by Og Mandino
I rose to my feet and started to walk away before turning to say, softly, “Oh, by the way, I’m sorry there’s still no headstone here. No excuse for that. I’ll do something about that tomorrow, I promise.”
On Monday morning I made two phone calls, which both produced appointments. After spending almost two hours with a patient saleswoman at the Concord Monument Company and finally selecting a very simple red-granite headstone, I had lunch at Millennium Unlimited, in the executive dining room with my good friend, Ralph Manson, who had been functioning in my place as Millennium’s acting president. Three other company executives, including Larry Stephenson, chief financial officer, also joined us at my invitation, and everyone seemed actually pleased—shocked and pleased, I guess—to hear my announcement that I was returning to the company.
On the day after Labor Day, thanks to Ralph’s tireless cooperation and long hours of meetings, I was back at the helm. Millennium was just about ready to introduce a powerful new word processor software package, called Concord 2000, that our brightest people had been working on long before I had originally joined the company, so the timing of my return was not the best for corporate good. However, everyone just kept smiling as they worked a little harder and a little later each day. Ralph, bless him, was even willing to part with Bette Anton, who had been my secretary and right arm when I joined the company, and she had functioned in that same capacity for Ralph. With Bette’s help I managed to survive my first few weeks back on the job, and the long hours didn’t bother me at all because now there was nothing to go home for. I probably averaged fifteen-hour days, including Saturdays, until we finally introduced Concord 2000 at a software show in Las Vegas, early in November. It got rave reviews, and I made certain that those who had done so much work on the project were rewarded with promotions and raises, especially Ralph, whom I named my chief operating officer.
One night, following the same routine I had for many weeks, I arrived home shortly after nine, removed the mail from the mailbox, drove up the incline into my garage, made a cup of tea in the kitchen and then walked with teacup, mail and attaché case down the hall into the den, where I would open envelopes, review whatever I had brought home from the office that needed to be read and check my phone messages, if any. This particular night I took a long sip of tea and then tapped the Play button below the slowly blinking red light on my answering machine. The familiar voice of Doc Messenger was saying, “Mr. Harding, sir, you are indeed a difficult man to corral. I’ve been phoning you for about a week now, and I confess I’ve been hanging up when your machine comes on. That’s no reflection on your message, but my own temerity in dealing with these modern contraptions. However, I have finally decided that what I have to say is important enough for me to risk making a fool of myself with this … recording. Sir, it is just a little past seven in the evening as I speak these words, and I beg a favor of you, if you will. Please, no matter what time you return to your home this evening, will you kindly give me a phone call? It is extremely important, or I assure you that I would not be bothering you. My telephone number is 223-4575. I thank you.”
“No matter what time you return to your home”…? That was enough for me. I dialed his number, and he answered on the first ring.
“Doc, this is John Harding. Just walked in the door and got your message.”
“I thank you so very much for returning my call. Now, may I ask another favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“I’m certain you have already had a long and grueling day, but how close are you to retiring for the night?”
“Oh, I guess I’m good for about another hour or so.”
“Sir, I live just ten minutes away. May I impose on our friendship by asking if I might come visit you to share a matter that I believe you will agree is of great importance? I promise you that I will not take very much of your time.”
I stared at the telephone receiver for perhaps ten seconds before replying, “Of course, Doc, come on ahead. I’ll put the outside lights on for you.”
The line clicked dead. He hadn’t even waited to thank me.
Since the front door bell was still out of action, I kept watch out one of the living-room windows until I saw car lights coming up the driveway. Before the old boy could reach for the bell button, I opened the front door and extended my right hand, “Welcome, Doc, come on in.”
“Mr. Harding, it’s good to see you again.”
“Please call me John, Doc.”
He smiled and nodded. “I hope all is well at Millennium.”
“Well, most of the time I’m not sure. The giant is so huge that keeping all its parts functioning in good health is almost an impossible task, as General Motors and IBM and many others are finally discovering. I guess that nature has been trying to tell us that for centuries. A human who is six feet tall can perform in record fashion in all sorts of endeavors. And yet a human unfortunate enough to be eight feet tall can barely dress and feed himself. Size, in the long run, has very little to do with competency or success.”
Doc kept nodding as he walked at my side down the hall to the den. When he entered the room, he looked around admiringly, started to speak and then wisely remained silent. I guess he realized that I needed no more compliments on what a wonderful decorating job my Sally had done. He shook his head when I offered him a drink, and we both sat on the couch that faced out into the now dark backyard. There was no small talk, no talk at all for several minutes while Doc rolled his old hat nervously around in his hands. I thought the smartest thing for me to do was just to sit and remain quiet. I did.
Doc finally leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, frowning as he stared down into the crown of his old headgear. His voice sounded much huskier than usual when he finally began to speak without even glancing in my direction.
“John, I’m afraid I am the bearer of sad news, as if you haven’t had enough already to last a lifetime or two. In any event, as you know, little Timothy Noble and his mom have been under my care as a physician ever since they moved here to Boland and Timothy’s father departed for warmer climates. Timothy was first brought to me when, according to his mother, he had developed problems with maintaining his balance and occasionally complained of seeing two of everything—double vision. After examining the young man twice I decided, with his mother’s approval, that a few of my colleagues at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center should take a look at him. They put Timothy through a long series of tests.”
Doc suddenly stood, facing away from me. I had a sudden urge to jump up and run out of the room. I didn’t want to hear anymore!
“John, they discovered that Timothy has a brain tumor, and because of its unusual position it is inoperable. Medulla blastoma is one of the more exotic medical names for the damn thing. We considered chemotherapy for a while, but smarter heads than mine finally convinced us that, because of the tumor’s location, we had little or no chance of inducing any sort of remission for any worthwhile length of time. So the decision was made by his mother, after several very difficult discussions with me, to allow Timothy to continue his normal day-to-day schedule like any other child his age as long as he could. That pleased Timothy very much, of course, except that the young man hung a condition on things. He made both of us promise that we would tell no one about his problem. He said he didn’t want anyone, especially his school friends, feeling sorry for him and giving him special breaks because they knew he was soon going to die. He wanted to be treated just like every other eleven-year-old.”
I had heard Doc’s words clearly. I had understood exactly what Doc had said. And yet … and yet, I found myself saying, “Doc, are you telling me that Timothy knew that his life was doomed, that he was going to die? He knew it?”
“He did. His mother, Peggy, is a special and tough little lady. As I said, the two of us had several talks before she made the decision that Timothy deserved to know. I distinctly remember the evening when, with tears running down her cheeks, she said that if God h
ad decided that she could only have her baby for eleven or maybe twelve years, then the very least she could do was to tell the boy the truth so that he would be able to at least try to handle the gift of each new day as he wanted to handle it.”
I caught myself raising my voice. I apologized. Then I said, “Doc, this whole baseball season. You saw it. That kid never stopped hustling. He never stopped trying and he was always cheering for his teammates. Remember ‘Day by day, in every way’ and ‘Never, never, never give up’? God only knows how much he meant to the Angels. Are you telling me that little boy played and acted the way he did, with enthusiasm, hustle, drive, cheers and smiles, always encouraging the other kids, even though he knew … even though he knew he was soon going to die?”
Doc stared down at the floor and slowly nodded his head.
“And it was okay for him to play?”
“I thought it would be good for him, when he asked me in the presence of his mother, since no possible additional harm could come from playing and it would help keep his mind on other things. Playing, if anything, I believed, might help lengthen his term of mobility.”
“I haven’t seen him for more than three months, Doc. How is he?”
“Well, these days he has to work a lot harder to keep a smile on his face, since he’s now in constant pain, has a hell of a time keeping his balance and about the only way he can get around is in his wheelchair. However, there isn’t very much area to cover in that little home of theirs, so he manages okay.”
“What about his mother?”
“Well, she quit her job and stays close by his side. His school sent home books and stuff for a while, but she couldn’t handle that, so she feeds him and keeps him clean and just tries to be a companion. She told me this morning that he’s sleeping a lot of the time now, and when he isn’t, he tries to read and watches a little television.”
“If she’s not working, Doc, how are they getting by? Is there any money?”
He shook his head, still avoiding my eyes. “There’s none. I’m helping out some. At my age I don’t have anyone else to worry about or spend it on anyway.”
Doc finally sat down again, now closer to me. I reached out and placed my hand on his shoulder. “How about a hospital? Would Timothy be better off there?”
“I don’t believe so. Not yet, anyway. Be it ever so humble, I think he’s better off in his own home and his own bed. Special hospital facilities and equipment can do very little to relieve his condition, and Peggy has no group hospital insurance. We’ve just got to keep him comfortable as long as possible.”
“Doc, what can I do?”
The old man smiled faintly and said, “I was hoping that you would ask. The best thing you can do, John, is pay the little guy a visit. He’s still constantly talking about his base hit and how Mr. Harding taught him the right way to hold a bat and swing. Do you know what he sleeps with?”
“What?”
“The baseball glove you gave him.”
On the following morning I phoned Bette at the office, telling her I’d be two or three hours late. She reminded me that I was having lunch with a couple of editors from the magazine Macworld at noon, and said she’d hold down the fort until I got there. I drove down to the bank and withdrew a thousand dollars in twenties, waved to Stewart Rand in his office and got out of the building before he could corner me in a long and meaningless conversation. Then I went into Jerry’s Bike and Toy Shop, next to the bank, and bought the complete boxed set of Topps Major League baseball cards for the two previous years. Jerry’s wife was nice enough to gift wrap them for me.
A light rain was falling when I finally arrived at the gray mailbox with NOBLE painted on the side in uneven streaks. I turned on the muddy road, just beyond, and drove up close to the front door. Peggy Noble must have seen or heard my car approaching, because the door opened before I had a chance to knock. She was standing in the doorway, in an old green warm-up suit, touching her protruding right forefinger again and again against her pursed lips in a signal for me not to speak. Slowly she closed the door behind me and whispered, “I’m so glad you came. Timothy dozed off a little while ago while watching some cartoons on television.”
I turned toward the old black-and-white television set. Not far away from it was a wheelchair, and in it was Timothy, his head tilted back, mouth partially open, sound asleep. I moved closer to the chair and knelt down so that I could get a better look at him. While I was staring at his small handsome face, his eyes suddenly opened wide. He immediately leaned forward with both arms reaching toward me.
“Mr. Harding, you came to see me! Wow! Mom, look, Mr. Harding is here!”
“Yes, I know. Isn’t that nice, dear?”
I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around him and kissed his cheek, then his forehead. He returned my kisses with both his arms around my neck.
“I knew you would come. I knew it! I knew it!”
I wiped at my face with the palms of my hands and handed him the two gift-wrapped boxes, which he immediately opened. “Oh, wow! Mom, look! Baseball cards! Hundreds of them! Neat! Here’s Bobby Bonds and here is … Wade Boggs! Wow! Thank you, Mr. Harding. Thank you.”
“Timothy, I would have come to see you before, but I didn’t even know you were sick. Honest. I’ve been working in Concord … long days … so I never knew until Doc Messenger told me.”
“Did he tell you that I was going to die?”
I didn’t know how to respond. Finally I just nodded.
He ran his tiny fingers through his blond hair and grinned. “But I got my wish, Mr. Harding. I prayed to God, you know. I asked God to let me play the whole schedule of games and get a hit, and I did … I did, thanks to you … and … and God.”
He reached under the blanket that covered the lower part of his body and held up his baseball glove. Then, as suddenly as he had awakened, his energy seemed to drain away and his eyes began to close. Within minutes he was sound asleep. I patted his arm, turned, and went over to his mother, who had been patiently sitting at the kitchen table, having left Timothy and I to our “men” talk.
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Harding? I just made a pot.”
“I’d love a cup. Thanks.”
Sitting next to her, in that tiny kitchen, I felt so helpless. Then I remembered, reached into my inside jacket pocket and removed the brown envelope with the money. I slid it across the table toward Mrs. Noble, reached out for her hand, grasped it and placed it on top of the envelope.
“What’s this?” she asked.
I held her hand. “Just call it a little unemployment compensation, okay? Now, don’t say anything, please.”
I then reached back inside my jacket, removed my personal checkbook and ballpoint pen and wrote out a check to her. “And I would like you to use this, as you wish, so that you and Timothy can get whatever you need. Also,” I said, removing one of my business cards from my wallet and scribbling on the back, “here is my home phone number. You need anything, you call me, promise? The office number is on the front, and I’ll make arrangements so that if you phone me there, the call will get right through to me.”
She just sat and stared at me, shaking her head, looking completely confused. “Why are you doing all this for us? You hardly know us, Mr. Harding.”
“Mrs. Noble …”
“Peggy, please.”
“Peggy, when that little boy of yours came into my life, early this summer, I was about ready to end it. Without my wife and son I had absolutely no desire to go on living. My life had no value at all to me, but Timothy’s courage and soaring spirit penetrated my blackest moments of despair, picked me up, brushed me off, taught me how to smile again, reminded me to count my blessings and encouraged me to deal with each day, one at a time. Timothy’s struggle on the diamond reminded me of the miracles any of us can accomplish when we refuse to give up. That little boy taught me how to live again. What’s my life worth? How can I put a price on Timothy’s salvage work?
How could I possibly repay him for the candle he lit in my life? What price?”
I buried my head in my hands.
“Mr. Harding, sir …?”
Timothy had awakened. I rose, walked over to him and sat on the floor, next to the wheelchair. “Yes, Timothy?”
“Do you pray for your little boy?”
“I sure do.”
“Will you pray for me, too, when I’m dead?”
“Every time I pray for Rick, I’ll pray for you too.”
He nodded and smiled. “And as long as I’m here, will you still come to see me?”
“I promise.”
And I kept my promise, several times each week, even including Thanksgiving … and Christmas … and New Year’s … and Valentine’s Day.…
XV
Timothy Noble died on April 7th.
He was buried in a plot not far from Sally and Rick.
As I had promised, one day I drove Peggy Noble to consult with the helpful saleslady at the monument company. Although I had told her that she was free to pick out any stone and size she wanted for Timothy, she finally selected a piece of dark-gray granite in the shape of a small obelisk, on which she had engraved:
TIMOTHY NOBLE
March 12, 1979 April 7, 1991
I never, never, never gave up!
On Memorial Day, early in the afternoon, I visited Maplewood Cemetery and lovingly placed a wicker basket of pink Simplicity roses close to the red stone marking Sally and Rick’s resting-place. After several prayers I remained on my knees for I don’t know how long before I finally rose and walked slowly to Timothy Noble’s grave. I knelt near the side of his gray stone, close enough to touch it, and removed from a paper bag the baseball glove I had given Timothy. At my request his mother had returned it to me, a few hours ago, without any questions. Now I placed it at the front of the stone with the base of the glove spread widely so that it stood balanced on the grass with its leather fingers pointed upward as if they were reaching for heaven with a small hand still inside.