The Unfinished Gift (19 page)

Collins had dismissed it as so much idle chatter. Street noise, like the rumbling of car engines or the screeching of trolley cars. It was as if he had no stake in this war. As if he had no son.

No son . . . and now that might just be the case. No wife, and now . . . no son.

In his mind he saw a small group of unnamed mechanics in England, staring at the edge of a runway, staring off toward the horizon, longing for a glimpse of Shawn’s plane at the end of that last mission. He felt, for the first time, what they must have felt when all the planes had returned safely home that day. All except one.

Shawn’s plane.

Collins and this crew shared the same grief. Only Collins’s grief was but a few hours old.

And already it was becoming unbearable.

Tears began to roll down his cheeks again. What was he doing? Why put himself through this torture? He wiped his face on his sleeve and forced the tears to stop.

Then a new disturbing thought came . . . if Shawn’s plane never came home, would there ever be a body sent home to bury?

Did Shawn’s body still exist? Had it disintegrated in some terrible fireball in the sky? Was it lying in some cornfield, twisted and mangled in some wreckage? How does one grieve properly without a proper funeral?

All Collins had to show for his son’s life was this telegram . . . and these letters.

But that wasn’t all.

There was the boy. Patrick. He said his name aloud. “Patrick.”

He looked up the stairwell. He thought about going upstairs, just to look in on him. Maybe he could whisper in his ear how sorry he was for treating him so badly. Tell him what he really thought of him: that he was a fine lad, with good manners, hardworking, handsome. The boy—Patrick—shouldn’t be made to pay for the falling-out he’d had with his father. It wasn’t his fault. And he was all the family Collins had left now.

All that was left of Shawn.

He looked down at the cigar box sitting on the coffee table. He couldn’t just walk upstairs now, not unless it was the last time for the night; he’d never make it back down. And what if Patrick woke up before he did in the morning, came down to find this mess?

No, a few more letters and he’d have sampled the entire stack. Painful as it was, he decided he had to read at least a few more. Then he’d put things back where they belonged and head up the stairs.

September 6, 1943
My darling Liz,
Sorry to hear you lost your job at the bakery. But I have good news, I’ve been promoted to captain, which brings a decent pay raise. Should cover whatever money you’ve lost. I’ll let you decide if you need to find other work after you get my next check. I know you’ll do what’s best. I’m so proud of the way you’ve been handling things while I’m gone.I’ve noticed something in your last batch of letters, hinting at wanting to take Patrick to see my father (I think that’s where the hints are going). You know how I feel about this, but I can see you have no intention of dropping the idea altogether. So let’s stop hinting. Go ahead and write me a letter explaining exactly what you’re thinking. Being around life and death issues on a regular basis has a way of softening the heart.So much going on here, wish I could speak freely. Twelve more missions and that day will finally come. That means I’m past the halfway mark of 25. Then you’ll be in my arms again, my love. Just imagine. I do . . . all the time.
All my love,
       Shawn
Oct. 3, 1943
My darling,
Finally got your batch of letters (we wondered if the mail ship got sunk). You can’t imagine how precious they are to me. I hold each one like thousand dollar bills. When they come, I drop everything until I read them, or if the army delays me, I think of nothing else until I get back to them. I can think of no sadder sight on this earth than a soldier left standing empty-handed after mail call is through.Had an interesting thing happen on my last mission. The plane directly to our left carried one of those newsreel photographers taking movies of our flight. He definitely got an eyeful (got pounced twice by German fighters and the flak was so thick you could walk on it). The thing is, I’m sure my plane will be in that footage. How can it not be, we were right next to him? So be on the lookout at the theaters a few weeks from now. Tell Patrick if he sees a bunch of B-17s in the air to be looking for my plane, “Mama’s Kitchen.” Tell him that’s his daddy flying that thing. I miss you both so much.
All my love,
       Shawn
November 18, 1943
Dear Liz,
Sorry about ignoring your letter about my dad. You’re right, I did get it, read it several times, in fact. But I just wasn’t ready to respond. Here I’d given you the green light to make your case, then I chickened out. I am facing mortal danger in enemy skies on a regular basis, and I’m afraid to face my own heart and where it may lead on this thing.Well, your last appeal did get through. I’ve never thought about forgiveness quite that way before. That it’s a command from Christ, not a suggestion. And that my motivation needs to be the forgiveness I have received, not that the other party deserves it. I don’t deserve the mercy God has shown me, either. I guess I had been holding out, waiting for my dad to make the first move, and feeling justified until he did. But I know that day may never come, and I’m keeping Patrick from ever knowing his own grandfather because of my stubborn pride. I’ve asked God to forgive me, and now I’m asking you. One day, by God’s grace, I hope to be able to do the same with him. You have my permission to make contact with him. Have no idea what he’ll do or say, but I’ll pray.
Love you so much,
       Shawn

Collins set the letter down and sat back, shaking his head in quiet resignation to a reality he could no longer ignore. He had been all wrong about Shawn’s wife Elizabeth, totally wrong. The evidence was clear. She had been trying to bring him and Shawn together, not keep them apart. And now—with this letter—it was clear she had finally broken through.

Collins noticed that he was finally near the bottom of the stack, only a couple more left to go. He looked again at the date of this last letter: “Nov. 18, 1943.” Just over a month ago, only four weeks before the car accident that took Elizabeth’s life. A sweeping sadness engulfed him now. Elizabeth never knew she had so little time left. And she had gone so early in life. At least he and Ida had shared a life together, an entire life. But then a sadder thought . . . at least for Collins. Shawn and his wife Elizabeth were already reunited.

Collins was the one left alone.

The tears started flowing once more. But he forced himself to read on; he was so near the end.

Just two more letters.

November 22, 1943
Dear Liz,
I am so cold as I write this. My hand is literally trembling. I write a little, breathe on my knuckles, write a little more. Remember how I used to be the one to keep you warm? You’d stick your freezing hands under my sweater—I’d jump at the shock? Couldn’t help you now.Another Thanksgiving apart. What will you and Patrick be doing, I wonder. I still remember last year . . . the smell of turkey throughout the apartment, your wonderful mashed potatoes, the stuffing and green beans, all smothered in gravy, Christmas music on the radio. Why do I torment myself this way? I’m facing a mess hall full of guys, none of whom wants to be here, standing in line as some guy slaps down a pile of Thanksgiving food, all flung together in a mush.I am praying this will be our last Thanksgiving apart. It could be. It’s what I live for—seeing you again, holding you in my arms. Tell Patrick how proud I am of him for taking such good care of you.
All my love,
       Shawn
December 6, 1943 My Darling Liz,
Thank you so much for sending that new picture of you and Patrick. My heart skipped a beat when it fell out of the envelope. You don’t know how precious it is to get a fresh glimpse of your face again. Could you even be more beautiful than before? And Patrick, he looks like he’s grown 2 or 3 inches, standing there next to you.John Talbot, a new pilot bunking with us, was looking over my shoulder and said, “Is THAT your wife?” He had that same dazed look so many men would get when we’d walk around together (and it was all I could do to keep myself from decking them). But I just said, “Can you believe I have this waiting for me back home?” How did I ever wind up with you? You are so out of my league.I’ve included twenty-two dollars with this letter. Buy yourself and Patrick something nice for Christmas (I got it from a wealthy English gentleman, after I stopped to change his flat tire . . . wouldn’t take no for an answer). It must be meant for you.
Merry Christmas and all my love,
       Shawn
P.S. Looking forward to hearing all about your big adventure with my father.

Collins gently laid the last letter back in the shoe box and sat up straight.

The date on it was December 6; Shawn had written it just a few weeks ago. And considering how long it took military mail to reach home, Elizabeth must have read this just a day or two before the car accident that ended her life. She would not be waiting for Shawn when he got home, and Shawn would not be coming home. She was gone; now Shawn was gone. His Ida, gone. And here he was in this chair, this room, this house, the least worthy of them all to be spared.

What purpose could God have in that?

His head turned slowly toward the bottle of whiskey. He reached for it with an unsteady hand, determined not to drink from the bottle. He set it in front of him, then reached for the shot glass sitting on its side. But he knocked it over trying to right it, and it slammed to the floor. It didn’t shatter but made such a noise that it startled him.

After a few hushed minutes, it became clear Patrick had not been aroused. Collins released the pent-up air in his lungs and carefully poured. He had to keep the mouth of the bottle several inches away from the glass, to keep them from clinking together, his hand was shaking so. The whiskey went down in a single shot, and it warmed his insides, the only warmth he felt.

All his comfortable routines had been shattered the day Patrick arrived, but now he realized it was not only his present life that had been overturned, but his past and his future as well. His memories, just moments ago arrayed like statues on a well-manicured lawn, were now broken in pieces. Not a single one intact. He’d had it all wrong from the beginning.

About everything.

Elizabeth did not hate him, though now for the life of him he could not understand why. She had not tried to keep Shawn away, probably never had. She had been trying to push them back together, just like Ida would have wanted. And she succeeded, at least in part. Shawn had given her permission to visit. That had to be the “big adventure” Shawn spoke of in the “P.S.” of this last letter. Elizabeth was planning to visit him, and to bring Patrick.

His heart sank as he thought on it. He knew how he’d have responded. His hatred and prejudice would have been right there at the surface. And he’d likely not have kept a civil tongue, maybe even run them both off with a broom or a stick. And Ida would have been watching from heaven, and so would God. And Collins might have put his mortal soul in peril by the whole exchange.

Tears started to fall again from his face, directly onto the table, his head bowed so low. What a waste of a man he had become. What a total waste of a man.