Gift of the Milgi: Part One
Editor’s note: This story is based on The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry. You can read the original short story in full here.
Killeen, Texas, 2009
Darcy McNeal had been told (as a new spouse) that developing a routine was important during a deployment. Well, she had her routine down to a science.
Work, drink wine, sleep, and repeat.
Seven months in and she felt like she was doing okay. She avoided most news networks, checked her email daily (sometimes twice), and always had her phone by her side, charged and ready. But her favorite part of the routine was the trip to the community mailbox in their apartment complex. Sometimes (on the best of days), nestled amongst the bills, the flyers, and the catalogs of things she could never afford… there would be a letter.
A simple plain envelope with Mike’s neat block lettering. The walk back to Apartment 2B was always excruciating on those days, but Darcy also had a routine for reading those letters. After putting on Mike’s Red Sox sweatshirt, Darcy would curl up in his beat-up recliner with a glass of wine in her most treasured possession—a 1957 Waterford Crystal Lismore glass given to her by her beloved grandmother. This was her favorite routine by far, and the letter she had picked up this morning before work waited patiently for her.
Afghanistan, 2009
Darce,
No words can describe the past few weeks. It has been brutal—both the heat and the violence—and I am not sure which one is worse. The word FUBAR is overused in the Army world, but if you looked it up, I am pretty sure yesterday’s date and place would be the definition. I know we have talked since the last s**t show went down, but I need you to know how much I can’t wait to leave this place and just come home. I know we both gripe about how small our place is, but right now, it is Montana or Texas compared to this place. I just want to hold you and sleep for days.
We haven’t really talked about it, but I know you were pissed when I bought the Camaro before I left (I am telling ya, 1971 was a good year), and I know you didn’t understand at the time. I know money is tight, and I know we don’t need an extra car (missing many parts) right now. But I also know that I need to get my hands on something that I can fix, Darce… I need to forget about the chaos and the past year in this hell. I promise I will find a place to work on it and it won’t take up too much time. My brother is okay with keeping it in his yard for right now, and I have been emailing some garages around Killeen and may be able to rent some space if we get creative with savings. I don’t want anything for Christmas this year. No presents. Only you!
I promise to tell you more when I get back Darce, just try and understand.
Love you always,
Mike
Darcy took a sip of her wine as she remembered the fight they had when he told her about the car. He had wanted it since his last deployment in 2006, but their wedding and combined debt put that dream on hold. The week before he deployed, he bought the car without asking her. She remembered him pleading with her to understand, but Darcy wouldn’t talk to him then. She was upset, not only because he bought a car that did not run, but because she was going to ask him if she could spend the extra money on something she wanted.
The memory of it now was as heavy as the glass in her hand, and Darcy felt guilty. Guilty because she wanted to use the money for something totally selfish. She wanted to complete the antique crystal set her grandmother had given her. It was more of an heirloom than that old car, and it was something to build on. But if Darcy was being honest with herself, she really didn’t know enough about the glasses except that they had belonged to her beloved “Honey,” a vanity name insisted on by her grandma, who raised her after her parents died.
Honey loved entertaining and listening to stories. Darcy remembered sitting on the stairs listening to the laughter and the sweet, delicate sound the glasses made as they clinked together. After the guests left, Darcy would help Honey clean up and wash the glasses by hand. Darcy loved drying the glasses, forcing the dishtowel into the wide, smooth crevices of the glass.
“That’s Waterford Crystal, Darcy.” Honey leaned in closer to her. “It is made by the Irish, and it is magical.” Honey held it up to the light and said, “I only wish I had more. Imagine how lovely a dinner party of eight would be.”
Darcy held her wine glass up to the light and reflected on this conversation, and her heart began to swell with the realization that only comes with age. She realized what was really magical was not this 1957 Lismore glass, but the person who gifted it to her.
The next weekend, armed with her new knowledge, Darcy drove to Houston to an antiques dealer who gave her a fair price for both of the rare glasses. Turns out her Honey’s “magical glasses” were just enough to rent space and tools at a local garage. When it was all said and done, she was able to rent the space for one year starting in January after he came home. Hopefully that would give him time to fix up that old Camaro and heal from whatever this war had done to his spirit.
Darcy put the garage contract in an old shoe box and wrapped it up in last year’s Christmas paper. She smiled to herself. There was no real battle between nostalgia and love….
Love should always win.
