The Unfinished Gift (13 page)

Katherine hadn’t uttered a word in thirty minutes. She just sat there, her eyes fixed on a stapler. She didn’t see it or anything else on her desk. She was barely in the room, her mind almost in a state of paralysis. Thoughts tried to form, but emotions ruled the moment.

Most of the other girls had gone home already. Bernie Krebb had said good night ten minutes ago as he walked by, but she didn’t hear. It was for times just like these that the agency had created the policy of keeping client relationships objective and impersonal. She knew that now. Why did she leave herself open for this kind of pain?

How could she face Patrick now with this news?

Twenty

As upset as he was by his grandfather’s harsh words, Patrick didn’t cry very much this time. Instead, he got angry.

After just a few minutes, he sat up in his bed. He glanced at his parents’ smiling picture on the dresser. But he wasn’t smiling back. He stood up and looked out the window, his arms folded. “Nothing I do is right with him. Nothing I do could ever make him nice. Now I know why we never came here to visit. I hate—”

But he couldn’t say it.

As he turned back toward the bed, he caught a glimpse of his mother’s eyes. “You should never hate anyone,” he remembered her saying, just after he’d gotten in a fight with an older boy and said he hated him. “Where would we be if God hated us every time we did something wrong?” Then she cupped his chin softly in her palm. “We can’t treat people one way and expect God to treat us another . . . right?” He knew she was right, both then and now. But he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

He wanted to run away. If only he had someplace to go.

He decided to go next door to Mrs. Fortini’s house. At least it was someplace else. He wouldn’t ask permission; he would just do it, just get up and go. He opened the door and peeked into the hallway. It was empty. He stepped out, his ears reaching for every room of the house. He stepped lightly down the steps, careful to avoid the squeaky ones.

Suddenly, a toilet flushed behind him, then a knob turned. Only a few moments to make his escape. He ran down the remaining stairs, grabbed his coat from the floor, and made his way to the vestibule. He put on his coat and boots as he stepped out into the cold, pulling the wet mittens from his pockets. He finished the buttons halfway down the driveway.

The sun was nearly gone now, the sky shifting to a deep navy blue. Patrick stopped just a moment to look back at the job he’d done on the driveway, then his eyes drifted up toward the house. All the other homes on the street already had their Christmas lights on, but not his grandfather’s. His house was cloaked in dark shadows.

Why did Patrick have to be at this house?

A few steps later he was at Mrs. Fortini’s driveway, but as he turned he slipped face-first on a thin layer of ice, plunging him into a snowbank. He dug the snow out of his eyes and picked himself up, brushed off his coat. He took shorter steps the rest of the way. He knocked softly on the door, afraid to make any noise that would alert his grandfather. As he waited, he noticed two stars hanging in her front window, one blue, the other gold. His mother had told him what the stars meant. The gold star must be Frankie’s, he thought.

“Patrick,” Mrs. Fortini said loudly. “Come in, come in. What are you doing here?”

Patrick looked into her eyes, relieved to see a gentle smile. He collapsed into the folds of her apron as she hugged him and rubbed his head. “Let’s get these wet clothes off. How’d you get so much snow on your face? One of those older boys hit you with a snowball?” She stepped out onto the porch and gave a menacing look up and down the street.

“I just fell.”

He had never been here, but as he looked around, he was surprised at how familiar the rooms were. Then he realized it was just like his grandfather’s place, only the opposite. It also had more furniture and throw rugs down the hall and into the dining room. The entire room smelled of things baking and thick perfume. Why couldn’t he live here while he waited for his father to come home?

“You take off the coat and boots and put them on the towel by the door,” she said as she closed the front door. “Warm yourself up by the radiator a few minutes. I’ll get you a little snack, but nothing too heavy so close to dinner.”

Patrick did what she asked. As he walked toward the radiator, he was captivated by three framed photographs propped on a dark wooden table. The center one showed two young men smiling, leaning up against a black car, waving at the camera. The man on the left was a sailor, the other a soldier. On either side of this picture were photos of each man by himself, from their shoulders up, still in uniform. Must be her sons, he thought.

The sailor must be Frankie, the one who died at Pearl Harbor. He could see Mrs. Fortini’s smile in his face. Frankie looked so alive when this picture was taken, thought Patrick, like he would always be alive, like he was alive right now. But he was not.

Then he remembered his talk with Mrs. Fortini by the cemetery. Frankie was gone . . . but he was still alive. Alive but very far away. He wondered what good was it if you couldn’t touch them or see their eyes blink, their smiles move, or their heads turn when you talked to them. He wondered if Mrs. Fortini ever talked to Frankie’s picture. He’d have to tell her how much it helped him.

“I see you’ve noticed my boys. Remember I told you about my Frankie?”

“The sailor, right?”

“That’s right. He’s in heaven now. Every day I pray for his brother Dominic to be safe. He’s in England where your father is.”

“Is he a bomber pilot?”

“Thank goodness, no,” she said, then seemed to regret it. “He is just a mechanic. He fixes planes. Dominic was always good with engines and tools.”

“Maybe he works on my father’s plane.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Here, sit down and have a cookie, but only one. The milk is fresh, just came this morning.”

The oatmeal cookie was delicious, and the milk made the experience complete. His smile grew as he looked at all her Christmas decorations. He’d almost forgotten it was Christmastime. There was a large nativity scene spread across a small table by the window. Holly branches covered the arches of each doorway. Scattered on every ledge and shelf were Santas, angels, and elves. “Are you getting a tree?” he asked.

“Of course. What would Christmas be without a tree? A nice man across the street, Mr. Murphy, is getting one for me on Christmas Eve. If you’re still here, you can help me set it up. Would you like that?”

“Would I.”

“You could come over the day before and help me make some new ornaments.”

“You make ’em?”

“Since the war, they haven’t been selling any new ones, so each year I make a few new ones to replace the ones that break. It’ll be fun. We’ll roll up pieces of cardboard into little balls and wrap tinfoil around them. Then I’ve got some pinecones we could paint.”

“I would like that.” He got up and walked his plate and glass out to the sink.

“What a gentleman,” she said.

“Mrs. Fortini? What are all those things poking out of the snow?” Patrick asked, looking out the back window.

Mrs. Fortini came and stood behind him. “Those? That’s the top of my little fence.”

“That’s only how big your yard is? My grandfather’s yard is way bigger.”

“No, silly. That’s not my whole backyard. It’s my Victory Garden. See how the posts are shaped like a V? Do you know what a Victory Garden is?”

“We didn’t have any backyards on Clark Street.”

“It’s a way of helping with the war. People with yards are supposed to grow as much food as we can so the farmers can give more food to the soldiers.”

Patrick looked again. He still couldn’t make out the V.

“Last spring I grew all sorts of things. Tomatoes, carrots, zucchini. I had to put a fence around it to keep the dogs out.” She walked to the sink and rinsed off the plates, then they walked back to the living room.

“I’ll ask your grandfather then.”

“Ask him what?”

“Ask him if you can help me decorate my tree in a few days. How long did he say you could visit?”

Patrick looked down at the rug. He didn’t want to answer.

“He doesn’t know you’re here?”

“I was afraid he would say no. But I had to see you.” He looked up.

After a pause, she said, “That’s all right, Patrick. But we’ll need to get you back over there somehow. Maybe he doesn’t know you’ve left yet. Let’s get your coat on.”

It was his last telegram of the day. The Western Union driver waited at the traffic light, glancing down at the map, trying to ignore the stares. The curious passersby. Drivers and passengers in cars throughout the intersection. He turned right onto Clifton Ave., double-checking the map.

The weatherman had predicted more snow to hit later that evening. The wind was expected to pick up too, bringing with it almost blizzardlike conditions. Hopefully, he’d get this last telegram out and be back home before the storm hit.

Here was the next street. He glanced at the map once more as he turned the wheel. That’s the one, he thought, Chestnut Street. He hoped this last telegram might bring good news. Every now and then it happened: a son missing in action had been found safe; a son missing and presumed dead had been identified as a POW. Moments like these were the only bright spots in his day.

He looked down at the name above the address:

Mr. Ian Collins.

Twenty-One

He didn’t even feel the biting cold anymore. Standing there in the vestibule, Ian Collins read the words but could not register their meaning. Western Union Telegram. What was he holding?

“Have a good evening, sir,” the young man said nervously as he backed out of the doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said as he turned and walked away.

Collins heard the door latch click. He looked up and noticed several neighbors standing on their porches, others looking out their windows. Two women had stopped on the sidewalk a few doors down and turned. Vultures, he thought, every last one of them. None of them liked him, not even when Ida was here. He gave them each his meanest glare until, one by one, they pulled back into their homes.

He backed into the living room and slammed the front door. It’s probably just a note from Shawn telling me when he’ll be home, Collins thought. Shawn wouldn’t call; he wouldn’t want to talk in person; he’d send a telegram. That’s all this is. Wrote to tell me when he’d be in to get the boy. Still, the hand holding the telegram trembled. He tried to make it stop, but it wouldn’t mind. He shuffled toward his chair, staring down at the envelope. He sat, then stood up again, thinking a person should read a telegram standing.

He took a deep breath, tore it open.

Before he read the first line, he got a feeling something was missing. He scanned the ashtrays in the living room until he saw it in the pewter tray on the fireplace mantel. He hurried over and shoved the cigar in his mouth. He remained standing as he slid the yellow telegram out of the envelope and read the first line. His stomach tensed up; he felt his heart beating in his temples.

The telegram wasn’t from Shawn. It was about him.

PAL37 49 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC DEC 22 112P
MR IAN COLLINS=235 CHESTNUT ST=
THE SECRETARY OF WAR HAS ASKED ME TO EXPRESS
    HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON CAPT SHAWN
    COLLINS WAS REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION
    DEFENDING HIS COUNTRY OVER GERMANY
A CONFIRMING LETTER FOLLOWS=
E F WITSELL ACTING THE ADJUTANT GENERAL OF
   THE ARMY.

MISSING IN ACTION.

The words repeated over and over in his mind, finally sinking in at about the fifth revolution. Collins was not an emotional man, save for his anger. But he felt like a man standing too close to a rising stream and the ledge beneath his feet just gave way. He blinked back tears that suddenly appeared, literally willing them away. It says “Missing in Action,” he thought, not “Killed in Action.” There’s no reason to assume Shawn is dead. Missing means missing. It doesn’t mean—

Suddenly a picture of a black-and-white newsreel began to replay in his mind.

Collins was back in time two weeks ago, before the boy had arrived. He had just slipped into the Clifton Theater on a Saturday afternoon, taking a seat in the back row. He didn’t know what movie was playing and didn’t care. He had simply walked past the shops bordering the theater in search of a deli sandwich. He looked up and saw the word “Newsreels” at the bottom of the movie marquee.

Here the war had been raging for two full years and he still hadn’t seen any newsreels. He knew the air war over Germany was in full bloom. Allied planes were being sent across the English Channel almost every day. He knew Shawn was on some of those missions. Shawn’s plane was dropping some of those bombs. Curiosity got the better of him. The next thing he knew, Collins was standing in line. Once inside, he walked past the lines at the concession stand. In a few minutes, the lights dimmed and the newsreel began, a Fox Movietone production.

The sights astounded him, far more gripping than he’d expected. He watched ship convoys, one after the other, helplessly attacked by German U-boats. He’d never seen such a thing. The stricken vessels sank so quickly, like bathtub toys, tossing sailors into the frigid waters.