The Unfinished Gift Read online

  “We’re going to have to buy you a man’s gloves,” she said as she yanked off his mittens. “These are soaked.”

  Patrick walked over and stood by the radiator. He looked at his grandfather, already back at the table, eating his sandwich, reading the sports page. She noted the discouragement on Patrick’s face. She bent down and whispered in his ear, “He saw it, Patrick.”

  “He did?” Patrick whispered back.

  “And he smiled.”

  “Really?”

  “Saw it myself.”

  Patrick walked toward the dining room at a lively step. “I am so hungry.”

  “You should be after all that work. Right, Mr. Collins?”

  “What?”

  “Hard work makes a man hungry, right?”

  “Hard work never hurt a soul,” he said without looking up.

  Patrick took his seat at the table and began devouring his sandwich.

  “You finish eating, and I’ll start that cocoa,” Mrs. Fortini said.

  “Cocoa,” Collins mumbled. “You wasted my blue stamps on cocoa?”

  “Oh, hush up and finish your sandwich.”

  As she walked past Collins, she looked back at Patrick and winked.

  Eighteen

  Her frustration and anxiety was growing by the minute.

  In between a handful of other tasks, Katherine had called Major Jennings four times over the last two hours but was unable to reach him. It didn’t mean anything, she kept telling herself. She should stop calling and trust her message would get through. He’d call back today. He wouldn’t make her wait all night.

  Bernie Krebb walked by her cubicle on his way to his office and glared down at her, making her suddenly aware she was sitting there doing nothing. She picked up the telephone, faking a call. Her eyes scrambled for something to do. She noticed a slip of paper sticking out of her purse. It was Mrs. Fortini’s phone number. As the telephone began to ring on the other end, Krebb turned his attention elsewhere.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Fortini? This is Miss Townsend from Child Services. We met a few hours ago at the grocery store. I was there seeing Patrick.”

  “I remember. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. And I want to thank you again for looking after Patrick. I didn’t really want to leave him there with his grandfather, but I had no choice. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No need, Miss Townsend. Our Mr. Collins is . . . well, a very difficult man. This we all know. I’ve lived next door for years. His wife and I were best friends. He wasn’t always this way. Well, not always as much this way.”

  “Do you know what he has against Patrick? I don’t understand why he treats him so coldly. He’s probably the finest little boy I’ve—”

  “It’s not Patrick. Mr. Collins and Patrick’s father had a falling-out years ago. They haven’t said hardly a word to each other since before Patrick was born.”

  “What’s it all about? You don’t have to get into this if you’re uncomfortable—”

  “No, that’s all right. Ida tried to explain it to me, but she was a loyal wife. Whenever I asked questions, her answers were always very guarded. She did say there were some issues that divided them, some harsh words had been said, and now each was waiting for the other to relent and apologize. But both were too stubborn to ever do that, so the stalemate goes on. I thought for sure it would end when Patrick was born, and then Ida passed away, and here we are some years later and it’s still going on.” She paused a moment, then said, “Bitterness is a terrible thing.”

  “Could I ask you about something else? When I saw Patrick at the store, I asked if there was something I could get him for Christmas. I was expecting him to say something like a rifle or a toy car, but he wanted something very unusual.”

  “The wooden soldier in Mr. Collins’s attic?”

  “Yes. Patrick said his grandfather yanked it out of his hands after he’d found it yesterday and yelled at him.”

  “I’m surprised that’s all he did.”

  “What’s all this about? Patrick said it was some kind of hand-carved thing.”

  “It’s an odd thing. To look at Mr. Collins and listen to him, he seems incapable of anything artistic or creative. But he’s really quite talented when it comes to wood. He made the wooden soldier years ago. I don’t think he’s made anything else since. Ida showed it to me once. It’s not like the Nutcracker or some childish toy; it’s much more realistic. I think he made it after some hero from the First World War. But . . . he gave up before he finished it.”

  “Why?”

  “From what Ida said, he was making it for Shawn. Back when they were just starting to have their problems. Shawn was away at school. I think it was supposed to be a surprise Christmas present, a way to patch things up. But then Shawn met Elizabeth, and he didn’t come home that year. Mr. Collins stopped working on it. Ida said he left it out for a while but got sick of looking at it. She said he seemed to treat it almost like a symbol of their animosity. One day he said something like, ‘All the hours I spent carving this thing . . . just a waste of time, like all the years I spent raising that boy.’ And walked it up to the attic and she never saw it again, except at Christmas when she’d go up to get the decorations.”

  “Of all the things for Patrick to focus on,” Katherine said.

  “I don’t see him ever agreeing to letting Patrick have it,” said Mrs. Fortini.

  “I’d ask him, but he can’t stand me.”

  “He doesn’t think too highly of me, either,” Mrs. Fortini said. “But I’d be willing to give it a try.”

  “I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

  “I’m always in trouble with him,” she said. They both laughed.

  Out of the corner of Katherine’s eye, she noticed a hand waving off to the side. She looked up to see Shirley O’Donnell leaning over her cubicle. “Excuse me, Mrs. Fortini.” Katherine covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “It’s him,” Shirley whispered back. “Line two.”

  “Who?”

  “That major you been trying to reach. He’s on line two.”

  Katherine’s heart started pounding. “Okay, tell him I’ll be right there.” She took her hand off the mouthpiece. “Mrs. Fortini, I’m sorry. I’ve gotta go. Got a long-distance phone call I’ve gotta take.” She was about to tell her who it was but changed her mind.

  “That’s all right. It’s been nice talking to you. I’ll do what I can with that old goat about the wooden soldier.”

  “Thanks, good-bye.” She hung up the phone and turned in her chair very slowly. Shirley made a face. “Okay, Shirley. I’m ready.”

  “You are so ridiculous. Just pick up the phone. What’s the big deal?”

  Shirley was right. What was the big deal? She picked up line two. She looked at her hand; it was shaking. She was being ridiculous. But . . . it was a big deal. “Hello, Major Jennings. Thanks for returning my call.”

  Nineteen

  Mrs. Fortini walked carefully down the sidewalk toward Collins’s house. Patrick was hard at work finishing the driveway. The sun had already begun to descend, covering half the street in shadows. A chilly wind blew across the street, whipping a mist of snow into the air, wide enough to douse them both before it died away. The cold went right through her overcoat, but she noticed Patrick hardly broke his stride. One shovel after another.

  “It looks wonderful, Patrick,” she yelled as she turned into the driveway. “See? I can walk right down it now without getting any snow on my boots.”

  “You like it?” He stuck the shovel in a sidewall of snow and looked up at her.

  “It’s wonderful. Looks like you’re almost done. But it’s getting colder. I’m not sure you should be out here much longer.”

  He pointed to the far edge of the sidewalk. “Can I stop when I reach there?”

  “Might be better to finish tomorrow.”

  He looked at the
remaining distance. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.

  Can I do this on Sunday?”

  “That’s right, the Lord’s Day . . . I don’t know, what did your mommy teach you?”

  “I can’t remember. Seems like I heard something about it.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it now. I just don’t want you to catch cold. The sun’s going down.” She walked past him toward Collins’s front door, patting his hat.

  “I’ll just do a few more feet, then I’ll quit. I want to make it nice and even.”

  She turned back toward the house in time to catch Collins peeking through the front curtains. He quickly backed away.

  Collins hurried over to the cardboard box delivered yesterday and quickly put the little boxful of letters back in their place and closed the flaps. The commotion outside had put a quick end to his exploration. All day long the letters had been tempting him, and he had resisted. At first, he refused to acknowledge the interest. But it reached a point where it was futile to pretend otherwise. He hated this. It wasn’t like him. But he felt like he had to know more.

  So in a way, he was glad for the interruption. He didn’t have a chance to read even a single one, and it was probably just as well.

  Getting caught by Mrs. Fortini was unacceptable. He heard the outer vestibule door open and close with a clang. Such a noisy woman. Collins quickly took his place in his chair, even picked up the sports page to cover his tracks. Then the knock at the door.

  Collins waited a moment, not wanting her to think he was in any hurry. Somehow the boy’s presence had given Mrs. Fortini the authority to burst into his life whenever she pleased. “I’m coming,” he yelled. She banged again. “Hold your horses.”

  As he opened the door, she was taking off her boots. Great, he thought. She planned to make more of this than a doorway chat. “What do you want now?”

  “Good evening to you too,” she said.

  Collins stepped out of the way to let her through.

  “I just want to talk to you about something, and I don’t want you to listen in a snippety mood.”

  “I don’t even know what a snippety mood is.”

  “It’s your normal mood.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something important?”

  Collins sighed. No matter how hard he tried, there was no intimidating this woman. No wonder her husband had departed this world early.

  She walked in and took a seat on the sofa closest to his chair. “Come over here and have a seat. This won’t take but a minute.”

  He dutifully obeyed, halting momentarily in silent protest before sitting. “All right, what’s this about?” He knew it must have something to do with the boy.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do for Christmas? What you’re going to get Patrick? It’s just a few days away.”

  “His father should be here before then.”

  “What difference does that make? Shawn comes home and somehow that means you can’t get your grandson a Christmas present?”

  The thought had never entered his mind. “You came all the way over here like there was some serious thing to talk about.”

  “This is serious. Christmas is important, you old Scrooge. To most people, anyway. And to kids especially. And for Patrick, this year is going to be especially difficult—”

  “I don’t need you telling me this.”

  “Yes, you do, if you’re not thinking about it on your own. And obviously you’re not.”

  Collins reached for his cigar. It might just be time to blow a big puff in her direction. Either that or get mad enough to start swearing, and he liked her tomato juice too much to risk that. He relit the cigar, then puffed heavily to secure the burn. She coughed as the smoke dissipated about her head.

  “That’s not going to work, old man. Not this time. Don’t you care about Patrick?”

  “I took him in, didn’t I? Didn’t have to. That Townsend woman said she’d take him if I wanted.”

  “Ian . . . he’s your grandson. He’s just lost his mother. His father is two thousand miles away. It’s Christmastime.”

  She had never called him by his first name. It was always Mr. Collins. And she was always Mrs. Fortini. And he rather preferred it that way. And she was talking way too kindly just now. He preferred the loud Italian version more.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes, he’s my grandson. I’m aware of that.”

  “You weren’t listening.”

  “Would you just get to the point?”

  “You need to give him a Christmas present. Something special, something he’ll remember.”

  “I don’t know what a little boy wants.”

  “There’s a simple solution to that. You could ask him.”

  Collins sighed loudly through his teeth. Another smoke cloud drifted toward Mrs. Fortini, then broke apart.

  She coughed once, then continued. “I think I already know something you could give him, and it wouldn’t cost you a red cent.”

  Collins could see there was no cutting this lecture short without at least a pretense of cooperation. “All right, what is it?”

  Mrs. Fortini straightened back up in her seat. “Remember that old wooden soldier you carved many years ago? It’s just sitting up there in your attic. I happen to know—”

  “What?” Collins yelled, rising to his feet.

  Mrs. Fortini leaned back in her chair. “Don’t get upset.” “I see what’s going on here. The boy put you up to this, didn’t he?” In the commotion, no one heard the vestibule door open and close.

  “He did no such thing. He has no idea—”

  “So that’s it then . . . you tell him to go outside and shovel the sidewalk to butter me up, then you come in here to do his dirty work. Well, it’s not going to work.”

  “You old fool.” She stood in front of him now. “That’s not what happened at all.”

  “I told him yesterday he had no business laying a hand on that thing. He’s got no rights to it and no right sending you in here to ask me about it.”

  “He didn’t send me in here—”

  Collins walked into the dining room and leaned on the table, facing away from her. “I should have thrown that stupid thing out a long time ago. It’s been nothing but trouble.” He turned and said, “You can just walk right back out there and tell him his little scheme didn’t work. I don’t care if he—” His finger was jabbing the air in her direction when he noticed the front door standing open and Patrick standing there. Mrs. Fortini turned and saw Patrick too.

  Patrick let his coat fall to the floor and ran up the stairs, tears streaming down his face.

  Mrs. Fortini got up without saying a word. She picked up Patrick’s coat and hung it up, then put on her own. “You are really something,” she said. “Patrick shoveled your stupid sidewalk all by himself, without being asked or told. And we never once talked about the wooden soldier.” She walked out to the vestibule, put on her boots, and headed out the door without looking back.

  I don’t need all this, Collins thought as the door closed. I don’t need any of it.

  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.