The Gag Gift

By G.A. Jahn

It's dinner time in suburbia and a precocious child is sharing with her parents some very disturbing thoughts about this so-called 'gift of life.' We all want our kids to be above average, but parents should be careful what they wish for!

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.A. Jahn
• Release date: Oct 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370964352

Book preview

THE

GAG GIFT

G A Jahn

Smashwords edition ©2014 G.A.Jahn

If all in life is pointless,

our tragedies might just as well be jokes.

THE

GAG GIFT

It was a butterfly in contradiction: wings bowed as though in flight yet perched upon its rubber petal. The father smiled as he offered it to little Freddy in his highchair, and the squealing ceased at once.

Only smaller squabbles remained. Eight-year-old Daniel had still to be chased back to the table for dessert, and his sister, Virginia, imperious in her cheerleader outfit — glowing phone dangling from a limp wrist — glared down at her plate of apple cobbler.

She sighed. "Really? I need all that sugar."

Oh hush! said her mother.

Small and nimble (a former cheerleader herself), the mother was wearing her usual Friday attire: housekeeping jeans and a grayed, untucked blouse. She had placed dirty dishes in the sink and stood for a moment with her chin raised high against the faucet splash, then hurried to refill the coffee cups.

Soon, all was calm in the kitchen.

Seated once more beside her husband, the mother patted his arm and whispered: Leave the bib. He’s been spitting up all day. Her lips curled tenderly at little Freddy’s wet-reddened cheeks and the beige bobo bobbing gently. She smiled at the others as well; after all, it was not often that her busy family was collected so closely around her.

But then, making sad eyes at her younger daughter, she said: Janey, you’re so quiet tonight. Tough day?

Everyone turned to look at small, bespectacled Jane, pale and narrow-shouldered in a white turtleneck. She had been reclining peacefully in her chair, a fork swaying idly between two fingers, but now sat up straight. Mm-mh, she mumbled, thrusting the fork into her dessert.

Jane was in her first year of middle school. She often displayed this troubling habit: speaking only when spoken to, but her mother had been sensing that something tonight was actually amiss.

Dear … ? she urged.

The daughter let out a sigh. No, it’s just —  Her glasses were tapped back with a quick knuckle. We saw a movie today. Well, just the girls. The boys all got to go play in the gym.

Ahh! said Virginia, smiling at last and licking a fingerful of whipped cream. "The movie. Her lips went ishy to add: grodey totes, right? — like when the kid’s head pops out between her legs … ?"

"Gin-ny!" cried the mother.

Virginia tipped back to laugh and drum sock heels on the newly polished floor. A chuckle had come from the father as well, but the mother continued to stare at the scolded daughter.

Arcing her eyes, Virginia sat up straight and guided a length of long flaxen hair behind an ear studded with polished bronze, then, intently, unblinkingly, like a spider wrapping up a cricket, began thumbing her phone.

The father continued to be amused. He was a large man (a linebacker at one time) and still dressed in the light blue shirt he had worn to the office that morning. But his expression became one of concern as both he and his wife turned again to their younger daughter.

Dear, said the mother, was there something about the film that troubled you?

Jane had lowered her eyes. Kinda. She sighed once more. They were holding this baby, the parents were. And … it was crying, and … (the girl’s shoulders came up) … they were smiling at it.

For a moment all became silent. The mother and father seemed to be waiting for further information, but Jane only took another bite of her dessert.

What do you mean, sweetheart, asked the mother. What was so bad about that.

While continuing to chew, the daughter let her head fall to one side as if wishing she had said nothing at all. Her sister was frowning at the phone now gone dark at her elbow; and their brother Daniel, with a fork that looked too heavy for his little hand, was stabbing chimp-fisted at his plate of cobbler. He and his blond mop-top seemed oblivious to what the grown-ups were talking about.

If you want, said the father, you and Mom can talk about it later. After supper.

No, it’s just — Jane was still chewing. As she did so, her long auburn ponytail, draped far down the back of her chair, swayed ponderously side to side, like a stricken tree limb hanging by its bark. I kept wondering, (she swallowed) what right did the parents have to make their baby cry like that.

The father blinked, several times.

The mother looked puzzled as well. "How do you mean, dear? Did the parents … do something to the baby?"

No, it’s just … Jane was examining the crumbs on her fork, like, they decided to have this baby, right? And … it was crying. And they were smiling at it. She looked up. "Like they were glad it was crying. Like it wasn’t even their fault."

The parents’ eyes had widened.

Virginia, not surprised at all, was giggling to herself. "… all aboard for the short bus."

"Ginny!" The mother slapped the table.

"Well what! Virginia’s hands were in the air. Babies always cry! That’s just what they do! A palm was thrown toward the far end of the table. What does screech-mart ever do. Besides poop!"

The boy laughed wildly at this, puffing cobbler flakes in all directions.

Danny! Ginny! The mother continued patting the tablecloth and scowling at her husband’s grin.

Due to the loud voices, the baby had begun to cry once more, and the father (catching the pacifier) leaned over little Freddy with smiles and gentle chuckles.

The mother waited for a tolerable silence to return. When she spoke, it was in softened tones. Janey, I’m sorry the film didn’t make this clear, but, really, the parents aren’t to blame for the baby’s crying. Ginny’s right. Babies always cry when they’re born — all you kids did — they’re just, she sighed, they’re just scared, sweetie. They’re frightened. The mother tipped forward (to see past her husband’s shoulder) and puckered her lips sadly at the baby. Poor little things. They have to go from where it’s warm and quiet and … into the chilly air of the delivery room. She turned back to her daughter. They can’t help but cry. But, really, the parents have nothing to do with that. (Everyone was staring at the girl’s lustrous red hair.) You do see that, don’t you?

Without looking up, Jane set down her fork and placed both hands in her lap. She spoke in a small, deliberate voice: "But … if the parents chose to have a baby knowing it would cry, then they must’ve either … wanted their baby to cry, or they just didn’t care that it would cry."

All around the table mouths had drifted open.

The mother was first to speak. Danny, you may be excused. Take your dessert with you.

The boy dashed away.

No longer smiling, the father sat tall and motionless with one hand still on the tray of the highchair. His elder daughter was staring at him, eyes wide and head atilt, as if demanding that he say something.

Jane, he began, where’s this coming from. Something online or — ?

No! cried Virginia. "She’s perfectly capable of dreaming this up herself! ’Member what she said about show-and-tell?"

The mother had raised a palm, but she was looking at her younger daughter. Delicately, she said: Janey … you know it’s not reasonable, what you’re saying. Parents can’t be thought of as … meanies for giving their children the gift of life. They just can’t. She pressed a hand on her husband’s sleeve. "Yes, all parents know their babies will cry, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care. Believe me, they’d give anything for their babies not to cry, but there’s just … no other way to do it."

Slumped far back in her chair, Jane was staring down at the margin of tablecloth draped over the edge. (Her eyes, like the well-worn cloth, were a somber and uneven green, nearly washed-out in spots, and patterned