The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  Jimmy leaned against a fence rail, thinking back to the night before, to the thought that had come to dominate his mind: his fervent wish, his obsessive desire, to repay. He looked over the frozen expanse for some sign that would point to the direction he should take; some clue to a grand mystical action; some signpost to that great heroic act of repentance that would absolve him for all time in their eyes; some sweeping gesture by which he could reach back to the people he had hurt and maimed. But all that stared back at him were ragged cliffs and dark outcrops of rock and grey sea and unending crusted snow that hid the earth from the way it was supposed to be.

  He absent-mindedly reached in his pocket for a cigarette, and his fingers enclosed the medal Tom had given him, the one that was supposed to protect him. He removed it from his pocket and held it with disinterest in the palm of his hand. The blue ribbon attached to it was still fashioned in a neat little bow, as if his mother had formed it only yesterday. He stared at the image of the Virgin, shaking his head in despair, wondering how anybody could hope to draw help from such a thin, fragile piece of metal. He was far from a religious man—he had left God and the churches and the priests out of his life a long time ago—and even if he were, it was still only a picture, and a tiny picture at that.

  His first thought was to toss it behind him, with the rest of the past that was dragging him down, but he could not bring himself to do it. He was not as logical, not as cynical anymore. Besides, it was his one other solid link to the past, and to the mother who had never deserted him, and who had died, still forgiving, still praying. He thought of the picture inside his pocket, of the young mother holding the infant child, and the medal seemed to become warm in his hand.

  But he felt no wrenching guilt at its effect, no tears of recrimination, no desperate longing to go back. The medal seemed to be pulsating in his palm, sending signals to his soul, relaying a message across time—telling him to look up, to look around him, to seek in the present for the answers to the past and the future.

  He was prompted to look toward the shoreline to the north; to the immense tract of land he now owned; to the big river that wound its way through the rolling meadow from the legion of ponds beyond; to the beach that straddled the river mouth and curved in a great arc the entire length of the sound; and he relived the conversation with Ritchie Furneaux. He saw lines of neat summer cabins and men expertly laying their salmon lines across swirling water and children splashing and laughing under a hot sun in a rippling ocean—as if in a vision—and he saw a way.

  The medal seemed to grow warmer in his hand as he entertained the vision. There was a way, right there before him, waiting to be seized. The land! The land and the ponds and the river and the beach by the ocean. They meant money—a lot of money, if he could believe Ritchie Furneaux. It wouldn’t undo what he had done or remove the hurt he had inflicted, but it would do something: it would help. According to Ritchie, he would be looking at a lot of money, and with a lot of money you could do a lot of things.

  He would use that money. That guard’s wife had two small children. He could find her. She could use extra. The guard wasn’t that old, and he hadn’t been paid a big salary, so the pension cheque she was getting would be small. Even if she were working, she would need all the help she could get with the two small children he always talked about. Maybe if he searched he could find some of those other people, too. The old Cree, the old couple in bed! With lots of money and lots of time, he could search—and he knew where to look. He didn’t know what he could do for the woman in the parking garage—she was already well-off—but maybe he could figure out something.

  Yes, he could use that money. He could give to those homeless shelters—they were always strapped; they were always helping the panhandlers and the drunks. There were women’s shelters, too. He could give them money. Ritchie Furneaux would know how to do all that. Maybe it would reach the little Loonie somehow. Maybe she was still young enough to get her life back. Jack Gregory always gave to the Salvation Army. It would certainly find its way back to the streets there. He would definitely pay back Dick Furneaux.

  And he would give his mother a headstone—a headstone with a little verse on it, to say to all the world what a terrific woman she really was. How she stood up to it all, how she never let him down, how she seemed to be helping him, even yet. He felt the medal glow in his hand, and he let his mind dwell on the image of his mother in the picture. Maybe it was true what they said about heaven and prayers. Maybe his mother knew right now the way he was thinking and she would feel happy that, for him, the other way of life was all over. He felt good and again reached in his pocket for a cigarette, then laughed. Absorbed as he had been throughout the day, he still hadn’t been able to get cigarettes. He chuckled to himself. Maybe this was a good time to quit. He seemed to be quitting everything else.

  But the feeling of inner ecstasy occasioned by the awareness of his impending wealth—and what it could do—was momentary, a rush of feeling that arose, hung suspended, then evaporated as quickly as it had come, to be replaced again by the searing, corrosive feelings of inner despair that had become his constant companion. His spirit collapsed completely in response to the abrupt change of thought, and his body slumped to the snow beneath. He sat with his back to the fence, powerless to fight the hopelessness that overpowered him, the hopelessness that he knew he would carry all the days of his life.

  Who was he fooling? He would just be buying them off again, and they would know it. They would all be past-tense whores, just like Sheila O’Keefe said. They would fire it back in his face, and he would just have added more hurt and insult to the hurt and insult he had already inflicted. Money was dirt—money was evil. All it had done was destroy him and heap his destruction upon everyone he had ever met, and now he was going to turn it into a great means of salvation.

  He felt the medal glow warm in his hand again, tugging him back from the precipice, and he forced himself to his feet, to look again at his inheritance and all it proffered, and he heard his mother’s voice read from her prayer book: And God saw that it was good. Maybe he was being too hasty in dismissing the idea. Maybe it was still a good thing to do, no matter what they thought. Money wasn’t evil. The evil is within us. Maybe the good is within us, too. And we use these things . . .

  He returned the medal to his pocket, remembering why he had put his hand in his pocket in the first place, and wishing for a cigarette more than anything else in the world. Maybe if he went down to the party he could bum a pack off of one of the b’ys. Maybe Ritchie or his father would actually go to the store and get him a pack. He remembered once his mother telling him how Dick Furneaux opened his store one Christmas Day to get a half-pound of baloney for old Jerry Morrissey, who lived alone and was a bit simple and wasn’t doing a very good job of taking care of himself.

  His eyes fell on the store and the house across from it, which he could plainly see now, even from that distance. The party had to be in full swing, he was sure of that. Jimmy could see the back door opening and a figure emerge into the spacious yard which he had not been able to see earlier from the road. He strained to recognize the person, but he had soon disappeared around the corner of the house to the front, walking unsteadily.

  No doubt the party was in the kitchen, like the old “kitchen rackets” his grandmother used to talk about. In his mind he could hear the sounds of merriment, just as he had heard them from the yard, and he pictured the crowd in the kitchen laughing and poking fun. He smiled as he tried to imagine them trying to shut up Charlie Mackay so they could get Bertha Wilson to sing another song. His mother used to say Vince Wilson wasn’t a bad hand at it, either. He wondered if Cheri Wilson could sing.

  His gaze rested on the house as he thought about Cheri. He wondered what she was wearing today. The more he thought about her, the more he longed to see her again, just to see her, to talk to her, to hear her talking. Since he pulled her out of the car h
e had never been the same, and he closed his eyes, enjoying every detail of their first meeting; the pouty lips, the honest eyes, the curled perm that just didn’t suit. He smiled again. Maybe if he gave her a lot of money she’d get rid of that stupid perm. No, she could keep the perm. He would never open his mouth about it.

  Jimmy was still smiling at the thought when he froze, his street instincts alerted by the sight of two other figures suddenly emerging from the cover of trees surrounding the house, running rapidly toward the back door. Even at that distance he could see they were wearing ski masks. And one of them was carrying something . . . something that looked like—Christ!—a sawed-off shotgun? He jumped to his feet, trembling with anger as the back door of the house closed. The bastards! They were going after the money again. Dick Furneaux must have brought it into the house and the b’ys were watching him through the binoculars. With a skidoo waiting in the trees, they’d have the money and be gone before anybody knew what had happened, with the back roads blocked with snow after the storm.

  He scanned the length of the road, feeling cold and sick. The police car was nowhere in sight. The horror of what could happen in that kitchen engulfed him. These people would never know how to cope with a Rocky Bates armed like that. He could see Charlie Mackay reaching for the shotgun, saying something stupid like “Shove that gun up your arse,” and he sickened as he envisioned the response. Stupid, brave heroes because they weren’t going to be intimidated by some hood—gun or no gun. Stupid, brave heroes with their heads splattered all over the kitchen walls. Somebody like Rocky Bates would spray that kitchen just for a lark. There were a lot of good people in that kitchen. Cheri Wilson was in that kitchen.

  The initial paralyzing shock to which he had first succumbed was immediately transformed into impulsive action, as he plunged down the slippery slope of the Fairy Cap, bounding over rocks and stumps, oblivious to their protruding danger. Whatever chance he had depended on getting there, and getting there fast. Tom Blanchard wasn’t a killer. Tom was filthy and slimy, but he wasn’t a killer. Rocky Bates was a different story. He’d seen that kind before, and he didn’t like what he remembered. He raced down Fairy Lane, the going easier now that it was downhill, leaping Murphy’s fence to shortcut to the back of the house.

  Jimmy stopped at the edge of the clearing to catch his breath, to assess the situation and think through a plan. He knew he had to compose himself. He couldn’t just rush in, panting and out of breath as he was from the downhill exertion. That, he knew, would trigger catastrophe. No, he had to be more controlled than that. More subtle. He had to get into that kitchen without provoking Rocky Bates. But how?

  He eased over the fence and silently crossed the yard to the side of the house, listening for any telltale sounds, his silent movements perfected by years of unlawful entry. He pressed his ear close to the wall of the house, straining to hear some clue that would direct him. But no such clue came. Only silence emanated from the building—sinister, deep, eerie silence. No loud talking or accordion playing could be heard. That meant they were still in there, which meant they hadn’t gotten the money yet. Christ! Dick Furneaux wasn’t that stupid, was he? Still, with Rocky Bates, it probably didn’t make any difference. He would probably shoot somebody, whether he got the money or not. Jimmy remembered the evil in Rocky Bates’s eyes. People like that enjoyed killing. Still desperately trying to formulate a plan, he continued his silent movements as he slid along the wall of the house in the direction of the back door. It was not the way he had wanted to come back to Dick Furneaux’s house, but if he were to be of any help to those inside, he had to revert to the criminal he had once been.

  He positioned himself outside the back door, his ear trained to any sound of motion from within, then gently twisted the doorknob, knowing that the least alarming sound could instantly trigger a horrendous and bloody chain of events. He pushed up on the knob as he just as gently pressured the door, ensuring that it would swing soundlessly inward. Leaving it open, he tiptoed across the porch floor, glad of the carpet mat that had been put down to collect the snow water, then stopped in front of the inside door, contemplating how he should proceed. He stood motionless, listening intently, trying to draw a clue from within as to his next course of action. Whatever was to be done, it could not be sudden. Somehow he had to draw their attention to him, in as casual a manner as possible.

  Tom Blanchard’s frightened voice could be heard beyond the door. “Jeez, ol’ man! We got the money. We’re jest tarmentin’ now. There’s no need fer hurtin’ people.” Well, Jimmy was right about Tom. He would steal the eye out of your head, but he was no killer. He was right about Rocky, too. He was debating his next move when he heard the distinct click of a shotgun being cocked. There was no time left to do it right.

  Without giving any thought to whether it would achieve any purpose, he stepped back silently to the outside door and rapped loudly, calling out “Merry Christmas, everybody” as well as he could imitate the greetings he had heard as a child. “Anybody home?” He then pretended to stomp the snow leisurely off his boots, giving the two criminals time to adjust to his presence. He squinted his eyes in nervousness and swallowed hard before he casually opened the door to the kitchen. He knew the shotgun—cocked and ready—would be trained on him as soon as he entered the room. His next step could very well be his last.

  Standing in the open doorway, he sized up the situation in an instant. The scene of terror that greeted him was not unexpected, nor the circle of terrified people sitting along the walls around him. He saw at a glance the trembling in their bodies and the sick fear in their eyes as they followed the indiscriminate movements of the murderous weapon in Rocky Bates’s hand. And he understood their trembling and fear as he faced the weapon levelled directly at his head, just like he had expected, cocked and ready. Behind the gunman on the kitchen table lay a worn duffel bag, no doubt crammed full with money. The cold humour of the voice behind the gun fell flat against the silent tension of the room.

  “Well, well! The expert. Yer jest in time, expert. Jest in time to jine us. We’s havin’ a little party, though we can’t stay long ourselves. But we’s goin’ to have a little fun first.”

  Jimmy fought the swallowing in his throat at seeing the weapon aimed in his direction, but he didn’t wince. Whatever chance these people had was his presence, and every second he could stall the cold, calculating, insane mind of Rocky Bates would give somebody in the kitchen another second of life. The toughness of his past rose to the fore, steeling him for combat, like it used to be. Play for time to get control, like it used to be.

  “Why don’t you let these people go, Rocky? You’ve got what you came for.” He had dropped the name deliberately to draw in his opponent, to engage him one on one, make himself the target of the game, but he still had no idea what he could or should do next. He had dropped into a volcano about to explode, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to plug the top. He darted glances around the kitchen, seeking direction to his next course of action, but saw only predictable human responses to a more than hopeless situation.

  Cheri Wilson was clasping her mother’s hand tightly. He could see she was breathing with difficulty as her mother gently stroked her shoulder. Mildred Ryan trembled violently while her husband talked continually in a quiet, soothing manner. Sheila O’Keefe was standing by the stove, sobbing quietly. Barry O’Keefe stood by her, sweat streaming down both sides of his face. Dick Furneaux sat in a chair, angrily defiant, while his three sons stood around the table behind him. Their courageous stance belied the fear that showed clearly on their faces and in their eyes. His gaze returned to the brandishing shotgun, and to the deadly cold humour of the voice behind it.

  “Let them go? Now, why in the hell should I let them go, when they made me go to all this trouble?” The face behind the mask began to laugh.

  Tom Blanchard’s frightened voice broke the tense stillness. “Jeez! Ol’ man. Ye said n
o one was goin’ to get hurt. Now come on. We got the money. Less go.”

  Jimmy stood motionless, paralyzed with horror as the finger slowly caressed the metal trigger. His eyes swept the room in panic, searching. Time was running out quickly for him, for all of them. He saw Cheri Wilson’s convulsing body, and he remembered the night of the storm, and he read his name forming silently on her lips. It gave him the reason he wanted, and the courage he needed.

  Then he saw Charlie Mackay—big, strong Charlie Mackay—standing close to the gunman, his massive bulk supported at arm’s length by the table, his other hand holding a glass that was steady and unmoving in the bright kitchen light. He saw Charlie Mackay, and he knew Charlie Mackay’s giant strength, and now he had the way. What was lacking was the moment.

  It was not long in coming. Still holding the shotgun in its menacing position, Rocky Bates had reached forward and seized Sheila O’Keefe by the shoulder, then roughly pushed her face down on the kitchen counter, where he proceeded to zipper down the back of her dress. The evil in the laugh was more pronounced than ever as he leered in Jimmy’s direction.

  “Whaddaya say, expert? We have some fun with Blondie here. Good buddy here says you had some fun with her yerself a few years ago. Is she any good? She looks like she’d be pretty good to me.”

  Jimmy could only stare in revulsion and anger as his face reddened in acknowledgement of the truth. But all self-recrimination was past now. It was the present that mattered: the present, where a beautiful woman was being tormented once again by another beast, like she had been tormented and barbarized once before.