“Easy there, Angelo,” the man slurred. “S’no big thing.”
“Yeah, it is too, Eddie. The professor’s on a tear, and it’s your fault! He stepped in three fresh piles of poop on his way out the back door. You know how he feels about them shiny boots of his.”
Felix glanced at the ground and could see he’d just missed some big road apples himself.
“Yep. He loves his boots,” the man said, blowing out an exasperated breath that had Angelo stepping back.
“And he hates your bony butt,” Angelo told him. “We’ve been through this before, Eddie. The professor wants you gone.”
Eddie barely blinked, then threw his arm up in the air. “Who needs ya? Who needs this stinkin’ job—and I do mean stinkin’ !”
I do, Felix thought as he grabbed a square-headed shovel that had been dropped in the dirt. He set about scooping up the trail of droppings, disturbing the flies that had already begun to congregate. Eddie staggered past, and his shoe slipped in the pungent dung.
“Somebody should clean up this mess!” he yelled loudly, then laughed at his own joke. He shook his leg to clear off the muck and weaved a path away from the big top. Felix put some muscle into his chore, realizing that the man called Angelo was coming toward him.
“Whadd’ya think you’re doing in my backyard?” He released a brown stream of tobacco juice in an impressive arc from between his teeth.
“Cleaning up.” Felix stopped and leaned on the shovel.
“You just get a yen to scoop poop?” Angelo raised an eyebrow at him and tipped back the brim of his hat.
“I’m looking for a job—and it looks like you just got an opening,” Felix said boldly.
“You been a roustabout before?”
“Roustabout?”
Angelo smirked. “That’s a no.”
“I’ve been a janitor since I was old enough to employ,” Felix said. “This doesn’t seem like much of a mess to me.”
“Oh, we get worse. Stuff that’ll curl your nose hairs,” Angelo retorted as he tipped his head to the side, giving Felix the once-over. “You’re ugly—not ugly enough to be billed as a freak, but ugly enough to be part of this group of misfits.”
Part of this group . . . part of something!
“Pay ain’t much, but food is part of the deal.” Angelo held out his hand toward Felix. “Name is Angelo Martinetti. General manager of the show.”
“Felix Stanhope.” He pumped Angelo’s hand and hoped he could match the strength in the older man’s hand. “And that’s Jack.”
Angelo frowned and looked over at the boy, who was standing just outside the back door of the tent. “Why do I care about him?”
“He’s with me,” Felix said. “He’s a good kid. He’s deaf as a post and doesn’t make a peep.”
“He’s your kid?” Angelo asked.
“Uh, yeah. Jack Stanhope. Can’t sign on without him.”
Angelo looked again at the boy. “Musta got his looks from his ma.” He pulled off his derby, scratched his head, and spit again. “Lucky for you I’m shorthanded—was even before I gave Eddie the boot. Your kid gets hurt, we won’t be responsible. You’ll have to sign papers that say so.”
Felix nodded. “I’ll keep a good eye on him.”
“All right, then.” He gestured to all the activity. The lot, the “backyard,” as Angelo had called it, was filled with about seventy people engaged in breaking down the large big top and the smaller tents set up around the perimeter.
“We’re not any bigger than you see right here,” he said. “ ’Course we were bigger before the crash in twenty-nine. Had twenty train cars and rode the tracks from town to town, but now . . . we’re rolling with our lumber trucks and any wagon that’ll make the journey. We drive at night, set up at dawn, and try for a three-day turnout if the town’s big enough. You and the boy will bunk with the rest of the clean-up crew. Roustabouts can get a little territorial, so watch how much space you take at first.”
A man Felix recognized as the ringmaster from the show made his way toward them in his licorice red coat and tan jodhpurs. His shiny black boots went to his knees, and Felix could have sworn the sky was reflected in them when the man stopped next to Angelo.
“The situation is under control?” The ringmaster addressed the question to Angelo but studied Felix. Felix couldn’t identify the man’s accent—or even if it was real.
“Yeah. I canned Eddie,” Angelo said. “Just like you wanted.”
“That’s excellent news,” the ringmaster said. “Other than being able to drink his own weight every day, he was worthless.”
“Yeah, well, lucky for us, we got a First of May here who just happened to be looking for a job and has lots of experience in the clean-up department,” Angelo said.
“Ah, a rookie, eh?” He turned to Felix. “I am Professor Pygmalion,” the man said without offering his hand. “I am the ringmaster of this great show. Keep the animal poop out from under my boots, and we’ll get along famously.” Then with a curt nod to Felix and Angelo, the professor moved on.
Felix raised his eyebrows. “What’s he a professor of?”
Angelo rolled his eyes. “He taught school in another life, but now he’s a professor of all things that irritate me.”
A loud shouting match suddenly broke out between two workers heaving the heavy roll of canvas onto the back of a flatbed truck. Angelo looked over his shoulder with a curse. He threw a glance back at Felix.
“Welcome to the show,” Angelo said. “Keep the kid out of my way, and keep up with the manure. Teardown takes about forty minutes, and then we hit the road—and we don’t leave no droppings behind—got it?”
Felix kept his expression stoic. “Got it.”
As soon as Angelo rushed over to a shouting match that had dissolved into a fistfight, Felix let himself grin. He had loved riding the blinds, but he knew it was too dangerous for Jack. Now they’d get to keep living like hoboes, but with a legitimate ride from place to place, food in their bellies, and a place to sleep at night. No more railroad bulls to worry about.
Felix could see the boy was occupied watching all the activity going on around him. He turned back to his task and thought how much he preferred cleaning up animal messes than the ones in the children’s ward. It looked like he’d traded one “zoo” for another, but he’d found a place where ugly didn’t matter—ugly was, in fact, an asset. He was officially part of a group. He and Jack.
He slid the shovel under a pile of manure and smiled. Life doesn’t get any better than this. . . .
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chicago, Illinois
MAY 1940
IT WAS A MOMENT SHE’D IMAGINED so many times, dreamed of both waking and sleeping, that Mary couldn’t believe it was real. She heard the gate lock behind her, and she lifted her face toward a flock of birds flying in tight formation. They settled on the branches of a tall oak stretching skyward toward the spring sun. The birds chattered noisily, sounding like the women of Oakdale Reformatory gathered around the tables in the food hall, Mary noted wryly. Her coat hung over her arm, and she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress, the one that had been taken away with her few belongings a year and four months ago. She stared at the tiny flowers on the blue background of the fabric—strange but familiar. The waist of her dress moved freely, and she felt it hanging loosely from her shoulders. Must be a couple of sizes too big.
A breeze blew strands of hair across her face, and she found a ribbon in her purse and tied it back. She inhaled deeply, smelling the dew-laden grass under her feet. It amazed her that she had made it to this point, that her heart had continued to beat after she’d read the letter about Jack—the letter that said they couldn’t find him and weren’t going to look anymore. That was the day she’d given up. She had given the Bible back to Jenny when the book cart rolled past Mary’s cell.
“Want a good book to take your mind off your troubles?”
“Thought I had one—turns out I was wrong.�
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There were no bright spots in her life. A dark cloud constantly lay over her like a shroud. She wanted to die, but her body became a traitor. Her lungs still filled with air; her heart continued to pump— and all without her willing participation. She moved by rote through her days.
And Dottie wasn’t standing for it. “You ain’t doin’ your boy nothin’ good by having this pity party! You gonna be weak as a baby kitten if you don’t buck up and change your attitude! You ain’t gonna be strong enough to find him when you get out of here.”
Mary had tried to ignore her, told her to mind her own business— even asked for a transfer to some other job in the prison. But the truth of the matter was that Dottie was impossible to ignore, and they denied her request to change jobs. After months of hearing Dottie cajole, lecture, berate, and coax, something finally sank in.
“Okay, let’s go over this one more time. Why are you in here, Mary?”
“Because someone who didn’t know me or my ex-husband or my son said I had kidnapped Jack.”
“That’s right. And who was that?”
“Charles Westerly.”
Dottie had nodded approvingly. “He took away your son—he took away your life—he took it all away because he was important enough to do it. Don’t seem fair—does it? He gets to go on with his life even though he ruined yours.”
Her days had gradually taken on a new purpose. As she had once imagined Jack with Agnes, Mary now started to imagine something very different. With every passing day she pictured Charles Westerly in his daily routine—going to work, going home, eating his supper . . . and playing with his child. And as her rage grew, her strength of purpose increased. As long as she focused on how she was going to take all the things Charles Westerly loved away from him, she would survive long enough to get out of prison and find her son. Dottie’s order replayed in her head morning, noon, and night: “Remember why you’re here, and remember who did this to you.”
She remembered. And now it was time to do something about it. The birds grew quiet and then lifted off the branches of the tree. She watched them scatter again—flying free. Free.
With sixteen dollars in her pocketbook—the state of Illinois offers you a dollar for every month of your incarceration—and wearing the same clothes she’d arrived in, Mary Godwin walked away from the Oakdale State Reformatory for Women and never looked back.
Charles Westerly had chosen this place to live for two reasons: one was the cheap rent—all he could afford since he had given everything to Lila in the divorce—and, two, it was all he felt he deserved. Be it ever so humble . . . he thought grimly as he headed to the south side of Chicago around six-thirty in the evening. He parked his car in front of the dilapidated brick building he now called home and tried not to think about how he’d been living less than two years ago—the beautiful home, the loving wife and daughter. Stop. Don’t!
He was tired, hungry, and discouraged as he fit his key in the lock of his door. He opened the door to his small, dingy apartment tucked into a row of ten others just like it in the questionable part of town. The room was dark, and he stepped carefully, knowing—or at least hoping—a week’s worth of mail would be scattered on the floor where the mail carrier had dropped it through a slot in the door. But as he moved his foot back and forth over the floor, it didn’t connect with a single letter. There was a familiar twinge of disappointment mixed with a bright spot—at least there are no bills. Turning slightly, he thrust his arm out in front of him like a blindman and ran his hand over the wall. On connecting with the switch, an overhead light blinked on and illuminated the true shabbiness of the place. He dropped a scratched leather briefcase on the floor and lifted his shoulders to roll the soreness out of tight muscles.
“Hello, Mr. Westerly.”
He spun in the direction of a woman’s voice. She was sitting in the corner of the tiny living room. Her hair was longer, her face thinner. Even though there was a hard edge to her expression, and her dark brown eyes held anger, Mary Godwin Sinclair was just as lovely as Charles remembered.
“Hello, Miss Godwin.”
She stared at him for a moment. “You took my son from me and ruined my life,” she said. “You might as well call me Mary.”
Charles shook his head, his shoulders slumping from months and months of regret. “I’m so sorry about everything,” he said, a choked sound. “So sorry . . .”
“Why would you be sorry now? I’ve spent the last sixteen months and three days agonizing over Jack. Where is he? Hungry? Cold, thirsty, sick, scared, hurt—?”
“Mary, I—”
“Is he even still alive?”
“Please, let me tell you what I’ve been—”
“Lights-out at night was the worst,” Mary continued as if he’d not responded. Her eyes were fixed on some point on the wall. “Lying there worrying that Jack thinks I abandoned him. He doesn’t understand— can’t hear. No one can explain things to him like they can explain to another little boy. The only time I wasn’t thinking about Jack, I was hating you”—she moved her eyes to his face—“and wondering how to get even with you for what you’ve done.”
“I don’t blame you,” Charles said, still standing in the spot from which he’d first seen her.
“Even though according to the state of Illinois I’m a free woman now, my head is still in prison until I find my son. . . .”
Charles could barely hear the last phrase. He saw her trembling, a slight shaking of her shoulders, heard the tremor in her voice. He had so hoped that when they finally had this encounter, he would be giving her back her son. One more colossal failure on my part.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“Phone book.”
“How did you get in?”
“I told the landlord I was your sister from Kenosha here for a surprise visit. He said you travel a lot, and he let me in.”
“Pretty resourceful.”
“I’ve lived with liars my whole life,” she said. “I guess I’ve learned how it’s done.”
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Charles said again.
She shook her head. “I walked around your house and tried to think of a plan. I went through your mail—your gas bill is past due— and then I found something that made everything clear. I found this.”
Mary stood and raised a gun that had been hidden in her lap. “My so-called friend Agnes—she would say that my finding this gun was Providence.”
She raised the weapon and pointed it at him. “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure out what I did to you—”
“A blackmail letter intended for me that my wife accidentally read,” Charles said. “It was signed by you.”
He watched her digest the information and saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“I didn’t write any letter. . . .”
“I know that . . . now. The letter reported that my sister-in-law Rebecca had come to see you and your son for a Scripture—and from the information in that verse, you demanded I resign as governor, or you were going to go public with an incident that proved to be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”
“I would never have done something like that.” She was shaking her head back and forth.
“I didn’t know you—didn’t know that,”he said, noting that the gun was back in her lap.
“You didn’t think about coming and asking?”
“When my wife left me and took my daughter, I wasn’t thinking straight. All I wanted was revenge.”
“I do know how that feels.”
“After I met you and watched you through the trial, I realized you weren’t the person I thought you were. I started questioning the origins of that letter, and I was able eventually to trace it back to my adversary, Governor Flynn. Really, Mary, I am so sorry.” He could see the devastation in her eyes. “I know that words can never ever repay you for what you have lost—”
“You took Jack and gave him to the one person in the world I was trying to protect him from!�
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Charles slowly shook his head. “I convinced myself that you had wrongly stolen Jack from his father and were purposely keeping him from him—and I let Jerry take me for a fool when he played the role of grieving dad. I believed it . . . because I wanted to believe it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She raised the gun again, and it trembled in her hand. “Because of you, Jack is lost in the world somewhere, and it’s all because of you.”
“That’s how I felt when I lost Stephanie, my daughter. I thought it was your fault, and I wanted you to pay.”
“Then at least you understand why I’m going to shoot you,” she said, her tone frighteningly calm. She pulled back the hammer.
“I’ve been shot with that same gun once before—deservedly so. I can’t argue that I don’t deserve it again,” he said quietly.
Mary stared at him, then slowly shook her head and started to cry—silent, heart-wrenching tears that rolled down her cheeks. Charles felt a strong impulse to go and dry her tears. He actually took a step toward her in spite of the gun still trained on his chest.
“Don’t,” she said. The gun, trembling, lowered an inch.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I know what I’ve done is unforgivable—”
“Be quiet!” Her arm was slowly sinking.
“I can’t undo what I put into motion,” he said, his own eyes welling with tears. “If there was any way I could go back, undo—”
“You can’t.”
“I’ve been looking for him, Mary. I’ve been looking all over for Jack!”
She stared at him with those large brown eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve been looking for Jack ever since I found out he wasn’t with Agnes. That’s where I’ve been—it’s why my landlord told you I travel. I go out for a week at a time, come home and do some legal work to make some money, then go back on the road again.” He watched as she wiped her cheek with the back of her gloved hand. He could feel a tear on his own cheek. “I came home to clean up and shower. I’m packing some clean clothes and leaving again early in the morning. If you need a place to stay, you can have the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch. But with or without you, I’m going to keep looking.”
The Silent Gift Page 25