The Unfinished Gift Read online

The stock boy smiled, and his thick glasses slid down his nose. “You’re awfully young to be shopping on your own, aren’t you? Your mom nearby?”

  The question stung like a bee sting in Patrick’s heart. He realized this had been the first day since his mom had died that he hadn’t cried, and that made him feel guilty somehow.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m not here with my mom. I’m here with Mrs. Fortini.”

  “Mrs. Fortini? I know her. Big Italian lady.” The stock boy looked around nervously, as though he’d said an improper thing. “I mean, she’s really nice. My name’s Harold, by the way.”

  “I’m Patrick. Mrs. Fortini’s next door buying meat. She gave me this list and said to set the things on the counter till she came. She said Mr. Hodgins wouldn’t mind.”

  “No, he won’t. You need any help?”

  “I might. I was looking for green beans.”

  Harold reached over and lifted a can off the shelf. “Here you go. White Rose. You can check one item off your list.”

  Patrick smiled as he took the can. He looked at the strange writing on top: “.15/10 pts.” “What’s this mean?”

  “That’s fifteen cents and ten points. Got any ration stamps with you?”

  “No. That mean I can’t buy it?”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Fortini does. She told you just set them on the counter, right?”

  “Right.”

  “She’ll probably take care of the bill when she comes in. You might want to get yourself a basket over there by the door first. You’ve got quite a few things on your list.”

  “Thanks.” Patrick took his can of beans and found the baskets. As he set the can inside, a strange sense of joy came over him. He was doing it. Shopping by himself. Just then, the door opened and he heard someone call his name. He turned and looked. He couldn’t believe it. “Miss Townsend!” he cried.

  He dropped his basket, and it crashed to the floor. Everyone watched as he ran and jumped into her arms.

  Katherine felt those quick tears forming in her eyes. She bent down and lifted Patrick up. He was hugging her so tight.

  “How are you, Patrick?” she said as he slid to the ground.

  “Is my father home yet?”

  Katherine tried to hide her sigh. “Not yet, but I was talking to a man this morning—an Air Force major—who said he would try to find something out today.” The look on Patrick’s face broke her heart. “Don’t worry, Patrick. I promised I would get him home as fast as I could, and I will. How is your grandfather treating you?”

  “Sometimes okay, I guess.”

  She could just imagine. The boy’s fine, went through her head. She noticed a young red-haired man dressed in a white apron coming up to them.

  “You his mom?” the young man said.

  “No, just a friend.” She didn’t want to embarrass Patrick by revealing her official role. Besides, she was a friend.

  “A relative of Mrs. Fortini?”

  “Who?”

  “He said he was with Mrs. Fortini. Isn’t she at Ray’s Meats?” he asked Patrick.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s right,” said Katherine. “Your grandfather said his next-door neighbor brought you. She left you in the store alone?”

  “It’s okay,” said Patrick. “I’m having fun. I just got my first thing. This can of beans.” He walked over and picked up his basket and can. “Harold was helping me.”

  “Ray’s is right next door,” Harold said, giving her a look.

  She knew that look, a more innocent version of Bernie Krebb’s look. He looked down at her hands, as if searching for a wedding ring. She quickly walked over to Patrick before Harold asked her what time she got off work. “Well, Patrick,” she said, bending down. “I can’t stay too long today, but I wanted to come out and see for myself how you were doing.” She talked quietly and turned her back to Harold as she spoke. He seemed to get the message and walked away.

  “I’m glad you came. I missed you.”

  That smile. Those eyes. She wanted to take him in her arms again and make him her own. “I missed you too. That’s why I came. You know, my boss didn’t want me to. He wanted me to wait a few more days to give you and your grandfather some more time. But I wanted to see you.”

  His smile grew even wider. Then a frown. “He doesn’t like me, and I don’t know why.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “I think he likes you, he just . . . I don’t think he knows how to show it.”

  “He yelled at me yesterday, really loud. But I don’t even know what I did that was wrong.”

  “Do you want me to talk to him? ’Cause I will.”

  Patrick thought for a minute. “I don’t know. That might just get him madder.”

  “Has he hurt you? In any way?”

  “Just in here,” he said, pointing to his heart.

  She felt a pain in her own heart. How could this man not see what a precious gift he was throwing away?

  “It doesn’t seem to matter what I do, he just doesn’t like me. I need my dad to come home. That’s all what I need.”

  He started to cry, and she pulled him close. “I’m going to bring him home, Patrick. As soon as I can. I’ll keep calling those army people until they make him come home. But you know what? You haven’t told me what you want for Christmas yet. It’s only a few more days away. I’d like to get you a present, if it doesn’t cost too much.”

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes. His smile was returning. “I know what I want most of all—except having my dad home, I mean.”

  “What is it?”

  “It wouldn’t cost anything, but I don’t know how you could get it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s something I saw in my grandfather’s attic yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a wooden soldier. You know, the kind you carve with a knife. It’s about this tall.” He spread his hands about eighteen inches apart. “It’s just sitting up there all dusty. It’s not even finished. It doesn’t have any feet yet, and it’s not painted any colors.”

  “Have you asked your grandfather about it?”

  “I started to on the attic stairs.”

  “What happened?”

  “He grabbed it out of my hands and started yelling something about me being just like my dad. But it didn’t sound like he thought that was good. I didn’t understand him. He was so mad I just ran to my room.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else you want? Like something at a store? Something you heard about on the radio?”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  The door opened behind them. Katherine turned to find a large Italian woman all dressed in black. “Patrick,” she cried. “Are you all right?”

  Katherine stood. “He’s fine. Are you Mrs. Fortini?”

  “Yes.” She walked over to Patrick and put her arm around his shoulder.

  “Hi, my name is Miss Townsend,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m with Child Services. I’ve been with Patrick since . . . well, I’m looking after him until we can get his father home from England.”

  “That’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Fortini. “Do you think it will be soon?”

  “I hope so. Right, Patrick?”

  He nodded.

  “So how’d you make out on your first shopping trip?” Mrs. Fortini asked.

  “I just got started, all I got was the beans.”

  “Well, we’ll do the rest together, and then you’ll be all trained for the next time.”

  “I better get going,” Katherine said, looking at her watch. “I’m already overdue.” Patrick ran over and gave her another hug. “I’ll keep checking up on you, okay? And you call me if it gets too hard for you at your grandfather’s.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on that situation,” said Mrs. Fortini. “I know what you’re referrin
g to.”

  Suddenly an image flashed into Katherine’s mind. She remembered seeing a motto on the wall in Patrick’s apartment in Clark Street, cross-stitched in a small golden frame. She bent down and took Patrick’s chin in her hands. “Patrick, do you remember the Golden Rule?”

  “I think so.”

  “What is it? What do you remember?”

  “Do things for others that you want them to do for you.”

  “That’s pretty close.”

  “My mom taught me. She made it into a picture thing she hung on the wall in our living room.”

  “I just remembered seeing it,” said Katherine. “Why don’t you try using the Golden Rule with your grandfather? See what happens.”

  “I’ll try. I think my mom would want me to.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Miss Townsend. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Thank you for looking after Patrick for me, Mrs. Fortini. I feel a little better now about leaving him with . . . well. Do you have a phone?”

  “I just got one a few months ago. What a wonderful thing.”

  “Could I call you sometime later today or tomorrow? I asked Patrick about a Christmas present, and he mentioned something about a wooden soldier in the attic.”

  “Oh my,” said Mrs. Fortini.

  “Is that bad?”

  “You call me, and I’ll explain. Let me write down my number.” She handed Katherine a slip of folded paper, and Katherine gave her a business card in return.

  Katherine gave Patrick another hug good-bye then walked back out into the cold. On the way toward her car, she vowed to double her efforts to find Patrick’s father. She didn’t care what Bernie Krebb said about getting personally involved. She was involved. If she lost her job over it, so be it. At least she could sleep well at night. And she could still keep seeing Patrick.

  How bad could it be working in a factory, anyway?

  When Katherine got back to her office, there was a message on her desk. It looked like Shirley O’Donnell’s writing. Shirley worked in the cubicle next door. It said:

  Major Jennings from the Air Force called.

  You spoke with him earlier today. Please

  return call right away. He said extremely

  urgent!

  She couldn’t believe he’d gotten back to her so quickly. Wouldn’t it be great to finally have some good news for Patrick? She leaned over the cubicle and looked down at Shirley bent over her desk reading a file. “Shirley, you take this call for me?”

  “What?”

  “This is your handwriting, isn’t it? When did Major Jennings call?”

  “Three times since you left.”

  “Three times,” Katherine repeated. She waited for some elaboration. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Just what the note says.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Katherine . . .” She sounded a little annoyed.

  “I’m sorry. This is important.”

  “Well, if it’s important, sit down and call him back.”

  “Did he sound happy or sad to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know if he sounded happy or sad?”

  “I guess I’d call it more like serious.”

  “You sure it wasn’t just businesslike?”

  “No, I’d say more like serious. Just call him, Kath. What are you getting so nervous about? What’s it to you, anyway?”

  “Nothing,” said Katherine. “Thanks for taking the calls.”

  “No problem,” she said, swiveling in her chair to face Katherine. “Thought I should tell you, though,” she said quietly. “Krebb took notice of you coming in late from lunch, gave you the evil eye, and then . . . that other look.”

  “But I wasn’t at lunch; I was on a call.”

  “Guess he didn’t know. I said that’s where you were.”

  “Thanks for covering for me.”

  “No problem.”

  Katherine sat at her desk, staring at the note. So Major Jennings had called three times, his voice a definite serious. She sighed heavily.

  Would he call three times about good news?

  Seventeen

  “What’d you do with the boy?” Collins asked as he watched Mrs. Fortini marching in through the vestibule, holding two bags in her arms.

  “I sold him to some gypsies. What do you think I did with him?” She rounded the corner and disappeared into the kitchen.

  He closed the door. “Why I asked . . . I don’t know. That Miss Townsend find you? You give him to her?”

  “What a delightful young girl.” Mrs. Fortini peeked her head out from the kitchen doorway. “You made her sound like some old hag.”

  “You still haven’t told me what you did with the boy.”

  “Little boys like the snow, in case you don’t remember. He asked if he could do something in the snow for a little while, and I said yes. You want me to call him in?”

  Collins thought a moment and said, “I suppose it’s all right. But he hasn’t eaten lunch yet.”

  “After I put these things away, I’ll make you both something.”

  Collins pulled his cigar out of his mouth. Either the cold, the wind, or the dampness had put it out. This front door has been opening way too much these last few days, Collins thought, and he didn’t much like it. He walked over to the fireplace mantel to fetch a matchbook, listening to all the clanging and banging and rearranging going on in the kitchen. Mrs. Fortini was—her cooking qualities notwithstanding—such a loud woman. He knew this would happen once the boy came. In no time at all, his whole life would be turned upside down. Mrs. Fortini’s wanting him to change this way, Miss Townsend wanting him to change that way. The boy asking for this, the boy asking for that. He walked over to the radiator to try and take some of the chill out of his bones.

  He had to admit, though, all in all, the boy wasn’t as bad as he could be. After he had gone off with Mrs. Fortini, Collins had gone upstairs to use the bathroom. The boy had made up his room once again, in fine military order. He cleaned up after himself pretty well in the kitchen too. Whatever else was wrong with the boy’s mother, she seemed to instill some respect in him for other people’s things.

  Except for that wooden soldier in the attic.

  Collins couldn’t believe the boy’s audacity, just picking something up that didn’t belong to him and walking down the stairs with it. And of the thousands of oddball things lying around up there, why’d he have to fixate on that? Collins still wasn’t over the pain just seeing that thing had dredged up in his heart.

  Just another reason why the boy had to go. He was an instigator. At this stage in life, Collins didn’t need or want instigation. He figured he deserved some peace and quiet, a little sameness and routine, if you please. That asking so much?

  After Mrs. Fortini had finished putting away the food she had bought Collins and straightened up a bit, she made them both some lunch meat and cheese sandwiches. She’d have liked to stay awhile longer to look after Patrick, but she bought some things for herself at Ray’s Meats that needed to go in her own icebox. She set the sandwiches on the dining room table along with two glasses of cold milk.

  “Come and get it,” she yelled to Collins as she walked into the living room. “I’ll see to Patrick.”

  Collins got up out of his chair, moaning excessively. “Any change left from your shopping spree? Any ration coupons?”

  “Next to my purse on the hutch,” she said as she opened the front door. My, but it was cold. She stepped into the vestibule, hoping to spot Patrick without having to go outside.

  She couldn’t believe what she saw.

  It nearly took her breath away. She had expected to find Patrick in the middle of building a snowman. “Hey, old man, get up. You have got to see this.”

  Collins had just set down to his sandwich. “What?”

  “Come here, quick.”

  “I’m just getting ready to eat here. Can’t you just tell me?”

&nb
sp; “No, you have to see it.” She heard his sigh all the way into the living room. She looked back outside at Patrick. From the first moment she had laid eyes on him, she had known he was special. Ida had told her about him over the years, always away from Collins’s presence, fearing her secret relationship would be exposed and halted. Ida could only see Patrick through the occasional picture and letter sent to her by his mother, Elizabeth. Ida had never blamed Elizabeth for the feud and said she had quickly understood why Shawn had loved her so. Ida thought Elizabeth to be a most remarkable mom.

  Now Mrs. Fortini could see why.

  “What is it?” Collins mumbled as he stepped past her. “It’s too blasted cold to leave this door open, woman.”

  “Oh, hush and look, look at your grandson.” Collins turned and saw. She looked at his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to say what he truly felt about something like this. First she observed surprise. Then confusion as he processed the images. The confusion lingered a few seconds, replaced by a battle between cynicism and admiration. Admiration won out, resulting in a slight smile appearing on Collins’s face. It was there just a moment, and she knew he’d never admit to it if she pointed it out. It was enough that she’d seen it for herself. His icy heart could still feel and care. It provided a pinch of hope.

  “Who put him up to that?” Collins asked.

  “No one.” She turned and looked at Patrick again. He hadn’t been doing any number of things a seven-year-old boy should be doing in the snow. Somewhere he’d gotten hold of a snow shovel. He had the whole walkway cleared from the front door to the driveway, and was presently digging a narrow walk through the driveway toward the street. His cheeks were blood red. He was obviously exhausted, but he kept at it. One shovelful at a time.

  “You better call him in,” Collins said, stepping back into the living room. “He’s going to turn up sick he stays out there.”

  She opened the door. “Patrick, you’re doing a wonderful job.” He stopped and looked up, his face all smiles and pride. “Why don’t you take a break? I’ve made your lunch. Would you like some hot cocoa with it?”

  “Sure would,” Patrick said, letting the shovel drop. He walked up into the vestibule, and she helped him out of his wet clothes.