The Unfinished Gift (14 page)

The scene shifted.

Allied destroyers rose and fell in the rough Pacific waves. Battleships blasted their huge guns. The center of a Japanese ship erupted like a volcano, then split in two, sending both halves quickly to the bottom.

The scene shifted again.

Air Force generals pored over battle maps, rubbing their chins, pointing to selected targets. Collins’s hands tensed around the armrests at the next scene: ground crews loaded bombs onto B-17s and B-24s. The bombers taxied out to runways and slowly lifted off the tarmac. Hundreds of planes gathered in the skies, majestic contrails streaming behind them. Then Collins realized . . . Shawn was in one of those planes. Could he have just seen his plane in the film?

The scene shifted again, now inside one of the planes.

Gunners dressed like Eskimos wrestled with machine guns as spent shell casings hit the floor. The camera moved outside, into the skies. The film vibrated violently, then focused on little black specks that quickly became Nazi fighter planes darting through the bombers.

Collins tensed again as one Allied bomber, smoke pouring from two engines, fell off to one side then began spinning wildly out of control. The camera followed its descent. Collins didn’t see any parachutes. From his mechanical background, he understood a little bit about what was going on. Those poor young men, he thought, stuck inside a spinning airplane, aware they were going down, probably screaming in terror, pinned by centrifugal force against the fuselage wall. They had almost no chance of escape.

Collins witnessed two more bombers going down. Between the three planes, he counted only four parachutes. He’d read an article in Look magazine that said each bomber carried ten men. He quickly did the math. That meant four men had survived out of thirty that went down . . . in just those few minutes.

Only four . . . out of thirty.

Collins stood there now in his living room, holding the telegram. Five words seemed to magnify on the page:

  MISSING IN ACTION OVER GERMANY.

Shawn’s plane had been shot down, just like those planes in the newsreel. That same Look article said the pilots were usually the last to get out alive. They kept the planes flying steady until the others could bail out. Shawn would have done that, Collins thought. He would have done his duty to the end.

These thoughts and images became an arrow pointing in one inevitable direction—Shawn wasn’t missing; he was dead. It was that simple. The confirming letter to follow would only confirm that fact, the army’s way of letting a family down easy.

He set the telegram on the end table next to his ashtray. He was sitting now, though he didn’t remember doing so. He looked at the floor; at some point, his cigar had fallen from his mouth. Tears began to pour down his face. He tried holding them back, then wiping them away, but there was no stopping them. He looked up at the door, then the windows, as if someone might see.

He finally gave up, buried his face in his hands, and let the tears flow. His whole body erupted into heaving sobs.

“Shawn,” he cried. “My boy. My poor boy.”

Twenty-Two

Katherine Townsend had cried nonstop since receiving the call from Major Jennings that afternoon. A few co-workers took notice. Several called out as she ran through the halls, asking if everything was okay, was there anything they could do. She had never been so grateful to find the elevator empty.

She had promised Patrick she’d bring his father home safe, and soon. Now she had hope of neither. Her only hope now was that she would beat the Western Union man.

As she drove along, she thought about the phone call. Major Jennings reminded her that Patrick’s father was reported only as missing in action. When she had pressed for his opinion on his chances of being found alive, a long, agonizing pause followed. “We can always hope” was all he’d said. She had to convince the elder Collins not to say anything to Patrick as long as there was a shred of hope his father would be found alive. Perhaps even someone as stubborn as he could see the wisdom in that.

The snow began to fall as she turned right onto Clifton Avenue. It was coming down heavily, suggesting a brewing storm. Her car didn’t have snow tires or chains. She’d have to watch the time so she could make it back before the roads became too difficult to manage. As she approached Chestnut Street, her heart sank even deeper in its despair. At the intersection, a Western Union truck had just turned going in the opposite direction.

She was too late.

Mrs. Fortini had just finished putting on her black coat, gloves, and boots. She reached for her fur hat on the hook by the front door and looked out the window. The storm the weathermen had predicted had started. At least twelve to fourteen inches with drifts up to two feet. With the snow already laying on the ground, it would make getting around very difficult over the next few days. “You need help with your boots, Patrick?”

“No, I got ’em.”

“It’s starting to snow. We better hurry.”

“Really?” He got right up and limped to the window, dragging his unlatched boot. “Wow. You think it will snow all the way to Christmas?”

“It better not. We’ll be buried alive. C’mon, let me help you with that boot.”

They made their way out into the cold, carefully holding onto the rail as they descended the steps. The wind whipped the snowflakes into their faces. “It hurts,” Patrick yelled.

“Come here,” Mrs. Fortini shouted over the wind, pulling Patrick close to her side. They reached the end of her driveway. She threw her scarf across her face and eyed the distance left to travel. “I think we should head back to the house until this wind dies down a bit.” She was nervous about covering the icy sidewalk, what with the wind and a frightened little boy clinging to her leg. “I can call your grandfather from the house,” she said as she turned around. Patrick offered no objections.

Just then she looked down the street and noticed a truck trying to turn right at the intersection, its tires spinning in the sleet. She thought she saw the familiar Western Union emblem on the side panel as it cleared the curb. Instantly she remembered that terrible day she got her telegram about Frankie.

As she watched the truck disappear, she said a prayer for whatever family in the neighborhood might be receiving bad news this evening. This was her way of extinguishing sad memories before they unraveled too far.

So far, it hadn’t even occurred to Ian Collins that Patrick might not be in the house. The shock from the telegram still ruled the moment. His tears had dried temporarily, leaving him with puffy eyes. A heaviness, deeper than the heaviness that had visited him after Ida died, descended upon him.

His normal shuffle across the living room rug had slowed to a crawl. Presently, he was scouring the dining room pantry for a bottle of whiskey he knew he’d stashed somewhere for special occasions. It had never been opened. He certainly didn’t consider this occasion special. He simply wanted relief, actually to get drunk, and that as quickly as possible.

His trembling hands bumped a glass bottle of cooking oil. It tumbled from the shelf and shattered on the wooden floor. He swore as he heard the crash, looked down for a moment, but continued fingering the upper shelves in search of his prize. He finally located the whiskey bottle and carefully lifted it from its hold. He heard a loud pounding on the door and wondered why someone would be knocking so rudely. He sighed as he turned from his mission and stepped carefully over the puddle of broken glass and oil.

He suspected it to be Mrs. Fortini. He nervously wiped his eyes and stretched his face in a variety of exercises, hoping to achieve a normal expression. He looked out the front window and groaned. “Not now.”

It was that nosey Townsend woman.

Twenty-Three

As she looked into Collins’s eyes, Katherine knew instantly he had heard the news about Shawn. “May I come in?” Katherine asked. Collins backed up a few steps but did not reply. Her eyes instantly fell upon the telegram lying on the end table, but she pretended not to see. “That’s some storm we got brewing,” she said.

“I suppose,” he said in a voice uncharacteristically subdued.

“Is Patrick here?”

“Upstairs in his room. Why?”

“I don’t want him to hear what I have to say. Could we go into the dining room?”

Collins didn’t answer; he just moved in that direction. They came upon the oil spill. “Had a little accident. Watch your step.”

Katherine looked at the mess, then the whiskey bottle on the hutch, instantly understanding what had occurred. Can’t fault him for that, she thought, wondering if a stiff drink wouldn’t help her cope right now with her own growing depression. She quickly took her eyes off the bottle and focused on Collins’s face. “I saw the Western Union truck pulling away as I came on your street. I suppose he was here?”

Collins nodded then looked away.

Katherine actually felt sorrow for the old man. “I spoke with an Air Force major named Jennings. He said Shawn was just listed as missing in action.”

“I know.”

“There’s always hope,” she offered.

Collins sighed in reply, then said, “What did you want to discuss?”

Katherine looked up at the stairway. “Like I said, missing in action means there’s hope Patrick’s father will still be found.”

“I’d say the chances of that are slim,” he said with an edge.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Patrick is expecting him home any day.”

“So was I.”

“We’re going to have to think of something to say. Patrick would be devastated by this news, especially coming on the heels of losing his mother. I was hoping you’d feel the same way.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don’t think we should tell him. Not as long as he’s just listed as missing.” Collins seemed lost in thought, as though unable to process what she said. “We can tell him there’s been a delay, buy us some time until we learn more about the situation.”

“Madam, I’m not prepared to be the caretaker of a little boy. I’ve got my own life to worry about. You said it would just be for a week or two.”

“What?”

“For all we know, my son could be dead. And if by some miracle he survived being shot down, that means he’s a POW in Nazi Germany . . . for who knows how long?”

Katherine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m saying I’m not ready for this. I’m too old for this—”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Don’t scold me in my own house.”

“Patrick will hear.”

“Then let him hear. He’s going to find out soon enough anyway.”

“Mr. Collins!”

“Look, I didn’t ask for this—for any of this.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “He’s not a bad boy. But I’m just not up to all this. I’ve just found out my own boy is gone, and I—”

“He’s just missing, Mr. Collins. He’s not gone.”

“Call it what you will. He was going to be home any day, and now . . . who knows? I can’t keep this up, you’re going to have to . . .” His voice tapered off as he turned his back to her and wiped his tears away.

She knew he was just releasing emotions. She couldn’t imagine the volcanic explosion that would erupt if someone as self-centered and bottled up as Ian Collins finally let it all go. She didn’t want to be around when that happened. More importantly, she didn’t want Patrick to be around for it either. This might be just the thing to . . . “Mr. Collins.” She tried to keep an even tone. “If you’d like, I could arrange to take Patrick with me. At least until we find out more about his father’s situation.”

“I don’t know,” he said, facing her again, trying to act as though he hadn’t been crying.

“You need some time to deal with your grief. And with all due respect, Patrick needs to be shielded from it.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t have the forms with me right now, but I could write out a reasonable release form freehand. You could sign it, and I could take Patrick off your hands. Tonight.”

A new expression seemed to form on his face, in his eyes. The steely, controlling Collins appeared to be regrouping.