The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  “I write her letters,” he said quietly. “Two or three times a week. And I wait . . . wait for her to write back.” He stirred what was left of his float with the straw. “I’m still waiting.”

  “Don’t give up,” she urged. “Never give up.”

  “Quitting isn’t in my nature,” he said with a small smile.

  “I’m coming to see that,” she said with an answering smile.

  They both heard it at the same time—a hint of a melody floating on the spring breeze. Mary twirled on her stool and looked at the frontage road paralleling the A&W. Coming into view was a convoy of big trucks of every shape and size. The first truck in the procession was painted white with bright blue lettering: The Bixby Brothers’ Spectacular Show! The music was emanating from a bright red calliope on the bed of the second truck in line.

  “Look—a traveling circus,” Mary said. “I loved the circus when I was little.”

  “Guess traveling by rail is too expensive anymore,” Charles said. “Have to truck the stuff around now.”

  They watched the livestock trucks roll past, one holding an enormous roll of blue-striped canvas, a horse trailer followed by enclosed trucks beeping their horns to get the news out. A gold-edged wagon with Boris the Lion Tamer written in fancy script on the side came next, along with several cars and pickups filled with an assortment of people, some even small enough to be children.

  Finally, at the tail end of the line, an oversized truck hauling a silver Airstream trailer pulled up in front of the A&W, and a tall man in a stovepipe hat jumped out and ran toward the stand.

  “Hello!” he called to Charles and Mary with a jaunty tip of his hat before knocking on the screened window. The teenager appeared.

  “I got a poster for the circus here,” he said. “Mind if I put it up? We’re doing three shows in Rockford—might catch people passing through.”

  “Be my guest,” the teenager said, motioning toward the wall.

  “Come on out and see the show—we got something for everybody!”

  Mary and Charles watched as the man pulled some putty from his pocket and tacked up his poster: “Bixby Brothers’ Spectacular Show—Equestrian Delights, The Flying DeBeniditos, Rarities and Oddities!”

  “Good day to you now,” he said with another tip of his hat before returning to the truck. It roared off to catch the circus convoy, the driver tapping the horn over and over.

  “I’ll bet you could get your hot dog there,” Mary quipped.

  “Food was always my favorite part of the circus,” he acknowledged. He glanced at the poster and then knocked on the window. The boy’s shadow appeared.

  “We’ve got a flyer to put up alongside the circus poster,” he said. “A missing boy. Okay with you?”

  “Sure. Stick it up there,” he said. “And I’ll take a look at it and keep my eye out. Kids love root-beer floats, you know.”

  Mary looked at Jack’s face staring at her from the flyer pinned up next to the Bixby Brothers’ circus poster. She knew she’d never get used to posting pictures of her son—and then driving away. It was like leaving him all over again.

  “We can make it to Burlington, Iowa, today if you’re okay with that.”

  She merely nodded.

  Back in the Ford, they headed in the opposite direction from the Bixby Brothers’ traveling circus.

  Chapter Forty

  Rockford, Illinois

  IT WAS AN AMAZING THING to behold. The roustabouts swarmed over a vacant piece of flat, unadorned land, and just two hours later a tent city sprang up like mushrooms, beckoning the townies to come and witness wonders like they’d never seen. Entertainment promising to lift them out of the doldrums of lost jobs, lost savings, and lost hope, and transport them to a magical place where clowns ruled and elephants danced.

  When the tickets had been sold and the candy butchers prepared to comb through the bleachers hawking their wares, the performers lined up at the back door of the big top, waiting for their cue. The first few times Felix witnessed the spectacle, he had been amazed at the order that could come from the seeming chaos. The minutes leading up to the opening parade of the show—the spec, when all the performers and animals trooped past the appreciative crowd—were plagued with anxious moments, hasty costume repairs, surly horses impatient with standing in line, and a camel with a talent for spitting as far as Timbuktu. But any bickering, nerves, or impatience all disappeared the minute the music started under the white canvas big top.

  “Now, go wow ’em!” Angelo would call out in his unique style, and Professor Pygmalion would high-step in his shiny boots, pushing through the flap of the door and into the makeshift arena.

  Walking in discreetly behind the last animal, Felix and Jack stood and watched the spec with two other clean-up men. Freckles’s moniker was self-evident, and Jugs was a wizened old geezer who looked way too arthritic to wield a broom or shovel. He moved slowly behind the animals but could be the first in line when the flag on top of the Pie House signaled chow time.

  As the performers came full circle, Tatiana, the bareback rider, deftly leapt off the back of her horse, Blanca, and raised an eyebrow at Felix. “Present for you outside center ring, First of May,” she told him before disappearing through the back flap of canvas. Felix turned and looked after her, but Freckles gave him a rough shove.

  “Pipe dream, buddy boy. Tatiana is off-limits—especially to a workingman. We don’t mix with performers,” he growled.

  Felix swiveled his head and hoped Freckles wouldn’t notice the red he felt creeping up his neck. “I wasn’t . . . it’s not . . . I just wonder how long people are going to call me First of May. I have an actual name, you know.”

  “Quit your whinin’. At least she calls you somethin’,” Freckles retorted as the circle of performers all filed back through the door and the music changed to signal the professor. He stepped into the center ring in his long-tailed red coat and, this time, a pair of striped jodhpurs.

  “Ladieeeezzz and gentlemennnnnn, and children of all ages! I am your ringmaster, Professor Pygmalion, and I welcome you to the Bixby Brothers’ Spectacular Show!” As the crowd hooted and hollered and clapped, Felix gave Jack a nudge, and they moved with Freckles and Jugs to make a discreet circle of the ring, removing all evidence of an animal’s possible indiscretion.

  Under a five-o’clock sun, with the strains of the calliope in the background, Angelo spread the word in the backyard after the last scheduled show.

  “Straw house today, folks! We’re staying over,” he shouted at the roustabouts who were already positioned to tear down the big top the minute the last spectator left.

  Felix had already mucked out the menagerie tent when he caught the happy ripple of conversations across the lot. He found Freckles sitting against the sidewall of the Pie House, hands locked behind his head and a smile on his face.

  “What’s going on?” Felix asked him.

  “Greed,” he grinned. “Sold-out shows today. We’re staying over to try to get in another crowd tomorrow.”

  “So that means . . . ?”

  “Means we’re ahead of the alley apples and can actually take a break tonight,” Freckles told him.

  Jugs came limping past them, trademark brown jug hanging from his crooked index finger. “Got a spot for you boys once we get a fire burning to keep away the danged bugs,” he said, moving faster than Felix thought possible. Freckles scrambled to his feet and brushed the sawdust from his pants before he dug into his pocket.

  “Hey! I got matches!” he yelled as he went after Jugs.

  Acceptance was a funny thing. Having never had it, Felix thought just a piece of it would satisfy—but was astonished to discover he wanted more. He liked his job and was happy to be part of the cleanup crew. For the first time he didn’t stand out because of his homely appearance, living as he was in the land of the odd, the freaks, the nomads. But still, he found himself wishing for acceptance by the likes of Tatiana, the professor, and Boris the lion tamer.r />
  He looked down at Jack, who was staring up at him. Felix smiled— Jack smiled back. “You and me, kid—there’s always you and me,” he said affectionately as he pushed Jack’s hair out of his eyes.

  Felix accepted the jug from the clown seated to his right and took a long swig—and fought the urge to spit it out. It burned his throat as it went down and settled in his gut like a spark from the campfire. Jack, who had somehow picked up a dry, hacking cough, was curled on his side next to Felix.

  “Poor little guy. I’ve got something for him if you want it.” Wanda, one of the clowns who’d actually removed her makeup, knelt behind Felix with a tin cup. Jack coughed again.

  “What is it?” he asked Wanda.

  “Just a little whiskey and honey. It’ll soothe his throat and stop the cough long enough for him to get some sleep. Used to give it to my nephew all the time,” she explained.

  That jug works like a charm, Felix thought as a pleasant fogginess settled over him. He chuckled as he listened to clown stories while Jack actually snored beside him on a horse blanket after downing some of Wanda’s concoction. They passed the bottle around the circle more times than he could count. He remembered thinking how nice it was to fit in, even it if wasn’t with the muckety-mucks.

  The lot slowly came to life. Felix cracked an eye and quickly closed it again. It was past dawn, people were moving around him, and the smell of coffee filled the air. It was the combination that roused Felix. He didn’t move at first, convinced that if he did, his head would explode along with his bladder. He was vaguely aware of the scratchy surface of the horsehair blanket beneath his left cheek, and this time he opened both eyes, expecting to be face-to-face with Jack.

  But Jack wasn’t there. Gingerly, Felix turned his head and looked on the other side, but all he saw was Go-Go curled on his side, head cradled on the hat he wore for his act.

  Felix sat up and steadied himself with a hand in the dirt. Bleary-eyed, he looked around the circle—but still didn’t see Jack. A ripple of unease got him up on his feet.

  It was the first time Felix could remember that Jack had left his side. He looked around the immediate area, started asking those around him if they’d seen the boy. But no one could recall seeing him since the campfire the night before. Fifteen minutes later Felix was in a full-blown panic. He moved from tent to tent, calling Jack’s name even while realizing how ridiculous it was for him to call for a child who couldn’t hear.

  Wanda came out of the Pie House. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Jack,” Felix said. “He was gone when I woke up, and I can’t find him.”

  “We’ll find him,” she said confidently. She cupped her hand on the side of her mouth and yelled, “Hey, Rube!”

  The circus’s universal cry for help was passed from tent to tent until the word had spread among the entire show that Jack was missing. Suddenly there were no “classes” of people. No workingmen or performers—no candy butchers or cleaning men. The circus was a family searching for one of their own. They spread out along the midway, behind the big top, and along the periphery of the field. Felix suddenly realized how much he’d grown to care about the little boy with the captivating eyes and smile. “It’s just the two of us now, Jack,” he remembered telling Jack. “Just the two of us—but I promise, no one is going to hurt you again.”

  The crowd watched, sick with horror, as the little boy stood up, rubbing his eyes. He was inside the lions’ cage, and they could see the male’s tail swish onto the back of Jack’s leg. Jack brushed it away before looking behind him at the giant cat, staring right into his eyes.

  Felix, hands gripping the cage’s bars, knew the moment Jack realized he was inside with three lions, and so did the circus historian, who captured the moment with his camera. The boy looked out at the crowd just as a trainer raised a rifle to his shoulder and put his eye on the gunsight. Those who told the story later swore that Jack couldn’t bear the thought of the cats being shot, and in one calm movement he started toward the door.

  As Jack approached, Boris carefully opened it just a crack, then wider, holding his hand out to the boy and motioning with his finger for him to come forward. Jack never looked back, but the crowd gasped when the huge male suddenly stood and shook his mane—then yawned as if to show everyone how big his teeth really were. The two females kept their yellow eyes on Jack, but they didn’t move a muscle as Boris got ahold of Jack’s arm and slowly guided him through the opening.

  Jack stood outside on the wooden ramp leading from the cage, and a reverent hush fell over the group. As Boris moved Jack down the ramp, Go-Go the clown took off his hat and held it over his chest. The professor bent at the waist in a bow, and Freckles reached out and touched Jack’s arm as Wanda started to cry. Low murmurs from the likes of Tatiana and Flash, Bertie and Three-Pete started to ripple through the circus family, and Felix heard comments like: “. . . must be somethin’ special in that boy—animals recognize a particular spirit,” and “. . . I knew he was more than just another kid. . . .”

  Boris kept his hand on Jack’s shoulder until they stood right in front of Felix, who dropped to his knees and pulled him into a long hug while everyone cheered.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Madison, Wisconsin

  HE’S ALIVE . . . HE’S ALIVE! Someone actually saw him, talked to him, gave him cookies and hot chocolate! Mary willed herself to remain still in the front seat of Charles’s car, but it was so hard to sit there and watch the scenery rush past—knowing that she might find out where Jack was that very day!

  “Did you see that? Only fifteen more miles!” She grabbed the map between them on the seat. “Where are the directions to the place? You have them—don’t you?” She scattered the other maps on the seat. “Did we lose it? Where is it?”

  Charles unexpectedly reached over and took her gloved hand. “I have the directions and the address in my pocket—and in my memory. We’ll find the place—I promise.”

  Mary felt him gently squeeze her hand and, for a moment, let herself believe that everything might be all right. “Okay.” She nodded. “We’ll find it.”

  “We’ll find Jack,” Charles said.

  She smiled. “We’ll find Jack—today,” she added. “I can’t believe it’s a real tip. I can’t believe the truck driver saw your flyer! I can’t believe you called the answering service at the exact right time! I can’t believe it’s—Jack!”

  He grinned at her excitement. “Everything he said checks out— and he’s positive the picture he saw on the flyer is the same little boy who hitched a ride in the back of his truck. It’s Jack.”

  “He—Jack must have been thinking about the night we left Jerry,” Mary said slowly.

  “What do you mean?” Charles asked, turning with a curious glance.

  “We climbed into the back of a furniture delivery truck to get out of town. I’m never sure what he remembers and what he doesn’t—”

  “At least he must have recalled that,” Charles said.

  Mary smiled again and pulled her hand free to turn the knob on the car radio. Static filled the interior of the car as she searched for a station, and then they heard Duke Ellington’s voice, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing. . . .”

  Mary glanced over at Charles in time to see his jaw tighten. “Too loud?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Maybe you don’t like Duke Ellington?”

  He tried for a nonchalant shrug, but Mary could see he was bothered.

  “The song reminds me of Stephanie,” he finally said. “She loved it—used to sing the silly lyrics until it drove me nuts.”

  Mary grinned and chanted, “Wadadado, wadadadodadoh.”

  “Whup de dittle ittle up,” Charles finished with a sheepish smile. “I’d listen to those lyrics all day long now if I could hear her singing them.”

  “We must be nearly there—aren’t we nearly there?” Mary asked, her mind back to Jack.

>   “We’re getting closer,” he said patiently.

  “The woman will know something. She has to know something. But what if she doesn’t remember? What if she won’t say for some reason? What if Pete Albert was wrong, and it wasn’t Jack at all?”

  They passed another sign along the highway: Madison 3 miles.

  “What if you don’t think about ‘what if’s’ anymore . . . and we’ll answer all those questions in about three miles?”

  Mary looked straight ahead and gripped her hands tightly. “What if I told you I’m scared?”

  “It’s okay,” Charles said quietly. “I’m scared too.”

  Mary and Charles walked toward the entrance of the Kopper Kettle Sweet Shoppe and, without saying a word, paused at the same time.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  A slight nod from her, and he put his hand on the small of her back and the other on the doorknob. They heard the soft tinkle of a bell when the door opened and they stepped into the shop. It smelled of chocolate and cinnamon.

  The proprietor stood behind the counter and smiled. “Welcome to the Kopper Kettle,” she said. “Are you here for lunch?”

  Charles smiled. “Actually, we’re hoping for some information.” He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew the picture of Jack.

  “We spoke to Pete Albert, a deliveryman from Bloomer Chocolates,” Charles said. “And he told us to ask for Helen.”

  “I’m Helen.” She smiled. “You know Pete? How is he? I haven’t seen him in a while.” Her smile faded. “I don’t order from Bloomer’s anymore.”

  “He’s doing fine,” Charles said. “The reason we’re here is that he told us about a boy he brought into your place a while back—a stowaway on his truck. Do you remember?”

  “Oh, sure, I remember. Sweet little kid,” Helen said. “I gave him some hot chocolate and cookies.”