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Gifted: A Basket Weaver's Tale

By Valerie Banfield

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Prologue

“Help me!”

Frank Thompkins stood at the open front door, gripped his walker, and shuffled toward the driveway. His freshly ironed plaid shirt hung loosely on his gaunt form. Baggy sweatpants, a replacement for the crisp trousers he used to wear, bunched at his ankles. Soft suede moccasins, the trade-in for wingtip oxfords and golf shoes, padded against the hard concrete.

Soft rays of the distant sun warmed the thawed ground along Frank’s route and encouraged a cluster of crocuses to open their buttery yellow petals to a new spring. A watchful eye would encounter renewal and rebirth at every turn.

Sometimes, Frank seemed to know his own periods of anticipation, delight, and refreshment were over. His camera would never again capture the beauty and promise of changing seasons. Indeed, each day another memory failed, its details vanishing just as the passage of time faded his old black and white photographs.

When he spied the empty street, and when no one answered him, Frank’s shoulders drooped in resignation and his plea shriveled to a murmur.

“Somebody . . . please. Please take me home.”

As she hurried out of the house, Ida Thompkins wiped her sudsy hands on her apron.

“Frank. I’m right here. It’s okay. You’re already home.”
After she coaxed Frank and his walker in a 180-degree turn, she pointed to the house.

“See? You’re home. Come on. You’re probably hungry.”

“I want ice cream.”

Ida settled Frank at the table with his favorite food, walked to the front door, and studied the deadbolt lock—the one she didn’t think he could open any longer. The alarm system could alert her of Frank’s wanderings beyond the confines of the house, but the screech would send him over the edge. She’d have to come up with a better solution.

As Frank enjoyed his mid-morning treat, Ida sat at the table and watched him. This man owned the deep reaches of her heart, but if today was hard, how would she manage his tomorrows?


Chapter One - Something Woven

Evan Nichols hit the brakes hard. With his eyes fixed on his rearview mirror, he almost slammed into the blue van when it stopped abruptly in front of his old coupe. The vehicle’s tired engine skipped in protest, forcing Evan to slip the transmission into neutral. With gentle pressure to the gas pedal, he coaxed the reluctant machine to stay in motion. When the tailpipe discharged a cloud of bitter metallic smoke, a cough rattled his chest. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and waited for traffic to move. The black car that trailed him off the highway, now partially hidden by a panel truck, waited at a red light two intersections back. Evan tapped his fingers on the old wooden gearshift, ready to grab and engage.

When the traffic lights behind him changed, a flicker of movement crossed the rearview mirror. The black car shot around the truck and advanced to the next light, having gained only two vehicle lengths in the early morning traffic jam. Evan cringed. Two was too many.

Evan stretched his neck while his eyes darted in every direction. He did not seek an explanation for the gridlock, but a means of escape. From the low perspective of his sedan, tall sport utility vehicles and vans obscured his view. Weak air emitted by the fan did little to clear the fogged windshield and his panting only contributed to the problem. If he thought his window would close again, he might open it long enough to equalize the air temperature in the car. With his luck? He held his breath until the urge passed, and settled for wiping the windows with a clammy hand.

He inched forward and hugged the rear of the blue van as it slipped into the left lane to join the only queue with any forward motion. When the van turned left, Evan saw the deputy directing traffic and obediently followed his waving arm into the church parking lot. Must be a funeral, and given the congestion, the deceased must have been someone important.

Evan glanced into the mirror; the black car was nowhere in sight. He slowed his respirations and willed his pounding heart to quiet. As he waited for the van to pull forward, he touched the small device safely tucked into his pocket and grimaced at the reminder. Next time someone asked for help—Next time? He’d have to survive this ordeal before worrying about a next time. If he didn’t ditch the evidence soon, his future might read just like a decedent’s eulogy.

~

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