Birthday Wishes, Part Two

The chores still needed doing, the animals cared for, the food to be cooked. The men worked hard, just as they did every other day, to make sure the provisions were provided, sinks fixed, tractors running. Inside, Lizzie did the work in the house, made meals and softened the hearts of the weather-worn men. She mended clothes, swept the floor and kept the flies at bay. Each person played a role in the family as they bent hand to the plow to keep their little home up and running. But while the family kept hard to work, Seamus began to wonder at the highlight of his year. It was his birthday, true enough, but noon had come and gone and still, there were no gifts.

“Really, I just want that one gift. That’s all,” he thought. Around one o’ clock, Mac pulled him aside.

“I got something for you, little brother.” Seamus’ eyes went a little wide and he quickly composed himself. He smiled and approached Mac as the teen baled hay over the loft and into the stalls below. Pausing, Mac wiped his brow, set the pitchfork against the wall and pulled off his gloves to expose the white knuckles and overly-trimmed nails beneath – all more than a little sweaty and clammy from the work. “It ain’t much, but I wanted you to have these.” Reaching behind his back, Mac brought forth two screwdrivers – a standard and a Phillips – and a pair of leather gloves.

“The drivers aren’t new, but they were my first set and I thought it was time you had a pair for yourself. The gloves, I got down at Old McCreedy’s hardware. I hope they fit ya.” Seamus pulled the gloves on tight and noted they were a little big, but he was happy to grow into them. He took the screwdrivers in his hand and felt the weight of each one, smiling at their promise. With a quick word of thanks, the boy hugged his brother, wiped his leaky eyes and sprinted back down the ladder in the barn. He let out a woop as the door swung wide, gave a skip or two passing the hogs and was away in the field.

The rest of the day continued in the same fashion, with each family member taking a turn throughout the day to pull Seamus aside and hand the boy a tool or gift with a word of encouragement. From Lizzie, he received an apple pie, all to himself, and hugs so tight they felt like vice grips on his little frame. William got him a new hammer, some ten-penny nails and a tool belt. These tools, too, Seamus realized, were all used, but it was nice to know they were his. Upon receiving them, he ran them into the barn and placed them in his toolbox, happy that we was coming closer to manhood – and even his gifts showed his merit.

As for Tristan, he waited until the boys were playing round the oak tree before he pulled his gift from his pocket. The two boys huddled close together and Seamus looked at his brother with a sideways glance, knowing his brother hadn’t stolen or cheated someone out of this particular gift.

“You know what this is?,” the elder boy asked.

“Yep. You made this?”

Tristan went quiet and merely looked down, a little shake to his head affirming Seamus’ question.

“It’s great, Tris. Really. There’s no way I’m losing with these.” In Tristan’s hand, there were three polished balled bearings of different size and weight, all buffed to a luminous shine. The boy had taken care to pry each one out of a different set of bearings – the smallest came from an old Volkswagen CV joint, the middle sized proved more difficult from the rusted truck axle on the side of the house and, most difficult to acquire and clean, the largest was from an old John Deere tractor a mile away. To get the last one, Tristan went to the stranger’s door and asked for the axle. After much haggling and Tristan promising to take nothing but a balled bearing, the man obliged. Getting home, the boy set to cleaning each one with degreaser, a buffing compound and then finally some polish he had found in the barn. When he was done with them, he had spent over five hours on them and nearly kept them for himself. As competitive marble players, the O’Leary boys would always play in the school yard “for keeps.” With these, Seamus surmised, he would acquire a vast number of new marbles.

“I’m glad you like ‘em,” Tristan managed to say, still looking down. Seamus grabbed him then and gave a holler, punching Tristan in the arm and shoving the marbles in his pockets.

The boys got back to the house right around dusk and, to Seamus’ surprise, there was still no gift from his parents. Instead, they had cake (thanks to Lizzie) and set down to a normal supper. Even after the plates were cleared, there was no rifle to be found. Aggy walked over to the boy and, as Seamus dried a dish, said to him:

“I know what we talked about, Seamus. And it isn’t that you don’t deserve your first weapon, but your mother and I just couldn’t afford it. I’m sorry. We’re all sorry. Maybe next year.” Seamus nodded quietly and kept his eyes away, hoping the tears he knew were there would not roll down his cheeks. He remembered the conversation he had with his father and he knew a rifle had not been promised. But still, he thought, “He thinks I deserve it. I don’t have it, but he thinks I deserve it.”

After the dishes were finished, everyone gave one more hearty “Happy Birthday!” and retired to their own quarters. Seamus sat on the front stoop until it got too cold and only then did he go upstairs to his bedroom. Awaiting him, however, were all the siblings, each one sitting on his bed and talking about when they thought their littlest brother would get upstairs. Shooshing them all, Mac noticed Seamus and said, “Seamus. We have one more thing for you.”

“Oh,” the boy said. You’ve all given me gifts. They’re all great.”

“Thanks, but we have one more. From all of us. It’s under the bed, Shame.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows and dropped his body to the floor, only to find his rifle waiting for him under the bed. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Trying to speak, only a little squeak came out until he caught his breath, pulled the weapon out from the bed, held it muzzle down and asked, “How?”

“We pulled our resources,” William said. Everyone did. Mom and Dad knew they couldn’t afford it, but they pitched in and got you some ammo anyway. At any rate, you deserve this, Shame. We’re proud of you.”