The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

“ ‘Dear Mr. Westerly,’ ” Lila interrupted as she began to read aloud, “ ‘I’m writing to you because I feel duty-bound before God to inform you that my son saw something important about you when someone you know came looking for direction from a chapter and verse. The truth is, a man with a past like yours has no right to hold the office of governor of our state. Unless you withdraw your name immediately, it’s my responsibility to take the information from the verse we found after meeting your sister-in-law to the newspaper.’ ”

  Lila stopped reading and looked at his face. She was gratified to see some confusion along with a flash of fear in his eyes.

  “A verse?” Lila heard the slight tremor in his voice.

  “Yes, a verse from the Bible, Charles.” She thrust the paper at him. “The boy wrote out ‘three, eighteen, eighteen.’ ”

  He lifted his eyes from the paper and shook his head. “This is crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Who listens to a little boy who writes out numbers?”

  “Half of Chicago right now,” Lila said thinly.

  Charles crumpled the page in his hand. “I certainly won’t respond to some crackpot attempt at blackmail.”

  Lila opened the Bible. “Three is Leviticus, chapter eighteen, verse eighteen.” She turned to a marked page. “ ‘Neither shalt thou take a wife to her sister, to vex her, to uncover her nakedness, beside the other in her life time.’ ”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “I’m no theologian, Charles, but even I know what this verse means,” she said in a tone that chilled the air between them.

  “Lila,” he whispered hoarsely, the color sliding from his face. “Please—”

  “Don’t insult me with another lie.”

  “Lila, I can make this right—”

  “You can’t make it right, Charles. When a man—a husband and a father—sleeps with his wife’s sister, you can never make that right.”

  His past collided with his present with such force that Charles felt himself physically reeling from the blow. What scared him more than anything was that he couldn’t see pain in his wife’s eyes. Instead her expression was devoid of any emotion. Hurt, anger, tears, confusion— all would have been better than this flat, glazed stare.

  “Lila, you have to believe me when I tell you—”

  “I’ve already spoken to Rebecca, and she has admitted the affair to me. She doesn’t know how I found out—and I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing.”

  “It was a long time ago—a lifetime ago!”

  “Yes. Stephanie’s lifetime if I’m not mistaken,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “You were different then. We were different. After Stephanie’s birth you completely changed. You all but said you didn’t love me anymore. You didn’t think we had a future . . . and I was lonely. I went to talk to Rebecca, to ask her advice. She knows you so well, and I was at a loss . . .”

  Charles knew how hollow his words—his excuses—were. He knew there was nothing in the world that could justify the betrayal of his wife.

  “I was clinically depressed, Charles. You know that. You knew that back then. And there is no way you can remotely believe this was my fault.”

  He watched Lila finally move from the chair—stiffly at first— then with the fluid grace he’d always admired. She made her way toward the bureau, put the Bible on top, then leaned with her back against the drawers, staring out the window.

  “I know, I know, Lila,” he said. “It was totally my fault. And it was just once, Lila! I swear to you, it only happened the one time.”

  “How chivalrous of you to take all the blame. Are you saying you raped my sister?”

  He didn’t think the conversation could get any worse. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. “No—of course not!” This can’t be happening. This can’t be the discussion we’re having. . . .

  “Then the blame belongs to Rebecca too. You’re equally culpable. Equally despicable,” she said calmly. “Equally dead to me.”

  “You don’t mean that. You’re angry. Hurt. As you should be— have every right to be.”

  “How generous of you to be so supportive of my emotions, Charles. I find out through some pint-sized clairvoyant’s mother that the two people I trusted more than any others in the world betrayed me during the darkest days of my life! I find out that you’re not the person I thought you were! I find out that my only sister has been lying to my face for years, coming to Christmas dinners and birthday parties and giving her brother-in-law—my husband—chaste kisses on the cheek when she arrives and leaves!”

  “We—neither she nor I wanted to hurt you, Lila, by telling you. You were so fragile then, and as you got better and happier . . . I couldn’t bear to shatter your newfound enthusiasm for life.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me the truth?” She stared right into his soul, and he knew he couldn’t lie anymore.

  “No,” he said, his voice low, “I was not.” But he rushed on quickly, “I’ll make this up to you, Lila—I will! I don’t dare hope that you’ll forgive me right now—but in time maybe you can find it in your heart to put this behind us. I will forfeit the governor’s office tomorrow—the scandal will never hit the papers. I love you and Stephanie more than anything in the world. Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you both!”

  “I don’t expect you to,” she said. As he watched, she calmly reached behind her into the top bureau drawer and withdrew a small pistol. “Because I don’t expect you to live at all.”

  “Lila! Think about what you’re doing.” He took a step backward. She raised the gun and pointed it at him.

  “Did you think about what you were doing? Did you and Rebecca have a good laugh at my expense?! Poor little Lila with her little postpartum depression, her tears—”

  “No! It wasn’t like that!” Charles felt nearly beside himself with fear, desperation for them both. “I told you it was a terrible, terrible mistake. One I’ve wished I could take back every day since!”

  “A ‘mistake’ is an error in the checkbook, Charles. What you did can never be fixed. Never be forgotten. Never be forgiven!”

  He could see her hand trembling from the weight of the gun—or the weight of the conversation. Either way he was staring at the small derringer pistol he’d bought for her own protection. I even taught her how to use it. . . .

  “Think about Stephanie—think about her.” He was pleading now. “If you do this—if you shoot me—they’ll put you in jail, Lila.”

  “Stephanie deserves the most perfect world I can give her—and that world doesn’t include you!”

  His last thought as the gun went off was that he deserved the bullet that slammed into his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  MARY AND JACK HAD NOT SEEN another client since the incident with Eldon Smith. Neither was she sure they’d ever be able to again. She had seen evil before, experienced it firsthand even—but it had never actually come knocking on the door for an audience with her son.

  “I’m taking Jack to church Sunday, Agnes,” Mary said.

  “Church?”

  Mary nodded. “Would you come with us?”

  Agnes shook her head. “Oh no. No thanks. Too many rules, too much hypocrisy.” Agnes poured a cup of coffee and carried it over to Mary. “Time is what you need. What you both need. That’s why I’ve kept turning people away. But, Mary, you still have Jack’s future to consider.”

  Jack’s future, Mary thought. Hope or despair. Gift or no gift. Worth or worthless . . .

  The walk wasn’t far—only a few blocks through modest neighborhoods where people were already starting to hang Christmas wreaths on their doors. Mary saw the white steeple of the church, and suddenly memories made a quick montage in her head—sitting between her parents as a child, her feet far from the floor, shiny black shoes dangling in the air, her dad’s strong hands holding the hymnal, her mom slipping a stick of Black Jack gum out of her purse when Mary got restless. She hadn’t been to church for m
any years—maybe since she was Jack’s age. . . . She felt a quick flip of nerves in her stomach as they got close enough to the building to hear organ music as the front door opened and closed. What if someone recognized Jack? And if they did, how would they react?

  Mary took a deep breath before pulling the door open and leading Jack into the sanctuary. She found a place for them on a pew in the back just as the organist started another beautiful prelude. It sounds familiar, she thought as she settled Jack beside her. Yes, I think it’s a hymn . . . Amazing grace, how sweet . . . something. She couldn’t remember any more of it.

  The air was redolent with beeswax polish and a familiar blend of women’s powder and perfumes that took her right back to her childhood again. She held Jack’s hand, looking around as discreetly as she could. She suddenly felt so . . . so visible, so exposed. This is a mistake—

  “Good morning!” An usher was heading her way with a smile and an outstretched bulletin. “Welcome to you both!”

  Her nerves stilled enough to take the bulletin and greet the friendly man before she turned toward the front. A song leader walked behind the pulpit and led them in some hymns. Many of them seemed familiar, and Mary found herself singing with the congregation, following along in the hymnbook.

  The pastor had a comforting, reassuring presence. His unassuming clergy robes didn’t draw attention away from the man or what he was saying. She tried to listen to his words, but her own confused thoughts kept getting in the way. She glanced around at the other faces in the pews. Almost everyone was focused on the sermon, but her gaze met the eyes of someone who’d come to see Jack at the house once. The man quickly looked away. She sighed and turned her attention back to the pastor. His warmth and sincerity had a quality that made her wonder . . . Maybe I could talk with this pastor, tell him, explain it all—share my fears. Is he someone who can help us?

  The service ended; the sanctuary emptied. But Mary and Jack stayed seated. Mary wasn’t exactly sure why she waited, but maybe . . .

  “Hope I’m not disturbing you.” The pastor came toward them and stood in the aisle beside their pew. He smiled. “Just didn’t know if you wanted to be alone . . . or maybe talk.”

  Up close, the man exuded the same warmth Mary had felt during his sermon. With his gray, thinning hair and a fan of wrinkles around his eyes, Mary guessed him to be close to sixty. His blue eyes were clear, not clouded with age. He bent a leg to kneel on the pew ahead of theirs and reached over the back for her hand.

  “I’m Pastor Martz.” His hand was firm, but he placed his other one on top of hers, and that felt gentle.

  “I’m Mary . . . and this is my son, Jack,” she answered.

  He looked at Jack, who stared straight ahead as if neither of them were there. “May I ask if he was born deaf?”

  Surprised, she nodded. “He’s never spoken a word either,” she said. “If you don’t mind—if you have time, I would like to talk.”

  He smiled and sat down in the pew, still facing them over the back and groaning slightly as he straightened out his knee. “This time of year, the cold weather takes up residence in my arthritic knees.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she offered.

  “It’s another reminder that I’m getting up there in years and need to get as much done as possible.”

  Mary nodded, suddenly not sure what to say or where to start, or if she should say anything at all.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s causing your confusion, Mary?” His tone was more inviting than probing.

  She knit her fingers together, her gloves overlapping each other in her lap. “I do,” she said. “But I feel a little strange. I mean, we’ve only just met. . . .”

  When she did not continue, he went on, “Sometimes a need can be so great we can’t afford the luxury of getting acquainted.”

  That made sense—she certainly had a great need, and luxury wasn’t part of her life. She plunged on. “My son, Jack—maybe you’ve heard of him? He has a . . . gift. A spiritual gift that involves . . .”

  Pastor Martz’s brows rose as he looked at Jack. “Numbers?”

  Mary nodded.

  “When I read the article in the paper about the fire at the school and how Jack was able to warn people, I remember thinking it was a miracle,” he said. “A gift like that is truly amazing.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, and she tried to swallow down the lump in her throat. It seemed like this man did understand. “Hundreds of people—and I do mean hundreds—have been to see Jack. They’ve come for a passage of Scripture that he provides with a series of numbers. They are looking for divine insight into their lives from a little boy who can’t hear their questions and who can’t voice the answer any other way than through numbers written on a piece of paper. And . . . they also give gifts . . . of money and other things.” She looked away, then faced him squarely, though her heart was pounding. “Do you . . . do you believe what we’re doing is wrong?”

  “Do you?”

  Mary thought for a while. “I’m not sure. It all really started when I became worried about Jack’s future—you know, about what would happen to him when I’m no longer able to care for him. Where would he live? Who would watch out for him? Would he be put into one of those institutions? But it seems like no matter what I do, it turns out I put my son in harm’s way.”

  “How is that, Mary?”

  “The other day, a strange man came to us. Because I’ve allowed Jack to use his gift, I opened a door that evil walked right through. Right into the house. The man seemed to be . . . well, possessed with a demon.”

  She looked for some shock, disbelief, or judgment on the pastor’s face, but all she saw was compassion.

  “What did the man say or do that makes you believe he was possessed?”

  “He brought up things,” she said softly. “Things that no one could have known. About me. About my past. Agnes saw it too. She agreed the man was possessed.”

  “Who is Agnes?”

  “She took us in when I was sick and has taken care of us ever since. She’s become a dear friend.”

  “If I may ask, what did the man say about you?”

  Her shoulders moved with the breath she exhaled. “He mentioned an accident that happened to me when I was a child—my hands were badly burned.” She glanced down at her gloves, then back at his face. “And he said the thing that frightened me the most. He said demons were talking to my son!”

  “I can see why that would frighten you,” he said. “What did you do?”

  “I felt a kind of . . . of power rush over me, and I kept my arm around Jack and commanded the man to leave in Jesus’ name.”

  The pastor nodded ever so slightly. “And that made him leave.”

  She nodded also. “It did.”

  “And your friend Agnes? What did she do?”

  “She was terrified. She had never experienced anything like it.”

  “So the man’s . . . comments. Were they only about you and Jack, or did he say anything about Agnes?”

  “He said she was a swindler—stealing money.”

  “From whom?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  The pastor pondered just a moment, and she saw a furrow crease his brow. “Could it be from you?”

  Mary shook her head quickly. “No. That’s not possible. What he said was a lie.”

  “But what he said about you was accurate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why wouldn’t it be true about Agnes?”

  “If you knew Agnes, you would know. She’s a sweet, gentle old woman—”

  “Don’t let a few wrinkles and gray hair fool you, Mary.”

  She stared at him, her mouth open in surprise. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he—that man used the exact same words.”

  The pastor looked past her for a moment, his gaze unfocused for a few seconds. Then, “Would Jack give me a Scripture?”

 
Mary stared. “You mean now? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, please, now would be fine.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I don’t think so. No, I mean, it only works—he must have a darkened room.” Take Jack’s hand and get up. “Actually, we should get going. I’ve taken up enough of your time, Pastor Martz, and Agnes will be looking for us.” She kept her voice as even as she could.

  “Mary, if you truly believe Jack has been given a divine gift, then evil has no claim on that gift. But even gifts from God can be distorted. Christians can be duped into believing that what they’re doing is right as long as it’s in the name of God—and things of the occult can sometimes be very hard to discern. The line between actual prophecy and fortune-telling can become so blurred we can barely even see it.”

  “This is—it’s not what you think,” she said quickly. “I’m just scared now. I don’t want to do anything else that God would hate me for. I don’t want Him to take Jack away from me—”

  “I think that most of our sin comes from not trusting God’s goodness,” he said earnestly. “In our humanness, we hold tightly on to the reins of our destiny, acting as our own god, not trusting that where He leads us will be good. And in doing so, we make a mess of our own lives.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think you’re understanding my problem—what I’m asking—”

  “I believe the questions we ask are rarely the true issues of our hearts. There is usually something else—something deep down that’s troubling us. Waiting to be brought out into the light of day, where it can be dealt with and healed.”

  “I have no idea what that would be, Pastor—but I do know I’m facing a true dilemma. Do I continue to use the gift to secure a future for my son when I’m no longer able to care for him—or do I stop because it’s not right and just hope he doesn’t end up institutionalized when I’m gone?”

  “You know what I think, Mary? What I sense?”

  She shook her head.

  “I sense the truth is being covered up like your hands—because you trust no one, including God.” He leaned toward her. “Most people don’t want to trust God because they’re afraid He’ll ask them to sacrifice—and they don’t want to do that. But that’s not you. You know too well what it means to sacrifice. Jack has made sure of that. Your stumbling block to trust comes from somewhere deep down—a hurt so deep it stops you from allowing that trust to blossom and grow.”