A Hard-Won Christmas Gift
A/N: Since RobinAngelena doesn't have a profile, I have to comment here, that yes, I remembered that song verse too. It popped into my head when I was trying to come up with a title for Story 6. Thanks for sharing; you have a good memory!
Nine-year Hank Booth sat 'hunkered down' on an old crate in the back of his father's garage, his brow furrowed and the tip of his tongue protruding from his mouth, upper lip caught between his teeth. His great-grandfather would've recognized this posture and expression as a sign of intense concentration he'd often seen exhibited by Hank's grandfather Edwin as a boy. (Of course, reminiscing about Booth's father was not something Pops did aloud, due to the abuse his son had inflicted upon Shrimp and Jared. This horrible situation hurt the old man's heart for decades in ways he'd never express; guilt, worry, and deep sadness. The patriotic, daring, dedicated fighter pilot of whom he'd been so proud had fallen prey to PTSD, a soldier's torturous malady that existed long before effective treatments came about.)
At present, Hank, Sr. was observing Hank, Jr. from a comfortable cloud.
Little Hank, who'd recently begun protesting the infantile nature of this moniker, held a small block of pine in one hand and his Cub Scout knife in the other. His third grade Bear Cub Scout den had recently completed the Whittling Chip program, learning pocket knife safety and handling protocols. Personal and group safety was a constant concern of Pack 705's leaders, as with all Scouting mentors, and they stressed this to their young charges all the time. The ten boys in the Grizzly and Kodiak patrols were justly proud of their newly-awarded Whittling Chip badges and certification cards. Hank was especially pleased with his accomplishment, knowing that Pops had loved whittling and carved little trucks and what-nots for his wife and grandsons when time allowed.
Booth's younger son was trying mightily to create a Christmas gift for his father in secret, which was hard to do with his eagle-eyed mother around. Knowing his dad's love of Christmas trees, the boy was carving a small pine tree. He had shaped the rectangular pine block into a roughly triangular cone, and was carving small grooves, notches, and points to represent its evergreen foliage. Once done, he hoped to ask Hodgins for help inserting a peg at the bottom to serve as a trunk. Having worked on his project in ten- and fifteen-minute intervals as he raked up fall leaves before Brennan noticed his absence from the back yard, Hank was almost finished detailing his miniature tree.
He admired his handiwork and decided a few more cuts would make it just about perfect. (As perfect as an amateur whittler could achieve, anyway.) Far above, Hank, Sr. chuckled at his great-grandson's thoughts.
One or two more slices would just about do-"Ow! That really hurt!"
Hank grabbed his left index finger and applied quick pressure to the inadvertent incision he'd made. Applying extra pressure to get past a tiny knot in the wood, his knife had slipped and sliced flesh instead. Dismayed, Hank grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and wrapped his bleeding finger in the soft cotton. Sighing, he stood up and headed for the kitchen where his mom was stirring puttanesca sauce. As he opened the back door, she spoke while continuing to work.
"Did you finishing the raking, Hank?"
"Mom, I need some help."
Brennan quickly removed the spoon from the pot, turned down the heat, and turned to face her youngest child.
"You cut your finger on the rake?" she asked in amazement. How could this happen? She thought to herself.
"No, Mom, my pocket knife slipped."
"Henry Joseph Booth! What were you doing with a knife?"
"Mom, lemme explain," Hank pleaded. "I'm making a present for Dad. It's hard to keep a secret from him; he snoops through all the closets for gifts, worse than I did in kindergarten! I've been working on it in the garage; can I show you?"
"Come on, show me quickly before you bleed to death," Brennan answered drily, knowing this hyperbolic statement was more characteristic of her husband, who would whisk their children off to the emergency room in a panic if left to his own devices when they got hurt.
Hank laughed in spite of his discomfort.
"Hold your finger up by your face, Son, elevating it will lessen the bleeding and relieve that painful throbbing pressure you're feeling," his mother advised.
"First let me take a look at your cut," she added.
"No, Mom, first we gotta hide it before Dad gets home!" Hank protested. "It's almost finished and I can't have him seeing it now!"
"Hank," Brennan warned. "Give me your hand. Now." She reached into the cabinet for a small first aid kit, snapped it open, and took out several sterile gauze pads.
Reluctantly, Hank did as she asked. Unwrapping the blood-stained t-shirt, his mom took a quick glance at the cut, and re-applied pressure with the clean gauze to staunch the bleeding.
"Hold that in place, and let's go," she told him. The pair exited the kitchen, walked across the back patio, down the steps, and entered the tool shed portion of the garage.
"See, I'm carving a Christmas tree ornament for Dad, and I was almost done when I cut myself! I've got to put it away before he sees it!" Hank declared.
"Where is your hiding place?" his mother asked.
"In my tackle box. Since we don't fish in the winter, I figured it was the best place….Dad wouldn't be checking our gear again until spring."
"Smart thinking, Kiddo," Brennan smiled. "Your father will love your thoughtful gift, Hank. That's a very creative idea; this little tree will be a nice addition to his ornament collection. I'm sure he will treasure it in the future, but right now, we need to get your finger taken care of."
She picked up Hank's pen knife, closed it carefully, then reached for the small carved tree. Wrapping it in the scrap of flannel from Booth's old shirt her son had obviously been using for protection and concealment, she placed both items in Hank's tackle box and replaced it on the shelf alongside Booth's larger one.
"Okay, Daniel Boone, let's get you fixed up before Booth gets home!"
Back in the kitchen, Brennan checked her sauce, pulled steri-strips from the first aid kit, washed and peroxided Hank's finger, closed the cut snugly, and expertly applied a wide fabric Band-aid. Closing the kit, she discarded the bandage wrapper and picked up the gauze.
"Take off that t-shirt, Hank. We need to put it in the washer before your dad sees it."
Brennan moved to the sink, turned on the tap, and rinsed the gauze until the water ran clear. Then she pulled a page of the newspaper from their recycling bin, wrapped the gauze inside, and placed it in the trash. Once Hank had stripped off his t-shirt, she headed to the laundry room, soaked its hem with Shout, and started a load of bath towels waiting in the hamper. After the washer tub was filled with water, detergent and towels, she added the t-shirt, selected a cycle, closed the lid, pressed "Start" and returned to her sauce, which had thickened nicely.
By the time she'd started a pot of spaghetti to boil, Hank returned wearing a clean t-shirt. Brennan looked him in the eye, removed a clean water glass from the dishwasher, walked outside, and set it on the back porch.
"Normally, I do not condone lying for any reason. But, in this case, I will make a rare exception for you. If Booth asks what happened to your finger, tell your dad you ran into some glass while doing your chores out here. Pick up that glass, come back inside, and help me set the table, please."
Hank grinned at his mom, hugged her tightly and followed her back to the kitchen. "Mom, you're the best!"
"This will be our secret," she replied. "Now hurry up, Christine is due back from soccer practice, and your father will be home before long."
Six weeks later, on a frosty Christmas morning, Booth unwrapped an oddly-shaped, clumsily-wrapped gift his son handed him.
The small pine tree nestled in tissue paper had a small rounded peg for a trunk, and a thin wire loop hot-glued to its topmost tip. In black marker, Hank had laboriously written on the bottom of the tree, "To Dad, from Hank, Christmas 2024".
As Brennan predicted, it became one of Booth's most cherished Christmas keepsakes. Hank, Jr. was pleased as punch, and somewhere, Hank, Sr. bragged to his angelic buddies how fine his namesake was growing up.