Wise Man

By Aletta Silver

Roger was reading the ingredient label on a jar of pickles when something bright twinkled at the edge of his vision. He scanned the store. It glinted at him from the clothing department, like candles reflecting off a piece of tinsel. He put the pickles back—too much sodium—and turned his shopping cart toward the light.

He passed by the women’s swimsuits and the sunglasses stand, the squeak of the cart’s rear wheel sounding sweeter the closer he got. It led him to the edge of the children’s section where the starlight twinkled from a clearance rack. The last of winter’s clothing was jammed together under bright yellow signs declaring, “$6!” and “$3!”

A tiny coat with a dinosaur on the pocket glimmered as if coated by stardust. Roger pulled it from the rack and traced his leathery hand over the embroidered brontosaurus. His Josh had loved dinosaurs. He turned to a mirror tucked between shelves of t-shirts and held the tiny coat up to his neck. His face smiled back at him, a mass of wrinkles crowned by thinning, gray hair.

“A bit small for me.” He chuckled and checked the size. Six to nine months. The light faded away, but he didn’t need it to guide his choices now. A baby in need of a coat would also need a sweater. He found one with a smiling teddy bear and some knit pants in matching sizes. There were no boots left in any size, but a child that age wouldn’t be walking, anyway. He settled for some thick socks and a fleecy blanket instead.

Roger was tucking them away between his cans of beans when the light reappeared in a different part of the store.  Immediately, he followed.

The squeaking wheel sounded like jingling bells as Roger wheeled over to the automotive section. There he found a set of road flares and a shiny tow-strap. He hummed along to the wheel as the light beamed from the outdoor department. He drew bemused looks from other shoppers at his husky rendition of Joy to the World months after stores had put away their Christmas music. Flashlights and a collapsible shovel, a single-burner camp stove with two days’ worth of freeze-dried meals, macaroni and cheese—which had been Josh’s favorite—and chicken teriyaki, something he’d never been able to get Josh to eat.

His cart was full when the light vanished for good, leaving no room for the groceries he’d come to buy. Those he could get tomorrow. Tonight, there would be more important things.

Roger sat on a bench high on the hill over-looking town as the sun dipped below the horizon. His face and hands were freshly scrubbed, his thread-bare Sunday suit was pressed and starched. The beans were still warm in the thermos as he scraped them from the sides with his spoon.

“You think I should have gotten the pickles? Salt’s supposed to be a preservative. Maybe it’s what’s kept me going so long.” He looked down to Josh, to the name written on the headstone before him. The date after the dash, September 26, 2007, was three months before he’d seen the first light and made his first mysterious purchase.

The sky was a cool blue now, the air still warm with spring.

“The stars should be out any moment now,” he told his son, screwing the lid back on his thermos. He listened to the silence and watched the blue deepen to indigo. Tiny spots of white sprang up in the night sky. But not yet the star. Not the unmistakable one.

Roger pondered the day’s purchases, packed in a crate in his truck’s bed, and wrapped neatly in brown butcher paper. “Think they’ll be driving to Grandma’s for the holidays when they need it?” he asked, his voice choked with nostalgia, thinking of Emma singing along with the radio while Josh colored in the back seat.

The glow was soft when his star rose, its light filtering down through the clear, night sky, glinting off the roof of a tiny house down below.

“Time to go,” he said quietly and cleared his throat instead of saying goodbye. Never able to say goodbye.

The light kept shining as he drove down the hill, a beacon all his own. A car was just parking in the driveway of the little bungalow when Roger pulled up to the curb. A young man hopped out and hurried around to the passenger door. Roger climbed out of his truck, hoisted out the crate, and ignored the ache in the small of his back as he carried it up the drive.

The couple were lifting their own little bundle from the backseat of their car, carefully wrapping it in its blue blanket. The father looked up as Roger approached, still beaming with excitement and nerves.

“I heard you had a delivery,” Roger explained, lifting his crate a little higher. “I brought a little something for the baby.”

The parents both stared at him without blinking—of course they would be surprised. Then the mother’s expression melted into a smile. “That’s so thoughtful!”

“I’ll just leave it on the porch for you,” Roger offered, suiting action to word.

With nothing more to be said or done, Roger returned to his truck and drove away by the time the couple had bustled their firstborn into their house. He wondered, occasionally, what the purpose was behind the gifts he brought. Sometimes it seemed obvious; essentials to get a family through a snowstorm trapped in their car. Other times, he couldn’t make heads or tails of the gift. But not all needs were physical. Often it was the spirit that needed the help. He thought, now and again, of trying to look up a family who had received his gifts, but it never felt right. Deep down he knew that he was only there for a single moment of their story. The rest was in God’s hands.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Aletta Silver is a sucker for immersive fiction. She has studied geology (she’d be happy to point out the tectonic boundaries on that fantasy map), costume design (the fancier the dress, the better!), and she’s always looking for an excuse to make themed snacks. Though she’s been writing since age five, she is just now making her first foray into publishing her work, now that her youngest child is that same age.

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