The Most Perfect Gift

by Hubert Furey

  And she was beautiful. As beautiful as he had seen her in church and as he had seen her earlier that day on the road, when she had walked by the police car. Even with tears of agony streaming down her cheeks and her anguished face contorted with pain and humiliation. With all of that, she was absolutely beautiful. With her blonde hair tumbling down around her shoulders and her figure undisguised in a form-fitting dress, she looked ready to step into the next movie frame. But again her beauty was her undoing. Just like that awful time in the grove, her beauty was her undoing.

  Rocky held her tightly against the sink counter, his free hand still gripping her shoulder, holding her in place. Her dress now fell loosely around her unprotected, bare arms, and her face grimaced in agony with the force of his grip. Jimmy knew Barry O’Keefe wouldn’t be able to take it any longer. He would make the first stupid move. Rocky Bates was still talking in a cold, icy tone, still holding the gun cocked and ready.

  “So. Whaddaya say, expert? We gonna have some fun? You can tell me what she likes.”

  Tom Blanchard was visibly shaking, edging toward the front door. “Jeez, ol’ man. Less go. C’mon, less go. Dere’s no need to hurt people.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw Barry O’Keefe tense, and he knew he had to move. If Barry O’Keefe went crazy, it would be all over. It would be a dangerous gamble, but there were no choices left. He eased his body forward to draw the gunman’s attention, but not enough to threaten seriously. The gunman responded instantly, thrusting the shotgun directly into Jimmy’s face in anticipation of attack while flinging the frightened woman ahead of him to the floor. There she cried pitifully as she tried to crawl to the protection of her husband’s presence. Rocky Bates’s voice continued its cold, merciless tone as he changed the direction of the shotgun, slowly bringing it in line with Sheila O’Keefe’s moving head, one evil eye squinting along the gun barrel as his finger tightened upon the trigger.

  “Mebbe yer right. Mebbe we should get the hell out of here. I don’t want to have any fun with Blondie here, anyway. I think I’ll just blow her pretty head off instead.”

  “Jesus! Ol’ man. . .” Tom Blanchard, sensing the inevitable, looked around helplessly before turning in panic and bolting through the front door, the noise of his stumbling audible on the front steps. Gasps of shock mingled with the sounds of pleading resounded throughout the kitchen. A glass smashed as it hit the linoleum floor. Frank Ryan’s soothing voice could be heard as he gently stroked the trembling shoulders of his wife. Without being aware of what he was doing, and heedless of the certain danger of his action, Jimmy had quietly eased between the sobbing, shaking woman and the murderous weapon in Rocky’s hand. He knew now what he had to do.

  Calm and untroubled, he looked along the barrel of the levelled weapon, into the evil visible in the eyes behind the mask, and he was not afraid. He was being given a chance to repay. It wasn’t the way that had come to his mind on the Fairy Cap, nor the way he had first envisioned in church when he headed out into the storm to take his own life. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his confused memory he heard it, from some book, from somebody, somewhere. For no greater love than this can a man have . . . And for the first time in his life, he felt truly at peace. Instead of destroying life, Jimmy Blanchard was going to protect it, save it, preserve it. And that life would go on, and people in Brine Cove and everywhere would say ever after that he had done this. What was the rest of the saying? . . . laid down his life for his friends.

  And maybe that old couple would read it in the corner of some newspaper, and it would help. Or maybe that old Cree would hear of it, and it would do something. He saw Cheri Wilson out of the corner of his eye again, and for a moment he felt sad that he would never hold her again, like that night in the storm. But he saw the look of pride behind the tears in her eyes as he heard her softly whisper his name, and a tremendous feeling welled up in him, a feeling that he recognized as real courage, a feeling like nothing he had ever experienced before. He saw the anguished faces around him, and he felt the presence of Sheila and Barry O’Keefe behind him, and he sensed their gratitude at his protection. And he saw Charlie Mackay—standing, waiting.

  The gunman was motioning the weapon closer to Jimmy’s face, and Jimmy could see the rough, sawn edges of the barrel and the evil eyes still laughing behind the mask. “So the expert wants to be a hero. Well, well, well. It don’t matter to me, good buddy. It don’t matter to me at all. After I blows a nice, big hole in you, I can still blow her pretty little head to pieces after.”

  Jimmy had remained calm, unperturbed. In spite of all his memories, all his terrible nights on streets and in bars, his days in Dorchester and everywhere else, he now realized he really had never faced death before—not certain, imminent, inescapable death like that which faced him now. And if somebody had told him yesterday on the Trans-Canada he would be facing a shooting death only twenty-four hours later, he would have laughed. His own voice surprised him with its candid, factual tone.

  “No, Rocky, you’re not blowin’ her head to pieces, or anybody else’s except mine. You’re not takin’ any good people here down today, Rocky. Just one big useless piece of garbage from Dorchester being taken down by an even bigger useless piece of garbage from Stony Mountain.” Jimmy felt the cold, rough edges of the gun barrel burrow into his forehead, but he didn’t move. The evil voice had turned deadly serious.

  “You think I won’t do it? With one in the chamber and four more in the tube, I can spray this place . . .”

  Jimmy’s voice continued without flinching, just as steady, just as calm. “You got one shot, Rocky. Just one shot. Me. You’re not goin’ to get the chance of another shot, because before you pump the next cartridge in the chamber, that big guy standing next to you is going to rip your arm off. He is watching your finger like a hawk, and he is a very, very strong man. As soon as your finger moves on that trigger, your arm is goin’ to be ripped from the socket, and the rest of you is goin’ to be ripped to pieces right after. You got one shot, Rocky. One shot. Me, just me.”

  Jimmy waited, his steady glance never once leaving the eyes behind the gun barrel. Only Frank Ryan’s soothing voice sounded in the frozen silence of the kitchen. The evil behind the mask began to wilt as the eyes darted quickly from Jimmy to the poised form of Charlie Mackay.

  Jimmy continued to talk in the direction of the masked face, but his words were meant for somebody else. “Remember, Charlie. Watch his finger. The second—the instant—that trigger moves either bit at all, rip off his arm.”

  Charlie Mackay nodded his head in understanding while eyeing Rocky venomously. The rest of the kitchen waited with anguished suspense, their eyes focused on the drama being played out before them. Jimmy saw the trigger finger tense and he closed his eyes, waiting. He had done what he could; Charlie Mackay would have to do the rest. It felt strange that even though he was not praying, he still felt at peace. It was finally being repaid.

  But there was no explosion or blinding lights or any of the things he had read about. Instead he felt the cold pressure of the gun barrel ease from his forehead, and he opened his eyes to watch the gunman edge slowly backwards toward the front door in retreat, the gun barrel again waving indiscriminately. The gunman paused to secure the duffel bag, then continued his backward flight toward the door. Jimmy followed him steadily, continuing to act as a shield for the rest of the kitchen. Charlie Mackay edged along the table, ready to act at the critical moment. All faces in the kitchen followed the moving pair, but the gunman was now acting uncertainly. The eyes behind the ski mask, once hard and evil, were now wavering. The gun was still being pointed in a threatening motion, but the movements of the gunman were not as determined as he continued his slow withdrawal toward the exit. Jimmy was still talking factually as he followed, still unafraid.

  “Just me, Rocky. That’s all you’re going to kill, is me. Nobody else. You are not hurting one other sing
le person in this room.”

  Jimmy was framed in the doorway to the front porch when Rocky, still threatening with the weapon, yanked open the front door and turned to run, slamming the door hard behind him as he left. Jimmy remained standing where he was, slouched forward, his arms extended as his hands gripped both sides of the doorway, still not sure if it was over. When silence still greeted his expectant look toward the closed door, he sagged tiredly, happy it had come to an end. It had not turned out the way he had either planned or expected. Behind him, the kitchen became alive, as fear eased from faces and people strove to return to the control of their own feelings once again. Cries of relief and outrage resounded through the confines of the room, mingling with “Call the police” and “Thanks be to God” as the sudden hubbub of voices erupted from their frightened silence. At times the voices softened in admiration as they were directed toward Jimmy’s presence.

  * * * * *

  Ritchie Furneaux talked calmly into the phone, one hand cupped over his ear to drown the noise. He had instantly assumed the task of contacting the police. Sheila O’Keefe was being led off to the parlour between Barry and Cheri Wilson, who was comforting her as she adjusted the zipper of Sheila’s dress. Frank Ryan was still gently rocking Mildred, who was shaking violently. Jimmy turned for the first time to face the people in the kitchen, to watch Dick Furneaux silently extend his hand across the table in a gesture of gratitude, the quiet emotion in his eyes saying everything Jimmy had ever wanted him to say. Jimmy sensed only relief and satisfaction on the older man’s face.

  “Your money . . .” Jimmy blurted.

  “There’ll be money when we’re gone, b’y. There’ll be money when we’re gone.” He then assumed the leadership his dominating presence always commanded. “Now, b’ys, stay in the house. The Mounties will take care of everything when they come. If they finds the money, fine. If they don’t, we won’t starve. In the meantime, it’s still Christmas. Come on, Benny, get the accordion going. Come on, Bertha, ’tis time for another song”—all the while issuing orders for drinks. Two women Jimmy didn’t recognize hugged him while they wiped tears from their cheeks.

  Jimmy felt the urge for fresh air and a cigarette, and he looked longingly toward an open package on the table. His eyes met those of Jack Furneaux, Ritchie’s older brother, the one whom his mother said would shoot him on sight if he ever came back. “Mind if I take one? I haven’t had one all day.”

  The eyes that looked back were neither hostile nor angry. “Take ’em all, my son. Take the pack. You deserves every one you takes.”

  Jimmy took one and lit it as he walked to the veranda of the front porch, closing the door gently as he went. Behind the house the coughing of a skidoo receded into the distance. Rocky must have skirted around to the back. Somewhere to his left a siren began to wail, getting closer with each passing second. Ritchie must have caught them close to home. Well, Rocky mightn’t have too many free hours left. There weren’t too many places you could hide in the winter in Newfoundland. He wondered how they would deal with Tom. Bad as he was, he didn’t deserve to be treated like Rocky. Still, he deserved a good kick in the arse for getting in tack with Rocky in the first place. That Rocky was an animal. No, he wasn’t, Jimmy reminded himself. Animals only did what they did because they had to.

  He leaned against the door as the police car slowed to a stop at the front gate. They were the same three Mounties, and they had Tom. Tom must have been stupid enough to get himself caught, or else he gave himself up. He watched as the car doors opened and the police ran up the path, slowing perceptively when they saw Jimmy smoking casually as he leaned against the post. There was no tension now, no stomach-tightening. Being unafraid was like enjoyment and gratitude. They were nice feelings.

  A professional air overlay the concerned tone in the officer’s voice. “What’s the situation now? Tom here told us the gunman was in the house.”

  Jimmy drew on the cigarette slowly. “No, he’s gone now. Had a skidoo in the back. Nobody’s hurt. They’re all still in there. You might want to check on Mildred Ryan. Sheila O’Keefe got slapped around a bit.”

  “Any idea which way he might have gone?” It was the second officer.

  In response, Jimmy looked in the direction of the Trans-Canada, retracing the steps he would take if he were escaping. “He’ll probably swing around and go up the old road—if he knows the place—go along by the Trans-Canada a ways, in the woods, before dropping the skidoo. Far enough to beat any roadblocks, then stow away with some unsuspecting driver. Head for Port aux Basques.”

  “He’s bloody dangerous? I mean, if he flags down some motorist or truck driver . . .”

  Jimmy drew heavily on the cigarette, looking over the distance. The image of Jack Gregory entered his mind. Rocky Bates could flag down somebody like Jack Gregory, and somebody like Jack Gregory would stop and pick him up. It was a while before he spoke. “He’s more than bloody dangerous. He’s a killer.”

  The senior officer turned, issuing directions in sharp, audible commands. Jimmy watched as the female officer entered the house. The other two raced back toward the car, then turned and sped away, the officer on the passenger side talking earnestly into the radio. The wail of the siren disappeared into the distance of the Trans-Canada, and Jimmy hoped they wouldn’t be too late. People like Jack Gregory didn’t deserve . . . . Jimmy shut the thought, too horrible to contemplate, out of his mind. The siren was sounding fainter in the distance as he heard the door open and felt the presence of Cheri Wilson by his side, gently clasping his arm, talking in quiet tones. He didn’t resist. He wanted her to stay there. And it wasn’t just one more new experience.

  “They can’t get over what you did in there. Barry O’Keefe just keeps repeating your name over and over, crying his heart out—‘Jimmy Blanchard. Jimmy Blanchard. Jimmy Blanchard.’ You stepping right in front of Sheila like that.” She was looking at him, her face shining with admiration. Then her tone changed completely as she contemplated the horror of her next words. “He was really going to kill Sheila, wasn’t he? And you would have gotten killed yourself, to save her. My God. It’s so hard. If anything had happened to you . . .” He felt her arms enclose his tightly, and he could only stare at the petite form beside him. Somebody cared for him? Like that? But he let her go on.

  “And do you know something? Everything she went through, and she got over it all just like that. She’s in there now, just sitting really quiet, like she’s thinking about something. I guess when you’ve had a gun stuck in your face like that, it would make you think about a lot of things.” She looked up at him, her voice steady and direct. “Sheila O’Keefe owes you her life.”

  Jimmy looked in the direction of the grove before murmuring in response. Perhaps even Cheri Wilson wouldn’t understand. “Sheila O’Keefe doesn’t owe me a thing.”

  “You’d say that, anyway. And not only her. It could have been me, or Mom, or—my God, it’s just too, too horrible to think about.”

  He touched her arm gently, almost afraid that he would hurt her. “Then don’t think about it. We’re all here and we’re all safe, and by the sound of that racket inside, they’re all set to crack on the party again.”

  Jimmy let her stand there, her head resting on his shoulder. He didn’t feel heroic, or dramatic, or anything like that. He just knew it could have happened. When he closed his eyes that last time, he fully expected never to open them again. Rocky Bates would have killed him out of sheer viciousness, just like he would have killed Sheila O’Keefe. But he would have killed Sheila for different reasons. Just because she was so tantalizingly beautiful and good and out of reach from the dirt and filth that he was so full of himself. Maybe he shouldn’t be too hard on Rocky. He had felt exactly like that a lot of times himself.

  “How’s Mildred Ryan?” Jimmy changed the subject abruptly. He wanted to remember Sheila O’Keefe the new way, before any of tha
t had happened. Cheri seemed glad that the conversation had become lighter.

  “She’s fine now. Charlie Mackay convinced her that the two lads were just acting, dressed up in the jannies. However that condition affects her, she’s really dependent, believes anything anybody tells her. And you know Charlie Mackay. Then he put on Jack Furneaux’s skidoo mask and went pointing with his finger going ‘Bang! Bang!’ like he was playing cops and robbers. She’s in there laughing now and having a drink of wine just like it was all part of the game. Even made light of the arrival of the Mounties. Charlie told her ‘that blood uv a bitch Barry O’Keefe’ was stealing his wood. They got her laughing now like nothing ever happened.”

  They turned as the front door opened and the female officer emerged with Ritchie Furneaux. The officer stopped in front of him, but Jimmy wasn’t aware of any nervousness. The face was professional, and Jimmy thought he detected a tinge of admiration in the sombre eyes.

  “I won’t bother with a statement from you now, Mr. Blanchard. I got a pretty complete statement from the folks inside. Seems like you’re quite a hero with these people. Putting yourself in front of that woman like that, risking your own life. Everybody’s pretty sure if you hadn’t decided to visit, things would have turned out pretty ugly.”

  Decided to visit? Jimmy wanted to laugh. Christmas visit? It was the only trick he could think of to get into the house. But then, he did get into the house. The officer continued.

  “We’ll make sure this all gets in your record. The papers and the television will hear about it, too.” They wouldn’t talk about his record in that tone of voice again. They’d talk about the papers and television in a different way, too. She adjusted her hat as she turned to leave, then extended her hand to Jimmy. “Good luck. Mr. Furneaux here is giving me a lift up to Couteau. He volunteered to do it since all our cars will be manning roadblocks or involved in the search, and they wanted me to stay here to see that things were all right.”