The Unfinished Gift (3 page)

The lights were out at the top of the stairs, so Patrick didn’t get a good look around. The man walked straight ahead across the slippery wooden floor and turned a light on inside a tiny bedroom. The whole upstairs smelled funny, like lavender soap. He set Patrick’s two suitcases down on the bed.

“You got pajamas in there?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick answered. “I can get them.”

“Well, let me show you the bathroom first. Now, don’t go turning on a lot of lights up here if you need to get up at night, like that hallway light. You only got a few steps to walk in the dark to reach the bathroom. Here, let me show you.”

He walked Patrick out into the dark hall. The light shining from Patrick’s room revealed three other doors, all closed. The stairs were straight across from his doorway.

The man opened the third door and said, “Now, don’t go opening this door, see. At least, not at night. And in the daytime, you ask me first. It goes to the attic. There’s no light switch but at the top of the stairs. You go trying to find your way up here at night and you’ll break your neck.” He opened the second door. “Here’s the bathroom. You need to use it at night, you just walk right across the hall in this direction. See, you don’t need to turn on that hall light, do you?”

“No, sir, I can see it.” Patrick knew instantly where the smell of lavender soap was coming from. He could probably find the bathroom at night just following the scent.

“This third door goes to my room. Right, well, I expect you’ll be needing to wash your hands and brush your teeth before you turn in. You need help with that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Now, don’t go using the soap in that box there,” the man said, pointing to the back of the toilet at a fancy box labeled “Cashmere Bouquet.” “You see it?”

Patrick nodded.

“That’s too dear, so don’t go washing your hands with it. Use the soap by the basin.”

Patrick looked carefully at an orange, egg-shaped blob centered in a metal tray, soaking in a shallow puddle of sink water.

“Right, well, I better get downstairs and clean up a bit before I turn in. You’ll be all right up here?”

Patrick said yes, but he wasn’t sure at all. The man backed out of the bathroom, turned out the light, and walked down the stairs. No kiss good night. No hug. He didn’t even say good night. The whole upstairs suddenly felt very dark and cold.

Patrick walked back to his bedroom and looked inside. A small bed was shoved up into the right corner. A window covered in blinds occupied the left corner, and beneath it, a radiator. Just inside the door sat a three-drawer dresser with a white doily on top and some kind of picture frame. Patrick made a special note to memorize the location of the light switch.

Darkness was, and always had been, his mortal enemy.

He closed the bedroom door and opened the larger of his two suitcases. He lifted his mom and dad’s picture out and carefully set it on the dresser. He tried to imagine them being there with him instead of so very far away. He imagined them telling him good night and not to worry about his grandfather being so unkind. His mom spoke first. He was glad he could remember her voice so strongly.

“Patrick, I’m in heaven. You know that, don’t you?” She used the soothing tone she always used just before bed. “I’m not in that coffin they buried in the ground. I’m with Jesus and the angels. And you know what? Jesus told me he’s assigned a very special angel to watch over you and keep you safe.” His mom had often read him Bible stories before bed. He remembered the night she read him Jesus’s words about children having special angels to look after them. A few days later, he had seen a picture in a magazine of some famous painting filled with angels. Some were just little babies with tiny wings and their rear ends sticking out. But there was one in the center who looked like a mighty warrior with a sword raised high toward God’s throne. Patrick showed the magazine to his mom right away. She had assured him that his angel looked more like the warrior than one of those pudgy babies.

A tear formed in his right eye as he remembered the moment, so he looked at his father’s face. His voice was a little harder to imagine. “Patrick, I know you don’t know my dad, but he won’t hurt you. I promise. If he does, I’ll punch him in the nose when I get back. Even if he is my dad.” Patrick laughed at that. He wasn’t sure his father would say that, but he liked it just the same. “I’m still over here fighting the Nazis,” he continued, “but I’ll come get you real soon. I promise.”

Patrick sighed. This helped a little. But he wished so badly his father could be there now. He turned and carefully lifted his pajamas from the suitcase. After putting them on, he was able to pull the smaller suitcase to the floor; the larger one was too heavy. He could only slide it toward the foot of the bed. He walked over and flipped the light switch, instantly plunging him into a terrifying darkness. He ran for the bed and hopped in, wrestling the bedcovers from under the suitcase.

He lay shivering in fear for several minutes until his eyes adjusted, aided by thin rays of light seeping in from the blinds. The moon, he thought. His mother had told him stories about the moon, how God had made the moon to guide us at night, how sailors and great adventurers used the moonlight to find their way in times of trouble. He quietly got out of bed and stepped to the window. He fumbled in the dark for the strings then slowly slid the blinds up. The sight of a full moon hanging suspended in the sky brought some relief from his fears. And it was warm leaning up against the radiator.

For a few moments he just stared up. “Can you see me here, God?” he finally said, looking right at the moon. “I’m not where I usually am. But Mom said you’re smarter than a million men, and you can see everything all at once. Can you see my mom sitting there next to you? She’ll probably be in a chair; she doesn’t sit on the floor. Her name is Elizabeth . . . but you know that, because you know everything. I can’t remember if it’s okay to talk directly to her or not. I think she said we’re not supposed to talk to anyone in heaven but you.” Looking at the moon made it easier to believe God could really hear him.

“Please tell her I miss her, and that I’m with my grandfather . . . the one we never visited. I don’t know what she’ll think of that, but I had to go where Miss Townsend said. Tell her . . .” He started feeling a deep sadness thinking about her being way up there in the sky. He knew if he didn’t end this prayer quick, he’d start crying all over again. “Tell her I love her, and I’m trying to remember everything she taught me.” The tears started to fall. “I can’t talk about her anymore.” He wiped the tears away with his sleeve. “I just have one more thing. It’s maybe the most important favor I ever asked you.”

He looked around his small room, what he could see of it in the moonlight. It wasn’t his room. It was just a bed, a dresser, an empty closet. A closed door. A cold world beyond that. “Please bring my father home from the war,” he said. “Please let it be quick like Miss Townsend said. Don’t leave me here alone. Please don’t leave me alone.”

He stumbled into his bed, crying as quietly as he could, looking up toward the light coming in from the window. He cried right through until his mind gave way to sleep.

Across the Atlantic, along the peaceful East Anglian countryside, sleepy cows grazed along rolling hills. Small herds of sheep fed in rich pastures bordered by ancient stone walls and hedgerows. Narrow country lanes weaved their way up and down and through the serenity, splitting the scene from the sky up above like the seams of a patchwork quilt. But this morning, the placid scene could not be observed from the sky above, except by God and his angels. The notorious English fog had made the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other a perilous business.

For the last two hours, it had grounded the 91st Bomb Group, now stranded along the taxiways of Bassingbourn airfield. In dozens of B-17 Flying Fortresses, young men sat braced for action, silently hoping the fog would remain, guaranteeing them at least one more day on the planet.

In the cockpit of one such B-17 sat Captain Shawn Collins, Patrick’s father.

Several days ago, the telegram carrying the tragic news of his wife Elizabeth’s death had reached the Eighth Air Force headquarters, twenty minutes west of London. But it did not reach Bassingbourn airfield in time to keep Captain Shawn Collins off the roster for the next bombing mission.

An air raid to Bremen, deep in the heart of Nazi Germany.

Five

A poached egg, cooked for exactly two minutes. Any more and the yolk gets hard; any less, the whites get runny. A little salt on the egg, a dash of pepper. A piece of dry toast to put it on. Before the war, he liked it buttered. A cup of coffee, black.

This was Ian Collins’s breakfast routine.

The only variety was the occasional glass of fresh tomato juice presented by Mrs. Fortini, a widow who lived next door, from tomatoes picked from her Victory Garden out back. Hadn’t seen much of that since winter began, but what she used to bring over was generally quite good. Then again, she was Italian; her people were good with tomatoes.

The sun wasn’t up yet. Out toward the street he heard the usual commotion that occurred every weekday about this time. A steady stream of strangers making their way down the road toward the bus stop. In fifteen minutes a bus would haul them off to the Carlyle tank-manufacturing plant at the edge of town. Young women and elderly men, for the most part. Collins could have joined them if he had a mind to, but he didn’t need the money and sure didn’t prefer the company.

Before the war he had owned a small machine shop and dabbled in a little engineering on the side. Got a couple of patents for this widget and that, mostly tank parts he sold to Carlyle. When Ida had taken ill, he decided to sell the shop off, since Shawn was too foolish to see its potential.

At the time, Carlyle Manufacturing had just gotten a handful of contracts from England to build assemblies for a new breed of tanks for the Brits. Carlyle needed all the machining equipment they could find, but they had a cashflow problem. Collins settled the deal by accepting a cash down payment for the shop and a small percentage of their business for the balance. Best decision he’d ever made. With the escalation of hostilities, Carlyle’s business had grown tenfold since then and was still climbing. Collins had made so much cash, he finally had to break down and deposit most of it in the bank.

Except for his lawyer and banker, no one knew anything had changed. Not even Shawn. The only luxury the elder Collins indulged was upgrading to Cuban cigars.

He sat at the kitchen table and ate his first bite of his egg-on-toast when he heard a loud noise out by the street. Sounded like someone colliding with a trash can. Somebody else laughed followed by someone else telling them to be quiet. They had better not wake up the boy, Collins thought. This was the only peace and quiet he expected to get this day. He grabbed his cup of coffee and made his way through the living room.

He set his coffee on the sill, put on his coat and fur-lined cap, still wearing his pajamas. He would just stand on the porch a few moments, glaring at the workers as they passed by. That would usually quiet them down.

This, too, had become part of his morning routine.

Patrick awoke confused. An unsettling dream had placed him back in time with his mom, standing outside Sanders Grocery at the end of their block on Clark Street. She had just gone in to pick up a string of breakfast sausages. He stood outside, watching as the street and sidewalk filled with shoppers going about their day, trying to sidestep puddles left from a morning rain. A poster hung in the front window of Sanders’s store, urging everyone to buy more war bonds. Some older boys had just passed by escorting a pony straining under the weight of a teetering cart full of scrap paper and metal.

As Patrick waited outside, it dawned on him that she was taking too long. Something was wrong. His mom had said to wait right there, but he couldn’t wait anymore.

He walked into the store, expecting to find Mr. Sanders behind the counter helping a row of customers, but the store was empty. Patrick walked past each of the four narrow rows of canned goods. They were empty too.