave him the dollar he had promised, but a dime "tip" as well. Christopher was so proud, he wanted to tell mom and dad, but he couldn't. Not yet anyway. He only needed twenty-two cents now. Surely he could get that much, he still had a couple of days. On Saturday morning, he walked all over the neighborhood, pulling his wagon. He gathered twenty-six cents worth of pop bottles in about two hours. He had done it. He had amassed the entire amount and even had four cents to spare. He had done it all by himself, too. He was proud and happy and just generally delighted with his efforts. When he got home, he went upstairs and got out the sock. He dumped all of the money out on his bed and counted it again, just to make sure. The lady had said he needed only fourteen ninety-seven and he had fifteen dollars and one cent. He put the money in his pocket and went downstairs. Mom was sitting in the living room, reading a magazine and dad was outside washing the car. He kissed his mom and told her he would be back in a while. When asked where he was going, he just said, "I've gotta go see a friend. I'll be back before supper." And out the door he sped, before she could ask any more questions. | |||||||||||||||||||
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When he got to the store, several people were already standing at the counter. It was a busy Saturday and he would just have to wait his turn. When the clerk finally got to him, he had been waiting patiently for about ten minutes. "What can I do for you, son?" she asked. "I'd like the blue music box with the little girl that dances around on the top," he said. "The one on the end of the second shelf." It was beautiful. It had a place to keep jewelry and other small items in it. You wound it up with a key and the little girl danced around on top while it played a pretty song. His mama would love it. Today was her birthday and it was a surprise. "Sixteen oh-two" the clerk said. "Sixteen oh-two?" he repeated with a note of panic rising in his voice. "But last week I asked you how much it was and you said it was fouteen ninety-seven. I don't have sixteen oh-two." "It's fourteen ninety-seven plus tax. The tax is a dollar five. The total comes to sixteen oh-two," she said as she placed the music box back on the shelf. "Oh no!" What could he do now? He didn't have enough after all and it was her birthday and he had worked so hard and planned so well to get the money and now this lady said it wasn't enough. "Tax?" he asked. "What's tax?" He didn't understand about tax. He didn't understand this at all. He started to cry. Softly at first and then louder. He had done his part, he had asked. She had told him wrong. The more he thought about it, the more wronged he felt, but crying wasn't going to make things better. He sobbed a little and tried to thank the lady for her help. As he turned to go, he felt a rough hand on his shoulder and a man bent down beside him. "What's the matter little fellow?" the man asked. He was old and had a gray beard and long gray hair. His clothes were ragged and tattered but he had a kindness in his blue eyes. Christopher tried to tell him about his mothers birthday, and the music box and the tax but it all sort of came out at once. The man had been standing behind Christopher and had seen the whole thing, he had been waiting to buy a package of cigarettes. The little boy's story touched his heart as he remembered another mother, many years ago. With a tear in his eye, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his two, last remaining, one-dollar bills. He picked Christopher up and told him to put his money on the counter. To the clerk he said, "We'll have the music box." Christopher placed all of his money on the counter. Crumpled up dollar bills, quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies were piled up and it took the clerk several minutes to sort them into stacks and count them. To this was added the strangers two dollars. After the money had been put into the till and the stranger had received his change, the music box was again taken from its perch on the shelf. The stranger admired it and together the new friends wound it up and watched the little girl dance around on the top to the tune of "The Music Box Dancer". Then, when the gift was wrapped up in tissue paper and placed in a sack, the man knelt down beside Christopher and said, "You tell your mama happy birthday from me, too. Will you?" Christopher assured him that he would, thanked him again and walked out the door, turning once to wave. And then, he was gone. "Now, may I help you sir?" asked the clerk. The man looked at her and, realizing he could no longer afford the cigarettes he had come for, he sighed, "No, ma'am. I don't reckon you can. "Oh well," he thought, "mom never did approve of my smokin' anyway." And just then... somewhere up in heaven... an angel smiled. | |||||||||||||||||||
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