The Unfinished Gift

by Dan Walsh

  This, too, had become part of his morning routine.

  Patrick awoke confused. An unsettling dream had placed him back in time with his mom, standing outside Sanders Grocery at the end of their block on Clark Street. She had just gone in to pick up a string of breakfast sausages. He stood outside, watching as the street and sidewalk filled with shoppers going about their day, trying to sidestep puddles left from a morning rain. A poster hung in the front window of Sanders’s store, urging everyone to buy more war bonds. Some older boys had just passed by escorting a pony straining under the weight of a teetering cart full of scrap paper and metal.

  As Patrick waited outside, it dawned on him that she was taking too long. Something was wrong. His mom had said to wait right there, but he couldn’t wait anymore.

  He walked into the store, expecting to find Mr. Sanders behind the counter helping a row of customers, but the store was empty. Patrick walked past each of the four narrow rows of canned goods. They were empty too.

  “Mom?” he cried out. “Mr. Sanders? You in here?” He stood still, listening. No one answered. He walked behind the counter, forbidden territory, hoping to find someone stocking the lower shelves, but the counter aisle was empty too. “Mom?” he yelled, panic rising in his voice. His face felt hot. He walked through a doorway leading to the back room and peeked inside.

  No one there.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. He ran through the store again, hoping somehow he’d missed her on the first pass. But there wasn’t a soul inside. “Mom?” he cried again as he ran out the front door. “Where are you?”

  He froze. Now the entire street was empty. No people or cars, horses or trolleys. “Mom!” he screamed. “Where are you?” He put his hands to the sides of his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Where is everybody!”

  Then he woke up.

  The sick, scary feeling still hung in the darkened room for several moments as his eyes adjusted to the morning light. Then he remembered where he was.

  Reality brought no comfort.

  He sat up slowly, trying to focus on his mom and dad’s picture. This morning, they seemed stuck inside the frame, unable to speak. He grabbed his pillow and gave it a tight squeeze. Sometimes when he did, he could imagine it was his mom; sometimes she even hugged back. This morning it was just a pillow.

  He really was all alone.

  Six

  Later that morning, Patrick sat eating a bowl of oatmeal at the dining room table when he heard a loud knock at the door.

  “I’ll see to that,” Ian Collins said as he walked toward the front door. “You finish up there, and don’t forget to rinse the bowl in the sink. Stuff hardens like mortar.”

  Collins got on his toes and peeked through the center window in the front door. Geez, he thought, not now. It was Father O’Malley from St. Joseph’s a few blocks away, standing in his vestibule, nose and cheeks bright red from his short walk. It was bad enough Collins had to sit through one of his monotonous homilies every Sunday at mass; now the man was at his front door. Collins tucked in his shirt, worked out a kink in his neck, and turned the knob.

  “Marnin’ to you, Ian,” Father O’Malley yelled through the glass door, his Irish brogue strong as the first day he set foot in America just after the Great War. His black hat was pressed down over his ears and his hands shoved deep into the recesses of his black overcoat.

  Collins quickly opened the door, noticing the sun was shining brightly now. Small wet clumps of snow fell from the father’s shoes as he banged them on the steps. “I’m sorry you had to walk through that, Father. I’d hired a boy to come shovel the walks for me, but he never showed up.”

  “Quite all right, Ian. Good help’s hard to find these days.”

  The two men walked into the living room. Collins quickly closed the door. He tried to remember the last time Father O’Malley had stopped by. Seemed like it was just after Ida had passed away.

  “Is that the boy?” Father O’Malley whispered, looking Patrick’s way.

  How did he know about Patrick? Collins wondered if the good father might be more connected to the Almighty than his sermons gave evidence.

  “’Tis such a shame,” said the priest. “To be so young and without your mother.”

  He took off his coat and handed it to Collins, then his black leather gloves. Guess he plans to stay awhile, Collins thought, trying to restrain a sigh.

  “I lost me own ma when I was a lad, but I was eleven at the time.” The priest walked over to the radiator and warmed his hands. “He can’t be, what . . . seven or eight?”

  “Seven,” Collins whispered. He looked at Patrick, making sure he wasn’t overhearing the conversation. The boy’s eyes seemed transfixed on the back label of the oatmeal box. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Got half a fresh pot left.”

  “That’d be nice. It stays this cold and we might have ourselves a white Christmas, just like the song.”

  Father O’Malley looked about the living room, noticing the absence of Christmas, no doubt. Collins hoped he didn’t bring it up; he wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. “Well, let me get you that coffee, Father.” Anything to change the subject. “You take cream and sugar?”

  “You have sugar?”

  “Enough for coffee.”

  “Just a teaspoon, then. No cream.”

  As Collins turned toward the dining room, Patrick was standing in the doorway, eyeing them both with an unsettled look.

  “Now there’s a handsome lad,” said Father O’Malley. “Come over here. Let me take a look at you.”

  Patrick looked at Collins for permission. Collins nodded.

  “Why, he’s the spitting image of Shawn, Ian. Don’t you think? An amazing resemblance.”

  Collins shot him a menacing look. Not intentional. He was grateful the priest didn’t seem to notice. He seemed mesmerized by the boy.

  “What a smile you have.” Patrick stood in front of him, the priest’s hands resting on his shoulders. “Aren’t you a bit tall for a seven-year-old?” Patrick smiled even wider at that. “I knew your father when he was a boy. Did you know that? A little older than you are now, but you look just like him. Tell me, what’s your name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “A fine Irish name. Your father was quite the baseball player. Helped St. Joe’s win the city championship when he was in high school. You like baseball, Patrick?”

  Patrick nodded.

  Collins figured the boy could find little trouble spending time with a priest, so he attended to the coffee. As he poured, he noticed the boy’s oatmeal bowl had not only been rinsed but washed and set upside down on the draining board to dry. When he returned, Patrick was sitting next to Father O’Malley on the davenport. Collins set the priest’s cup on the table in front of him and sat down in his favorite chair.

  “The lad’s just asked me an interesting question, Ian. I wonder if you can answer it for the both of us? He wondered if Catholics celebrated Christmas. Noticed there aren’t any Christmas decorations in the house, no stockings, not even a tree. What do you make of that?”

  Collins panned the room, hoping an explanation might surface to forestall the sermon he knew was coming. “I’ve been rather busy lately” was all he could think to say. This was setting up to be a miserable morning. Collins had always felt that having to consider one’s religion an hour each Sunday was more than sufficient.

  “But Ian,” the priest said, “I’m looking around and I don’t see any signs of Christmas at all in here. Aren’t you planning on celebrating the birth of our Savior?”

  Collins sighed. “I do . . . in my own way.”

  “Miss Townsend told me, from what she gathered, that Patrick’s mother was a very strong Christian. I’m assuming she raised Patrick the same. Isn’t that right, son? You’ll be wanting to celebrate Christmas, won’t you?”

  Patrick nodded, then cast a worried look at Collins.

  “Miss Townsend,” Collins said. “She tell you to come ov
er here?”

  “No. She did call briefly, but just to inform me of the boy’s situation.”

  At that, Patrick stood up. “May I be excused, sir?” he asked Collins.

  Collins did not immediately respond; he was trying to diffuse the anger in his heart.

  “It probably would be best if we didn’t discuss these matters in front of the boy,” Father O’Malley said.

  It’d be better if we didn’t discuss them at all, Collins thought.

  “Isn’t there a pleasant task we can give him to do, Ian? How about Christmas decorations? Would you be having any decorations he could sort out, bring this house into the holiday season?”

  Patrick’s eyes brightened at the notion.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm,” said Collins. “But I’m going to have to take him up in the attic. Ida put a big box up there full of the stuff.”

  “You see, Patrick. Catholics celebrate Christmas. You should see the way we’ve decorated the church . . . and the rectory.”

  “What’s a rectory?” Patrick asked.

  “It’s a place where priests live.”

  “You just finish your coffee there, Father. I’ll be down in a few minutes. C’mon, Patrick. Let’s go find that box.”

  Collins walked up the stairs, the boy right behind him. As he walked past the boy’s bedroom, he noticed the bed was made, with almost perfect military trim.

  Seven

  Patrick had only been in one other attic before. It had been a wonderful experience, ranking up there somewhere between the toy store and candy shop. He followed closely on his grandfather’s heels. The steps were steep and narrow, so he pretended he was climbing the face of a cliff.

  “Mind yourself, now,” his grandfather said. “I’ll get this light on in a minute. Stupid fool thing putting the switch at the top of the stairs.”

  When they reached the top, his grandfather opened the door. It was just as Patrick had imagined. At first it was dark, but his eyes soon adjusted. Boxes of every shape and size came into view, overflowing with bounty, like pirates’ treasure. Every metallic object sparkled from bright rays of sun pouring in from two dormers. It was like a page out of a storybook. Collins shuffled away from the stairs toward the front of the house. Patrick had stopped following, mesmerized by the scene.

  Collins turned and snapped, “Now, don’t go getting any ideas. You go messing around, something’s liable to come down on your head, get that government lady all over me.

  Get over here and stick by me. Only one box up here we’re after.”

  Patrick sighed. The adventure was over. His mother had never yelled at him like that. Not once in his entire life. There was just enough room to walk in between the boxes if he turned sideways. He obeyed and soon stood a few feet behind his grandfather.

  “Where’d I put that stupid thing?” Collins said. He started lifting boxes, putting them here and there, setting off little dust explosions.

  Patrick wondered how anyone could call a box of Christmas decorations a stupid thing. Collins continued muttering as he searched. It was hard for Patrick not to let his attention drift, but he didn’t want to get yelled at again. Every now and then, he moved one of the boxes Collins set near him an extra inch to the left or right, just to make a contribution.

  “Don’t touch,” Collins snapped. “You trying to knock something over?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Just leave everything alone.” Collins turned back toward the boxes.

  Patrick bit his lip. Tears wanted to come, but he wouldn’t let them.

  “Just stand over there if you can’t keep your hands off things.”

  “I won’t touch anything again, I promise.”

  Collins turned back around. “Where is that box?”

  Patrick stepped back into the shadows; even a few feet felt safer. His eyes wandered around the room. He quickly noticed an army uniform hanging on a rack next to an oval dressing mirror. A real army uniform. Was it his grandfather’s? His dad wore one just like it. He remembered him standing at the train station, a thousand people pushing and shoving, crying and hugging good-bye. Then it was time for his dad to say good-bye. His mom was crying, and then he was too. His dad picked him up, high in the air. “You’re in charge, Patrick. You take good care of Mommy till I get back, okay?” But he hadn’t taken good care of Mommy, had he? His dad had given him just one thing to do, and he couldn’t even do it.

  “There it is, son-of-a-gun.”

  Patrick turned back toward his grandfather, glad for the distraction.

  “Had to be under ten other boxes.” He groaned as he pulled the box free. “Yep. There’s Ida’s writing. You could spell better than her. Look at that . . . orma-nents . . . Christmas orma-nents.”

  He was smiling, the first time Patrick had seen him smile. Billy’s grandfather always smiled, even gave horsey rides and told knock-knock jokes.

  “Okay, Patrick. Come here.”

  His grandfather had just pried the box lids loose and bent them back. Patrick looked inside and saw . . . Christmas. A bright gold star lay on top. Boxes of shiny glass ornaments were stacked around the sides. He saw the roof of a nativity scene, with wooden characters lying on top and inside, some wrapped in tissue paper. There were at least a dozen ceramic figurines: snowmen, carolers, Santas, and elves.

  “I’ve got to go back down and see the father for a few minutes. Can I trust you alone up here?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Take a good look inside this box before you touch anything. When you leave this house, I want everything put back just the way you see it here. You hear? You can leave any tree decorations alone. We’re not setting up any tree. I expect your daddy to be home in a few days. Plenty of time to get you a tree. Just pick out a few things to put around the living room or your bedroom. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then. I’m headed back down. Mind yourself coming back down the stairs. Don’t bother with the light switch. I’ll come back and turn it off later when you’re through.” Collins stood up and made his way back to the attic stairs.

  Patrick didn’t move until he heard him get all the way down. When the attic door closed, the room was suddenly alive again. He looked inside the Christmas box. It shouldn’t be too hard remembering where things went. All the ornaments were in boxes stacked along the sides. He carefully lifted out the big golden star and looked for a safe place to lay it down.

  That’s when he first saw it.

  On the far side of the room, just beside the army uniform . . . it was leaning up against an oval mirror. This big wooden soldier. Years later, Patrick would still remember the first moment he laid eyes on it. Everything else in the room had suddenly gone out of focus. There was only the wooden soldier. It was hand carved, maybe eighteen inches tall. Unpainted, made of some light-colored wood, and finely detailed. It looked like a soldier from World War I, wearing one of those old pie-panned helmets. The expression on his face was stern, like he was yelling something at the top of his lungs. His rifle was fixed upward, as though storming a hill, his bayonet pointing at some invisible enemy.

  For a few moments, Patrick stood frozen in place. A warning began to form about what his grandfather would say if he got distracted from his main goal. But the warning was quickly overcome by the power of curiosity and desire. He stepped carefully through the maze of boxes and narrow aisles, his eyes fixed on the soldier. He couldn’t imagine the awful consequences if he knocked anything over along the way.

  Finally, a clear path opened. He picked it up gently, glad to find it was sturdy and well made. He noticed the bottom was unfinished, the legs blending into a block of wood. Who could have taken an ordinary block of wood and turned it into such a thing of wonder?

  He held it at arms’ length and instantly decided that he had never wanted anything so much as this wooden soldier. The look on its face was so fierce, so intense; he could feel the soldier’s courage, see the bravery etched in e
very line. Patrick had seen newsreels about World War I and wondered what it must be like to face such danger, bombs going off to the left and right, machine guns rattling all around you. Yet still you run out of the trench to face it all. In the films you could never see the soldiers’ faces.

  But now he could.

  And it was the most remarkable thing he had ever seen.

  Eight

  After securing the boy in the attic, Collins spent some time in the bathroom, taking a bit longer than usual. He thought about staying upstairs even longer, maybe ten minutes more. If the priest stayed, Collins could just say the box had been difficult to find. Or Father O’Malley might get antsy and have to leave. Then came an image of Ida, like a fierce look from heaven for treating a holy man so poorly. He washed his hands and headed back down the stairs.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the father asked a lot of questions about Shawn. How could Collins tell the father he hadn’t talked to Shawn since before the boy was born? What new avalanche of words might that rain down upon him? As he talked, Collins drifted back to the last conversation he’d had with Shawn.

  It, too, had been about issues of faith. Shawn was even sitting in the same seat as Father O’Malley. Shawn had been trying to persuade Collins into considering how much more God had in mind for his life, what real faith in God looked like. Went on talking about how Elizabeth had helped him understand so much more about the gospel. Imagine the nerve, a son talking like that to his father.

  “Dad,” Shawn pleaded, “please just listen to what I’m trying to say, just for once.” Then came this look of frustration, or was it disgust. “Who am I kidding? You’ve never listened to me, have you? It’s always been about me doing things your way. Well, it won’t happen this time, it can’t happen. The stakes are too high.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?” Collins shot back. “Always doing things my way,” he repeated. “As I recall, you’re not following me into the shop every day, even though this whole business could be yours in a few years. Got your way on that. Joined this new Army Air Force instead of the infantry like every other Collins who’s ever fought for his country. Got your way on that. And now you’ve up and married a woman who’s not even Irish and talks about religion all the time, totally against my wishes. So, maybe you can help me see how it’s always got to be about my way.”