Kerry stared at the picture that graced her laptop. If it had been a photo album or a mere book, she would have scaled it across the room. Instead, she plopped the laptop on the couch beside her; even at that it wasn’t the best way to treat something so expensive, but at that point, she almost didn’t care. She fiddled with the ring on her left hand; convention be damned! She would keep the ring no matter what as a reminder to be wiser next time.

“I should just throw this away!” She would have said if she hadn’t been crying for nearly a half-hour. Her throat hurt and her eyes stung from the weeping. She pulled the ring off her left hand and tossed it onto the table against the far wall. It bounced once and caromed past the table edge, falling to the floor.

“I hate myself.” She sobbed. Picking up a throw pillow, she brought it to her breast and clung to it like a long-forgotten favorite blanket or stuffed dog. She was too tired to move, even though every part of her wanted to open up the laptop once again to stare at his picture. It wasn’t fair, but then again life rarely is fair if fair at all. It just is what it is. But for human choices? Circumstances and events may often be almost capriciously guided, but when someone chooses to hurt another, it really isn’t fair.

“I...I tried to...I really tried to tell him.” She had told him, and likely as quickly as things required, but soon wasn’t soon enough and he felt betrayed. That she hadn’t told him the first moment they met seemed understandable; likely by most folk’s estimation. And in all seriousness, all of her friends reminded her that she had nothing to explain or be apologetic for, even if he felt otherwise.

“But...” She often argued with the voices that raged in her heart; nothing audible but still besetting her with doubts and worries than most other women would ever know. Other women...the idea of the distinction hit her hard nearly every day; even more so since he left.

She stared at the ring; the glow of the table lamp glittered and danced in the facets of the gem. A mere promise of a friendship. She would have felt foolish if she knew that he had indeed intended to seek more in their relationship, but her honesty and candor pushed him away. Rather, her real self. The person he was beginning to know...that person was such a disappointment to him as he had expected a lifetime of love with a real girl.

“Caveat Emptor?” She sighed and threw herself onto the couch, shoving the laptop rudely onto the floor.

“Well, I’m sorry, Cameron, but this is an irregular. You can purchase it for half price since we’re really trying to get rid of it. And it’s sold as is; no promises or guarantees.” The words flowed through her heart like poison. “All sales are final,” she shook her head at the cruelty of the indictment that escaped her lips before she dissolved into hopeless tears.

“What does it profit a girl if she gains her soul while losing her whole world?” Being a writer was both a blessing and a curse. If she had read the words she had spoken in someone’s book she would have noted the clever turn of phrase. But in her own story, they were just more words of condemnation. She felt alone and helpless and her sobs caused her to gasp and cough.

“Mommy?”

The little boy tugged at her sweater lapel, pulling her attention around. The boy looked nothing like her, of course, but he resembled her in ways that matter most. He looked her in the eyes in a way that only a loving child can in concern for a sad parent. Two misfits in an ideal but exclusive world; she with an identity created by a surgeon’s hand and he with a life borne of two who never loved but loved enough to give him a home with her.

“Uncle Cam called.” He smiled as if he had accomplished some Herculean task, and to be honest, cheering up a sad mom is no mean feat. Her eyes lit up for only a moment before she steeled herself to the impending new disappointment. She tried not to frown for her son’s sake. She sat up and wiped her face with her sleeve, failing to notice the box of tissues in his hand.

“Okay, Malik. Thank you.” She picked the boy up and gathered him in her arms. He was getting almost too big to pick up without at least a little bit of help from him.

“Uncle Cam said to tell you he’s sorry.” He half-smiled at her half-frown.

“That’s good, honey. Thank you.” She wanted to dismiss the whole moment but for the loving hug he gave her along with the words. It almost hurt more, since the man had used the child to deliver his message; not brave enough, and certainly not as brave as the little boy who had been through more than any child should endure. But the boy was as strong as can be, and wise enough, at least, to see her disappointment.

“Don’t be sad, Mommy. Okay?” His grin revealed an otherwise perfect smile but for the slight backward tile of his right eyetooth. But love is perfectly exercised by the imperfect, isn’t it? He squeezed her hand as she stared vacantly over his shoulder at the ring on the floor.

“Oh, honey, I’ll be okay.” Her words were true if not unconvincing for the moment and for the boy. He shook his head.

“Uncle Cam says he’s sorry.” Of course, the man was sorry; easy enough to express some semblance of remorse through the agency of a small child. And of course, if she had been honest she would have given him the benefit of the doubt since the call Malik answered was the only call of many that went heeded since she had chosen not to answer the phone herself. The boy smiled even brighter; his efforts to cheer her up weren’t working, but he did have more to say and even something to give of himself as well.

“Uncle Cam said to tell you he wants a second chance.” Six and a half years of age and so wise and perceptive. Her eyes lit up at the prospect of her own second chance. She pulled back hastily as she gave up hope in wise resignation before the boy continued.

“He said to look in the mailbox.” She shook her head no as if to short circuit any operation that this small family might undergo in the futile hope of a normal life. Normal. What was that, anyway? Nevertheless, her legs and arms, and body betrayed her as she found herself gently setting her son’s feet on the floor. A few minutes later she found herself standing at the bank of mailboxes in front of the apartment building. She found the small key on her keychain and opened her box. She sifted through the pile of junk mail and bills and found a plain but almost square envelope.

“Kerry and Malik Montalbano” she read aloud, noting that there was no postage on the envelope.

“Can I open it?” Malik asked with a big smile. Always a help to his mom. She handed the envelope to the boy and he gently pulled it apart and pulled out a card.

He handed it to her with the words, ‘Can I see it?’ She looked down at the boy with pride and nodded, forgetting herself. She opened the card and read it aloud.

"Dear Malik. I am so sorry that I’ve been such a bad person. I want you to know that you are very special to me. Can you do me a favor?”

She paused. Looking at the card, she noticed a few stains, as if someone had spilled something. And underneath the words she had just read, there seemed to be something embossed on the sturdy paper, causing her to gasp. She looked up as if to pray, mouthing the words ‘I’m sorry before handing the boy the card. He grabbed it eagerly and his hands danced across it until he felt the place of importance. He breathed deep and ‘read.’

“Dear Kerry. I am sorry.”

“He’s sorry, mommy!” Tears welled in her eyes and she nodded and spoke ‘yes, honey.’ He continued.

“Can I come back?”

“He wants to come back, mommy.’ He grinned eagerly as if to say ‘yes?’

“Yes, honey...he wants to come back.” She gasped

“I want to come home. And Malik? Can I be your daddy?” The boy struggled as the words escaped his mouth. He didn’t add another word as Kerry knelt beside him and hugged him tight.’’

“Yes,” was all she could say as she wept in her son’s arms. He held the card while his arms encircled her neck. With only a bit of a struggle, he managed to put hand to card once again.

“Malik? Will you ask your mother if she wants me in your family, please?” The boy stumbled only a bit over the words as he began to cry as well. Kerry nodded yes, but the boy could pay no heed as he finally read,

“Will you both be my Valentines?”

“Mommy? Uncle Cam wants us to be his Valentines. Can we, Mommy?” Again, Kerry nodded; tears falling gently onto the boy’s face. She pulled back and looked at his face; sightless eyes for a boy who had more vision than her. She nodded out of reflex but spoke once more.

“Yes, Malik. Yes.” She hugged him once again before standing up. Grabbing his hand, she looked at her beautiful child and spoke again.

“I think we should go call Uncle Cameron. Okay.”

“Okay.” The boy said eagerly as he squeezed Kerry’s hand.

“And Mommy?. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

"Happy Valentines Day, my sweet boy!"

The haunting sound of oboe and xylophone never felt so special as when Katrina danced. No one but she would know the contrarian joy of en pointe or a pirouette as if by dancing she both defined herself and defied the crowd. She turned and practically floated across the stage as all eyes beheld the sweet girl’s grace. The music turned from soothing to jarring as Sugar Plums gave way to husky Russian boys...

West Morris Central High School, Chester, New Jersey…

“Hey, you fag, watch the fuck where you’re going!” A tall young man with a pimply face interrupted the soft humming of Tchaikovsky and shoved Kenny Devuska rudely into a locker; Mark's complexion was due more to poor hygiene than the chemical he had just purchased on line. The large letters ‘WM’ seemed to embolden him, as if he was the king of the hallway.

“Leave him alone, Mark,” a voice came from behind. He turned to see a very tall and handsome looking young lady in a cutaway basketball jersey; her shoulders shone only a bit from the dull fluorescence that bathed the corridor. She punctuated her words with a slap to the back of the brute’s head.

“Fuck it, Jerri! Who the fuck do you think you are,” he said, completely missing the irony of his statement. Another voice came from his left.

“If you plan on wrestling tomorrow night, you might consider losing the huge weight between your ears. Leave the kid alone." Mark turned to see his coach shaking his index finger vigorously. A moment later he skulked down the hallway and into the gym.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the girl said as she helped the boy to his feet. She kissed his forehead almost like a big sister would her own….sister. Kenny looked at her in puzzlement until she smiled.

“I heard….your voice is sweet, and I do so love fairies.” Coming from anyone else, it might have seemed cruel and taunting, but the sparkle in the girl’s eyes and the strong hands that held the boy at arm’s length seemed to allay his fears even if only a bit. She turned to notice a few folks had gathered in the hallway, along with the beast who had accosted the boy only moments before.

“You gonna be okay?”

The girl stared at Kenny; his eyes seemed filled with fear, but it wasn’t for what might happen, but for what might not. Almost like a dream cum nightmare, he trembled until Jerri Polakowski did what any knight in a shining cotton/polyester blend might do. Pulling the boy close, she kissed him full on the lips. And just like the fiery redhead in that old John Wayne movie, he tilted his head back and actually raised his left leg in surrender.

“Happy Valentine’s day, sweetie,” Jerri said as she looked around the hallway. The crowd broadcast its approval by a smattering of applause and a mix of smiles and surprised gawking. A very large man emerged from the office across from the impromptu romance. Ignoring the scene, he walked directly to the older boy; smacking him on the back of the head in similar fashion as Jerri’s demonstration only moments before.

“Get back and you can do …oh, I guess a hundred laps after you suit up, okay Mr. Polakowski?” The coach smiled at him with a very satisfied grin before nodding at the boy’s sister. She nodded back.

“Thanks!” She said before turning her attention once more to the slight figure who stood practically in her shadow. She patted his arms with her hands in a gesture of encouragement. No demonstration for effect; she actually liked the boy; it was just who she was and what and who she saw. Her Oscar to his Felix in a way; an odd couple for the ages at West Morris. She kissed him on the cheek and said softly once more,

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Milaya….” Her voice trailed off softly as she stepped back and faded quickly into the crowd. And a moment later some swore they saw a petite ballerina dancing down the hallway to the strains of the Waltz of the Flowers….

Nina Kapsova; Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker
by Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Wz4cG5phfA

Rush, New York, February 14, 2011

Mary Grace opened the yellowing envelope carefully; it gave way easily with seams that no longer adhered and corners worn by years of handling. Gently pushing it apart with her left hand, she reached in and grabbed the card inside.
The card was single-ply with a picture of two fawns bumping noses.

She smiled at the sentiment of a six-year-old boy from decades past whose simple love and care reached across time to touch her heart.

She swallowed and blinked back tears. The most precious thing she could ever point to in a very troubled childhood. She recalled with fondness and only a tiny bit of residual sadness the day she received the treasure.

“My Mom says I hafta give everybody a Valentine,” the boy said. You don’t hafta keep it if you don’t wanna.” A hand reached over.

“But even if I didn’t hafta give you one, I would. I like you a lot.” He stepped closer, looking for all the world, as they say, as if he was about to bestow a kiss.
The boy was shooed away by a very kind and well-meaning teacher who merely reflected how things were back then.

The woman grabbed the Valentine and shook her head no. Innocence interrupted in a way as the woman returned to the front of the classroom and placed the card on her desk. Thankfully the day was nearly over, and the card was retrieved later while the teacher was pre-occupied with getting coats and galoshes and hats all sorted out on a cold afternoon in February.

“What you did, Anthony?” She shook her head as she stared down at the card. The pencil was nearly faded, but overwritten several times in ink; each time the hand was steady until recently when pens became shaky even if memory was as steady as always.

“You…I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, Anthony Macaluso.”

She blinked back tears over the memory of a boy who made the supreme difference in her life. And who made a supreme sacrifice on behalf of companions years ago in a rice paddy a whole world away. She shook her head and smiled even as the tears flowed; a yearly ritual that was dreaded and welcomed at the same time. The stains from crying over the years added character to the fading card; almost like the patina on the birch backing of a Martin guitar or the brown stains on the bottom of a favorite coffee mug.

She sighed as she remembered the boy from so long ago; forever etched in her memory as a six-year-old with red hair and big green, caring eyes. He and his family moved away that summer, and she never saw him again. Only in reading in the paper had she learned of his fate. The boy became a man who loved enough not to love his own life too much, as some would say. Not a surprise, when he loved enough to give a Valentine that made her life complete so many years ago.

“Mom says to give everybody one…so nobody will know, okay?” The soft, tentative voice spoke from beyond the pale as if the little boy stood before her at that moment.

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble,” the boy would say afterward. It never became trouble because no one ever knew other than the teacher who spared them both. A hastily confiscated card ‘accidentally’ left unattended to be retrieved when nobody was looking. She peered down at the card and noticed, of course, that fresh tear stains graced the paper. Ironic, she thought, remembering her middle name.

“Mary Grace…actually Mary Graziano Forte.” She spoke it quietly to herself, but the voice was still heard.

“He must have been something special,” the man who sat across from her in the rocker; he didn’t look up since it was a ritual for her that spanned decades, predating even their thirty years together. The words spoke more of an acknowledgment of her history rather than a question; another opportunity to thank God for the love of a boy who was blind in all the best ways with otherwise perfect vision.

She looked at the card once again and then up at her husband. The cards he gave her over the years were just as special; each tea rose or carnation or dinner out had just as much importance in her life, if in a completely different context.

“I should get another envelope for this.” Something she would say every year and then forget; not in forgetfulness, but because to replace the envelope would be, perhaps, to lose the most important part of the treasure, even if it was faded and yellowed with age. She read the card once more before placing in the envelope.

She slipped the card into the envelope and folded the flap carefully before turning to look at the front one last time until the next Valentine’s Day one year hence; blessed by another year's worth of tears.