The Christmas Bike

Several years ago, I used to see this woman walking her son to school, when I was driving my son there. Her son was a few years younger than mine, probably in the first grade, when my son was in fifth.

When I’d turn at the end of my street, to head to the school, I’d see them walking from a good ways up the street, so I knew they had a pretty long walk each morning and afternoon. One time, I’d stopped, offering to take them the rest of the way to the school, but she refused and I didn’t ask again.

I sometimes saw her walking elsewhere in town, and I knew she didn’t have a car and didn’t have much.

That same year, I’d bought my son a new bicycle for Christmas. There was nothing wrong with his old bike, except that he’d outgrown it, and I hated the idea of it being in the shed gathering dust, when another child could enjoy it. I immediately thought of that little boy, whom I imagined would not get much that Christmas.

The only problem was, I didn’t know where they lived. I was still on the police force then, and when I went to work that day, I went up to the jail to talk with one of the jailers, who lived on the same street as I did. I asked her if she’d ever noticed that woman and her son when she took her kids to school. When said she knew who I meant, I told her what I planned to do with my son’s bike, and asked her if she knew where these people lived.

She said that she did, then offered to go with me to deliver it, as she had an SUV, in which it would fit better than my small car. I agreed, and we decided to deliver it on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve, I polished the bike up and washed the tires, before tying a big ribbon on it with a gift card that said, “From Santa Claus”. After loading it into the jailer’s SUV, I rode over there with her to deliver it.

I was appalled when I saw where these people lived, in a house so rundown that I was surprised it wasn’t condemned. It was fairly late when we drove up, so I quietly carried the bike onto the sagging porch. We left quietly, so they wouldn’t know who’d left it there. I knew the mother’s pride wouldn’t have allowed her to accept the bike, if she'd known who’d given it.

A few days later, I went back, driving slowly down the street. As I passed the house, I saw the little boy happily riding it up and down the sidewalk. I drove on, satisfied that the gift had reached its intended recipient.