The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  “I still can’t help but feel uncomfortable, Agnes, that we’re using a gift from God to make money,” Mary said one night after Jack was tucked into bed.

  “God wouldn’t have given Jack the gift if He hadn’t wanted the boy to use it somehow. You can’t turn your back on this amazing ability Jack has to help people.”

  So, instead, Mary turned her back on the financial end of things, preferring to leave the handling of the donations to Agnes. She made weekly deposits into their account at the bank.

  Jack had never provided Agnes with her own chapter and verse. “I get my answers directly from the Lord, Mary,” she explained. “I’ve no need for any other source of comfort.”

  Mary watched Jack carefully to make sure he was doing well physically, but he was her same little boy in spite of the stream of people wanting his gift. He still loved hot chocolate, but he had developed a new passion over the summer: cold bottles of sarsaparilla. Agnes made sure to keep them stocked in the icebox. He also showed a propensity for puzzles when Mary could get him to focus on the colorful pieces.

  There were many affirmations that Jack’s numbers and the Scriptures they identified were indeed prophetic. Trudy had been the first to return, beaming with the news she was planning a January wedding—with her future mother-in-law’s help. Others came with small tokens of appreciation—bouquets of flowers, a handwritten card, cakes and brownies and other items given in thanks for Jack’s insight. Those were moments when Mary felt good about her decision to allow Jack to use the gift. But sometimes she lay awake thinking about the sorrow some people bore because of the knowledge their message had brought them.

  So word circulated, and those continuing to come for their own answers made the formerly quiet street something else entirely. Neighbors on either side of the yellow house began to complain. Mr. Merkel, on the east side, posted a No Trespassing sign in his yard. Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins on the west threatened to turn their dog loose on the next person who parked in their driveway.

  Mary watched in amazement as Agnes dealt with the complaints of the neighbors as efficiently as she seemed to do everything else, striking a deal to pay them each a few dollars a week for their inconvenience. Both neighbors seemed happy to get the extra money.

  It was the first week in November. The three were at breakfast, and Agnes was sipping coffee while she read the Chicago morning newspaper.

  “Well, we have a new governor,” Agnes announced, laying the paper on the table.

  “Oh, right . . .” Mary glanced at the headline splashed across the front page: “Westerly Defeats Flynn!”

  “What do you mean? You already knew this?”

  “The Edmundses gave a dinner party for Governor Flynn when I was working there, and he insisted on getting a chapter and verse from Jack,” Mary said.

  “Really? Do you remember what it was?” Agnes asked.

  Mary nodded somberly. “I remember. It was Psalm one hundred nine, verse eight. ‘Let his days be few; and let another take his office.’ ”

  Agnes’s eyes grew wide, and then she laughed. “Oh, I don’t think Governor Flynn was very happy with his chapter and verse! I wonder if he thought about Jack yesterday when he lost the race to Charles Westerly.”

  “I sure hope not,” Mary said, feeling uncomfortable. “Actually, I don’t think Governor Flynn believed in Jack’s gift.”

  Agnes got up to pour herself another cup of coffee and chuckled again. “Well, I’ll bet he believes now!”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Agnes sat down at the table and looked squarely at Mary. “You rarely mention your time at the Edmundses. Do you think about it much?”

  Mary smiled. “I’ll always be thankful to Mrs. Edmunds for giving me that job, but I’m happy right here with you.”

  “It was a big fancy house. You must miss that, don’t you?”

  “It was large and lovely, but I don’t miss that part. What I really loved was the view of the lake. It didn’t matter if it was cloudy or sunny or raining or snowing. Looking out at that water was just so . . . peaceful.”

  “Peaceful is good.” Agnes nodded.

  Mary smiled. “Yes, Agnes. Peaceful is really good. Isn’t it, little buddy?” she said as she leaned toward Jack.

  It was a week before Thanksgiving when Agnes led a man into the back room where Mary and Jack were sitting.

  “Mary, this is Eldon Smith.” Agnes introduced a rumpled, frail-looking figure. The stoop-shouldered man was chewing nervously on a thumbnail while his eyes roamed over the room. When they came to rest on Mary, she could see a blush rising from the neck of his white shirt and over his pale cheeks. He looked away.

  “Hello, Mr. Smith,” Mary said with a smile she hoped would put him at ease. “Should I call you Eldon?”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, using his free hand to smooth down strands of hair that had been carefully combed to cover a balding spot.

  “Would you like to sit down?” she asked, gesturing to the table and chairs.

  “Is that how it’s done, then?” he asked in a thin voice filled with uncertainty.

  Mary nodded.

  Eldon flicked his eyes back to Jack. “That him?”

  Mary nodded again. “Yes. This is Jack.”

  He moved toward a chair, sliding his hands over wrinkled gray flannel trousers as he sat down on the other side of Jack.

  Mary caught Agnes’s eye and lifted her eyebrows, just as the older woman flashed a quick grin and went to close the curtains as usual before departing. Mary, Jack, and Eldon were now dark shadows.

  “I don’t much like dark places,” Eldon managed nervously.

  “It won’t be dark for long,” Mary assured him. “But this is how the gift works for Jack. Agnes was supposed to tell you—”

  “She did.” He swallowed loud enough to hear it. “She explained how it works. I just—you know—don’t like the dark.”

  “If you’d prefer not to continue—”

  “No, no. I’m okay,” he said quickly.

  Mary said patiently, “Jack is ready.” She reached over and took Eldon’s hand to place it on Jack’s.

  It was only moments later when Mary was at the windows and quickly sweeping back the curtains. In the sunshine now illuminating the room, she looked at Eldon Smith. He was staring directly at Jack with an expression that sent a wave of goose bumps across her skin. She hurried back to the table and sat down.

  Eldon shifted his gaze to her. “So do I get my numbers now?”

  Mary put the pencil into Jack’s hand and helped him write the series of numbers on the paper. They were legible in spite of her shaking hand. She shoved the paper toward Eldon and pulled Jack to his feet.

  “Is something wrong?” The man stared up at her, his eyes like dark pools.

  “You have your chapter and verse. Now you must go,” she said as firmly as she could.

  “So what about my numbers?” His tone sounded menacing, mocking. “What do they mean?”

  The door opened and Agnes put her head around it with a bright smile. “All right then, Mr. Smith—”

  This time Mary did not wait for Agnes to look up the passage. “ ‘And Jesus asked him, saying, What is thy name? And he said, Legion: because many devils were entered into him.’ ” Her voice shook with every word.

  Eldon rose slowly, and suddenly he seemed much more physically imposing than when he’d entered—the stooped shoulders had squared, his chest thrust out, and his neck was so tense Mary could see muscled cords where before she’d noticed only the pink blush.

  “You must get out!” Mary repeated, working hard to keep her voice steady.

  “What happened to your hands, Mary?”

  “Nothing of any matter to you. You will go now.”

  “Did you burn yourself as a little girl? Dunk them in boiling water because Mommy called you a little demon?”

  “Mary?” Agnes was moving quickly toward them.

  “Shut up, crone!” His head swiveled to fix his
eyes on Agnes. The man’s voice was more animal than human. “You wretched old hag! Stealing money.” He turned from Agnes, his black eyes once more on Mary. “Don’t let a few wrinkles and gray hair fool you, Mary.” He moved closer.

  “Don’t come near my son!”

  Eldon’s lips peeled back in a sneer. “We’re talking to him right now. All of us—Legion, you know—”

  “Leave my son alone. Get out of our house now!”

  He ignored her and advanced again. A string of what sounded like gibberish spilled from his mouth.

  “In Jesus’ name, I command you to leave!” Mary said with conviction. “Yes, in Jesus’ name!” Agnes echoed loudly.

  Eldon growled and spewed a stream of blasphemous words into the room. He sounded like an animal about to attack, and Agnes whimpered as she backed herself against the doorframe.

  But a wave of boldness filled Mary, and she straightened to her full height as she pinned Eldon in her sight. “In Jesus’ name, I command you to leave! By the power of the Holy Spirit I command you to leave now!” She kept one arm securely around Jack and raised her other hand in the air with her palm toward Eldon as she repeated the command.

  It was as if he suddenly collapsed into himself. Eldon covered his ears with both hands and began to scream. He turned and ran from the room, knocking Agnes to the floor as he passed through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  SNOW FELL FROM A STEEL GRAY SKY and dusted the slate roof of the two-story white brick colonial. Trees surrounding the house had shed their leaves, and the bare branches had ribbons of white snow icing running from trunk to tip. The neighborhood was quiet at midafternoon— children in school, fathers at work, wives busy with the details of running their households. A green 1938 Buick Coupe rolled up the cobblestone drive in front of the house, stopping midway. The car’s exhaust blew silvery puffs into the air, making a foglike effect.

  “Thanks for the ride home, Burton. Enjoy the holidays with your family,” Charles Westerly said to his driver as he reached for the door handle on the passenger side. “That’s what I plan to do.”

  “Thanks, I will. Haven’t been seeing too much of them in the last few weeks, what with all your meetings at the statehouse and all. But,” he quickly added, “don’t give it a thought, sir—it’s my job, and I’m glad to have one!” Burton lifted his hat as he nodded toward the front window sporting a colorful hand-drawn turkey. “Happy Thanksgiving, sir.”

  For the moment, the two weren’t the governor-elect of Illinois and his driver, just two fathers looking forward to the traditional holiday. Charles said, “Tell your wife to give little Jessie a teaspoon of honey before bed—might help that cough of hers. I know it works for my daughter when she’s feeling under the weather.”

  Charles paused in front of his house as the snow fell, marveling at the quiet. He heard the motor of the Buick fade as it rounded a corner—and then the ensuing hush. Life was good. He had been campaigning hard for the last nine months and promising the voters of Illinois things he knew he could deliver as governor.

  When he was a state representative for the district that included Chicago, he’d loved serving the people, loved seeing actual changes that helped improve the lives of those who had given up on ever getting out of the economic depression. He was tired of the self-serving way John Flynn had run the state, and apparently the people of Illinois were too.

  He couldn’t help his smile as he thought about election day. He’d entered the polling place with his family and seen his name on the ballot for the highest office in the state. He knew his story was the American dream, and it made great press. His grin spread when he thought about the teasing he’d heard from his wife, Lila. “Are you sure you don’t want to follow me behind the little curtain at the polling place, darling,” she’d said, “and make sure I don’t vote for John Flynn? Maybe I don’t want all these Illinois women swooning over my handsome husband!” They had laughed together before he turned serious and assured Lila that when he took the oath of office in January, she would be the loveliest first lady the state had ever seen.

  The smile stayed on his face as he walked toward the front door, his footprints leaving a path through the pristine snow.

  Lila Westerly was sitting in the stiff Queen Anne chair in the corner of the master bedroom. She hadn’t moved in over an hour. She heard the front door open and close, but it was too early for her daughter, Stephanie. The school bus wouldn’t be dropping her off for another two hours.

  Lila knew it was Charles. He’d promised he’d be home early, and he was. He’d kept his promise—that promise anyway. Still, she didn’t move—didn’t even blink. She heard him call out for the maid, but Lila had given Genevieve the day off. As Lila listened to her husband move around on the floor below, she could picture exactly what he was doing—hanging his coat and hat on the tree in the foyer, carrying his leather briefcase to his study, slipping out of his shoes at the foot of the stairs so he wouldn’t scuff the hardwood that Genevieve polished every week, treading up the stairs in his stocking feet as he made his way to their second-floor bedroom, where she waited.

  “Lila?” he called out, but she didn’t answer. She heard the beating of her own heart; felt the clamminess of her hands, but didn’t move them from her lap. She wondered idly if the moisture from her hands would stain her green silk dress. She shifted slightly to accommodate the book that rested between her leg and the inside of the chair.

  “Lila? You up here?” His voice sounded as it always had, yet somehow this time it was more like fingernails down a chalkboard. She shuddered—then went still again. He came around the corner and entered the room—a smile lighting his face when he saw her.

  “Hey, there, sweetheart. I was calling you,” he said, moving toward her as he loosened his necktie. “I said I’d be home early. I’m not even going to the office until Monday. We can have some real time together as a family.”

  He pulled the tie off and unfastened the cuff links from his shirtsleeves, dropping them into a velvet-lined box on the bureau. He glanced into the mirror on the wall over the piece of dark cherry furniture. He could see her reflected in the glass. “Where’s Genevieve?”

  “Her mother went into the hospital this morning. I gave her the day off,” Lila answered in a monotone.

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Is it serious?” She could see him looking at her in the mirror.

  “Her mother is ninety-three. Everything at her age is serious.”

  “Poor Gen. She’s not going to do well if something happens to her mom,” he said. “From all appearances, they seem very close.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” Lila said. He finally turned to face her, and she noted the small wrinkle on his forehead.

  “Are you all right, Lila?”

  Of their own accord her lips arranged themselves into a thin smile that lasted only a second. She chose to ignore the question and instead asked one of her own.

  “How was your day?” Can’t he hear it in my voice?

  “Great. More than great. It’s finally hitting me, Lila—that in less than two months I’ll be sworn in as governor of Illinois!”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  The wrinkle in his forehead deepened into a frown as he crossed the room toward her. “What—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Ask me about my day, Charles. Ask me what kind of day I had,” she said.

  “Okay, of course. I’m sorry. Something is obviously wrong,” he said. “I can see that now.”

  “Then ask me,” she insisted.

  “How was your day, Lila?” She heard the worry in his voice, and it gave her the tiniest hint of satisfaction.

  “It turns out,” she began, “that this has been the worst day of my life.”

  She could see he wasn’t prepared for that. Her statement was shocking. Good. There’s a lot of “shocking” going around.

  He hurried toward her and knelt by the chair. “Is it Stephanie? Is she—?”


  “Stephanie is fine. Safe and sound in school.”

  “Oh, thank God,” he said. “You had me scared to death.”

  “That’s little consolation.”

  “What is going on, Lila? What’s wrong? Just say it!” His voice always deepened when he was upset or worried. It had been something she’d always found endearing. But not this time.

  “I signed for a special-delivery letter for you today,” she said. “Normally, of course, Genevieve would have done that and put it in your study, but—”

  “She wasn’t here.”

  “That’s right. Do you think that might have been fate?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He stared intently into her face.

  “I thought the letter might be important, so I opened it.” She lifted her chin boldly. “I’m not in the habit of opening your mail, but as I said, I thought with your election and all, it might be something you’d need to know right away.”

  “I don’t care that you opened it, Lila. I’ve never cared if you opened my mail,” he said.

  “Let me assure you that I’ll never do it again.”

  “I just told you that I don’t mind.”

  “Your mail won’t be coming here anymore, so you see, the opportunity won’t present itself.”

  “Lila—this is crazy. I don’t know what’s got you so upset, but I want to make it right—whatever it is.” His voice grew deeper with each word.

  She reached for the book beside her, and Charles saw it was a Bible. She opened it and pulled out a single piece of paper and a newspaper photograph. “Let me read you a little of the letter I opened—while you look at this.” She handed him a newsprint photograph of a little boy.

  He studied the picture, and she again saw the furrow in his brow deepen. “ ‘Boy prophet predicts fire,’ ” he said, reading the caption aloud. “I remember this article. He’s the kid who warned people about the school fire the night of the recital—”