The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  “Bed, bed, bed,” her sister mimicked.

  Mary sucked in her breath and moved slowly to the bed. The twins jumped up on it, then off. She sat down on its edge by the barred window and tented her hands in front of her face, pressed her fingers against her mouth, and was very still.

  He slept in this bed, looked out this window, wondered where I was. . . . He was alone in a place that smells of vomit and urine, and not one person here knew where he came from. . . .

  She felt herself rocking back and forth, arms crossed now over and around her waist, eyes on the view out the window of a world that no longer held her son.

  “Mary?”

  She stared through the bars. “This was my nightmare. This was the reason for using the gift—so that he’d have enough money to never have to endure a hell like this when I died. And now I find out my nightmares were nothing compared to this.”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder and turned away from the window.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  “You can find out where he is. Find out where they buried him. You can do that,” she said through lips so stiff they barely moved.

  Charles was so heartsick and worried and felt so guilty he thought he’d die from it. It was twilight, and the headlights of the car were just starting to show in the dimming light. He took his eyes off the road and looked across the seat at Mary for the fiftieth time since they had found the simple white headstone in the cemetery a mile from the Rock River Poorhouse. “Jack, Born (approx) 1930—Died—1939. Rest in Peace.”

  Charles had wept when they found the grave, but Mary had stood stoically, then traced the date of death with her finger slowly—twice. She turned and walked away. Got into the car and hadn’t spoken a word since. She was calm . . . too calm.

  “Mary?” he said, knowing she wasn’t going to answer him but needing to try anyway. “I’m going to investigate the poorhouse. Get some answers—petition for Jack’s medical records. Anything I can get to help piece together . . . what happened.”

  To his surprise she turned her face from the window. “We know what happened.” Her voice was devoid of emotion. “Jack was thrown away—and then he died.”

  “But I still want to find out—”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Charles. It just—doesn’t—matter.”

  She turned back to the window, and he focused on the road. “We’ll be home soon,” he said.

  “I don’t have a home,” she said quietly. “But then, I don’t need one anymore.”

  It was easy for Charles to imagine Jack sitting at the window at the Rock River Poorhouse, easy to picture how still he must have been—how he could sit for hours at a time staring at nothing. It was easy because Mary had been doing the very same thing from a chair in his kitchen for three days. She rarely took her eyes off the limited view through the small window. She wouldn’t eat, barely slept, rarely spoke.

  Charles walked over to the chair where she sat and knelt beside her. She gave no sign that she knew he was there. “Mary, I’m making lunch. Will you eat something, please?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer—didn’t even blink.

  “Mary. Did you hear me?” Nothing. Charles shook his head and stood to move to the stove. “I’m going to make you some soup.”

  “No, don’t,” she said in a monotone.

  He was encouraged that she’d even spoken to him. “You must eat, Mary. Can you do it for me?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. And you’re going to,” Charles insisted.

  “I won’t.”

  “At some point you’re going to have to stop neglecting yourself, punishing yourself.”

  “That’s all I deserve.”

  He walked back to the table and pulled out a chair to sit down by her. “No, Mary . . . you don’t. You were a wonderful mother. You’re a wonderful person.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, Charles. And what you do know . . . is a lie.”

  “I know how much you loved Jack,” he said, “and I know you would have done anything on earth for him.”

  She offered a tiny ghost of a smile. “I did. That much is true. And I should have known better. I should have known that Jack would pay for my mistakes, because anytime I love someone—it ends up badly. It’s been that way ever since I was a child.”

  “You’re not making sense,” he said carefully.

  “Yes, it makes sense when you have proof.” She knit her fingers together and looked down at her hands. “There is a wake of damage a mile wide in my life—starting with my own parents.”

  “You’re not responsible for their breakup,” he argued. “You were only a little girl.”

  “A little girl who saw her father with another woman and then told her mother.” She was talking fast, as though she couldn’t hold it back anymore. “You have no idea how much I wish I hadn’t done that. It unraveled everything that my parents had—all because of something I . . . I saw. . . .”

  “It wasn’t your fault. . . .” he tried again.

  “They couldn’t stand to look at me after that,” she said, her eyes vacant. “My dad couldn’t be in the same room with me.”

  “Because of his guilt . . .” But Charles knew she wasn’t even hearing him.

  “And my own mother told me not to touch her when I reached for her one day. She told me I was demon-possessed, the same as Mr. Osterstrom, a man from our church.”

  “People say cruel things when they’re in pain.”

  Mary must have heard him, for she answered, “So was I, and I wanted it to stop.” She paused and turned to him. “It wasn’t an accident that my hands were burned, Charles. I put them in boiling water one day while my mother was canning. I did it to myself. I wanted the demons to go away.”

  Charles couldn’t speak.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. Like I told you, I destroy everyone around me.”

  “That’s not true,” he said, his voice ragged.

  “It is—everyone who comes in contact with me suffers. My parents divorce, my son born deaf and mute, my foster parents—and there were many of them—troubled by my troubles. Even Jerry might have been a different man without me. The Edmundses’ home turned upside down, Agnes in prison because she met me—”

  “Because she’s a thief.”

  “You don’t see your daughter because of a letter with my name on it—”

  “That’s not your fault either. . . . It’s mine, Mary.”

  She rushed on, “My son is dead because I encouraged the use of a gift that ultimately left him without a mother to protect him!”

  “You need to stop this now, do you hear me?” He could barely refrain from shouting.

  “I’m toxic—poison. But it’s all right now. I’ve got no one left to hurt. I’ll live or die alone. Like I should have in the first place. Like God intended.”

  “You think God is punishing you?”

  She nodded with huge, sad eyes. “I’m not a good person.”

  “None of us are. Look what I did to my own family. The letter was forged, but the information was accurate,” he said. “I did the terrible thing I was accused of. I was a weak, self-indulgent man who can never undo what I did—but I will regret it every day for the rest of my life.”

  She stared at him. “Pathetic, aren’t we?”

  He nodded his head. “Broken, Mary. Looking for someone or something to fix us. But, Mary, I’ve been wondering about the One who made us. . . .”

  “He can’t fix my Jack! He can’t fix the fact that I’ll never hold . . . or see him smile. Never tell him—never tell him . . .” She choked on the word.

  “Tell him now,” Charles said.

  “There’s no point.”

  “There is. You need to tell him.”

  She shook her head. “He lived his whole life not hearing me. It doesn’t matter what I’d say now.”

  “It does matter! If he was here, I’d have so much to tell h
im,” Charles said. “I’d say, ‘Jack . . . I’m so sorry! So sorry that you got caught up in something you didn’t understand. So sorry that you lived in a world where something like this could happen to you!’ ”

  Mary pushed her chair back and stood. “It won’t change anything for Jack.” She retreated into the small living room and sat on the couch.

  Charles went to sit beside her, aching at the hopelessness in her eyes. He had to will himself not to look away. “Maybe doing that can change something for you,” he finally said. “Talk to him about things the two of you shared—tell him what’s in your heart.”

  Mary just shook her head.

  “Maybe, for the first time, he can hear you.”

  He could see the tiniest flare of hope in her expression as she thought about his words. Her lips trembled. “I loved him so much,” she whispered. “I want to hold him again. I want to lie in the snow and make angels and ride the merry-go-round in Brewster Park.” She closed her eyes. “Jack. I miss you so much, and I want you back— just like you were. You were my greatest gift, and I’m so sorry. . . .” Her voice broke. She opened her eyes and looked at Charles. “It’s too hard. . . .”

  He saw such abject pain in her eyes that his own filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mary—I can’t tell you how sorry—”

  “I know.”

  “I care about you, Mary,” he said, “and I always cared about finding Jack.” He was very still as she stared into his eyes. He saw a question in her expression and worried that it was doubt. She didn’t look away, and then he was aware that she was peeling off her glove. Slowly she raised that hand and pressed it to his cheek. He reached up and tenderly covered her hand with his own.

  He heard the swift intake of her breath as their hands connected, and he saw a flicker of surprise in her wide eyes.

  “Mary . . .”

  She swayed, and he leaned toward her to steady her, but she moved back on the sofa.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, made a fist with her bare hand, and tucked it against her side as she bent to retrieve the glove on the floor.

  “I think I need to splash some water on my face,” she said in a shaky voice. “Maybe even a shower.”

  He nodded slowly. “Of course. I’ll finish making that soup and have it ready for you when you get out.”

  He saw her studying his face again. What was she thinking? Had he intruded too far into her grief? The last thing he wanted to do was to cause her any further sorrow.

  “Mary? What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Go ahead and make the soup,” she said.

  “I’ll try and eat.”

  Relieved, he watched as she stood, picked up her overnight bag, and found her way into his small bathroom.

  Charles turned the heat down under the soup and listened for the shower. It was still running and had been for at least twenty minutes. Twenty minutes . . . the hot water lasts barely five minutes for me. . . . Maybe I should check on her. . . .

  He knocked on the bathroom door, reluctant to intrude on her privacy but beginning to have an uneasy feeling.

  “Mary? Everything all right?”

  He expected to hear the water go off—but the shower continued to run. He knocked again—louder this time.

  “Mary!” he called. “I’m just making sure you’re okay. . . .” He waited and the water still ran. “Mary! Answer me!”

  Something’s wrong . . . something’s wrong . . . never should have left her alone! What was I thinking?

  “Mary—either you answer me right now, or I’m coming in there! I’m serious!”

  He jiggled the doorknob and knew before he tried it that it would be locked. He pounded hard on the door.

  “Mary! Mary! Just say a word—just my name! Mary!”

  He backed up, turned sideways, then hit the door hard with his shoulder, hollering when the pain told him it was his bad shoulder— and it burst open. The shower curtain was pulled across the tub—and the window was wide open to the summer night.

  “Mary.”

  Charles yanked the shower curtain back to expose the empty tub, turned off the water, and ran from the bathroom—through the apartment and out the door.

  Mary had simply vanished. It was several hours later when Charles finally gave up and tried to accept the fact that Mary didn’t want to be found. He was worried sick about her. She was too weak, too vulnerable, to be alone. His mind conjured up all kinds of torturous images—where she might be, what she might do. . . . He shook away that thought as best he could.

  He had failed to find Jack before it was too late—and now he had failed to find Mary.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chicago, Illinois

  AUGUST 1940

  HANK’S DINER WAS BUSY, reflective of heavily traveled Madison Street in downtown Chicago. Ceiling fans lent a buzzing undertone to the bits and pieces of conversation across the room. Mary wasn’t even aware of those around her. She was sitting at a long, pale yellow Formica counter situated against the windows to the street. A cup of coffee and an untouched piece of toast were in front of her. It took all her energy just to keep herself upright on the stool—she idly watched a man running to catch a taxicab. She couldn’t imagine ever running again, ever sleeping again, ever caring about anything again.

  A waitress reflected in the glass in front of her floated in and out of Mary’s sight as she worked the patrons, bringing them water, food, menus, along with lighthearted banter.

  “Warm up your coffee, doll?” the waitress asked from behind.

  “No thanks,” she murmured.

  “Can I get you anything at all?”

  Mary shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

  “S’cuse me for sayin’ so, sweetie, but you don’t look fine,” the waitress said. “Looks like you could use a night out on the town. A handsome man who’ll bring you a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates. In fact—”

  “I have to go.” Mary put two dimes down on the counter and slid off the stool.

  She stood on the sidewalk and felt the crush of the city’s activity— pedestrians moving around her, cars honking and backfiring, the clang of trolley cars, buses rumbling past filling the air with the smell of diesel fuel. All Mary wanted was to be left alone—the invisible woman.

  With no particular destination in mind, she started up the sidewalk. The heat rolled in waves off the pavement as she moved along with the tide of people. She remembered walking along that same street with her son, remembered how good it felt to have his small hand held in her own, remembered how Jack could suddenly have his attention captured by something Mary wouldn’t have noticed. She remembered Jack’s head tilted way back looking up . . . up . . . up.

  Jack was gone, and there was no point to anything—no reason to keep on . . . living.

  Nothing had changed—yet everything had changed for Mary when she stepped out of the elevator on the top of the Babcock Towers Observatory. Several others were lined up along the edge of the roof, protected by the fancy steel barrier and enjoying the view. She moved slowly toward the edge. Her legs felt so heavy her shoes seemed to be made of lead, and it took all her energy to keep putting one foot in front of the other. She had to get to the spot that had so entranced her son.

  Oh, Jack! Look how beautiful it is up here! No wonder you wanted to do this! She felt too weary to try and make sense out of it all. My life has no meaning—what’s the point anymore? I’ve messed it all up—from the time I was old enough to open my mouth. Made choices and mistakes that hurt the people I loved. Jack. Jack most of all . . .

  She stopped next to the barricade and looked over the edge at the flagpole jutting out from the building. There were the birds, the birds that made Jack smile. No more of those wonderful, fleeting smiles.

  Without conscious thought she lifted one foot and wedged her toe into the latticework. Just like Jack. She gripped the top of the barrier and watched as one of the pigeons on the flagpole seemed to step off t
he metal into space. He floated for a moment and then spread his wings . . . Jack! Look at that. . . . Oh, God, can’t he be here? Why? The bird spiraled down toward the ground, and Mary’s eye was drawn to a billboard on the side of a tall building across the street: “Repent from Sin and the Kingdom of Heaven Is Yours!” it called to her.

  Repent from sin? I repented . . . I begged . . . I prayed. And it led me here—to this rooftop. Random thoughts and phrases whirled through her mind. Thou shalt not bear false witness. . . . Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy. . . . Thou shalt not kill. . . . The terrible memory of Charles at the other end of that gun . . . I could have killed him. . . .

  She looked down at the sidewalk below, at the tiny figures hurrying along with their busy lives. Thou shalt not kill. . . . But what if I already feel dead? I used to believe in heaven—do I still? I believe in hell because I’m there. . . . If there’s a hell, doesn’t that mean there must be a heaven? Jack is in heaven.

  Heaven with Jack sounded so good . . . so wonderful to be in a peaceful place with her son where they’d both be safe and happy. Mary tested her weight on the foot wedged in the latticework—then lifted her other foot and fit it in a space just above it. You’ve taken everything from me, God. Is this my punishment? Is this the price I pay for misusing the gift? But I was doing it for the very son you gave me—for the boy with big brown eyes and a beautiful smile that you allowed to be deaf and mute. He trusted me! And finally . . . finally . . . finally I trusted you, and look what happened! Here I am—alone again.

  “Hey, lady! You should get down from there—it isn’t safe.”

  Climb over the railing . . . step off the roof—over in seconds. Thou shalt not kill. You’ve taken it all from me, God. . . . Thou shalt not kill. . . . I can be rid of this ache in my soul that won’t go away.

  She watched as the wayward bird returned to the flagpole—back to its family. Back to the fold.

  “Lady! C’mon, get down,” the voice was closer, insistent.

  Mary pulled her top foot free of the latticework. I don’t want to stay . . . but I will. I don’t want to believe in you . . . but I do. I can’t live my life without Jack . . . but I am. She placed both feet solidly on the roof of the observatory and turned away from the edge. Vaguely aware of people staring at her, she felt her legs trembling as she moved toward the elevator—and stepped inside to ride back to the street and the endless days of the rest of her life.