Special Issue #13 ISSN 1547-5957

paperwork were the words: Paid in full. When I mentioned there was nothing
on the headstone, one of the men shrugged. “Guess there wasn’t anything worth
putting on there,” he said, slapping his backside. Both men had a good laugh as
they departed with their cart. Despicable men of no worth, I was sure.
Two days before Christmas, I received a phone call from the Daily News. A Mrs.
Williams introduced herself as the editor of the newspaper. She said she’d received
a request to publish my obituary in her paper, adding the donor insisted it take up
one full page of the paper. The donor had submitted the obituary with a rather large
sum of cash, both being delivered by a cab driver. “What?” I yelled. “I’m very much
alive. How can you have an obituary for me? What does it say?”
“I’m not in the habit of having people scream at me, Mr. Feeney,” she said. “I’m
sorry sir, but the person who purchased the space insisted I not release it until it has
been published. It is just as well you don’t know,” she said, just as the connection
was lost.
Why were the gifts continuing? I thought I had been clear about my demands
they stop at once. Further action on my part would be required. It occurred to
me that many of the gifts were expensive. Where were the employees getting the
money? That thought bothered me greatly.
As I left the shop on Christmas Eve, I reminded the employees of the change
in quitting time. The snow had started to fall, the wind brisk and chilling. The
sidewalks were becoming snow covered, and darkness had fallen. Christmas music
blared from the stores. People rushed about, no doubt wasting their money on
gifts. Let them. They are fools.
The tapping on my door was light but persistent. I never have visitors to my
home, and peddlers have been threatened to stay away. Upon opening the door,
I looked left, then right, pulling my robe close to soften the chill. There was only
the darkness, a dim glow from the street lamp, the swirling of the snow. I turned to
close the door, satisfied the tapping must have been caused by the wind. It was at
that moment I notice the note pinned to the door.
“From your window see your gift arriving.” The note was written on my
company stationary. I crumbled the note up and threw it across the room. From
the street came the sound of a car horn, just one short blast. I walked to the window
and looked out. The snow was increasing, making it difficult to see the street lamp
a short distance away. Then, I saw it, the amber parking lights glowing like two evil
eyes. It was long and sleek, its black paint polished to a high luster. The exhaust
drifted upward into the frigid blackness. Was I seeing things? A hearse?
I shot out my door and raced toward the curb. I would force the driver to reveal
who was behind the gifts. My robe was no match for the cold and windblown
snow. My hands were beginning to feel the sting from the icy night as I reached
the driver’s side and yanked open the door. I expected to find one of my employees
behind the wheel. There was no one to be found. The fragrance of flowers drifted
from the warm interior. I stood for a moment, looking about. Who had been
42 The Literary Hatchet