It was in the afternoon before the end of the Second World War that Antonio Black, who was twelve, caught sight of a beautiful brooch (胸针) in a shop window. The brooch is so beautiful that he was unwilling to leave the store until he had purchased it. But it was too expensive — $5. His family was very poor and his parents struggled to make ends meet. Five dollars would buy almost a week’s food for his family.

Antonio couldn’t ask his father for the money. Everything his father made through fishing went to his mother, Susan. Slim and beautiful, his mother was the center of the home and the glue that held it together. The housework was never-ending, and she struggled to feed and clothe their five children, but she was happy as her family and their well-being were all she cared about.

Nevertheless, he opened the shop’s door and went inside. Standing proudly and straight in his flour-sack (面粉袋改做的) shirt and washed-out trousers, he told the shopkeeper what he wanted, adding, “But I don’t have the money right now. Can you please hold it for me for some time?”

“I’ll try,” the shopkeeper smiled. “People around here don’t usually have that kind of money to spend on things. It should keep for a while.”

Antonio respectfully touched his worn cap and walked out. He would raise the money and not tell anybody, for he thought Mum would be surprised when she saw that brooch. On hearing the sound of hammering (锤打) from a side street, Antonio suddenly had an idea that he could raise money by selling the used nail bags. People built their own homes in Bay Roberts, using nails bought in bags from a local factory. Sometimes the used bags were thrown away at the construction site, and Antonio knew he could sell them back to the factory for five cents a piece. That day he sold two nail bags and hid the money in a rusty soda tin.

Every day after school, Antonio started his plan.

The day finally came!

I brought home a homemade invitation to a party and showed it to my mother. “I’m not going,” I said. “She’s a new girl named Ruth, and Berniece and Pat aren’t going. She asked the whole class, all 36 of us.” As Momma studied the handmade invitation, she looked strangely sad. Then she announced, “Well, you are going! I’ll pick up a present tomorrow.” I couldn’t believe it. Momma had never made me go to a party!

When Saturday arrived, Momma rushed me out of bed and made me wrap the pretty pink mirror-brush-and-comb set she’d bought. She drove me over in her yellow and white car and then left. Ruth answered the door and guided me to follow her up the steepest, oldest staircase I’d ever seen.

Stepping through the door brought me great relief. The hardwood floors was shining in the sun-filled sitting room. Snow-white doilies (装饰小垫) covered the backs and arms of well-worn furniture. The biggest cake I ever saw sat on one table. It was decorated with nine pink candles, a messily printed Happy Birthday Ruth. Thirty-six cups filled with homemade fudge (软糖) were near the cake—each one with a name on it. “This will be wonderful if everyone gets here.” I thought.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked Ruth. Looking down at the floor, she said, “Well she’s sick.” “Oh. Where’s your dad?” “He’s gone.” Then there was a silence. Some 15 minutes passed… then 10 more. It occurred to me that no one else was coming. How could I get out of here? As I sank into self-pity, I heard muffled (压抑的) sobs. Looking up, I saw tears in Ruth’s eyes. All at once my heart was filled with sympathy for Ruth. There we were two small girls and a cake, 36 candy-filled cups, three dozen party gifts, games to play and prizes to win.

Then I announced to Ruth, “Let’s start our birthday party!”.

Showing Momma my prizes, I shared my experience at Ruth’s house with her.

As a sixth grader, I began noticing how other kids were separating into groups. I wasn’t sure where I belonged. I found it hard to fit in.

Our teacher had assigned “secret friends” for the coming week. She wrote each kid’s name on a piece of paper and threw them into a glass; then we each closed our eyes and catch one piece of paper from the glass on which was the name of a classmate who we were to secretly befriend and support each other over the next five school days. By the middle of the week, everyone, including me, had turned this assignment into a competition to see whose secret friend could leave the best gift. We left cards, pens and even money. It seemed that everyone was getting cool presents from their friend except me.

On the last morning of our assignment, I walked into my classroom and noticed there was a package. I opened the wrapping paper and inside was a box of powder (胭脂). The girls sitting near me laughed at the gift I had received. To make matters worse, the powder had already been opened.

I tried to forget about the embarrassing gift, but when I was in the bathroom during the break, the girls who had seen me open the powder started speaking ill of my secret friend. I quickly joined in: “How terrible”. I heard myself saying “What could my friend be thinking by giving me such a stupid gift? My grandmother wouldn’t even want it.” The girls laughed at my remarks and rushed out of the bathroom. I stayed to wash my hands and let the water run through my fingers as I thought about what I had just said. It wasn’t normal like me to say mean things like that about someone.

Then I saw my classmate Janet come out of a bathroom booth (厕所隔间), tears streaming down her face.

Along with my apologies, I explained the reason.

His father said, “All set, boy?” and Jeremy nodded quickly, picking up his gun. Finally, they arrived at the marsh. Normally, Jeremy would ask his father to wait while he tried to record the beautiful place with his camera, but not this morning. This was the morning when 14-year old Jeremy was to have duck shooting.

Actually, he hated duck shooting since his father bought him a gun, taught him to shoot and promised him this trip. But he loved his father, and wanted to make his father pleased.

Jeremy put down the camera, sat down and waited anxiously.

“Better get ready. Sometimes ducks are on top of you before you know it,” his father said. He watched Jeremy break his gun, put in the bullets and close it again. “I’ll let you shoot first,” he said. He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowed. “There is a small group of ducks heading this way now. Keep your head down. I’ll give you the order.”

Jeremy’s heart was beating wildly. He prayed, “Don’t let the ducks come, please.”

But they kept coming. “Four black ducks and one mallard (绿头鸭),” said his father.

High above, Jeremy heard the sound of wings as the ducks went over and began to circle. The mallard was leading; his bright orange feet dropped down, reaching for the water. Closer, closer...

“Get set,” his father whispered.

“Now, shoot!” cried his father in a loud voice.

Jeremy felt his body obey. He stood up, his hands holding the gun the way his father had taught him.

At the same time, the wild ducks saw the gunners and flew. “Shoot!” said something sharply in Jeremy’s brain, but the expected sound didn’t come. Up went the mallard, until it flew away.

His father asked in a controlled voice, “Why didn’t you shoot?”

His father was handing the camera to him and said softly, “Here comes another duck.”

Grandma got Grandpa out of bed and helped him to the kitchen for breakfast. After his meal, she led him to his armchair in the living room where he would rest while she cleaned the dishes. Ever so often, she would check to see if he needed anything.

This was their daily routine after Grandpa’s latest stroke. Although once a very active man, his severely damaged left arm, difficulty walking and slurred (含糊不清的) speech now kept him housebound. For nearly a year he hadn’t been to church or to visit family.

Grandpa filled his hours with television. He watched the news and game shows while Grandma went about her day. They made a promise — he was not to leave his chair or his bed without her assistance.

“If you fell and I threw my back out trying to help you, who would take care of us?” Grandma would ask him. She was resolved they should take care of themselves and live independently. The Brooklyn brownstone had been their first home and held wonderful memories. They weren’t ready to leave it behind anytime soon.

Immigrants from Ireland, they had met and married in America. Grandma was friendly, outgoing and unselfish; Grandpa was reserved, a man devoted to his family, but he wasn’t big on giving gifts. While he wouldn’t think twice about giving Grandma the shirt off his back, he had the belief that if you treated your wife well throughout the year, presents weren’t necessary; so he rarely purchased gifts for her.

It was a cold, gray February morning, a typical winter’s day in New York. As always, Grandma walked Grandpa to his chair. “I’m going to take a shower now.” She handed him the television remote. “If you need anything, I’ll be back in a little while.”

After her shower, she glanced towards the back of Grandpa’s recliner (躺椅) but noticed that his cane was not leaning in its usual spot. Sensing something unusual, she went into the room. He was gone. The closet door stood open and his hat and overcoat were missing. Fear ran down her spine. Grandma threw a coat over her bathrobe and ran outside.

Desperately, she scanned the street in both directions.

Just then, Grandpa came around the corner.