She hesitated. “I’ll think about it.”
Mary listened as Olivia handled the reporter with the composure of someone who was used to giving interviews, who had sat for photographers, read about herself in the society pages on more than a few occasions.
Olivia hung up the phone and sighed. “My best guess is it’s just the first of many. I asked our guests last night not to say anything about Jack—but that request no doubt fell on deaf ears.” Olivia immediately blushed at her thoughtlessness. She hurried on, “But now that the word’s leaked out about who provided the warning, and that he’s a deaf-mute child . . .” She shook her head. “Well, I don’t have to tell you how newsworthy that is. Anyway, I’ll field any calls for you until you decide if you want to cooperate with the press or not.”
A servant’s master is answering the calls. . . . Mary smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Edmunds. I really appreciate that.”
“Well, why wouldn’t a reporter wanna do a story ’bout our Jack?” Miss Bea muttered as she put a sandwich in front of him. “He’s like a little . . . a little prophet. Who wouldn’t wanna know more ’bout a real-live prophet?”
Mary tucked a napkin in Jack’s collar, looking at the food on the plate. “You’re spoiling him, Miss Bea. I don’t know how a prophet eats,” she quipped with a little smile, “but Jack’s been eating like a small king lately.”
“And that’s how he’s gonna keep eatin’ long as I’m workin’ in this kitchen,” Bea declared.
“Maybe you should ask Jack to see if he knows how long you’re going to be working here, Bea,” Matilda suggested archly from her perch at the counter.
But Miss Bea shook her head. “Once ya know what tomorrow’s bringin’, ya might not wanna wake up.”
Matilda bobbed her head in agreement. “That’s how I see it.” She reached for the tuner on the radio. “Time for my program.”
The announcer’s voice filled the kitchen. “The Goldbergs radio drama is brought to you today by Procter and Gamble’s Oxydol: the soap that cuts grease twenty-five percent faster than other soaps. In today’s episode we join Molly, Jake, and their friends as they try to find a way to come up with the money. . . .” And the voice droned on.
Mary couldn’t help herself—she also had become a fan of the radio serial that played every day while they were having their lunch. She hung on every word, just like Tildy and Bea.
When they cut away from the drama for local news fifteen minutes later, Matilda sighed. “I hope those Goldbergs get enough money to buy those flower seeds,” she said over the beginning of the news report. “That Mildred Holt needs to turn loose a few coins.” The weatherman called for low clouds and a few days of mild temperatures.
“And now the newsworthy items from our own backyard,” the announcer said. “Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant star in Bringing Up Baby, still playing at the Chicago Theater for the fourth straight week in a row. Governor and Mrs. Flynn visited the children’s ward at the hospital today. The governor brought licorice and comic books for the kids. And speaking of kids—word has it that a child was the one responsible for warning so many out in Highland Park about the fire that gutted one wing of the Keller Academy two weeks ago.”
“Jack! He’s talking about Jack!” Tildy exclaimed.
Mary, stunned, leaned toward the radio. “Reliable sources, close friends of socialites Richard and Olivia Edmunds, say that a deaf-mute boy prophesied the event in an unusual way. The boy’s mother is in the Edmundses’ employ.”
“That’s you, Mary!” Miss Bea put in, finger pointed toward Mary. “You’re ‘the boy’s mother in the Edmundses’ employ ’!”
“And to think they’re talking about our Jack on the same station that The Goldbergs are on!” Tildy said, genuine awe in her voice. “Just think how many people know about Jack now!”
Mary shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe it,” she said, thrilled at the mention of Jack on the radio.
“He’s like a famous person,” Miss Bea offered with a grin. “Everybody gonna know our Jack.”
Jack—famous? “How many people do you suppose listen to the news after The Goldbergs are on?” Mary wondered.
“Enough,” Miss Bea said.
“Enough for what?”
“Enough to change things around here.” Her words proved to be as prophetic as Jack’s numbers.
The chaos wore a calm disguise in the beginning. Mary, unsure of her ability to handle an interview, was happy to let Olivia field the questions.
“Mrs. Edmunds! Did you know Jack was special when you hired his mother to be your maid?” a reporter, among a handful of others gathered on the edge of the lawn, called out to Olivia.
“I think of Jack and his mother as part of the family,” Olivia said, climbing into the Rolls in the driveway. She paused to add, “She’s not just our maid. And, yes—though I didn’t know exactly what Jack could do, I did sense that he was special. My own sixth sense, if you will.”
Olivia was adept at giving out just enough information to make the reporter feel as if he was getting an exclusive—but not enough to give away any personal details about Jack or Mary. Olivia told Mary that when being interviewed, less is always more. Never volunteer information—only allude to what you want the reporter to glean from your statement. So, as far as the greater Chicago metro area was concerned, Mary and Jack were born and bred in Illinois. Their last name was never in print, and Jack’s appearance remained a mystery, since no one was allowed to photograph the boy. Olivia found herself rather enjoying the spotlight—as was Richard at work and Anna at school. At least at first.
The current of speculation and curiosity running through succeeding days, though, turned from a meandering stream to a gushing river. It started to push its way into even the menial tasks of the household and upset the balance of life at the Edmundses. The initial phone calls gave way to more reporters and photographers camped out near the driveway, all hoping to get a glimpse of the boy. It was impossible for Phillip to back the car out of the drive without worrying he might hit a photographer or reporter skulking along the bushes. Matilda had her photo taken one morning by a man crouching beside the front steps when she stepped outside to get the newspaper. Olivia, though initially pleased by the attention when she attended a fundraiser for her special Gad’s Hill Library project, was soon annoyed by the censure she was hearing for not allowing people into her home to be touched by the boy who seemed to have all the answers.
Prestige and reverence for Jack had been alluring, even intoxicating, for Mary. People were finally realizing that her boy had something to say—even without a voice. But the intrusiveness of the press, as well as those who had started showing up at the front door looking for an audience “with the little prophet,” was becoming more than tiresome. She couldn’t take Jack outside for fear of a photographer capturing his image, and even though Richard hired a security guard to keep people away from the house, Mary always rushed Jack through the glass breezeway when they made their way from their quarters to the main house. No more stopping to gaze at the beautiful view or enjoying quiet, uninterrupted moments while she polished the glass. If someone took Jack’s picture and put it in the paper . . . She trembled at the possible consequences.
“Been hearin’ that tickle in your throat for two days now, Mary,” Miss Bea said. “I’m gonna brew you some tea and honey. Maybe it’ll soothe your cough.”
Bea put the kettle on while Mary, Jack, and Tildy had their lunch. The drone of the voices on the radio from The Goldbergs almost masked the knock on the kitchen delivery door. They all glanced through the window at a familiar face, and Miss Bea made her way over to open the door for Wally, their deliveryman from the market. Tildy turned up the volume on the radio.
“Got everything you ordered,” Wally said as he walked into the kitchen and set a box of food down on the large center island. “Ticket’s in the box.” Miss Bea started to pull the contents from the box, checking the order against the list in her hand
.
Wally looked in Mary and Jack’s direction and lifted his chin in a small acknowledgment. “Afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” Mary answered.
“Nice day, but I smell a change in the air. Supposed to be a front coming through tonight and tomorrow,” he said conversationally.
“I guess we could use the rain,” Mary answered, even as Tildy shushed them both and leaned closer to the radio.
“What’s this?” Miss Bea asked, pulling a Brownie camera out from under a sack of rice.
Wally casually plucked the camera from her hand. “Oh, that’s mine,” he said. “Didn’t mean to leave it in there.”
It happened very quickly. Mary reached for Jack, who was sitting on a stool near the counter. Snagging him around the waist, she pulled him back against her just as Wally snapped a picture. The sudden flash from the camera startled them all into attention.
“Wally! You can’t be doin’ that!” Miss Bea exclaimed, advancing toward him. Mary turned Jack’s face into her uniform to prevent another photograph.
But Wally was already hustling to the kitchen door, camera in hand, and threw a look of apology over his shoulder. “Sorry, but I need the money,” he said, yanking the door open. It slammed behind him.
Now there would be a face to put with articles about Jack. The whole city of Chicago would get to see her boy’s handsome face in the paper—not something she had gone looking for, but there it was anyway. Jack’s fame had just increased.
When the photo of Jack was published the next morning, the people of Chicago saw a dark-haired, wide-eyed little boy looking back at them. Mary shook her head at the irony of the whole thing. She had wanted people to recognize Jack as a special human being in his own right— someone different but no less valuable than any other person. And now . . . her wish had come true. Jack was famous in Chicago. Without uttering a word, he was being revered and admired and respected. She thought about the posters of the movie stars in the theater lobby where she’d once worked—and how in awe she was of them. Their fame made them seem untouchable. Maybe people are thinking about Jack like that now. And that I’m lucky to be his mother . . . no more “Poor Mary with the mute child.” Blessed Mary with the prophet child!
Mary carefully folded the newspaper so the picture of Jack wouldn’t crease, then turned back to Jack, who was watching her. She smiled. “Just like always, we’re in this together, little man. Now we’ll just have to see where it takes us.”
It was night and close to eleven o’clock when a terrified scream came from upstairs. Olivia sprang to her feet from the living room sofa, her needlepoint falling to the floor. “What was that?”
Richard also jumped out of his chair, throwing aside the newspaper. “Anna!” He bolted across the room with Olivia close behind. Another loud cry assaulted them as they ran into the foyer toward the staircase.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Anna was flying down the stairs toward them, her face white with fear. And groping his way behind her—a bedraggled-looking man in a tattered army coat and wool hat pulled down over his ears, his eyes dark and wild.
Olivia screamed.
“Call the police! Call them now!” Richard was shouting. Olivia looked frantically between her daughter and the telephone, hesitating only long enough to see Anna stumble into her father’s arms at the bottom step.
On seeing Richard, the intruder stopped short and threw his hands in the air. “I don’t mean no harm to the girl,” he mumbled. “It’s just the boy I’m needin’ to see.”
“He came . . . in . . . my . . . window!” Anna gasped out between sobs.
“They’re on their way,” Olivia said in a shaky voice, hanging up the telephone. “The police will be here soon.”
“Take Anna into the other room,” Richard ordered, his eyes firmly on the intruder. He released his hold on his daughter only when Olivia folded her arms around the terrified little girl.
“Listen, I ain’t got no gun or nothin’. I just wanna talk to the boy.” The man started down the stairs again.
“Stop right there!” Richard commanded as Olivia hurried Anna out.
But the intruder kept descending. “I got a bet to place—a horse race I can’t lose. Just need the kid to tell me the winner—”
“I said stay right there! You’re not talking to anyone, you hear me?”
“Jus’ like a rich man to keep somethin’ good all to hisself,” the man grumbled.
The whine of distant sirens drew both men’s attention to the door.
Richard looked back at the intruder. “You’re going to jail.”
The man suddenly leaped down the last few steps, landing with a thud. “Not again I’m not!” With surprising alacrity, he ran past Richard, turned the lock on the door, and bolted outside—right into the glare of flashing red lights.
Late the following day Mary and Jack were waiting as requested in Mr. Edmunds’s study. Mary hadn’t slept at all after the household’s pandemonium of the previous night. She’d seen how terrified Anna was, along with the disbelief and outrage on Olivia’s and Richard’s faces. Anna had clung first to her mother, then her father, her haunted-looking eyes darting around the room.
“I’m so sorry, Anna! So sorry . . .” Mary had said, but she knew her words were of little comfort.
“It’s not your fault, Mary,” Richard had told her. “Not yours or Jack’s—there are lunatics out there, and you don’t have any control over that,” he’d added in a low voice as Olivia had walked Anna back up the stairs, assuring the little girl that she would stay with her for the night.
The morning edition had run a front-page story about the break-in, and reporters and photographers had been out in force all day, anxious for a follow-up to the previous night’s drama. Mary had heard little from Olivia, other than further reassurances that the Edmundses didn’t blame her at all.
But Mary knew what was coming—why they’d been summoned. The only way the Edmundses could ensure no other intruders were tempted to force their way in to see Jack was to remove the temptation. . . .
Mary looked up as Richard entered the study, a white envelope in his hand. Like the one I lost . . . momentarily flitted through her mind. She stood, Jack by her side.
“I’m sorry, Mary.” There was genuine regret in his voice. “But it’s come down to the safety of my family.”
Mary tried to answer but coughed into her hand. Her throat had gotten worse in the last few days. “I know you don’t have a choice,” she finally managed.
“If you decide to stay in town, I’ll be more than happy to find a place for you. . . . I have some contacts—”
“No, thank you. I think leaving Chicago is the best for us. We’ll find someplace where no one knows about Jack.”
Olivia and Anna appeared in the doorway, looking strained, uncomfortable. “We just wanted to . . . to say . . .” But Olivia couldn’t continue and shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. Anna walked quickly to Mary and Jack, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and standing on tiptoe to do the same for Mary. Quickly she returned to her mother’s side.
The two women looked a long moment at each other, conveying a silent understanding that their children came first above any other considerations. A tiny ghost of a smile from Mary was met with a nearly imperceptible nod from Olivia.
Richard gently placed the envelope in Mary’s hand. “There’s enough here to see you through several weeks.”
Mary nodded her thanks.
“Once you’ve packed, Phillip will discreetly get your things to the car. He has a blanket to throw over you and Jack until you’re past all the crazies at the gate. They’ll never know you’re there.”
Mary nodded again.
“We’ll always be . . . grateful to you and Jack,” he said with a little break in his voice. “We can’t ever tell you how much . . .”
Mary waited a moment, then said, “And I’ll always be grateful that you gave me a job—a home—when no one else would.” Her voice sounded g
ravelly in her ears, and her head was aching—even her skin hurt. A fever . . . ? She thought about sitting down but was afraid she wouldn’t be able to stand again.
Richard was saying, “You’ll be all right . . . you’ll do fine, Mary,” though his tone was skeptical.
“Yes, we’ll be fine,” she echoed faintly.
Richard and Olivia stood at the rain-swept window with Anna and watched the glow of the taillights as Phillip maneuvered the car past the reporters and photographers, all jockeying to snap the prize picture to run in the next edition. One by one they turned away when they realized they’d only captured the driver.
“I’ll make a statement to the press tomorrow morning, informing them that Mary and her son are no longer in our employ, therefore no longer living in our home. Maybe then life will get back to normal.”
“Maybe for us.” Olivia’s voice sounded ragged and tired. “I’m not sure ‘normal’ is something that can ever happen for Mary and Jack. . . .”
Chapter Sixteen
STANDING IN THE LOBBY of the damp bus station, Mary didn’t know if the aches she was feeling were from actual illness or from fear and loss. Had it really only been a couple of hours since her life had unraveled—again? She looked down at Jack, standing patiently, always patiently. Resisting the urge to cough, she gazed slowly about the station without moving her head. I’m fine! Just need a warm bus out of town. Two seats side by side so I can rest . . .
She saw a long green board behind the counter. Moving closer, Mary had to concentrate on the posted schedule to make the words come into focus.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat. “May I help you?”
“When does the next bus leave?”
“What city?” he demanded, shaking his head. She again searched the listings, trying to make sense of the jumble of numbers and destinations.
“There’s one scheduled to leave at eleven for Milwaukee,” he informed her, impatience coloring his tone, “but right now nothing’s on time because of the storm.”
The Silent Gift Page 11