The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Rock River, Wisconsin

  BETWEEN ONE O’CLOCK AND FIVE O’CLOCK on the third Tuesday of every month, the outside world was granted admission to the zoo. Felix hated Visitors’ Day for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was the false atmosphere—literal and philosophical—about the place for a few hours. The overpowering scent of pine cleaner hung in the air, never quite masking the odors that were a permanent presence in the children’s ward. On many of those Tuesdays he had watched visitors enter, sniff, wrinkle their noses—then part their lips as most made the decision to breathe through their mouths. Every janitor in the place had a checklist of things to be done prior to Visitors’ Day: clean linens, clean floor, nothing sticky on the tables, no old food lurking in corners or hidden under the cots. The bottom line was that the poorhouse needed to be clean enough to continue receiving money from the state—but anything else was overkill. Felix always made the effort to do everything he was required to do—including dousing the place with a healthy dose of the pine cleaner—but in reality he knew that the smells of the zoo were as much a part of it as the faded linoleum floor and the bars on the windows. He couldn’t change out the stale air any more than he could muffle the sounds—the yelps, helps, and stops that could be heard on any given day just by walking along the corridors.

  Even worse were the artificially friendly faces and voices put on by the medical staff for those few hours.

  “Oh yes, Johnny is doing so well. . . .”

  “She is eating again, I’m glad to say. . . .”

  “Oh, my dear little Louise, you mustn’t throw . . .”

  And so on. When the clock struck one on Visitors’ Day, Felix usually tried to be out of the ward. But more often than not he had some last-minute duties that held him in the confines of the room. This day was no exception. A young patient, Oliver, had provided a last-minute entry into the “How can I make your job more difficult?” category, and Felix was trying to scour a four-letter word off the wall next to the door.

  Little monster—I bet it’s the only word he can spell. Where on earth did he get a red crayon? Felix found it ironic that it was the janitors who got blamed for those words scrawled on the walls. If they could really help these poor souls they’re warehousing, the kids wouldn’t be writing obscenities on the walls in the first place.

  He was still on his knees by the door when Dr. Tanner escorted Louise and Laura’s parents into the ward. Mr. and Mrs. Carnine wore the worry of hard times draped like cloaks around their shoulders. They stopped to sign a check-in sheet hanging on a clipboard by the door. The twins were chanting and spinning together in the center of the room, but when they saw Dr. Tanner with their parents, they stopped and stared.

  Felix glanced at Mrs. Carnine and found she was looking anywhere but into her children’s fearful faces. It’s not you they’re afraid of . . . it’s him.

  Oliver’s mother walked into the ward, but Oliver had his back to the door. She picked up the clipboard, and Felix noticed she took an exorbitant amount of time to sign her name. Finally she let the clipboard fall back against the wall and stood in the doorway, looking toward her son.

  It was always a kind of dance at first. Parents finding their way with children they saw once a month—children they didn’t understand, couldn’t cope with, and of whom, more often than not, they were afraid. Oliver’s mother was a regular visitor, but everyone in the room had to steel themselves against the tirade of profanity he’d throw at her whenever he saw her. Felix had to give the woman credit for showing up at all. He figured by the time she recovered from one visit, it was time to turn around and do it all over again.

  Dr. Tanner disappeared from the ward, and Oliver’s mother put a hand on Felix’s arm. She nodded toward the bed where Anastasia was lying on her back—a veritable study in bandages. Her neck was in a brace, her right arm in a cast, and her ribs wrapped tightly with white tape.

  “What happened to her?” she whispered.

  “I can’t say for sure,” Felix said. “I suppose sometimes patients need extra . . . traction.”

  Oliver’s mom nodded as if this made perfect sense. “Oh.”

  Felix stood and walked to the back of the room. He glanced again at Anastasia as he passed. Patient three-ninety-seven. Good girls get the lolly. He knew no one would question the girl’s new misery. No one knew—or cared—that she spent her days looking at a water spot on the ceiling. Does she even know what she’s looking at? Is she in pain? She most certainly is in an earthbound version of hell . . . but can that actually be the case if she’s unaware? Did she slip into la-la land—or has she been pushed?

  Felix had spent sleepless nights wondering about the various occupants of the poorhouse. Where’s the point of no return? The place in the mind that suddenly—or not so suddenly—snaps and says, “I can’t be like the rest of them. I want to belong—but I can’t think or feel or be. . . .”

  Was it possible for a person to be treading in the world of “normal,” and the next moment pass through some kind of gate and slip into a madness that held you captive until someone could find the key and let you out of your own lunacy? Is it contagious—the insanity? What if I’m exposing myself to all the strange workings of their minds, and one day I say something that’s just a little off-kilter. The next day it grows worse, until finally I’m not cleaning the floors anymore—someone else is cleaning them around me. Would I know that I’m one of them? Would I even realize I’ d traded spaces in the world? He tamped down the thought he’d wrestled with more than once.

  Felix gathered some rags from the back closet to clean up a mess one of the kids had left on the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw Johnny’s grandfather shuffle into the room as he did every month and write with a shaky hand on the sign-in sheet. Then the old man made his way to his grandson, sat down next to him on top of the table, and put his hand on the boy’s knee. Neither of them said a word, but the ritual always touched Felix. Someone who really cares. From his vantage point he could also see Jack—alone on his cot, his gaze fixed on some point out the window—and wondered if there was someone, somewhere, who cared about him. Who might even visit. For the boy’s sake he sure hoped so.

  Visitors’ Day had officially come to an end, put away for another month so life in the zoo could go back to its own normal. Dr. Tanner and Nurse Bess came into the ward. Felix—after one wet mattress, two overturned dinner trays, and one can of DDT to chase away a line of ants—was ready to clock out for the day. He heard the hush that fell over the ward when Dr. Tanner went over and lifted the visitors’ sign-in sheet. “As we expected, no visitors for four-twenty-four today,” the doctor said, sounding rather satisfied.

  He dropped the clipboard and it banged against the wall. He motioned to the nurse and walked toward Jack. Felix quietly picked up a mop and moved closer.

  Dr. Tanner squatted down next to the boy and snapped his fingers right in front of his eyes. “That’s encouraging. He blinked. He has the capacity to respond on some level.”

  “Geoffrey has reported cooperation during restroom breaks,” Nurse Bess told him. “The boy handles the process without any help. But he’s not eating—and only sleeps when he can’t hold out at the window any longer.”

  “No effort at communication at all?” Dr. Tanner frowned into Jack’s face. “Maybe someone has taught him some rudimentary signing.”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” the nurse said.

  Dr. Tanner turned the boy away from the window and looked closely into his eyes. “Is anyone home in there?” he quipped, then released him. The boy immediately resumed his position at the window.

  “No potential here,” he said with a shake of his head. He rose and sniffed at the air. “It smells in here,” he said. “Too much Pine-Sol?”

  Felix was about to slip out the door, but Bess motioned him over. “Open a window and air it out for a while,” she ordered tersely.

  Felix nodded and went to the closest wind
ow, the one by Jack’s bed, and cranked it open as far as it would go. Fresh air came into the room through the restricted two-inch space—and Jack suddenly leaned forward and pressed his nose against the screen, inhaling deeply. Dr. Tanner didn’t say anything, but Felix saw the flicker of interest in his eyes as he stared at patient four-twenty-four.

  Felix wished that someone had come to visit the boy.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  MARY MOVED INTO THE FOOD HALL and fell in line for breakfast. Her mind, as always, was filled with thoughts of Jack. As she picked up her bowl, she pictured him having a bowl of oatmeal, imagined the time they’d be back together, having breakfast at their own little table. And afterward she’d help him with a puzzle. . . .

  She crossed the room to join a group of women already seated around a long table. She thought about those moments when she’d looked into his eyes and had known he was seeing her, really connecting with her. She’d give up a year of her life for a moment like that today, but she’d have to wait. What if the wait is so long we never have a moment like that again?

  Mary slipped into a seat beside Dottie, nodding to a few other women she recognized. One of them offered a smile. “Hey,” she said. “Remember me? We were processed together.”

  What if Jack doesn’t remember me?

  “Yes, hi,” Mary said. What if I look into those big brown eyes and there’s nothing there—not even a flicker of recognition. What if he forgets I’m his mother?

  “Are you surviving?”

  Mary managed a nod. “You?” I won’t be able to stand that. . . .

  Shirley held up a bandaged index finger. “They got me sewing uniforms. I’ve already been to the infirmary for putting a needle through my finger.”

  Mary grimaced. “I’m sorry. I hope it doesn’t hurt you much. I’m in the laundry,” she added with a quick glance at Dottie. “It’s not so bad.”

  Mary lowered her face and stared down at her oatmeal. He’ ll remember me . . . won’t he? Eighteen months isn’t forever. It just feels like it. . . . Now, stop it! Quit thinking about it! She shook herself out of her own thoughts and looked up to find several staring at her.

  Dottie smirked over her own bowl. “Does praying over it make it taste better?”

  Mary took a spoonful of the oatmeal, then smacked her lips and licked them. “Ummm,” she murmured.

  The women laughed—even Dottie. A woman named Irene picked up a forkful of eggs and shoved them into her mouth. She grimaced. “Shoulda prayed.”

  They chuckled again, and Mary forced a small smile.

  “What’re you in for?” Shirley asked around her bite.

  “Kidnapping my son away from his father,” she said quietly.

  “I didn’t know you had a kid,” Verla said, leaning around Dottie to look at Mary.

  “His name is Jack, and he’s eight years old—and I miss him every minute of every day.”

  “Where’s your boy now—with his dad?” Shirley asked.

  “No. Thankfully, Jack’s not with him. I’m hoping he’s with someone else, a woman I know and trust.”

  “Jack know you’re in the slammer?” Dottie wondered.

  “Jack’s a deaf-mute,” Mary said. “He doesn’t know where I am. And I don’t know for sure where he is.”

  Verla frowned. “Hey—I read about a deaf-mute kid who tells the future. He ain’t that kid, is he?”

  Mary hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, he is.”

  “So we got the mother of a celebrity with us—how about that? You make some money off your kid, Mary?”

  “Any donations people gave to Jack were for his future,” Mary said. “To take care of him when I’m gone.”

  “You’re gone now,” Shirley observed, still shoveling in her breakfast.

  Dottie chuckled. “You got yourself a kid who tells the future an’ didn’t know the cops is comin’ to get you so’s you could run?”

  “Jack’s—his gift doesn’t work for me,” she said. “Only for others.”

  “That’s not so handy,” Irene commented. “You’re getting gypped on that deal.”

  Verla raised a brow. “Well, I’d sure like a chance to spend some time with him. I got a probation hearing coming up, and it’d be good to know how it’s gonna go.”

  “They’s gonna tell you no—jes’ like the last time,” Dottie said. “Don’t need no boy prophet to tell you your future.”

  Shirley shoved her plate away. “Good grief, if I eat like this every day, I’m gonna get wide as a house.”

  “Go ahead and beef up if ya want to—ain’t no men around to tell you your middle’s spreading or your rear end’s wide as a truck,” Irene said with a smile.

  Color crept up Shirley’s neck to her cheeks, but she tentatively reached for the last piece of bacon on her plate.

  “What’d you do to earn your stint in here, princess?” Irene asked Shirley.

  Shirley hesitated. “I ran over my husband with the car.”

  The women exchanged glances. Shirley stuffed the bacon into her mouth.

  “Hell’s bells—what’d he do?”

  “He called me fat,” Shirley said, chewing the bacon. The women around Mary laughed.

  But Mary’s attention was suddenly caught by a woman getting up from her place two tables away. She was heading away from Mary toward the counter where trays were stacked and trash thrown away. But something about her seemed awfully familiar—silvery hair moving in concert with rounded hips across which the muslin dress stretched. Mary frowned and watched as the woman dropped her utensils into a bucket of water and plopped her tray down on top of several others. Just as she turned, another inmate stepped into Mary’s view. Move, move . . . move . . .

  She stood and pushed back her chair. It can’t be . . . it can’t be her. . . .

  “Hey, Mary,” Shirley said. “You okay?”

  The familiar-looking woman now was clearly in view, and Mary felt the strength leave her legs. She grasped the table for support.

  “She looks like she’s seen a ghost,” Verla observed, snapping her fingers in front of Mary’s face. “Yoo-hoo! Mary—”

  Mary stumbled her way around the end of the table, maneuvering through the food hall past chairs and tables and people who were looking at her as if she were crazy. Now the woman with the silvery hair was headed back to her seat.

  Please don’t let it be her, please, please, God—let me be wrong! But as Mary got closer, her heart nearly stopped. The woman looked straight at her.

  “Agnes . . .” Mary could hardly speak.

  “Hello, dear. I wondered if you were here. How are you?”

  “What . . . what are you doing here, Agnes? Where’s Jack?”

  Agnes wrapped her arms around her middle. “I think the expression is ‘locked up.’ I’m locked up, just like you.”

  “But . . . but where’s Jack?” Mary repeated, her voice strangled in her throat.

  “I don’t know,” Agnes said, “which is exactly what I told the police when they tried to arrest me for kidnapping him!”

  Mary saw curious faces around them watching the little drama. She doesn’t want to give it away . . . doesn’t want anyone to hear where he is. . . . She’s still protecting him.

  Mary moved closer, lowering her voice. “I’m grateful that you took and hid him, Agnes. I really am. I’m sorry you ended up in here, but now I just need to know where Jack is and that he’s all right.”

  Agnes sighed and shook her head, looking almost sympathetic. “I think the pastor was wrong about you, dear. You do know how to trust. It’s just that you trust the wrong people.”

  Mary stared at Agnes. The woman said, “I don’t have Jack, and I don’t know where he is.” There was no mistaking the certainty in her voice. “The last time I saw him was in our little living room with— well, with Jerry laid out on the floor. When I left, Jack was working a puzzle. You know, the one with the puppies in the field—”

  “Jerry said you took him,” Mary gasped out.
<
br />   Agnes’s expression hardened. “Jerry is a liar,” she spat. “You certainly were right to leave that no-good son of a gun.”

  Mary was stunned at the hard glint in the woman’s eyes and her acid tone. She couldn’t reconcile her with the Agnes she’d known for months. “When they told me you hit Jerry over the head,” Mary said, her lips trembling, “I thought it was so you could get Jack away from him. I thought you’d taken him away to protect him until I could get out of here, and we’d all be together again.”

  Agnes arched a brow at Mary. “Jerry wanted the money, Mary. All of it. And I couldn’t let that happen, could I? I worked just as hard for that money as you and Jack did.”

  Mary grabbed the back of a chair. “He would have left Jack alone if he’d simply gotten the money!”

  “You’re far too gullible, dear. It’s a character flaw of yours,” Agnes said.

  Mary’s eyes swam with tears. “All this time I thought you had Jack. I thought—I hoped he was safe with you. That you were taking care of him for me . . . It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane—”

  “The police know I didn’t have Jack,” Agnes said sharply.

  “Then what happened? Why are you here?” This can’t be happening . . . this can’t be real—

  “Because of Jerry, the cops started digging around,” Agnes muttered. “They came up with something else, pinned me with an inheritance racket. . . .” But Mary didn’t hear anything else as she stared at this stranger, this woman with Agnes’s name whose face and expression and tone were totally unfamiliar and frightening.

  Agnes stepped back and smiled, but even that was hard edged and evil looking. “There’s one good thing about this place,” she said. “I never have to cook.”

  The woman turned abruptly, moving with the others making their way to the door.

  Jack. Jack. Jack. He really is missing. He’s alone and scared, sick, confused, cold, hungry. . . .

  “Mary.”