Pewter Angels (29 page)

Mr. Engelmann looked at Henry but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“I was wondering, Mr. Engelmann, if you could help me get her address? My mom tried over a month ago, and they wouldn’t give her the address, either.”

“I see,” said Mr. Engelmann.

He had worried about what to say if Henry asked him for help. Would he encourage Henry to forget about Jenny and move on with his life or tell him that he had spoken with Mr. Sarsky? Now the moment was upon him and Mr. Engelmann hesitated. To hide his conversation with Mr. Sarsky from Henry was just as dishonest as perhaps the Sarskys had been with their daughter.
No,
he decided
, Henry must know the truth.

And so Mr. Engelmann told Henry about his chat with Mr. Sarsky, explaining also why he had not told Henry sooner.

“I hoped Mr. Sarsky would reconsider and phone back, but he hasn’t. The Sarskys are very adamant that they don’t want you and Jenny to correspond, and Mr. Sarsky seemed to indicate that Jenny was in agreement with this.”

Henry was shocked by the notion. “She couldn’t be! Jenny would want to hear from me!”

“Well, maybe you’re right.”

“I
know
I’m right, Mr. Engelmann!”

“Well, that may be the case, but unfortunately we can’t do much about it. And so, rather than upset you further, I waited. I have noticed you seem to have accepted the situation over the last little while, and haven’t mentioned it at all until today. I thought it best just to leave it unless you brought it up. And now, since you have, I felt it my duty to tell you what I know.”

“Do
you
know Jenny’s address, Mr. Engelmann?”

“No, I don’t. I know where Mr. Sarsky works, but not his home address.”

“I have forty-six letters at home, Mr. Engelmann. I can’t just leave them there piled up on my desk. I have to mail them to her.”

“I understand, Henry, but where can we send them? Mr.

Sarsky was very firm, and now that almost another month has passed, I’m sure he will be even more adamant.

“But I just have to mail those letters!” Henry was desperate, hope flaring in him with even this remote contact with Jenny’s family. “What can I do?”

Mr. Engelmann put his hand on Henry’s shoulder, “The only thing you can do is box up all those letters and mail them to Mr.

Sarsky’s office. Then we will hope he will take them home to Jenny. That is the only option I can see for you.”

Henry perked up immediately. He studied Mr. Engelmann, and Mr. Engelmann returned his steady gaze.

“Let’s try it, Henry, but for your sake, if it doesn’t work, then you must get on with your life. Do you understand?”

It was Henry’s only chance and he was going to take it.

“Yeah, I do—I just know things will work out somehow!”

Mr. Engelmann peered over his smudged glasses and looked hard into Henry’s eyes. “Henry, I will support you in this, but you must promise me that if you do not receive any response, you will let the matter go. To continue feeling so distraught over something you can do nothing about must stop. Time is a healer of even the most terrible experiences, and we must let it do its work. To fight it day in and day out leads only to despair and death. The only reality is the present. To live in the past and dream about Jenny and your relationship can no longer do you any more good.”

The old man waited for some acknowledgement.

“Yes, I understand, Mr. Engelmann, but I have to try, just once more.”

“Bring the letters to me after school tomorrow, and we will box and wrap them. I will send them to Mr. Sarsky’s office.”

“Thank you,” Henry said, his eyes alive with hope.

H
enry walked into the store
the next day carrying a brown paper bag.

“I see you brought the letters.”

“Yes, I did. And I also wrote a letter to Mr. Sarsky.”

Mr. Engelmann looked at Henry, his brow folding into deep wrinkles. “What sort of letter?”

“Well, I want Mr. Sarsky to know I’m responsible and that I would never do anything to hurt Jenny. And I told him I would be very grateful if he’d let me write to her, and … well, why don’t you read the letter, Mr. Engelmann? I’d like your opinion.”

“Yes, yes, let me see the letter. I’m sure it’s okay the way it is.”

Henry handed Mr. Engelmann the note he’d written to Jenny’s dad. It wasn’t very long, only two paragraphs. “That is good, brief and to the point. Now let me see.” Mr. Engelmann adjusted his glasses and began to read out loud:

Dear Mr. Sarsky,

Although we’ve never met, I did see you at church with Jenny and Mrs. Sarsky on the last Sunday you were in Regina, but you were so busy talking to other people I never had the chance to talk to you. I wish I had met you so that you would know I am a responsible young man. I work very hard for Mr. Engelmann at the corner grocery store and am a good student.

I also want you to know that I like Jenny very much and would never do anything to hurt her. I have been waiting almost three months for Jenny to send me her address so that I can mail the letters I have written. Since I have not heard from Jenny in all this time, I have decided to mail them to you and ask if you would please take the letters home to Jenny. If she decides not to write back, I will understand, but I do want her to know that I kept my promise to write. Thank you for doing this.

Yours truly,

Henry Pederson

Mr. Engelmann laid the letter down and looked at Henry.

“That is a good letter. You have left it up to him to decide. If you would like, I could perhaps also add a note at the bottom, letting Mr. Sarsky know what a good employee you are.”

“Yeah, that would be great, Mr. Engelmann. A word from you might carry even more weight.”

“We’ll see,” the old man replied. He pulled the letter closer and reached for his pen. After a brief moment he touched it to the page just below Henry’s signature.

Mr. Sarsky,

Just an added note to let you know that Henry is a fine young man. Since he came to work for me, my store—which was on the verge of bankruptcy—has completely turned around. You would be proud to have such a clever and hardworking young man at your company. I sincerely hope you will consider Henry’s request; I believe it is important these two young people communicate with each other, even if it is only to say goodbye.

Thank you for your kind consideration,

David Engelmann

Mr. Engelmann put down his pen and pushed the letter towards Henry. Henry read the addition.

“Boy, Mr. Sarsky will have to give Jenny the letters now for sure!”

“Well, Henry, I meant every word I said, but Mr. Sarsky still may not give the letters to Jenny—and even if he does, Jenny may not want to write back to you. As I said yesterday, you will have to accept whatever happens now. If no communication is what the Sarsky family wants, we have to respect their wishes, even though we may not agree with them.”

Henry thought long and hard about what Mr. Engelmann had said. The bright hope in his face dimmed a bit.

“Yeah, I understand, and I’ll honour whatever Jenny wants. Even if she doesn’t write back to me, I know deep in my heart it’ll work out somehow.”

“Well, come on, now. Let’s find a box for these letters and send them off.”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

Mr. Engelmann found a small box in the back and Henry tipped the brown bag upside down, pouring its contents onto the counter. Mr. Engelmann gave a low whistle.

“You did a lot of writing, Henry.”

“Yeah, there are forty-six letters there. I wrote for hours and hours and I’m so glad they’re finally getting sent.”

“It is very touching, Henry,” his boss said as he pulled the flaps of the box open. “There must be a lot of love in these letters.”

Henry blushed but didn’t deny it. “Yeah, there is. I love Jenny more than anything,” he said, surprising himself by saying the words out loud.

He stuffed the letters in the small box while Mr. Engelmann held it open. The old man crumpled a few pages of newspaper to fill up the rest of the space and Henry set his letter to Mr. Sarsky on top so Jenny’s dad would see it as soon as he opened the box.

“Only a very coldhearted man could turn down a box of letters filled with love and such a plea for understanding,” Mr. Engelmann murmured under his breath. “I guess that’s it,” he said, louder now, folding over the lid then sealing the box with packing tape.

Henry helped wrap the box in a sheet of brown paper and watched as Mr. Engelmann wrote Mr. Sarsky’s business address on the sealed package.

“Well, Henry, the rest is up to the Lord. We can do no more.” Henry stared at the box. It was his last chance to reach Jenny. All his hopes and prayers were in there.

Finally Mr. Engelmann patted the top of the box with a small smile. “I’ll take this down to the post office first thing tomorrow morning, Henry.”

Henry just nodded. Then he looked at his boss, mentor and friend. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Engelmann, for all your help and for always being there for me.”

Mr. Engelmann waved his hand as if shooing away a fly and looked at Henry tenderly. “You’re welcome. Let’s hope things turn out for the best.”

O
n a mid-November morning,
the wind roared through the buildings of downtown Ottawa. Damp air rendered the day bitterly cold, cutting through clothing regardless of layers. Ted Sarsky walked briskly from the parking lot to the front door of his office building, hunkered down into his collar like a turtle. Not that it did much good.

As he entered the lobby, the doorman on duty put down his newspaper.

“’Morning, Mr. Sarsky.”

“’Morning, John. That’s quite a wind out there,” Ted replied, pushing the elevator button.

“You bet. Snow in the forecast later this afternoon.”

“I don’t mind the snow; it’s the dampness that cuts to the bone.”

“That’s for—” was all Ted heard as the elevator doors closed.

Ted was nearly always the first to arrive at work and often the last to leave. This morning was no exception. When he arrived at the 18th floor, he unlocked the main door and went directly to his office. He tossed his coat over the chair in front of his desk, then rubbed his hands together before walking over to the window to stand in front of the heat register. The heat was dry and helped melt the chill he’d carried in from outside. But it could do nothing to ease the frost that had settled within him since their move to Ottawa almost three months ago.

It wasn’t so much the mounting pressure and demands of his job that were draining him, but rather his role as a father. Almost every day, Jenny greeted him at the door with
Is there any mail for me today?
He’d always answered in the negative. He knew the answer even before the day began. He was living a lie and, try as he might, he could not divorce himself from it.

In the same way, every time Ted received a letter from his daughter to mail to Henry, he destroyed it—along with her hope that the boy of her dreams would somehow answer her. Ted knew full well that could never happen and it bothered him immensely. If only he could look at all this from Edith’s perspective. She believed they’d done the right and best thing for Jenny, and had no qualms about their decision.

Ted’s ruthless conscience hadn’t allowed him a good night’s sleep in weeks. And his drinking had only added to the problem, though at first, it had seemed to help—numbing, as it did, the shame and guilt that weighed so heavily on his heart. But he’d found he had to drink more and more, and rather than being soothed, he had started to shake. He feared even his staff had begun to notice, especially Elaine, his secretary, who had begun to rearrange appointments on particularly bad days.

Ted returned to his desk and sat down. He tilted the chair back as far as he could and closed his eyes. A little rest was all he needed. That’d help. He began to daydream about the mess he was in and the possibility that it would all be gone when he woke up. From deeper recesses of his mind someone called his name, the voice soft and distant. When he opened his eyes, he met Elaine’s gaze. He had dozed off. It was nearly ten-thirty.

“Good morning, Mr. Sarsky,” Elaine said, her usual professional tone unruffled. “I came in earlier, but you were asleep, and since you didn’t have any immediate appointments, I decided to let you rest.”

“Thank you, Elaine. I only intended to have a little cat nap.”

He noticed the box in her hand.

“The mailman delivered this for you this morning.”

“Who’s it from?”

“The return address is Broder Street, Regina, Saskatchewan, Mr. Sarsky. Isn’t that the street you lived on?”

“Oh, I think I know who that’s from. Just leave it on my desk and I’ll attend to it.”

Elaine set the box down, turned and picked her boss’s coat up off the chair in front of his desk and hung it on the coat tree by the door on her way out.

Ted stared at the box in front of him. He had a good guess as to what might be in there, and the very thought sent an icy shiver throughout his body far more penetrating than the chill of the damp wind outside. Ted pushed himself out of his chair and opened the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a drink then returned to his desk, eyes on the box, unable to do anything.

As the liquor thawed a bit of his cowardice, he contemplated the options. Finally, he took scissors from the top drawer of his desk and ran the sharp edge of a blade firmly across the paper the box was wrapped in and then through the tape under it keeping the box shut.

The flaps sprang open almost as if they were glad to expose the contents. A neatly folded letter with his name on it lay atop of several handfuls of crumpled newsprint. Ted took the letter out and removed the crushed paper, revealing three stacks of letters beneath. Each letter had Jenny’s name on it. In a tone filled with shame and sadness, he muttered, “This is unbelievable.”

As much as he wanted to read them, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. They weren’t his. The whole situation spun before him like a giant merry-go-round, one he could not get off of. Telling the truth would destroy his family. Neither Edith nor Jenny would ever speak to him again.

Ted reached for the letter with his name on it. He opened it and read the first line, “Dear Mr. Sarsky,” then he let his eyes fall to the bottom of the page to see who had sent it.
Yours truly, Henry
. At the very bottom was another signature: David Engelmann. Guilt splashed acid in his guts as his gaze inched back to the top of the letter. His eyes rested on the second paragraph:

I also want you to know that I like Jenny very much and would never do anything to hurt her. I have been waiting almost three months for Jenny to send me her address so that I can mail the letters I have written. Since I have not heard from Jenny in all this time, I have decided to mail them to you and ask if you would please take the letters home to Jenny …

The boy’s words cut through him and Ted closed his eyes. He didn’t want to read any more, it would only haunt him further. But the anguish in those words was already emblazoned on his mind. And that last sentence, “…
please take the letters home to Jenny
…” echoed in his brain. Wave after wave of shame swept through him. He shook his head, trying to loosen its hold but it gripped all the harder. He tossed the letter down and returned to the liquor cabinet, twisting off the cap of a fresh bottle of Canadian Club to pour himself another drink.

Then another.

Without realizing it, he had crossed a line. The fortress of high standards and principles he had so steadfastly built over the years crumbled beneath the weight of the conflict with his wife, feelings of shame and guilt, excessive drinking and poor job performance. Without help—or a miracle—he would never find the man he had once been, or regain the direction and focus he had once held.

After a long while the liquor finally took effect and he straightened up. He’d decided.
It’s too late; it’s all just too late
. He refolded Henry’s letter, tossed it into the box with the others, and closed the lid. As Ted removed his hand from the box, the flaps sprang open again, almost as if begging him to reconsider. He took hold of the flaps, overlapping them brusquely, warping them in the process. Ted shook his head and blinked several times, trying once more to shake the image of all those letters and Henry’s plea for compassion. For the sake of his own sanity he had to get rid of the whole thing.
Out of sight out of mind.

He sat down heavily, emotional fatigue and whiskey taking their toll. Groggily he pushed the box to the far end of his desk, and with the same motion, reached for the intercom.

“Elaine, could you please come in here?”

His voice came out unusually loudly and he winced, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

He was leaning over his desk when his secretary knocked briefly to announce her presence. He held a pen in his hand, pretending to take notes. “Come in, Elaine. I have a task I’d like you to carry out for me personally.”

“Certainly, Mr. Sarsky. What is it you’d like me to do?”

“There are some papers in the box you brought in earlier— they’re no longer required. They … have to do with our move to Ottawa and the sale of the Regina house. Could you please take them down to the boiler room and give them to the maintenance man? See that he throws them into the furnace.”

Elaine looked at Mr. Sarsky for a moment, somewhat startled by his request, then picked up the box and simply said, “Right away, Mr. Sarsky.”

She left the office, worrying about her boss. It was obvious he’d been drinking again. And his breathing had been short and shallow. Inwardly, she shook her head at the turn her boss’s life seemed to have taken in the last few weeks; she felt helpless to do anything.

As she walked out to the elevator, she wondered what was really in the box. It didn’t contain papers regarding the sale of their house—those had come in almost two weeks ago. No, that wasn’t it. But it was likely, wasn’t it, that the reason the career of a strong administrator like Mr. Sarsky had taken an ominous U-turn had something to do with what was inside? Perhaps, she mused, if she knew what the box held, she could help him.

As the elevator descended to the basement with its lone occupant, Elaine tugged on one of the box’s flaps. It flipped open with unusual ease. On top was a folded sheet of paper and a bunch of envelopes addressed to Jenny Sarsky. She had met Jenny when the Sarskys had first arrived in Ottawa. It seemed odd that the envelopes had no address on them. And there were so many.

Elaine had just unfolded the loose sheet of paper when the elevator bounced to a stop at the basement. She stuffed it back in and quickly closed the box, holding her hand over the flaps to keep them shut. The elevator doors opened and she stepped out into the musty basement hallway. She really didn’t like being down here. The lighting was poor and it always smelled of fuel oil and burning coal.

“Michael?” she called out, but there was no response. She went further down the hall, taking care not to bump her head on the pipes and valves running along the walls and low ceiling. “Michael?” she called again, this time a bit louder.

“Who’s there?” the maintenance man asked, emerging from the darkness. His dark hair, black overalls and soot streaked face were perfect camouflage in the dimly lit hallway.

“Michael, Mr. Sarsky asked me to have you burn this box and its contents. He wants me to make sure it’s done. Do you have time to do it right now?”

“Sure. Furnace room’s this way.”

As Elaine followed Michael down the hallway, she was again tempted to read the folded letter. Perhaps she should take one of the envelopes, too. If she was going to help Mr. Sarsky, she’d have to act before it was too late.

They came to the end of the hallway, and as Michael fiddled with the key to the furnace room, Elaine reached into the box and took out the folded sheet of paper. While Michael headed inside, she surreptitiously tucked it into her pocket and hoped she’d have an opportunity to take at least one of the sealed envelopes. Michael struggled to open the heavy metal door Finally he shoved it open and a blast of unbearable heat whooshed into the hallway. Instinctively they stepped back, waiting a moment for the heat to dissipate.

“It’s pretty warm in here, Elaine. You sure you want to stay?

It’s gonna get even hotter when I open the furnace door.”

“Yes, I told Mr. Sarsky I would, so we better get on with it.” Elaine moved inside, the searing heat startling her so much that she forgot to take out another letter from the box.

Michael said, “Here, hand the box over.”

Elaine paused, reluctant to give it up. She looked down at the box, then up at Michael, and handed it over.

Michael wrestled one-handed with the door to the furnace and the box slipped out of his grip. Letters spilled across the floor. The intense heat scorched the maintenance man’s hand as he tried to slam the door shut and catch the letters at the same time. He snatched here and there at the envelopes, walking on some of them and slipping on others.

Elaine watched, helpless. She dared not venture any closer than she already had.

Michael finally resorted to tossing the letters into the open furnace as he retrieved them from the floor. One after the other, the envelopes disappeared into the blaze. He was perspiring profusely as he picked up the last three and flipped them into the furnace. All that was left was the empty box.

“I guess that’s all of them,” he said, shrugging as he tossed the box into the furnace as well.

Michael’s words rang sharply through Elaine’s mind. That wasn’t all of them. She reached into her pocket and felt the crackle of paper. Should she toss the letter into the fire as directed by her employer or should she keep it and hope she could help? It was a split-second decision.

Michael closed the steel furnace door with a clanging clunk that startled her and she shivered despite the heat.

“Oh, Michael,” she said, a tone of urgency in her voice, “Looks like one more letter flew back this way.” She pulled the letter out of her pocket and thrust it towards the maintenance man. “Here, please toss this in too.”

That had been close. She’d been about to do something she’d never done in all the years of her employment. Although whatever the letter said might have helped her understand Mr.

Sarsky’s problems, she was compelled to honour her promise to see his request through to the end.