The Unfinished Gift Read online

  The

  Unfinished

  Gift

  The

  Unfinished

  Gift

  Dan Walsh

  © 2009 by Dan Walsh

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Walsh, Dan, 1957–

  The unfinished gift : a novel / Dan Walsh.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8007-1924-1 (cloth)

  1. Grandfathers—Fiction. 2. Christmas stories. I. Title.

  PS3623.A446U54 2009

  813′.6—dc22 2009012204

  To my children, now grown,

  Rebekah and Isaac,

  for all the love and joy you have brought into my life . . . and for all the kindness, mercy, and patience you’ve shown me all these years.

  I love being your dad.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Acknowledgments

  There are lots of people who helped make this book possible, and I do want to thank them. But there are a few whose help was indispensable; without them it would have never made it to print. I will start by thanking them.

  First there is Cindi, my lovely wife and First Reader (I don’t send anything in that she doesn’t like). I’d never have started writing again or kept at it, without her constant encouragement and love. Then there’s my mom, who’s with the Lord now (but she lived long enough to know this book would be published). She was a great mom and, next to Cindi, my biggest fan. I must add to this short list Mrs. Longnecker (wherever you are), my eleventh grade composition teacher. Her strong encouragement first awakened in me the desire to write fiction.

  To my excellent agent, Karen Solem, who believed in me then and now, thanks for all your hard work, guidance, encouragement, and advice. You have made this complex process so easy. To Andrea Doering, my wonderful editor at Revell. First, thanks for saying yes (that was huge). More than that, you are the editor I’d prayed for during all those silent months. Your suggestions and input improved this book, and your friendship has meant the world to Cindi and me.

  Now to a few others whose help I simply must acknowledge.

  To Michelle Misiak, Carmen Pease, and the whole marketing/ publicity team at Revell, for taking a virtual unknown and treating me with such kindness and patience. Also for your creative ideas and hard work getting this book to the shelves. To Cheryl Van Andel and Nate Salciccioli for such an outstanding cover, totally exceeding my expectations.

  To Terri Blackstock, for your friendship and advice behind the scenes through the years (what a blessing you have been). To my sister Anne, my typo-hunter, for your love and excellent input. And my other test readers: the Brothers Merwin, Jeff and Tim; and John Morgan (Mr. Prez) for your strong encouragement. And to my beloved friends at Sovereign Grace Church in Port Orange, FL, for all the years and the privilege of serving as your pastor.

  And finally, to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, whose love and mercy has changed me forever.

  One

  December 20, 1943

  When the black sedan stopped at the traffic light, Patrick rose quietly to his knees in the backseat and peeked out the side window. He flattened his palms against the glass, cold as ice, but he didn’t pull back. His eyes were drawn to a large picture window on a house at a nearby corner. Set deep within the night shadows, the window gave the appearance of a painting suspended in midair. Patrick would’ve given anything to be a part of what he saw inside.

  A plump Christmas tree glowed through the curtains. Two stockings dangled from a fireplace mantel. Flames shimmered against the glass ornaments on the tree. A real family, a whole family—mom and dad, two kids, and a dog—sat in a semicircle around a radio. Probably listening to Christmas music, Patrick thought. Maybe even “Silent Night,” his favorite. The mom put her arm around one of the children, a boy about his own age, and tenderly patted him on the shoulder. Tears welled up in Patrick’s eyes, escaping down his cheeks. He wiped them away and looked toward the front seat at the rearview mirror, to see if the government lady had been watching.

  He had cried more in the last few days than in all his seven short years combined.

  He placed his hand on one of the two suitcases beside him. One contained his clothes and a framed picture of his parents hugging, taken before he was born. The other held all the toys he had ever owned and a few picture books. The government lady said he might not be coming back to the apartment for a while. It had something to do with how long it took to find his dad in a place called Europe and whether the army would let his father come home now that his mom had . . .

  He couldn’t even let the words form in his head.

  Instead he thought about his father. He had been gone for a long time, but Patrick still remembered what he looked like. He had studied the picture every night before bed, trying to remember the sound of his voice. It was deep and strong, like the voice of the Shadow. And he was tall with dark wavy hair. He was a pilot on a B-17, dropping bombs on Hitler and all the bad people in Germany so the world could be free. That’s what his mother had said. But right now, Patrick didn’t care if the world was free. Or if his dad flew bombers or drove a milk truck.

  He just wanted him home.

  The car started moving again. At the next corner they drove past a Santa Claus ringing a bell beneath a streetlight. Next to him, a red kettle. A couple bundled in overcoats walked by. The man dropped a few coins in the kettle and kept going. The Santa yelled “Merry Christmas” in a happy but high-pitched voice. Not a proper Santa voice at all, Patrick thought. “We’re almost there now, Patrick,” the government lady said. “Isn’t it pretty outside with all the lights and decorations?”

  “Uh . . . yes,” Patrick answered. He knew he should feel that way. He wished he did.

  “Do you like Christmastime? It’s my favorite time of year.”

  He could tell she was trying to cheer him up, but it was hard to be in a Christmas mood when your mom suddenly dies in a car crash, leaving you all alone. Patrick noticed her eyes in the rearview mirror. She was looking back. He thought he saw a tear forming, but she quickly turned away. Almost there now, she had said.

  Almost where?

  He didn’t recognize any of thes
e streets or buildings. His grandfather couldn’t be a very nice man, he thought. He didn’t live very far away. Why had they never visited him? And the way his parents had talked about his grandfather also worried him; they always lowered their voices or changed the subject when Patrick walked into the room.

  As the car drove on, Patrick looked at the Christmas lights outlining some of the homes and streetlights. Still, it didn’t feel like Christmas inside. Not even the presence of snow lifted his spirits, and Patrick loved the snow.

  Almost there, she said.

  Patrick felt so lost. They had always lived in that same apartment on Clark Street. This place didn’t even resemble his old neighborhood. Everyone here had little yards and driveways with garages. Patrick wasn’t even sure they were in Philadelphia anymore. He tried thinking about something happy, starting with the toys he wanted for Christmas. Then he wondered, with everything that happened, would he still get any?

  Suddenly a wave of guilt swept over him. He sank low in his seat. Here he was worrying about getting his share of toys, and here his mother was . . . gone. He would never get to spend another Christmas with her. They would never decorate another tree. Sing another Christmas carol. He’d gladly give every toy he ever owned or would ever own again to have her back instead. Even for a day. The tears started coming again.

  This time he couldn’t make them stop.

  Two

  The old man’s joints creaked in unison with the cellar stairs he ascended. He had just added a shovelful of coal to the furnace. Once upstairs, he glanced at the mantel clock. The boy would be arriving any moment. The boy. Just the thought was enough to stir emotions he felt sure had long ago dried out and crusted over. How had it all suddenly become his responsibility? Ida had been gone for many years now, and he’d come to rely on the silence and steadiness of his routines to maintain his fragile peace of mind. What would a little boy mean to all that?

  Ian Collins slid his coffee cup under the pot and refilled it to the brim. As he sat at the dining room table, he glanced once around the downstairs of his moderate two-story home. Everything in its place, all as it should be. Even down to the ivory-colored doilies pinned to the armchairs. As neat as if Ida herself were still looking after things. He could just imagine the disheveled state of affairs once the boy got settled in.

  Bing Crosby sang “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” in the living room. Nothing but Christmas music on again tonight. The radio carried the only trace of Christmas in the house. No tree. No lights or decorations. That was all Ida’s doing. No reason to keep it up. Collins let out a prolonged sigh. There’d certainly be some pressure applied on him to change that for the boy’s sake, him having just experienced such a tragedy. That nosey government woman had already implied as much on the phone, her voice all fake and sweet.

  Where is that box of Christmas whatnots, anyway? he wondered. He was sure he hadn’t thrown it out. He could still see in his mind a picture of Ida in that last year, two weeks after Christmas, her long gray hair woven tightly in a bun, sitting on the living room floor like a child. She wrapped every item carefully in newspaper and placed them in a big cardboard box, except for the ornaments, which she placed in the exact spots they had occupied in the store cartons.

  After her death, when the Salvation Army had stopped by to clear out her things, he had half a mind to let them take the big box along. But he didn’t, couldn’t. At the time, the feeling came in the form of a posthumous lecture, the worst kind Ida could deliver—eyes only, boring deep within his soul. She would have wanted him to reconcile with their son, Shawn, maybe pass the decorations on to him, like some kind of family heirloom.

  No, the box was still in the attic. Had to be. Buried no doubt under a ton of debris, a backache in the making. Well, it could just sit there, he decided. No sense in fussing over it now. If the boy felt the need strong enough, he could sift through it himself in a few days, give him something to do. But Collins would draw the line at a tree. Just no point in it.

  He ran his fingers through his thin silver hair and scratched the back of his scalp, then thought he heard the low bass notes of a car engine rumbling out front, then coming to a stop. A moment later, a car door, then another. Had to be them at this hour. He’d better get up before they rang the bell. He had hated the sound of that thing every one of the nineteen years he’d lived there. He lifted his unlit cigar out of the saucer dish and wedged it in between the spaces formerly occupied by his front teeth. Probably shouldn’t light it with company almost here, he thought.

  He shuffled across the oval rug covering the living room floor. Why’d the boy’s mom have to up and die like that? It wasn’t a mournful thought, for he truly blamed her for destroying what little relationship existed between him and his son, Shawn. But to leave him alone with the boy like this, even if just for a few weeks. Whatever would they talk about? He’d never said two words to his grandson before, couldn’t tell him apart from any number of children playing stickball in the street. And what had Shawn and his wife told the boy about him? About why they had never spent any time together? Probably had made the rift out to be all his doing. That’s what they were good at: turning things around so that everything was his fault.

  The doorbell rang. He reached down and turned the doorknob, wondering what the purpose of his trip to the cellar had been.

  It was still as cold as ice in here.

  Three

  “Here we are, Patrick. This is your grandfather’s street.”

  Patrick leaned forward in his seat, pressed his nose against the icy window, and imagined which one it might be. She pulled over beside what had to be the darkest house on the street. The lady got out, letting a rush of cold air into the backseat. She had told him her name several times—Miss Townsend. He really should use it when he thought of her; she’d been so nice to him from the start.

  He watched her walk carefully along the snow-covered sidewalk, down the driveway, and up a handful of steps until she disappeared within the shadows of the house. Patrick put on his mittens, got out, and stood by the car, his fur-lined cap pulled tight over his ears.

  The front door creaked as it opened, like the creepy doors that open on that radio show Inner Sanctum. Patrick could see the outlined edges of two adults talking. He took a few steps forward, trying to hear what they said, but kept one hand safely on the rounded fender of the car.

  “C’mon, Patrick,” Miss Townsend called. “Come meet your grandfather.”

  He looked toward the backseat.

  “Don’t worry about your things,” she said. “I’ll get them in a minute. C’mon.”

  Patrick walked through the snow, lifting one boot and then another. He tried to stay within Miss Townsend’s footsteps, but they were too far apart. Patrick hesitated at the foot of the steps, unsure why.

  “Come on, Patrick.” Miss Townsend reached down and took hold of his hand.

  For a flash Patrick imagined letting his hand slip out of the glove, turning and running back toward the car, then past the car and on down the street. But there was nowhere to go. As he climbed the last stair, he looked up. First into Miss Townsend’s face for reassurance, then into the face of a balding old man. An unlit cigar hung down the side of his mouth.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  Ian Collins could hardly believe his eyes. Standing before him, illumined by the dim light, was the face of his son, Shawn, some nineteen years ago. The only difference was the boy’s blond hair. From some lost corridor in his mind, he could see Shawn running up those same steps the day he and Ida had bought the house, his face beaming, declaring the house to be as big as a castle. Then Shawn a year later, sitting on the driveway, spinning tops with his friends.

  “Mr. Collins?”

  “What?”

  “Would you like to meet your grandson, Patrick?”

  Her words hung in the air with the frosty mist. Collins stood there staring at the boy, laboring to reenter the present.

  “Come here, Patrick,” th
e woman said, ignoring Collins’s lack of response.

  Collins looked at the woman then back at the boy and realized how ill-prepared he was for this moment. The boy walked onto the porch and huddled next to the woman. She put her arm around his shoulder. As he looked up at Collins, Collins discerned a beckoning for approval from the boy but couldn’t lay hold of one in his heart. The best he could manage was, “How do you do?”

  For a moment, the boy didn’t respond. He looked at the woman then back toward the car. “Aren’t you going to say hello, Patrick?” she asked.

  “Hello,” he said. “How do you do?”

  “Well, I suppose you brought some things with you,” Collins said, looking past them toward the car. “Better see to them, before we let all this cold in the house. Heat barely works as it is.”

  The woman extended her gloved hand, and a stern expression appeared on her face. “Did I mention my name’s Miss Townsend?”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Collins, forcing himself to shake her hand. “We can do our talking in the parlor, once we get the boy’s things in the house.” He stepped back inside, grabbed his overcoat, then walked past them both out to the car. A moment later he stood in the driveway, a suitcase in each hand. “This all?” he yelled.

  “Just the two,” Miss Townsend replied.

  Back in the vestibule, he spread his arms like a mother hen, pushing them toward the front door. As the woman walked through the doorway, Collins noticed that she stopped briefly to inspect his front windows. She shook her head as if disappointed, and he instantly understood why.

  It had become every citizen’s patriotic duty to hang a little silk flag in the window for loved ones away at war. Most of his neighbors had them. The flags had a red background with a white circle in the center. Within the circle you placed a blue star—making your basic red, white, and blue—one star for each family member in the armed services. Any were killed in action, you replaced the blue star with a gold one. Collins’s street had two gold-star mothers thus far in the hostilities. But no flags in Collins’s window. No point in putting one up for Shawn, considering the state of affairs. Whatever else he was, he was no hypocrite.