The Unfinished Gift (2 page)

After her death, when the Salvation Army had stopped by to clear out her things, he had half a mind to let them take the big box along. But he didn’t, couldn’t. At the time, the feeling came in the form of a posthumous lecture, the worst kind Ida could deliver—eyes only, boring deep within his soul. She would have wanted him to reconcile with their son, Shawn, maybe pass the decorations on to him, like some kind of family heirloom.

No, the box was still in the attic. Had to be. Buried no doubt under a ton of debris, a backache in the making. Well, it could just sit there, he decided. No sense in fussing over it now. If the boy felt the need strong enough, he could sift through it himself in a few days, give him something to do. But Collins would draw the line at a tree. Just no point in it.

He ran his fingers through his thin silver hair and scratched the back of his scalp, then thought he heard the low bass notes of a car engine rumbling out front, then coming to a stop. A moment later, a car door, then another. Had to be them at this hour. He’d better get up before they rang the bell. He had hated the sound of that thing every one of the nineteen years he’d lived there. He lifted his unlit cigar out of the saucer dish and wedged it in between the spaces formerly occupied by his front teeth. Probably shouldn’t light it with company almost here, he thought.

He shuffled across the oval rug covering the living room floor. Why’d the boy’s mom have to up and die like that? It wasn’t a mournful thought, for he truly blamed her for destroying what little relationship existed between him and his son, Shawn. But to leave him alone with the boy like this, even if just for a few weeks. Whatever would they talk about? He’d never said two words to his grandson before, couldn’t tell him apart from any number of children playing stickball in the street. And what had Shawn and his wife told the boy about him? About why they had never spent any time together? Probably had made the rift out to be all his doing. That’s what they were good at: turning things around so that everything was his fault.

The doorbell rang. He reached down and turned the doorknob, wondering what the purpose of his trip to the cellar had been.

It was still as cold as ice in here.

Three

“Here we are, Patrick. This is your grandfather’s street.”

Patrick leaned forward in his seat, pressed his nose against the icy window, and imagined which one it might be. She pulled over beside what had to be the darkest house on the street. The lady got out, letting a rush of cold air into the backseat. She had told him her name several times—Miss Townsend. He really should use it when he thought of her; she’d been so nice to him from the start.

He watched her walk carefully along the snow-covered sidewalk, down the driveway, and up a handful of steps until she disappeared within the shadows of the house. Patrick put on his mittens, got out, and stood by the car, his fur-lined cap pulled tight over his ears.

The front door creaked as it opened, like the creepy doors that open on that radio show Inner Sanctum. Patrick could see the outlined edges of two adults talking. He took a few steps forward, trying to hear what they said, but kept one hand safely on the rounded fender of the car.

“C’mon, Patrick,” Miss Townsend called. “Come meet your grandfather.”

He looked toward the backseat.

“Don’t worry about your things,” she said. “I’ll get them in a minute. C’mon.”

Patrick walked through the snow, lifting one boot and then another. He tried to stay within Miss Townsend’s footsteps, but they were too far apart. Patrick hesitated at the foot of the steps, unsure why.

“Come on, Patrick.” Miss Townsend reached down and took hold of his hand.

For a flash Patrick imagined letting his hand slip out of the glove, turning and running back toward the car, then past the car and on down the street. But there was nowhere to go. As he climbed the last stair, he looked up. First into Miss Townsend’s face for reassurance, then into the face of a balding old man. An unlit cigar hung down the side of his mouth.

He wasn’t smiling.

Ian Collins could hardly believe his eyes. Standing before him, illumined by the dim light, was the face of his son, Shawn, some nineteen years ago. The only difference was the boy’s blond hair. From some lost corridor in his mind, he could see Shawn running up those same steps the day he and Ida had bought the house, his face beaming, declaring the house to be as big as a castle. Then Shawn a year later, sitting on the driveway, spinning tops with his friends.

“Mr. Collins?”

“What?”

“Would you like to meet your grandson, Patrick?”

Her words hung in the air with the frosty mist. Collins stood there staring at the boy, laboring to reenter the present.

“Come here, Patrick,” the woman said, ignoring Collins’s lack of response.

Collins looked at the woman then back at the boy and realized how ill-prepared he was for this moment. The boy walked onto the porch and huddled next to the woman. She put her arm around his shoulder. As he looked up at Collins, Collins discerned a beckoning for approval from the boy but couldn’t lay hold of one in his heart. The best he could manage was, “How do you do?”

For a moment, the boy didn’t respond. He looked at the woman then back toward the car. “Aren’t you going to say hello, Patrick?” she asked.

“Hello,” he said. “How do you do?”

“Well, I suppose you brought some things with you,” Collins said, looking past them toward the car. “Better see to them, before we let all this cold in the house. Heat barely works as it is.”

The woman extended her gloved hand, and a stern expression appeared on her face. “Did I mention my name’s Miss Townsend?”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Collins, forcing himself to shake her hand. “We can do our talking in the parlor, once we get the boy’s things in the house.” He stepped back inside, grabbed his overcoat, then walked past them both out to the car. A moment later he stood in the driveway, a suitcase in each hand. “This all?” he yelled.

“Just the two,” Miss Townsend replied.

Back in the vestibule, he spread his arms like a mother hen, pushing them toward the front door. As the woman walked through the doorway, Collins noticed that she stopped briefly to inspect his front windows. She shook her head as if disappointed, and he instantly understood why.

It had become every citizen’s patriotic duty to hang a little silk flag in the window for loved ones away at war. Most of his neighbors had them. The flags had a red background with a white circle in the center. Within the circle you placed a blue star—making your basic red, white, and blue—one star for each family member in the armed services. Any were killed in action, you replaced the blue star with a gold one. Collins’s street had two gold-star mothers thus far in the hostilities. But no flags in Collins’s window. No point in putting one up for Shawn, considering the state of affairs. Whatever else he was, he was no hypocrite.

As they stepped inside, the change in temperature was imperceptible, at least to Collins. He set the suitcases by the staircase. “Take your coats?”

“I can’t stay,” said Miss Townsend. “But Patrick’s going to stay awhile, right, Patrick?”

“Can I keep mine on a few minutes? I’m still cold.”

Miss Townsend looked at Collins, waiting for him to respond. “I’m sure that would be fine,” she said.

They stood there for an awkward moment. Collins finally said, “Right, well, how about I take these upstairs to your room?” He tried hard to sound polite. He turned toward the stairway.

“Before you do, Mr. Collins, may I have a word? I really do have to be going. Patrick, why don’t you go in the kitchen? I’m sure your grandfather has some cookies or a nice snack for you.” She looked up at Collins, expecting him to affirm.

“I . . . I don’t have any cookies.” Collins hadn’t seen a cookie for maybe a year and a half.

“Do you have any treats?”

Collins thought earnestly then shook his head. “Some fresh liverwurst. I like it with a little mustard on the side.”

A look of disgust came over Miss Townsend’s face. “Do you have any milk?”

Collins nodded. “About half a quart in the icebox.”

“Would you like a nice glass of milk, Patrick?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, you go on and get it. You can drink it at the table there. I just want to talk to your grandfather a minute.”

“You’re going to say good-bye before you leave.”

“’Course I am.”

Patrick walked toward the kitchen, looking back at Miss Townsend a half dozen times.

“Make sure you smell it first,” Collins yelled to the boy.

As soon as the boy was out of earshot, the woman walked right up to Collins and thrust her face in his. “Mr. Collins, I thought my office had called you about our coming here tonight.”

“They did.”

“You don’t seem very prepared.”

“What, because I don’t have any cookies for the boy?”

“It’s more than cookies.”

“What then? I’ve got a spare room upstairs all ready. Fresh sheets on the bed. Put some extra coal in the furnace.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. You know what he’s been through. You couldn’t even give him a hug?”

“We only just met.”

“He’s your grandson.”

“Listen, Miss—”

“No, you listen.” Now the finger started. “I’ve been with Patrick since just a few hours after the crash. If they’d let me, I’d take him home myself. But with a blood relative so close, the law says he comes to you. He is a sweet, sensitive boy. With all he’s been through, he’s hardly complained at all. We’re doing everything we can to get his father back, but he’s going to need someone to help him cope until then.”

“Young lady,” Collins said, taking a step back, “I’m not accustomed to being lectured in my own home. I think it’s time for you to leave.”

She got a certain look on her face. If Collins discerned correctly, she wasn’t far from giving him a good slap.

After a long, silent moment, she said, “It is time for me to leave. But I want to remind you: I am responsible to the state for Patrick’s welfare until he’s reunited with his father.”

“Your point being?”

“I am authorized to stop in from time to time to check on him, and, mind you, I don’t have to call first.”

“The boy’s got nothing to fear from me.”

“The boy? You can’t even bring yourself to call him your grandson? Or at least his first name?”

Collins walked past her toward the front door. “You did say you were leaving.”

She shot him a hateful look, then called out, “Patrick, come here a minute. I have to go now.”

A glass rattled in the sink. “You haven’t mentioned anything about the boy going to school,” said Collins. “Shouldn’t he be in school at his age?”

“He’s in second grade, if you’re really interested. But we’ve decided it’s best not to send him just now.”

“Why?”

“It’s only another day or so before they’re out for the Christmas break,” she said, “and you live in a different district. With all he’s been through, it just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Collins whispered, noticing Patrick walking through the dining room in their direction. “He’d be much happier around children his own age.”

Miss Townsend paused, then whispered, “You’re just trying to get rid of him, aren’t you? You can’t bear the thought of spending time alone with him.”

What an insolent woman, Collins thought, returning her hateful stare. But what she said was true. Still, she had no right to say it.

Patrick ran the last several feet straight into Miss Townsend’s arms. “Sorry,” he said, pulling back.

“No, that’s all right.” She drew him back to her embrace, a tear rising in her eye. She bent down on her knees and looked directly into his face. “Let me see that smile. That’s better. Now, you remember, Patrick, I gave you my card. It’s right there in the side pocket of your coat. My office number is on the front, and I even wrote my home number on the back. If you need to call me for any reason, day or night, just call. You don’t even need your grandfather’s permission.” She looked up at Collins’s sour expression. Patrick started to look also, but Miss Townsend gently redirected his face back toward hers. “I promise you, I will do everything in my power to get your father back here as soon as we can. Do you understand me? Everything I can.”

At that, Patrick collapsed into her arms again and began to cry.

Yes, please bring Shawn home quickly to get his boy, thought Collins. At least on that point, he and the woman could agree.

Four

After Miss Townsend had gone, Patrick felt very alone. This wasn’t at all like being with a grandfather. Not from what he had seen in the movies. And he’d seen his friend Billy’s grandfather a number of times. He called his grandfather Pop-Pop. The first time Patrick heard it, he laughed out loud. But after his third visit, Pop-Pop seemed just about right. Patrick didn’t even know what to call this man. So far, he just called him “sir,” and the man hadn’t corrected him.

Patrick heard Miss Townsend’s car starting out in the driveway. The old man picked up his two suitcases and started up the stairs. “Follow me,” he said. “But first, hang that coat on the closet knob there. It’s the door at the foot of the stairs. And you’ll probably want to drape those mittens across the radiator, else they’ll still be wet come morning.”