Nickel Bay Nick

by Dean Pitchford

  “I guess,” I say slowly before I suddenly remember my manners. “I mean, I’m really, really grateful, so thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome, Sam.”

  I replace the lid on the box, but my mind is elsewhere. Something in Mr. Wells’s story doesn’t add up, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

  “Mr. Wells? Did you say the coin dealer contacted you?”

  “I collect historic artifacts.” He gestures around the house. “I do business with a lot of dealers.”

  My eyes narrow. “And that’s how Dad was able to pay my medical bills?”

  “I assume that’s how he used the money.” Mr. Wells shrugs. “As I said, I was interested in the coin.”

  His gaze is steady, and anybody else would believe that Mr. Wells is telling the truth. But now that I’m thinking like a spy, the casual tone of his explanation sets off alarm bells.

  “Here’s what confuses me,” I say, ticking off each point on my fingers. “You just happen to live at the corner of the same street we live on, in a house you happened to move into just after I got my heart transplant, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Six months later, Dad’s in desperate need of cash, and you happen to get a call from the same coin dealer who’s selling Dad’s Wackburton nickel? Or did you call the dealer?”

  “It was a long time ago.” Mr. Wells tries to sound relaxed. “Does it matter who called whom? Like I said, I was interested in acquiring a rare nickel. I got the coin, your father got the money, and you got the treatment you needed.”

  “Mr. Wells,” I say, shaking my head, “don’t you know that it takes a liar to recognize a lie?”

  “Why do you think I’m lying?” His voice rises in pitch, and I know I’m getting to him.

  “Because!” I explode. “You’re not from Nickel Bay! You didn’t know me or my dad.”

  “So what?”

  “So why did you help us?”

  “I did not set out to help you!” Mr. Wells insists. “You make me sound like a guardian angel.”

  The breath catches in my throat. “What did you just say?”

  Mr. Wells throws his arms open. “I said I am nobody’s guardian angel!”

  And in that moment, the final puzzle piece clicks into place in my brain.

  “Guardian angel!” I shout. “That’s it!”

  “What’s what, Sam?”

  Reaching into my shirt collar, I pull out the carving of Hanuman hanging around my neck. “You told me the people of India think of Hanuman as a protector. A guardian angel. Remember that?” I ask, holding up my little statue. “You said it when you asked me how I got mine.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . Hoko!” I call. “C’mere, boy.”

  Hoko trots over and sits at my knee.

  “The whole way back from the Four Corners Mall, I was lying at Hoko’s side, getting slobbered over,” I explain, “and I was doing this.” I run a hand through Hoko’s thick coat, and he moans with delight. “That’s when I felt something around his neck, something he’s always wearing, but it’s hidden by his fur, right? I thought it felt familiar, but it was too dark in the cage to see what it was. Then you said ‘guardian angel’ just now, and you reminded me . . . okay!” I pull the object free of Hoko’s fur. “Here it is.”

  What I’m holding is a duplicate of the Hanuman around my neck.

  “Aha!” I shout triumphantly, and lean down so that I can hold my pendant next to Hoko’s. “Coincidence? I don’t think so. I think Hoko has always worn this.”

  “But as I . . . as I told you, Sam,” Mr. Wells stammers, “people all over India wear Hanuman for . . . for good luck and—”

  “And protection,” I finish his sentence. “Yeah, that’s what you said.” I straighten up in my chair. “Last week you asked me to tell you about my Hanuman, but you already knew that story, too. And you knew it because you sent this to me”—I hold up my carving—“in the hospital after my operation. Didn’t you?” Instead of answering, Mr. Wells stares at the carving. “And six months later, when I got sick again and Dad needed money, you bought his Wackburton nickel. Only you did it through a coin dealer so Dad never knew you were the buyer.” Letting my Hanuman drop to my chest, I lean forward. “So let me ask you one more time, Mr. Wells. Why were you being my guardian angel?”

  For a long time, Mr. Wells stares at me, until I notice his mouth trembling. Then—and I’m not expecting this—from the corner of one eye, a tear rolls down his cheek. Now I’m really confused. I don’t know what I said to make him cry. And I sure don’t know how to make him stop.

  “He can’t tell you himself, so allow me.”

  The voice comes out of nowhere. It’s not me speaking, and it sure isn’t Hoko. I spin around in my chair to the only other person in the room.

  “Dr. Sakata?” I gasp. “You speak American?”

  “You mean English?” he replies, without any accent.

  Now my mind is totally blown. “This whole time?”

  “I live in Columbus, Ohio, with my wife and two children,” he says. “I’m head of surgery at the State University Hospital. So, yes, I speak English.”

  “But why . . .” I gesture between him and Mr. Wells. “Why did you guys only speak Japanese to each other?”

  “So we could exchange secrets in front of you. It’s a common trick in the world of espionage and interrogation.”

  Mr. Wells pulls a handkerchief from his sweater and dries his cheeks.

  “So what is it,” I ask Dr. Sakata, “that Mr. Wells can’t tell me himself?”

  Dr. Sakata takes a deep breath. “When Mr. Wells’s son and daughter were growing up, they rarely saw their father. Depending on where Mr. Wells’s work took him, his family was constantly being moved from one exotic location to another, and then he would leave for a top-secret mission, often for months at a time. When he’d return, there wasn’t much Mr. Wells was allowed to say to his own children. He couldn’t answer their questions about where he’d been and what he’d been doing. He couldn’t take them to an office and introduce them to his coworkers. And he was hardly ever around to celebrate their birthdays or Christmases.

  “His little girl, Nancy—”

  “Is that really her name?” I interrupt Dr. Sakata. “I mean, you guys haven’t been exactly honest about your identities.”

  Before Dr. Sakata answers, he looks to Mr. Wells, who makes a little nod.

  “That’s really her name,” Dr. Sakata says before continuing. “Nancy eventually got used to the peculiar arrangement with her father. After all, she had her mother to talk to, and the two of them grew very close. But Mr. Wells’s son, Patrick, felt left out, and by the time he was a teenager, Mr. Wells began to notice disturbing changes. Every time he’d return from another mission, he’d find Patrick growing angrier, more distant, more disobedient. Mr. Wells’s solution was to send Patrick off to military school.”

  “I was such a fool,” Mr. Wells mumbles, shaking his head.

  Now I understand why he flinched when I once asked him, “Did you speak to your own children that way?”

  “Instead of changing Patrick’s attitude,” Dr. Sakata continues, “being sent away to school only deepened his resentment, and after he graduated from college, Patrick cut off all communication with his father. A few years later, Mr. Wells’s wife died.”

  “Do you know,” Mr. Wells says with clenched fists, “it wasn’t until Patrick showed up for his mother’s funeral that I learned he had gotten married?”

  “Oh, that’s the worst!” I blurt out. “I mean, finding out someone you love has gone and gotten married without telling you. That really hurts.”

  Mr. Wells nods. “It hurts deeply.”

  Dr. Sakata continues. “At the funeral, Mr. Wells and Patrick were as awkward as ever, and Mr. Wells never g
ot the chance to share any of the things he had been saving up to say to his son.”

  “And Nicky,” Mr. Wells quickly prompts him. “Tell him about Nicky.”

  “Nicky was Patrick’s two-year-old son,” Dr. Sakata explains. “But when Mr. Wells asked to see pictures of the boy, Patrick insisted that he didn’t bring any.”

  “That’s so sad,” I say to Mr. Wells. “Have you ever seen your grandson since then?”

  The look on his face is one of pure heartbreak. He barely whispers, “A year and a half later, there was an accident.”

  “An accident?” I look between him and Dr. Sakata. “What accident?”

  “One evening,” Dr. Sakata says, “a drunk driver ran a stop sign and crashed into the side of Patrick’s car.”

  “No!” I yelp. “Was anybody hurt?”

  “It was the strangest thing,” Mr. Wells says, in a voice that’s dreamy and disconnected. “Patrick and his wife were in the front seat, and they were . . . fine. But . . .” He opens his mouth, but no words come, so Dr. Sakata continues.

  “But Nicky . . . almost four years old at the time . . . he was in his car seat in the back . . . and he . . .” Then Dr. Sakata, too, stops talking.

  I shake my head slowly. “I am so, so sorry.”

  Dr. Sakata takes a deep breath to steady himself. “But, in the hope of saving other lives, Patrick and his wife made the very difficult decision to donate their son’s organs.”

  “That must have been awful,” I say. “I mean, I’m only alive today because somebody made that same decision, but . . .”

  I stop. A feeling like ice water runs down my spine, and my voice cracks when I ask, “When . . . when did this accident happen?”

  Neither Dr. Sakata nor Mr. Wells answers, but they don’t have to.

  “You don’t mean . . . !” I cry out as my hand flies to my chest. “Your grandson! He’s . . . here?”

  Mr. Wells’s eyes squeeze shut and more tears run down his face.

  “Omigod, omigod, omigod” is all I can repeat as, beneath my trembling palm, I feel the beating of Nicky’s heart.

  It takes a while before Mr. Wells is able to speak again. “Of course, the files about the donation were sealed, so it was almost a week before I was able to learn that you were the recipient,” he says. “I came to Nickel Bay, not knowing what to expect, and you know what I found? The factory had closed. Jobs were gone. Everyone in town was walking around with their spirits broken. I once bribed my way into your hospital room when no one else was around. And the minute I laid eyes on you, I knew I would have to stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as a father, Sam, I made a lot of mistakes. But standing there at your hospital bedside, watching the machines blip with every beat of my grandson’s heart in your chest, I realized that it wasn’t just you who was getting a second chance. I was getting a second chance, as well. A second chance to make things right. To start again. I had to. Because I couldn’t bear the thought of you—with your very special heart—growing up in a town without hope.”

  The realization floods over me like a sunrise. “And that’s why you invented Nickel Bay Nick.”

  “That’s why.” Mr. Wells wipes his nose with his handkerchief and wags a finger at me. “But you know what was frustrating? Every year, twelve days before Christmas, I knew how to put a smile on every face in this town. But I could never figure out how to help your father straighten you out. Not until you fell off my roof on Christmas night.”

  “So I was right!” I cry. “You made me return to the scenes of my crimes, hoping that I’d change, right?”

  “Did it work?”

  I pause to consider his question. “It’s a new year.” I shrug. “Anything could happen.”

  None of us speaks for a long time. All the questions are answered. The dots are connected. The mystery is solved. Finally, Mr. Wells looks at the fading sunlight slanting through the dining room drapes. “It’s getting late. Your father will be expecting you.”

  But I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to walk out of Mr. Wells’s home and bring the whole Nickel Bay Nick saga to a close. But I also know I have to go. I’ve got a life to get back to. I’ve got school in the morning.

  “Will I see you again?” I ask.

  “We’re neighbors,” Mr. Wells says. “Once my cast comes off this week, I’ll get back to my old routine. I hope—if you have the time—that you’ll occasionally come visit.”

  “Oh, I’ll make the time,” I assure him.

  “As soon as Mr. Wells is up and walking, I’ll return to Ohio,” Dr. Sakata says, shaking my hand. “But may I say, it’s been a real honor working with you, Sam. You’re an excellent student.”

  “Me, too. I mean, you, too,” I stammer. “You know what I mean.” I’m still freaking out, trying to remember everything I muttered under my breath in his presence when I still thought he couldn’t understand me.

  I squat and hug Hoko tightly.

  “You scared me out of that tree on Christmas night,” I tell him. “It’s your fault all of this happened.” Then I cross to Mr. Wells.

  “Congratulations and thank you, Sam,” he says, extending a hand. But instead of shaking it, I pull his hand close and flatten it against my chest. Mr. Wells flinches. “What . . . ?” he gasps. “What’re you doing?”

  “After everything you’ve done to keep it beating and give it hope,” I answer, “isn’t it time you felt your grandson’s heart?”

  And rather than let me see him cry, Mr. Wells bows his head and listens.

  THE CHRISTMAS IN THE KITCHEN

  The sky reddens as the sun sets, bringing the twelfth day of Christmas to an end. I wait until Mr. Wells’s backyard gate clicks shut before I head down the alley.

  Back home, I do a lousy job of wrapping Dad’s Wackburton nickel in a scrap of old Christmas paper. When I’m done, my stomach rumbles, but instead of waiting for Dad to come home and feed me, I do something I’ve never tried before.

  I start making dinner.

  I get the chicken all cut up, but it’s not until I’m chopping vegetables that I hear myself softly singing Mom’s song.

  My heart is strong

  My hands are steady

  My future waits

  And I’m so ready

  Whoa-oh

  I’m so ready

  And without any warning, I suddenly start to cry.

  Because I realize in that moment that even though Mom has been hundreds of miles away the whole time, she’s been right beside me all along. Her song gave me courage. The pennies from her jar of wishes saved the Green Mission. And even though her Rolex wasn’t really a Rolex, it kept me on time.

  I haven’t really lost her after all.

  Dad arrives after dark with two new pairs of jeans and a sweatshirt for me. “We’re starting a new year,” he says. “I figure that’s worth celebrating.”

  “Cool,” I say. And I’m being honest.

  “I closed the shop at lunchtime and went downtown to take advantage of the sales,” he explains, “but I guess all the excitement was at the Four Corners Mall.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” I say as I keep chopping.

  Dad peers over my shoulder. “Are you making my chicken stew?”

  “I’ve been watching you all these years,” I say. “I figure, how hard could it be?”

  “Well, that’s how you learn.” He pops a piece of carrot in his mouth, then peers around to look me in the face.

  “Have you been crying?”

  “Me? No!” I scoff. “The onions got to me. That’s all.”

  Later, when I call him to the table for dinner, he enters, snapping his cell phone shut. “Lisa says hi.”

  “Hi, Lisa,” I say, setting down the two steaming bowls.

  “Did you settle things up with Mr. Wells?” Dad asks a
s he puts his napkin in his lap.

  “Yup. Got everything worked out,” I answer. “I’m officially no longer in debt.”

  At that moment, I really want to tell Dad everything about Mr. Wells’s grandson and the heart that’s beating in my chest. But then where would I stop? I’d have to explain why Mr. Wells moved to our street corner, and why he sent me the Hanuman carving and why he created Nickel Bay Nick and how he picked me to be his substitute this year, and . . . see? It’s better that I say nothing.

  “Proud of you.” Dad lifts his spoon over the bowl of stew. “Now. Let’s see how you did,” he says before digging in.

  “I think I’m gonna call Mom this week.”

  Dad’s spoonful of chicken stops halfway to his mouth. “And say what?”

  “I dunno. I’ll start with hello.”

  “I thought you were mad at her.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well. I’m over that.”

  Dad tilts his head. “I bet that would make her real happy.”

  My stew isn’t as good as Dad’s, but he praises every mouthful. Afterward, when I’m putting the dishes in the sink, he starts to stand.

  “We’re not done yet,” I say, turning quickly.

  “Oh?” He sits back down. “Is there dessert?”

  My heart is pounding so hard, I’m surprised Dad doesn’t hear it from across the room. “Sorta,” I say. My hands tremble as I pull the badly wrapped gift out from behind the Mr. Coffee and slide it across the table to him.

  “I thought you weren’t giving Christmas presents this year.” He grins.

  “We’re starting a new year,” I say. “I figure that’s worth celebrating.”

  Dad slips off the wrapping paper and lifts the box lid. It takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at, but when he does, he gets very still, and I can see his chin start to tremble. With his head bowed, he starts to ask, “How . . . ?” but his voice catches in his throat.

  All evening I’ve been rehearsing Mr. Wells’s story about how the Wackburton nickel ended up in a shoe box in his attic, but I’m only halfway through it when Dad reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I squeeze his back.