The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  “Another second—I didn’t know. I thought . . . . If it weren’t for you, my God, down there.”

  She swayed again, and Jimmy felt her weight on his left arm, while his right arm moved involuntarily to enclose her trembling body, but he checked it immediately. There were strange feelings present—strange feelings that up to now he had only read about in books or heard about from some of the other prisoners after visiting days with their wives and girlfriends. He found himself again speaking to her reassuringly, although it was just as awkward as before.

  “Well, you’re not down there. Although I don’t know if you’re any better off up here. There’s nothing you can do about the car. She’s finished. You can write her off. Let’s get out of here before we freeze to death.”

  She was again staring blankly over the edge, confused in her manner. “But my presents. They’re all in the car. I don’t have any presents now for Mom and Dad for Christmas. I don’t have any presents.”

  Jimmy reacted with irritation, but it was an irritation that was masking other uncertain feelings. “Forget the presents. I’m pretty sure your mom and dad are going to be very glad they have you. When they hear about this, they aren’t going to ask you to go back and get your precious presents.”

  She responded to the authority in his voice, turning toward the hill they would have to ascend. The despairing tone left her voice, and he could sense a new resolve, although he could see she was still not fully recovered from the frightening experience. Her voice was weak but determined. “Well, I guess we don’t have much choice except to hoof it. How in the name of God I’m going to get up that hill in these boots, I don’t know. Well, I got snow in my boots before, and I’m still here. Come on, you go in front.” Holding her hood tight around her face, she grasped his extended hand and began to step uncertainly into the snow.

  His mother would have said something like that. There’s an obstacle in front of you. Tackle it. You survived before, you’ll survive again. His gaze began to rest longingly on the small feminine form beside him, wrapped securely in the long, black winter coat that fell to the tops of her boots, baffling around her legs. He shut the thoughts out of his mind as he talked loud over the noise of the storm. “What are you doing out in the middle of this storm, anyway?”

  She held his extended hand as he moved ahead of her to beat the path, just as he did for Mother Hennessey. Her other hand held the hood tightly around her face. He walked directly in front of her to break the wind, hearing her muffled voice through the tightly held hood. “I knew I wouldn’t make it for Christmas Eve supper, but I didn’t think I’d be this late. They weren’t expecting me home for Christmas because I thought I had to work—I work in Clarenville—but then at the last minute they changed the shifts. Jackie Oldford said she’d switch to get New Year’s, so I figured if I booted her when I got off work, I’d get home just after supper. When I left Clarenville, there wasn’t a thing on the road. Of course, this would be one time the bloody forecast would be right. Mom and Dad always want me home for Christmas.”

  His mother had begged him to come home for Christmas, the Christmas before she died. They would have let him come home, accompanied by a guard. They knew she was dying. He tried to control the sadness and guilt that welled to the surface, gripping and devouring him. Even then, he could not understand why he hated his mother so much. Secretly he knew she was giving every last ounce of her failing health to see him through, that she had not buckled under welfare or desertion or attempted rape by Malcolm Furneaux, that she died still praying for him, still thinking of him, still wanting him to do better. The medal was testimony to that.

  * * * * *

  Jimmy assumed the same stance as he had done with Mother Hennessey, stamping the snow down and kicking it aside with powerful thrusts of his legs, crouching into the storm as if he were parting it solely for her benefit. She followed him through the storm willingly, with complete trust. At times he felt her losing her balance as she grasped his hand more tightly, and the strange feelings returned, warming him against the wet, stinging cold of the wind on his face and the raw cutting of the frozen jeans on his legs. The strength and determination that had always kept him going through the snows of countless winter nights out west returned as he plowed his way up the steep slope of the Point Hill. His reasons were different then, and they had all to do with him. He had never had a reason like this before, and it was taking a while for the transformation in his system to be affected, but it was taking effect. When he reached the top of the hill, in view of the first house, at the edge of the row of houses that lay strung out along the road before them, she still held his hand, even when there was no need to.

  Her voice was still muffled, but he could hear it, distinct and clear. “I live in the fourth house, next to Shannahan’s. There’s Frank Ryan’s; Billy Ryan, his son; Barry O’Keefe and Vince Wilson’s. I’m a Wilson.”

  “Cheri Wilson?” Jimmy blurted out the name, looking incredulously at the mature form enshrouded in black beside him. She couldn’t have been much more than six or seven when he left home. Vince Wilson had never let his kids out of his sight when Jimmy was around, he had heard. Well, at least he had never done that. No small child had suffered at his hands. He had gone after the older girls, but he had never laid his hand on a child.

  “You know me?” They had begun walking again.

  “Well, the last time I saw you, you were pretty small, and you were the only girl Vince Wilson had, so you’ve got to be Cheri.”

  “So, the handsome hero who kept me from rolling into the breakers comes from Brine Cove?” The voice was playful, teasing. Handsome? With a black stocking cap hauled down over his ears and a face that must be burnt red with the wind. Jimmy’s first impulse was to tell her, but he repressed the impulse, becoming evasive. Best not to tell her now, here in the middle of nowhere. The name would panic her, start her screaming, maybe bring on another asthma attack. Frank Ryan would call the Mounties. He wouldn’t be seeing much of her after tonight, anyway.

  “My truck went off the road up on the Trans-Canada, and I hiked down here to use a phone and got caught in the storm. I got an uncle here I can stay with tonight. Come on.”

  She had stopped, resisting his efforts to lead her. “So what’s your name?”

  The irritation returned, and this time there were no warm feelings as he barked a reply. “Look, you wouldn’t know me. So what difference does it make? Come on, we’re wasting our energy, and I’m starting to freeze. Let’s go!” It wouldn’t matter when she found out later. After she was safe home, it wouldn’t matter what they told her. But the strange feelings had returned again to tug at him. She looked at him briefly, uncomprehending, before shrugging her shoulders and bending again into the wind.

  “Suit yourself. But I’d like to know who you are. You did haul me out of that car. You did save my life.” The wind had risen again, and swirls of snow blanketed them, forcing them to walk in silence, concentrating all their physical energies on slogging through the drifts. They passed Frank Ryan’s house, and Jimmy thought he detected the movement of curtains, but he wasn’t sure, and anyway, he wasn’t bothered about it as much now.

  He stopped by the gate in front of the fourth house, an old-fashioned two-storey, newly sided, with very attractive vinyl windows and a string of multicoloured Christmas lights across the wide porch. Imitation yellow Christmas candles shone through every window. His gaze rested for a moment on the lights of the Christmas tree to the right of the living room window.

  “Well! Here you are, safe and sound. Your people will be glad to see you.” Now to get going! He knew that as soon as she found out who he really was, she wouldn’t want to be within an English mile of him. And any minute now, Vince Wilson would be tearing through the door, as soon as he saw his daughter in the company of Jimmy Blanchard.

  “See ya later.”

  Jimmy moved away, bu
t Cheri Wilson stood there dumbfounded. “Aren’t you coming in? You just saved my life. The least I can do is get you a hot cup of tea or coffee, a hot drink of something.”

  Their presence outside must have been detected, because the light went on over the front door at the same time as the door opened, revealing Vince Wilson staring open-mouthed toward the gate. Jimmy instinctively started away, acutely aware of the course the impending recognition was going to take.

  “Cheri! Is that you? Where’s the car? What’s going on? I thought you were working tonight. And what in the name of Christ are you doing with him?” Jimmy turned and began to walk away as rapidly as he could through the snow. The few moments of strange new feelings in Cheri Wilson’s company were over, and he knew he had to get away as far as possible before the telephones started ringing again. Cheri Wilson might still get things sorted out—even with his reputation she would have to honestly say he did nothing but help her—but Vince Wilson mightn’t be listening, and the RCMP could still be here, and things could get very confused.

  Jimmy hauled his cap farther down over his ears and headed in the direction of his own house, deaf in the howling wind to any conversation that might have been carried on behind him. He thought he heard his name being called over the fury of the storm, but he didn’t turn around, anxious now only to get away from Vince Wilson’s house as quickly as possible and into the safety of his own home, cold as it might be. Well, it wouldn’t be cold for long, not with Charlie Mackay’s wood. He would light the fire and dry out, and he would be able to sleep in the warmth. He still didn’t have any food, but he wouldn’t starve for one night. He had gone more than one night hungry on the streets of Toronto and he was still alive to tell about it. Charlie said he would be bringing up more wood tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  He re-entered his house, hitting the door against the bag of wood that Charlie had left. Charlie wasn’t exaggerating. It was a really big brin bag of split birch, with a little bundle of splits wrapped in newspaper protruding from the mouth of the bag. He hastily took out the splits, fumbling in the darkness of the porch. Splits stuck to the wool mitts, and he stuffed the mitts in his jacket pocket with a curse of impatience. He would light the stove in the kitchen first, to break the draft—it was a bigger stove. Then he would get the one in the living room going, since he would be sleeping on the settee that night, if the settee was still there.

  His eyes adjusted to the interior of the house, with the help of the light from the street streaming in through the window, and he set up the paper and splits as he had seen his mother do, angling the dry splits over one another. He then set a strip of paper alight and thrust it into the stove, watching expectantly as the flames hesitated, then roared through the grate. After a few seconds he threw in two big, round junks of dry birch and waited as the warm glow of heat from the stove permeated the confined space of the kitchen around him. He might be hungry, but thanks to Charlie Mackay, he would be warm.

  Satisfied that the kitchen stove was performing well enough, he moved into the living room, dragging the bag of birch behind him. He smacked his head on the low archway of the door and cursed again for want of light. An old kerosene lamp would do, but his earlier inventory had told him even that had been taken. Well, at least the old settee—his grandmother used to call it a “settle”—was still there. It would have taken too much effort for Tom to get that out. He’d sleep well enough on that in the heat. Better than he had some nights on the road.

  Repeating the time-proven process he had used in the kitchen, he soon had the small stove in the living room roaring, and he sat back to enjoy the heat. He became suddenly aware that his feet, like the legs of his jeans, were soaking wet, and he quickly removed his boots and socks, placing them on the rear grid of the stove to dry. He thought for a moment and then took the mitts from his pocket, arranging them carefully just the right distance from the low stove so as not to burn his feet. He then sprawled back on the black, horsehair sofa, his long legs stretching toward the hot stove in the small, narrow room, his bare feet resting on the warm mittens, capturing the heat on the frozen legs of his jeans as the steam rose in the semi-darkness. He closed his eyes contentedly. It was bad, but it wasn’t as bad as Winnipeg, and there was always tomorrow.

  When he awoke, the fire had gone down, and he got to his feet to put in more birch, the cold floor sending shock waves of ice through his legs. The socks hadn’t totally dried, but they were warmer, and he hauled them on and shoved his feet in the unlaced boots. Then, dragging the bag behind him again, he made his way in the half-darkness to the kitchen stove, where only smouldering embers remained, although the heat from the big range was still intense. The dry birch would catch easily.

  He stood hunched over in the low kitchen, glancing through the window out of habit. It was still blustery, but he could easily detect two forms making their way up the path to his house, struggling through the unshovelled path, bent sideways against the force of the snow which gusted across the meadow.

  The figures puzzled him, although he was sure that one of them, in spite of the parka hood concealing his face, was Vince Wilson. The other was smaller and looked female. Christ! Vince Wilson was bringing the cops. Was that the best he could get? Some young kid doing her probie? But then, that second figure couldn’t be a Mountie. The roads still weren’t plowed, and even if he had phoned the detachment when he was at their house, she would never have time to get from Couteau, even if she came on skidoo. He went back to the stove and poked at the wood, wondering why anybody, least of all Vince Wilson, would be coming out on a night like this to visit him, then he turned and walked back to the porch, timing his return to greet the anticipated knock.

  He opened the door, flabbergasted to see Cheri Wilson standing on the step directly in front of him, her face partially concealed behind the hood which was tied tightly around her neck with a scarf, yet visible enough to be recognizable. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of two half-filled garbage bags. Vince Wilson, holding two more garbage bags, stood farther back. Jimmy held the door back, speechless, as Cheri stepped into the porch, her father close behind her. She laid the two bags by her feet, out of breath and panting. She spoke rapidly, as if she were anxious to explain, while alternately clenching and relaxing fingers that had become stiff with gripping the bags. Jimmy remained speechless.

  “I know you’re wondering what we’re doing here, but after what Mom told me, I just couldn’t go to sleep knowing you were over here without a bite to eat or a bit of heat, after what you did for me. Another second and I would have been down in that landwash. I know you’re Jimmy Blanchard and you’re out of jail and all that, but I can’t let you freeze to death or starve to death after that, no matter what you are. We gathered together a few things that we thought you might need. They will get you through the night. I know Charlie Mackay brought you some wood—Dad told me—but I figured you could use all you could get.”

  As she picked up the bags again, she indicated her father, a wry tone in her voice. “Dad wasn’t fussy about coming over, but I told him I was going to come anyway, supposing I had to come alone and make two trips. Here, take this flashlight so we can come in and sort this stuff out.”

  Still unable to speak, Jimmy took the flashlight and shone it downwards to light the way as Cheri and her father crossed the threshold into the kitchen. In the sweeping beam of the flashlight, Cheri’s voice reacted with disgust. “My God! This place is filthy. Are you going to stay here? I’ve got to come over and gut this place out.” The remark took him back, in the midst of all the disbelief and astonishment. It was a long time since he had heard that expression. Cheri Wilson was talking like an old-timer. She set her two garbage bags in the middle of the floor by the kitchen table. Her father propped his against the farther wall.

  Jimmy felt compelled to hasten an explanation. Cheri Wilson was having a strange effect on him. “To tell you the truth, I’ve s
tayed in worse. But it won’t be so bad when I get a chance to clean it up. I think cousin Tom was making use of it rent-free.”

  He had wanted to say more, but she didn’t seem to be listening. She had walked to the stove, where she removed her gloves and stuffed them in her coat pocket. Then she tossed back her hood, extending her arms and savouring the heat which was filling the tiny room. “She drives a good heat, and Charlie Mackay cuts good birch. You won’t be cold with that one.” She was practical, too. Every word and movement of this woman was attracting him. Vince Wilson moved in silence, his whole presence exuding a lack of comfort with the situation.

  He stood to one side as Cheri turned and pointed to each of the bags in turn in the light of the flashlight. “There’s another bag of wood—spruce—dry spruce. You want to mix up the spruce with the birch. It will last longer. That’s an arctic sleeping bag. You won’t have to worry about getting cold in that one. That bag has food, and the last bag has a flashlight and lantern and hot water and stuff like that.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” He didn’t. He could never remember being given so much by anybody except when he had a knife in his hand. He continued to respond aimlessly, the thoughts unconnected and irrelevant. “With what Charlie Mackay left and with what you’ve brought, I’ll have no problem getting through the next couple of days. Charlie said he was going to bring me up more when the roads got cleared. When I get straightened away, I’ll pick up some oil at Furneaux’s and stretch the wood.”

  He knew it wouldn’t be that easy with Furneaux’s, but he could get somebody else to get him oil, maybe Charlie Mackay or Barry O’Keefe. Cheri had moved back to the bags in the middle of the floor. In the light of the flashlight she had bent down, extricating a Coleman lamp and a can of fuel, which she set on the kitchen table. Within seconds the lamp spluttered and hissed, then settled quietly into emitting a bright light which cast its glow through the kitchen, reducing the beam from the flashlight to a feeble spot on the floor.