The Valentine's Card

A short story

Pete

Pete found a parking spot among the badly parked cars and fast food litter, and turned off the ignition. He sat still inside his compact Ford Focus, a gift from his parents on his wedding day. On their wedding day. Pete and Grace, married all of four years as of last summer. Grace's lip gloss and a half-eaten granola bar were stuffed in the cup holder, and he wondered how long it had been there; probably a long time. Grace didn't drive much these days - didn't leave the house really, if he thought about it. Pete decided not to think about it. 

He sat for a few more moments, then sighed and opened the door, walked slowly through lightly falling snow to the sliding doors, and into the huge Walmart. He saw the card section immediately. Several men shuffled in front of the pink and red paper, some in work clothes, a few in shirt and tie, and one white-haired gentleman wearing a brown fedora and what once were expensive leather shoes. Pete groaned inwardly, not really wanting to join the group or the search. He was embarrassed - he never bought her Valentine's card this late, on the very day no less, but this week had been nuts. First Grace and then he had come down with a flu, he had worked late, and then yesterday was in this same parking lot when he realized his wallet was still on the kitchen table. 

Well, there was nothing for it, as they say. He smiled apologetically at a slight, nervous looking man in khaki pants, turning sideways to reach for a card. It had "To My Loving Wife" in swirling cursive red on a light purple background, and inside an ornate poem with words like "deep love" and "light of my life". He put it back. There was very little light in the eyes of Grace at present. She was probably still lying in bed, rumpled covers, needing a shower. He had a hard time looking at her the last month or so. Her hair hung limp and dull, but it was the blank, almost desperate expression twisting her features that hurt his heart so much. The doctor had told them, gently but firmly, that she would have to try another medication. Pete had been too angry to reply. They left the cramped, antiseptic office in silence, and there had been silence ever since. None of the medications were working, wasn't it obvious? 

Pete set his jaw and reached for another card. The man in construction vest and work boots beside him was chuckling. 

"Look at this one", he said, leaning back and snickering again. 

"FOR A GOOD TIME CALL ... (insert your number here)", Pete read, noting the bawdy image and bonus cartoon blonde wearing a bikini. 

Pete shook his head. "Not what I'm after."

The man blinked at him. "Isn't that what this stupid day is all about? Huh? Gettin' a little action?" 

The white-haired old man glanced at Pete, an unreadable expression in his eyes. 

Pete decided to move down the row a little. He'd be standing here for an hour if he kept up like this, and he should probably get home. Even as the thought welled up Pete grimaced, not willing to admit that he would rather be here in this gritty, overbright big box - anywhere actually - than be pacing softly around the dimly lit rooms of his own small house. He grabbed three or four cards impatiently, scanned them, put them back. 

Thomas

Thomas Wembley tried to keep from biting his nails. He took a piece of gum out of his jacket and chewed it vigorously. He hated being here, hated the presence of the other men, all who probably had nice wives waiting for them or a dinner date out tonight. He wasn't even buying a card for someone like that, he needed to get one for Mother. 

She had been shrill on the phone last night, telling him to be there for dinner no later than five, and for heaven's sake have some decency, get a hair cut. He had got the hair cut this morning, and now at 4:35 was almost beside himself without a card and no time left. The heart-shaped box of chocolates was melting in his other hand.

Thomas fidgeted, dropping the "For That Special Someone" card he'd mistakenly picked up. A heavily perfumed man in a dark blue suit reached down and got it for him, smiling generously.  "Hope you have a great night with your lady!" he beamed. Thomas felt one corner of his mouth twitch upwards. He managed to get out a nervous laugh, a sort of squeak, and retreated behind the aisle. He finally settled on a large and somewhat ostentatious card, "For My Dear Mother" emblazoned in silver foil across the front. He still had to write the message. Hopefully there was a pen in the car. 

More than anything, Thomas could not be late. He wondered, what if he did have a girl? Would they be going to his mother's for dinner tonight? Yes, he was sure of it. He couldn't imagine any scenario otherwise. He wiped a hand over his eyes and quickly got through the till. No time to think about it, but Thomas looked one last time at the young man in jeans and a wedding ring by the Valentine's display, and wished with every fibre of his being that they could somehow trade places. Maybe in another life.

Perhaps Mother had made the jello salad. He hoped so. At least there was that to look forward to. 

Ken

Ken was pissed. That over-dressed Italian ape in the blue suit kept taking the cards he was trying to look at. Why were the cards so picked over? They probably hadn't restocked the shelf, the lazy oafs. 

It was hard to find anything he wanted. Well, not what he wanted, but what she would want. He knew enough not to bring a tawdry card home again. Last year he hadn't got any action at all, not even a kiss. She was turning into a boring wife. He couldn't believe sometimes that he had worked so hard at getting her, nailing her down so to speak, but at least she had a good job. Ken wasn't in a hurry; she wouldn't be home until seven anyway. He had lots of time to stop in at the bar. Maybe that waitress would be there, the one who winked at him last week. 

Ken sighed and scratched his head under his hat.  He noticed one younger dude, clean cut guy in jeans, twisting a wedding ring. He'd probably be here for hours, trying to find the right card, another hen-pecked loser. What were all these buffoons doing here anyway? Didn't they know Valentine's Day was today? What a bunch of slackers. They were lucky though, their wives would probably dress up in something tight and put on makeup and red lipstick. Not like his wife, thin and tired, with her feet up on a cushion half the time. 

She knew he was trying to find a job. He'd probably have one any day now, and he'd show that hag who was boss. He stomped off toward the checkout. Never mind a card. He would just buy her a chocolate bar, and one for himself too. It was getting hot in the store anyway, and Ken suddenly felt a thirst come on him he couldn't ignore. 

Charles

He felt almost young today, standing among the other men. Charles tipped his hat to the serious young man a few feet over who had opened at least twenty cards and put them back. It was tradition now, for him to go get the card on Valentine's Day, about the same time he would have been getting off work years ago. Beverly knew where he was; it was part of the fun. She would be setting the table now with the real silver, the teapot, the lace doily, the little glass bowl of cinnamon hearts. Charles usually found the right card in a few minutes, but today he felt himself watching the men milling around. It seemed that every year, there were more on the last day, at the last minute. He wondered where the thoughtfulness had gone, the careful planning. Everything was instant now, that was it. 

He noticed a man in a dark blue suit had two cards, each very different. Charles didn't really want to know the story there. A nervous man was biting his nails and clenching a box of chocolates. They were the kind old people like himself enjoyed. 

Charles felt an almost grandfatherly affection for one young man, the one with sad eyes; he was about the same age as Charles and Beverley's own grandson, though he had not seen the boy in so long. It was hard to know. 

The young man had a plaid shirt under his smart looking coat, and a stillness about him that Charles noticed. He gestured toward the rows of cards. 

"Sometimes they seem so silly, don't they? I mean, for something so important."

The young man smiled, just a hint of one. 

"I suppose so."

"You've got quite a handful there, hey?"

He gave that small smile again. 

"Well, it's hard to know, to know really...." He let it drift away. 

"Yes, it can be. I remember. These days I don't have to think so hard."

The young husband was restless, lingering. He looked up at Charles and smiled with his eyes this time. 

"You've been together a long time, I take it."

"53 years this spring. Feels much shorter though, you know. Like I am still just getting to know her."

The conversation appeared to be over. The other man was lost in his thoughts, seeming to forget that Charles, or anyone else, was there. 

He selected his card, and shuffled off, purpose in each step. He could hardly wait to get home, home to her. 

Pete 

Pete had a headache. He had been here, standing in front of this garish candy-colored display, for a solid half hour at least. Why couldn't he find a good card?! A decent card, even. Something. 

Nothing was right. What good could a colored paper card do, anyway. Pete felt a bit foolish as the group of men thinned out, leaving just himself, the white-haired gentleman, and a couple of newcomers. Even the aromatic, slick-haired blue suit had gone, though the air still reeked of cologne. 

Pete had thought of buying jewelry, something pretty and delicate, like Grace. But he could not bear to see it sit on the dresser, day after day as he knew it would, unworn. He had picked up a nice silky thing with a sash for tying, whatever they called them, a soft thing for sleeping or lounging. All he could think of was the word 'housecoat', but that wasn't quite it. The robe was still hanging over the door, tags attached with a pin. She liked it, he knew she must. Grace had thanked him in that quiet, slightly robotic voice she had lately. He had hugged her tight. Later that night he woke up, suddenly, and found he had tears going down his cheeks into the pillow. What was happening to him? He felt like the whole world was spinning, like tub water going down the drain. He wished he could fix her, fix Grace. Anything that would stop this cold feeling, as if his heart was being squeezed all the time in his chest. If he could just take a deep breath. Pete realized he was holding his breath now; he let it go slowly, so as not to let the other men hear. He felt a bit light-headed. 

Grace had loved Valentine's day. That first year they had gone down to the park, it was a Saturday.  The ice was cracking on the ponds, and they stood on the bridge and watched the other couples sitting on benches, and he held her small gloved hands to keep her warm. They had a bag of cinnamon hearts, and both their mouths were stained red as they opened them to laugh. Grace was so excited to be going to a movie later, and he was excited because she was. 

It wasn't until the third year that he noticed something wasn't right. Grace usually loved to cook, and they had many hilarious experiments and some downright delicious feasts. That was the first thing he realized - she had started cooking the same thing every night. And then she started going to bed so early, and then she stopped going in to work. Then the visits to the doctor. The first time was the worst; it was admitting something was wrong with Grace, his beautiful free-spirited wife, his one true friend. 

Pete rubbed his cheek with his hand, and raked his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. He talked a bit with the old man, managed to make semi-normal conversation. He picked up a card with a butterfly in the shape of a heart. Maybe that would be good. No, the message inside seemed ridiculously shallow. He put it back, and watched the elder gentleman reach for one further down, in the blank cards section. It was blue with a simple flower on the front. He watched him smile and tuck it under his arm, and walk straight toward the checkout. Pete wished he knew what to do so easily. 

He thought of Grace, at home, a small bundle under the covers. She had been alone all day; she must feel so alone. He had a card gripped tight in his hands. He looked down at it, unseeing. 

Suddenly, Pete did know what to do. He stuffed the one he was holding back in the rack. He left the aisles of cards, he sped quickly past the people waiting in lines, went through the big doors. He was almost running now, and then he was running, almost leaping toward the little car, a man on a mission. 

Pete was going home, as fast as he could do it, home to Grace. He loved her, that was all he needed this Valentine's - to be beside her, no matter what. He sped out of the parking lot and onto the road home. 

Next year he might get a card, a simple one, one with a flower on the front and lots of blank space where Pete could pour out all the love in his beating heart. 

The  End