The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  “How do you know that?” she asked quietly.

  “Because you are here, talking with me. Which says to me you have no one in your life you can turn to—no one you can trust.”

  She knew he was right—hated the fact that he was right. But she hadn’t come here to wrestle with her own issues. She had come to find someone who would tell her that what she was doing was all right. She tried to smile as she stood and reached for Jack’s hand.

  “Thank you for your time, Pastor,” she said, already moving toward the end of the pew and the aisle.

  “Mary?”

  She stopped and turned.

  “The gift. It’s much bigger than anything you’ve ever dreamed. You simply need to trust the One that gave it.”

  Charles Westerly sat at a small table pushed against the wall of his shabby studio apartment. His elbow was propped on the table, a glass cradled in the palm of his hand. By rotating his wrist he caught the dim light coming through the tiny window into the glass and watched the topaz-colored liquid as he swirled it around. A quote from Shakespeare had been popping into his head and irritating him no end for the last couple of weeks. Time is the justice that examines all offenders. It had taken six years for his offense to come to light, to be “examined,” but it wouldn’t take much time at all for the woman who’d ruined his life to be served with his justice. He thought about the irony of what the doctor had said to him the day he was released from the hospital—and he almost smiled.

  “You’re one lucky man, Mr. Westerly. If that bullet had entered just an inch to the left, it would have killed you. Your shoulder will heal in time—but it’ll bother you some when it’s cold.” He was right about the cold , Charles thought as his shoulder throbbed, but the doc had been wrong about the lucky part. He wished more than anything that Lila’s bullet had found his heart and killed him. Death would be preferable to the desolate existence he was barely enduring now. He lowered the drink to the table, then rotated his left shoulder—again and again—welcoming the stinging from the bullet wound. The physical pain was a tangible punishment he could deal himself for the demise of his family, for the shambles his life had become. He stretched out his feet and connected with a pile of newspapers lying on the floor. He once more found the headline stating that Charles Westerly had given up his governorship.

  He raised his glass over the paper. “Here’s to ya, Ex-Governor Westerly,” he said caustically before tilting his head back and swallowing the whiskey in one gulp. He brought the glass down next to an open Bible where a worn picture of Mary and Jack lay. As usual the sight of the two of them gave him a place to focus his anger, and that was good. The anger gave him a reason to get up each day. The emotion gave him something to think about besides the living hell of the days he’d been slogging through.

  He refilled his glass with the liquid breakfast and impulsively kicked at the pile of newspapers at his feet, further scattering them across the floor. He caught sight of another headline, the one that had been splashed across the paper the day after he was shot. Well, at least I’m not making the papers anymore. He recalled how hard Sam, his campaign manager, had worked before the election to get his name in the papers. “Any publicity in an election year is good publicity,” according to Sam. But Sam hadn’t known then that his star candidate would win, get shot in his own home by his own wife, then withdraw as governor through a statement issued from a hospital bed. Oh, the stuff and fodder of scandals.

  With a flash of searing shame and remorse, Charles thought about the terrible fallout with all those he knew and loved—family, friends, campaign workers, those who had believed in him, even loved him. Well, take a number, ladies and gentlemen. You’ ll never hate me more than I hate myself. He threw back another swallow, and it registered that the alcohol didn’t burn going down his throat anymore. He kept waiting for the endless drinks to numb him, but, ironically, they were having the opposite effect. The more he drank, the clearer—and agonizingly painful—his memories were. Could grief actually kill a person? Could his anguish over losing his wife and daughter do what Lila’s bullet had not? How many times had he asked someone to call Lila when he had been in the hospital? How many times had he begged to see his daughter? What had Lila told Stephanie—surely not the truth, had she? How could a six-year-old understand that the father she looked up to—the man she adored more than anyone in the world—was a lying, cheating, no-account shell of a human being.

  Please, God, don’t let Stephanie find out the truth about me was the one prayer he prayed night and day. He thought he’d eventually be able to bear the rest, but he was sure he could never bear that. He remembered the look on the detectives’ faces when they came to the hospital to question him about “the incident.” Overnight he’d gotten pretty good at lying. “I got the gun for my wife for protection, Officers,” he told them, holding steady eye contact with them. “There are a lot of nut cases out there gunning for you when you’re in politics, you know. Anyway, I was showing her how to aim it and didn’t realize it was loaded. It was completely my fault. Lila is absolutely blameless in this. It was just a crazy accident. . . .”

  Lila and Stephanie had never come to the hospital to see him. A lawyer served him with divorce papers on December second, the day after he publicly withdrew from the governor’s office citing “personal reasons related to the welfare of my family.”

  Picking up the tattered picture of Mary and Jack once again, he began to think about calling in some favors. He might be out of politics, but he still had a few friends in high places. He carefully folded the newspaper photo and put it back in the Bible, in the book of Leviticus, eighteenth chapter, eighteenth verse.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  THE TEMPERATURE WAS FLIRTING WITH the freezing mark when Mary and Jack stepped through the double doors into the First National Bank of Chicago. Close to noon on Monday, it was only the third time Mary had set foot in the bank, the other two times being with Agnes. Opening an account last spring, then making a substantial deposit with their first month’s donations—and now.

  Her conversation with the pastor along with the accusations Eldon Smith had made had planted a tiny seed of doubt about Agnes that wouldn’t go away. Mary spent the rest of her Sunday trying to ignore the nagging thoughts—through Agnes’s polite questions about church, through the meatloaf they had for supper, and even through The Jack Benny Program on the radio. But after tossing and turning much of the night, she had finally decided there was only one way to put the doubts to rest.

  Agnes had looked a little confused when Mary had told the woman she had some errands to run, but hadn’t asked any questions other than if she wanted some company.

  “No thanks,” Mary told her. “We’ll be fine.”

  “All right, dear,” Agnes said. “Maybe I’ll use the time to catch up on my knitting. I’m thinking of chicken and dumplings for dinner— sound good?”

  Mary was feeling guilty and more than a little foolish by the time she and Jack had entered the bank, passed the security guard, and got in line at the teller’s window. She’s making chicken and dumplings for dinner! She’s not a swindler. She’s Agnes!

  When it was her turn at the teller’s window, Mary produced the bank book that Agnes kept in the drawer in the kitchen.

  “I’d like to check the balance in my account, please,” she said. “This is the account number.” She pushed the bank book into the small dip in the counter below the barred window and into the teller’s hands.

  The woman smiled at her. “Certainly, ma’am. One moment, please.”

  It only took a minute, maybe less, for the teller to look at the ledger and write a figure down on a slip of paper. She tucked it inside the passbook and slid it back under the bars. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Meriwether?”

  “Oh no—sorry. I’m Miss Godwin. Mrs. Meriwether’s name is on the account also because we needed for her to be able to make deposits—”

  “Oh, my mistake, Miss Godwin. Is t
here anything else?”

  “No,” Mary said as she opened the passbook and looked at the figure. Her eyes were wide when she looked up again at the teller. “There’s been some mistake,” she said. “I don’t know exactly how much money I have in my account—but I know it’s considerably more than this!”

  The teller shook her head. “That’s the correct balance, ma’am.”

  “But how can that be? I know I had a lot more money than this! Where’s the rest of it?”

  “I can assure you, Miss Godwin, that we keep detailed records—” The teller took another look at the ledger, running her finger slowly down the column. “And there is not a mistake here.”

  “But I haven’t made any withdrawals,” Mary protested.

  The teller hesitated. “Well, as we’ve already discussed, there is another person on your account. Maybe you should check with Mrs. Meriwether.”

  “Frankly, I’m shocked and hurt that you’d be questioning me like this, Mary,” Agnes said, indignation coloring her voice.

  Mary paced back and forth. “I don’t want to question you, Agnes, but I knew the things that man said about me were true—and then when he said things about you . . .”

  “Do I look like a swindler?”

  “Well, no, of course not, but—”

  “Do I look like someone who has an ounce of guilt?”

  “No, you don’t, but—”

  “I mean I am guilty of caring too much . . . opening myself up to people I barely know and trying to help them,” Agnes said softly, dabbing at her eyes. “I guess we’re calling compassion a crime now.”

  “Agnes—”

  “I mean, dear, have I been anything but supportive since I met you and Jack? I just don’t understand why you’d take something some lunatic said over me—”

  “I was at the bank today, Agnes,” Mary said.

  “Oh,” Agnes replied. “I guess that was your errand?”

  Mary nodded and pulled the bank book from the pocket of her sweater. “Where did all the money go?”

  Agnes sighed. “I really didn’t want to have to explain that to you yet.”

  “Did you take the money from this account?”

  Agnes looked at her for what seemed like a very long minute, then nodded. “Yes. I did.”

  Even with her suspicions, Mary hadn’t been prepared for the admission. She dropped into a chair and looked at Agnes, feeling deep hurt and disappointment. “I can’t believe you’d do that—”

  “You shouldn’t make assumptions until you have all the facts, dear,” Agnes responded quietly.

  “It’s not an ‘assumption’ that the money is gone—and you just admitted to me that you took it! You knew that was the only reason I agreed to use Jack’s gift like we’ve been doing—”

  “Yes, of course I know all that!” Agnes interrupted. “And that’s why you need to give me some credit here.” She raised her hand, palm upright. “I’m not going to explain further—I’m going to show you,” Agnes said. “You’d better get your coats. It’s freezing outside.”

  Mary was in the passenger seat and Jack in the back as Agnes maneuvered her old Ford northeast away from the city. Downtown buildings were replaced by large, old homes, and the shoreline of Lake Michigan came into view.

  Mary sighed. “Won’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

  “You’ll see soon enough,” Agnes said. She slowed to turn a corner and then rolled the car to a stop at the edge of a sweeping yard covered with a fine layer of snow. Agnes turned off the engine and looked at Mary. “Here we are,” she said.

  “Where’s ‘here’?” Mary asked, looking out her window. Agnes did not answer but motioned for her to get out of the car.

  “The house is vacant,” Agnes said abruptly, pointing toward a large wood-and-stone house sitting impressively in a copse of tall oak and maple trees. Mary could smell the lake water, that earthy, slightly metallic scent that reminded her of the Minnesota lakes of her childhood.

  Agnes was already following Jack up the driveway. “Come, take a closer look.”

  A wide porch ran the length of the house. Tall wooden timbers held it in place and a stone turret at one end went up three stories like an old lighthouse. Mary watched Agnes climb the timbered steps to the porch and reach her hand up beside a windowsill.

  “Let’s look inside,” Agnes said as she plucked a key from a nail beside the window and fit it neatly into the lock on the front door. The door swung open.

  Mary hesitated. “How did you know the key was there?”

  “I’ve been here before. My real estate agent brought me and gave me the grand tour a few weeks ago. Come on,” Agnes said, motioning. “It can’t hurt to have a look around.”

  Jack crossed the threshold first with Mary right behind him. She stopped and stared at the huge room boasting a stone fireplace with long windows on either side. Mary crossed the oak plank floor and took in the staircase, the built-in bookcases, and a massive picture window offering a lake view that was nothing short of spectacular. The water looked like a piece of blue glass shimmering under the winter sun. A long dock jutted out from the rocky shoreline. In spite of her lingering irritation and confusion over Agnes and the missing money, Mary couldn’t help but be impressed by her surroundings.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Agnes said as she came to stand beside her at the window.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Can’t you just picture Jack fishing off that dock?” Agnes asked. “Give him a bamboo pole and some worms and he could probably catch your dinner. While you sit and read a favorite book—”

  “That would be something,” Mary agreed.

  “And this fireplace mantel over here,” Agnes said as she turned, “just begs for Christmas stockings, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” Mary said slowly.

  “Why, I’ll bet you could fit fifteen stockings across that mantel.” Agnes chuckled. “That would keep Santa busy.”

  Mary automatically smiled at the word picture Agnes was painting.

  “This place is grand,” Agnes said, “but it’s been vacant for a while, and the owners fell on hard times when the market crashed in twenty-nine. So they didn’t keep up with the maintenance like they should have. It needs a lot of work—new paint, cracked plaster to be repaired, the floors need to be sanded and buffed. But after a few months of elbow grease, this place could be magnificent again.”

  Mary walked to the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. “I can’t begin to imagine how it would feel to live in a house like this.”

  “You don’t have to imagine it, dear,” Agnes said.

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I did take the money from your account, Mary. I took it to put a down payment on this place. The house is yours—if you want it.”

  While Agnes explained about the house, Mary stared at the deed Agnes now handed to her. Mary Godwin, property owner, property owner, me! Property owner!

  “I already told you the owners lost it when the market crashed,” Agnes was saying, “but what I didn’t tell you was that the bank had to foreclose on the house. I was able to get it for a song!”

  “But I don’t have enough for something like this,” Mary said.

  “You had the money for a sizeable down payment, and the payments on the mortgage are next to nothing,” Agnes said. “I worked it all out with the bank on your behalf. There are lots of permits to get for the work to be done before you can move in,” she went on. “Contractors say a minimum of nine months, depending on how quickly the work goes.”

  Mary, speechless, stood wide-eyed as she looked around at all the possibilities. Their own home—their own place in the world forever and ever . . .

  “You told me you wanted security for Jack,” Agnes said with a sweep of her arm.

  “Oh, but Agnes—”

  “And you told me what you missed about the Edmundses’ house was the view of the lake. You said it was peaceful. It’s what I want
ed to give you. Peace.”

  Mary shook her head. “The pastor yesterday told me he thought I had some . . . difficulty with trust. I guess he’s right.”

  Agnes raised her brows. “I may not agree with church rules, but I have to say I agree with that pastor.”

  “I’m sorry about what I said, Agnes. . . .”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “No, no. It’s my fault. I should have discussed all of this with you, but you’re so reluctant to do anything for yourself I was afraid you’d take too long to make up your mind. We’d lose it to someone willing to make the commitment immediately.”

  Agnes paused, then continued, “This is a home where Jack can live his life with beautiful views out the windows, with enough space that he can have one special room—just to put together puzzles! You can have a library and a study, a refuge for the two of you when you are really ready to stop meeting with clients. This is a stone-and-wood version of all your dreams come true, Mary. You deserve this; Jack deserves this. You have to dig in your heels and believe in your heart that what you’re doing is right—no matter what anyone else says to you. You have to focus on what you want for Jack and never lose that focus. Really, all you have to do is continue the important work the two of you started.”

  Mary pressed the deed to her chest. “I’m—well, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to say no.”

  “Then say yes,” Agnes persisted.

  “Will you live here with us when it’s finished?”

  Agnes’s answering smile was immediate. “I think I could do that.”

  Mary smiled back. “Then—yes.”

  “Good! Wonderful! And in the meantime, I just happen to know someone who can knit three matching Christmas stockings for that mantel!”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  MARY AND JACK CAME AROUND the corner of the block that put them back on their neighborhood street. Their last-minute trip to the market for Agnes had taken longer than Mary had planned, and the sun had all but disappeared in the swath of clouds above. Crosby’s “Pennies From Heaven” had been playing on the grocer’s radio, and now the song was stuck in her head, taking her thoughts back to the last afternoon she’d been with Jack in their little kitchen in Minnesota. She had a moment of pure gratitude that they weren’t there anymore.