The Five Pearls

by Barry James Hickey

  “I’m having a great time, Amber. Just feeling nostalgic. That’s all.”

  “Nostalgic about what?”

  “The past, Amber. What might have been, what should have been.”

  “You have us,” she said. “Me.”

  He looked at her shining eyes full of hope and dreams, enhanced by the twinkling lights. “That means a lot to me.”

  She leaned her head against his chest affectionately. “You take care of us like nobody else, Mr. B.”

  “I wish I could do more, Amber.”

  “You’ll see. It will all work out in the end.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  They danced past Toby. He had a beaming smile on his face from something Betty was whispering in his ear.

  “Be patient, Amber, for there are years when nothing happens and days when centuries happen.” Mr. Battle said, his eyes meeting hers.

  “I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us, Mr. Battle.”

  He smiled. “Promise me something, Amber?”

  “What’s that, Mr. B?”

  “That you’ll keep your baby…”

  She tensed up and pulled away. “Gee, I don’t know…”

  “It will all work out in the end. Remember?”

  She stopped dancing and faced him. “I’m scared,” she pouted. “I’m all alone in this great big world.”

  “Do you want your baby to go through what you did? Raised by strangers, maybe in and out of foster homes just like you?”

  “I never thought about it like that,” she realized.

  He took her small hands in his. “You’ll make a great mother,” he said with conviction.

  The song ended.

  “After winter break is over, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you, Mr. B! Everything! Promise? After the New Year. A fresh start.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Next year.”

  Amber gave him a long hug, then dashed off to join her friends. The Principal moseyed up to Battle and offered to lead him around the dance floor next.

  “What I really need is a chair,” Battle remarked.

  An hour later, Mr. Battle rounded up the Tadpoles and ordered them to follow him outside. He was carrying his small bag of presents. It was still snowing, sticking to the ground now. He led them past a Douglas fir decorated with Christmas lights across from a campus dormitory. Next to the tree was a modern sculpture depicting six iron bodies holding hands and dancing in a circle.

  “This is us,” he said. “What we have accomplished together these past months has been a real phenomenon.” Mr. Battle brushed snow off a stone viewing bench and sat down. “Before we go, I have something for each of you.”

  He opened the bag and pulled out five small boxes wrapped in expensive paper and ribbon. He gave each student a box. “A little Christmas present from me to you. Go ahead, open them.”

  The Tadpoles opened their boxes. Inside each was a bluish gray object that resembled a small stone.

  “They’re uncultured pearls,” he said. “Do you know how a pearl grows?”

  “No,” said the students.

  “It begins around a single grain of sand in the vast ocean. A pearl takes years to grow. When it is found in the sea, it looks like what you have in your hands. What happens next is that the pearl must be polished and shaped to determine its value. . Like you, no two pearls are alike. Want to know what I believe?” he asked seriously.

  “What?”

  “You’re not Tadpoles anymore. You’ll never be frogs or toads or lizards or salamanders. You’re pearls. Five precious pearls that fell out of the sky and landed in my lap.” Mr. Battle stared up at the heavens. “And I thank God that I have had the pleasure and the opportunity to get to know each and every one of you.”

  Amber and Marie started to sob. Julio put his arms around both of them and hugged them tight.

  “Thanks, Mr. Battle,” he said.

  “Thanks, Mr. B,” the others said humbly.

  “No. I thank you,” he smiled, pulling himself off the bench. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll have the driver run me home. And when he returns, the car is yours until midnight."

  “Sorry we didn't get you anything, Mr. B,” Toby said.

  The weary teacher put his hand on Toby’s shoulder. “You gave me you. That was present enough.”

  He strolled with the teenagers back to the gym. The dance was winding down and the newly named Five Pearls pitched in to fold up chairs and tables while the driver ran their teacher home.

  Outside the gym, as Mr. Battle settled in the back seat of the stretch limo, he heard a rapid knock on his window. He lowered it and looked out.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Merry Christmas,” Amber said as she gave him a quick kiss.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said, his bewildered lips half puckered.

  Amber pulled her shawl around her shoulders and hurried back towards the gym, waving goodbye. Her last words echoed across the parking lot. “We love you, Mr. B!”

  As the limousine snaked its way away from the school through the light blizzard, the driver shouted back to the teacher. “Looks like a white Christmas for you this year!”

  “That it does.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Christmas came and went. The sky turned gray and the sun refused to shine. A week of constant snow flurries and black ice settled in across the foothills, delivering a one-two punch of closed businesses and happy children on Christmas break with their sleds and inner tubes. The big house on Cascade Avenue creaked under the weight of snow on the old roof.

  John spent his days writing private letters on yellow-lined tablets in the library. He took frequent breaks when his eyes and hands grew tired. Between the cooking, laundry and caring for John, Mrs. Powell spent her free time filling out requests to a handful of regional, state and national historic societies to look into having the Loomis property registered as a National Historic Site.

  “It’s a maze of paperwork,” she said with sour dread. “I have to write letters and fill applications to The National Register of Historic Places, The National Trust for Historic Preservation, The Colorado State Historic Preservation Office, The Colorado Historical Society, and dozens of other non-profits and organizations I’ve never even heard of!”

  “What are the qualifiers?” John asked.

  “Some want proof historical significance prominent American lived or worked here. Some want to know who the architect was. All of them are concerned about the condition of the entire estate.”

  “What does historic mean, anyway?” John mused.

  “Oh my, the word is tossed around so easily nowadays. From ancient ruins to skyscrapers.”

  “Instead of asking if your house is historic, shouldn’t the question be, ‘is the house worth saving’?” he asked. “After all, you have the good sense to want to preserve it.”

  that there were events of national here. Others want to know if a

  “Yes, but I have a vested interest,” she admitted. “I grew up in this old box. My father grew up here, his father…”

  “If these walls could speak, what would they say, Mrs. Powell?”

  She set down her reading glasses, speaking wistfully. “This old house would say that it wants to remain as a gift to the street. A reminder that old things with individual personalities have value, too. Oh, I know it isn’t as gloomy as the Alamo or as inspiring as a cathedral, but dammit, John, this charming mansion has character and personality. And in the future, people like you can come here to die in peace, and be reminded of the finer things in their narrow lives, when homes were where the heart was and still is, I might add.”

  “That was good, Mrs. Powell! Write it down just like that! Strip away the rhetoric and tell it like it is, that it just makes good sense to keep this house alive, that houses aren’t people, that they don’t have to die like us. Historic preservation should be about places that tell a story. Your house does
n’t have to tell a big story about a politician or famous scientist. Why can’t it tell a small story?” He was fuming.

  “Calm down, John,” Mrs. Powell laughed.

  “Dammit, Mrs. Powell! I know I’m dying. But this house doesn’t have to go down with me!’

  “Remember what I said about getting agitated,” she said.

  “If the past isn’t important, then the present isn’t important and without either, the future holds no value either, so all goes to hell in a hand basket…”

  “You have inspired me, young man.” Mrs. Powell uncapped a pen and started writing on an application.

  “When I’m gone… then what?” he suddenly asked. “You have a mountain of legal and political obstacles ahead of you. They may take years.”

  “I know,” she said, writing.

  “Have you considered who your next tenant might be? To keep the cash flow up.”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  She rested the pen in her hand, her smile a beam of sunshine. “My hands are full with the present occupant.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Mrs. Powell.”

  He went into a coughing jag and stood to excuse himself from the room. But the coughing continued, from deep in his chest.

  Mrs. Powell sat him back down in his chair. “Slow down, John. Breathe slowly, breathe slowly.”

  After his wind came back, she ran to the kitchen and returned with a heavy dose of pain medicine.

  “Is this dinner?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “I’m afraid so,” she said.

  He swallowed his pills and drank his liquids. Mrs. Powell pulled him to his feet and helped him up the long flight of stairs.

  “It won’t be long now, eh, Mrs. Powell?”

  “No, John. Not long now.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A few days after Christmas, Big Bill Hogan showed up unexpectedly at Loomis House.

  “Now is not a good time,” Mrs. Powell told him irritably. The man always seemed to rub her the wrong way.

  “When you’re in his shape, there’s never a good time,” Hogan said flatly. “I can go to his room, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, hoping to sound standoffish. “Give us a few minutes.”

  It took Mrs. Powell fifteen minutes to dress John and lead him down the stairs to meet with Big Bill in the study.

  “I need some more signatures,” Hogan said. “A Living Will, a Revocable Living Trust and Power of Attorney are needed for the insurance deal to slip through. We can't have any questions asked.”

  Mrs. Powell was brought in as a witness to John’s signing of the documents.

  “What are these documents for?” she asked.

  Big Bill helped himself to a pour of aged Scotch whisky from the cabinet bar. “The end game,” he burped.

  Mrs. Powell turned to John. “End game? What is this all about?”

  “You don’t wanna know,” Hogan said.

  She growled at Big Bill, waving an angry finger at him. “Still up to no good! You haven’t changed since you were a boy, Billy Hogan!” She excused herself from the meeting. Something about something in the oven, she said.

  “How well do you know Mrs. Powell?” Battle finally asked Hogan.

  “Old family friends. We go generations back. The house I grew up in is across the street. She used to scold me for a whole armful of youthful offenses, none really all that serious. I knew her kids pretty good, but they left this town for higher ground.” Hogan laughed. “It’s funny, I always thought of her as old lady Powell, but looking back, she was about my current age when we first crossed swords. I don’t seem that old to you, do I?”

  “Old enough. The reality is that our own adolescence seemed like yesterday,” Battle said.

  “Where does the time go, huh? If you think about it, a human life is pretty darned short.”

  Battle reached over and borrowed a pen from Hogan. “I want to make some amendments to my Will.”

  After he was done, Hogan perused the papers. “That’s pretty generous,” Hogan whistled.

  “It’s the least I can do,” Battle said as he escorted the unsavory insurance man to the door. “Just make sure the insurance money ends up in the right hands.”

  Hogan paused and looked up at the Grandfather clock in the hallway. “Tick, tick, tick,” he said with a pointed finger.

  “Don’t worry,” John said. “I’m only a step away.”

  “Happy New Year, John,” Hogan breathed with sadness.

  “Happy New Year, Hogie. Go home to your family.”

  “I wish it were that easy for you.”

  After Hogan left, John pulled himself up the stairs to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Everything hurt now, especially his legs. He tried to stand, but his rubber legs wouldn’t support him.

  Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Powell arrived at the bedroom door to check on him. He was unconscious, his pants wet from defecation. She undressed him, cleaned him, and tucked him in bed, then carried his soiled clothes downstairs to the laundry room. As she rubbed out the stains she hummed;

  “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me....

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind, but now, I see.

  ‘Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear.

  And Grace, my fears relieved.

  How precious did that Grace appear.

  The hour I first believed.”

  Tears filled the old lady’s eyes and she had to sit down in the kitchen.

  Damned song.

  Mrs. Powell picked up the Polaroids she had taken of the mysterious John Battle since he had moved into the house.

  “I’m going to miss you, John,” was all she could think to say.

  Afterwards, she wandered through most of the rooms of the house, staring at pictures and paintings of related men and women long since dead and her own children that never called or wrote anymore.

  What did I ever do to deserve this? She wondered. I’m not a bad person. I took care of my own when they were younger. Why did they abandon me? Why must I lean towards a dying man for comfort? And when he’s gone tomorrow or next week or the week after that - then what? Why does life have to be so hard and lonely? Why do we even bother?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SPLAT! It was a few minutes before midnight when Amber heard the snowball hit her bedroom window. “Jerks.” She yanked herself out from under the warm covers and slipped on her robe. WHAM! Another snowball hit the window. Amber hurried across the room, unlatched the window and flung it open.

  “What’s the big idea?” she blindly yelled. Julio was standing just below the windowsill. No jacket, no beer or whisky apparent in either hand, just a stupid little boy grin on his face.

  “Julio? What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Amber!” he said nervously. “I came to wish you a Happy New Year. It’s midnight in ten minutes, you know.” “Yeah? Well, I have to get some sleep,” she said. “Baby’s

  starting to act up and my stomach’s killing me.”

  “Oh. Okay,” he said. “Like I said, I just wanted to stop by

  and wish you a Happy New Year.”

  “Thanks. Now get out of here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Amber… are you mad at me?” He

  shrugged his shoulders. “We never talk anymore.” “No, Julio. I’m not mad at you.”

  The large young man trudged away towards the alley, his

  feet making a crunching sound on the cold hard snow. “Hey, Julio!” Amber called out for the entire neighborhood

  to hear.

  He turned in his tracks, making a loud crunch of snow, and

  faced her. “Yeah?”

  “Happy New Year to you, too!”

  He smiled and started to run towards the alley now.

  “Happy New Year, Amber! Happy New Year, everybody!

  Happy New Year,
world!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Mrs. Powell quietly slipped downstairs with a Louisville Slugger baseball bat in her hand. She noticed the time on the old hallway clock. 11:55.

  Where in the world is that racket coming from ? She wondered. Mrs. Powell hadn’t celebrated the countdown towards midnight on New Year’s Eve in many years.

  She found John in the kitchen. He was wearing a bathrobe. He stared into the refrigerator, a bottle of cold milk in his limp hand. Behind him on the counter was a small pile of food.

  “John! I didn’t expect you to be up.”

  “I thought I was hungry, but now I guess I’m not,” he said. His voice sounded lost and confused.

  “No sense your bringing in the New Year alone,” she

  decided. “Can I make us a cocoa?”

  He didn’t move. His eyes were glazed as if he didn’t hear

  her. “There’s something important I’m supposed to do,” he

  finally said with a clenched fist. “But I can’t remember what it

  is. Something important.”

  She took him by the arm and set him in a chair. “It will

  come to you, John. Take your time.”

  “Something I need to take care of now.” The clock struck

  midnight and he still sat there, frozen in his thoughts. “I

  promised the kids… Letters are in the dresser, I think…” She knelt before him and took his hands in hers. “Do you

  know what year it is, John?”

  John thought hard on the question but his mind drew a

  blank. “No. I don't.” Tears welled in his eyes.

  Mrs. Powell wrapped her arms around him and petted his

  hair. He was perspiring. “That’s all right, John. It will come to

  you.” She led him upstairs, one slow step at a time. “Something to do… I have to do something… urgent…” “Get some sleep, John. Whatever it is can wait until

  morning.”

  It was early morning, the first day of a new year, a holiday. Mrs. Powell carried a breakfast tray to his room. She found him on the floor, unconscious again. She set the tray down on the dresser and knelt beside him. John was bleeding from his ears, mouth and nose. She grabbed a wet washcloth from the bathroom and cleared away the visible blood.