The Silent Gift Page 5

  “Please. Come inside,” she offered with another warm smile. She stepped to the side and handed out a small ticket to every person who passed. Mary and Jack made their way through the door and the woman nodded, then held out two tickets, looking down at Jack with an expression Mary could not interpret.

  “We serve supper next door about an hour from now,” she said. “Stone soup and bread.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t wait too long, because we’ll run out, and I wouldn’t want your little boy to go hungry tonight.”

  Mary swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded her thanks. She remembered her mother putting a heated stone in the cooking pot to keep the soup warm. She squeezed Jack’s hand in anticipation of a nourishing meal in his tummy. The woman leaned in a little closer. “I’d set up at the far end of the room, away from this door— it’s warmest over there.”

  “Thanks,” Mary managed.

  “God bless you,” the woman offered sincerely with another glance at Jack.

  Someone who truly cares . . .

  Mary took a moment to look around the room. It wasn’t as large as she’d expected. The cots were scattered haphazardly against walls, into corners—any way the small space could be made as personal as possible for the twelve hours the cot would be someone’s home. She took the woman’s advice and led Jack across the room to the corner farthest from the door and staked her claim to two cots that she pushed together. There were blankets folded neatly on the ends of the cots, and she busied herself making up their beds, working her son’s jacket from his small frame—anything to distract her from having to face the truth that they were homeless.

  When the evening meal was behind them, Mary led Jack back to their cots and sat down on the edge. While Jack fastened his gaze on some point in space, Mary looked around the room filled with strangers. Besides those like her who needed a bed for the night, there were four people dressed in the distinctive uniform of the Salvation Army. Okay, Sally Ann—it’s Salvation Army.

  Mary watched as the woman who’d been so kind to her now approached one of the uniformed men. He smiled and looked at her in such a loving way that Mary felt an immediate stab of envy. They’re in love. Anyone can see that he adores her—and she trusts him completely. The woman brushed her hand over his jacket sleeve, letting it linger there for just a second, then moved on. Mary felt overwhelmed by loneliness. Not that she was lonely for Jerry. The only good thing about this particular evening was that he was out of their lives. She couldn’t define the aching, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach—she didn’t know what it was or how to fix it.

  “Excuse me?”

  Mary looked up into the kind eyes of the same woman she’d been watching. A book was tucked against her waist and a cookie was in her outstretched hand.

  “My name is Captain Grace Jamison,” she offered.

  “I’m Mary Sin—uh, Godwin, and this is my son, Jack.”

  Grace held out the cookie. “I thought maybe your little boy might want this.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Mary passed the cookie in front of Jack’s eyes and he refocused. She placed the cookie into his hand, and he immediately took a big bite.

  “Jack is very handsome,” Grace said. “You must be so proud of him.”

  “I am.”

  Mary looked away toward the man she’d seen Grace talking to earlier. “Is the man dressed in uniform your husband?”

  Grace followed her gaze. “Yes, for almost ten years now. Victor and I met when we were going through our ministerial training.”

  Mary was surprised. “You’re both ministers?”

  “All officers in the Salvation Army are ordained ministers,” Grace explained. “When we join we dedicate our lives and service completely to God. In fact, marriage is permitted only within the ranks.”

  “And children—do they, well, permit you to have those?”

  “We may have children, but my husband and I don’t have any. I . . . I am not able to, the doctor says.” Grace’s smile was now etched with a hint of pain. “But I still feel so blessed knowing in my heart that this is what I was meant to do.”

  Mary glanced at Jack and saw cookie crumbs all over his lower lip. She brushed her gloved hand gently across his mouth.

  “Things are hard for so many people these days, as you well know,” Grace said quietly. Mary nodded as she looked at several families scattered throughout the room.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the places, besides ourselves, that offer assistance,” Grace went on. “There are relief programs for some food such as milk—essentials. We can put you in touch with the right agencies.”

  Mary sighed. “All I want to do is find a job so I can continue doing what I was meant to do—care for, love, and protect my son.”

  “Jobs are pretty hard to come by,” Grace noted, looking between her and the boy. “You’ve been out looking?”

  “Every day now for nearly two weeks, but I’ve been turned away more times than I can count.”

  “Are they giving you a reason? Something that’s stopping them from hiring you?”

  Mary turned her eyes toward her son. “Usually it’s Jack.”

  “Has he always been deaf?” Grace asked.

  Mary nodded. “He’s never heard or spoken a word his entire life.”

  “His father?”

  Mary could only shake her head. Grace looked reflectively at Jack, as if she were assessing the situation.

  “Would he benefit from school? Maybe a school for the deaf? There are places available—”

  “No, he doesn’t respond like other children who can’t hear,” Mary said. “And though it’s been suggested a hundred times, I’ll never put him in an institution.”

  Grace nodded in understanding. “So you need a job where they’ll let you bring Jack with you to work.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “I can see where it could be. . . .”

  Grace moved to kneel in front of the little boy and spoke quietly. “The world can be a cruel place for children like Jack.” She turned and smiled at Mary. “That’s why you need to keep fighting the good fight.”

  “I’ll never stop.”

  Grace sat on the cot across from Mary. “I believe you. I believe you know how special he really is—that he’s a gift, your silent gift from God.”

  For the first time in her entire life, Mary felt as if someone truly understood Jack, and her heart welled with a quick rush of gratitude toward this virtual stranger. Grace had managed to capture in just a few sentences exactly how Mary felt about her son. Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them back.

  Grace reached over to lay a hand on Mary’s knee. “The problem is getting someone else—just one person, one employer—to realize how special Jack is. To know they’d be fortunate just to be in his presence,” Grace finished succinctly.

  “Something I couldn’t get even his own father to see.” Mary sighed. “I’m out of ideas . . . out of answers.”

  Grace lifted the book she was holding and turned it so that Mary could see it was a Bible.

  “Maybe your answer is in these pages.” Grace held out the Bible toward Mary. “Please—take this as my gift to you.”

  Mary put her hands in her lap and shook her head. “Thank you, but I think you should give it to someone who will actually . . . well, open it.”

  Mary could see her answer had surprised Grace. That hadn’t been her intent—she simply didn’t want it.

  “You won’t open it, read it?”

  “My mother read to me every night when I was little,” Mary said. “Book after book—every chapter and verse.”

  “That sounds like a nice memory.”

  “It was.”

  “Then something happened . . . ?”

  Mary glanced down at her hands in their cotton gloves. “I stopped wanting the words.”

  “What made you not want them anymore?”

  Grace’s voice was so gentle Mary didn’t feel the woman was prying. “The
y caused too much pain,” she answered, her voice low.

  “How so?”

  Mary hesitated, then looked over at Jack. “We’ve had a really long day, and I know he must be tired. I think I should get him into bed now.”

  “Of course,” Grace said graciously. She put the Bible down on the end of Mary’s cot. Mary thought she’d move on, but instead Grace reached over and took Jack’s hand. She closed her eyes and began to pray aloud.

  “I ask right now, Lord, that those who see little Jack here will see God. Those who touch him, come in contact with him, will realize that he is special. A gift. Amen.”

  Mary sat quietly while Grace opened her eyes and smiled warmly at Jack. “Good night, Jack.” Then she turned to include Mary in her smile. “I can’t believe the words in the Bible are responsible for causing your pain, Mary. They’re life-giving truths that bring hope to the hopeless, life to the dead, significance to the meaningless. In Matthew, Jesus said, ‘I thank thee, O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.’ When I told you your son was special, I meant it.” She rose and said kindly, “Good night, Mary.”

  “Good night.”

  Watching Grace move on to the next one in need of comfort, Mary got up with the intention of tucking Jack into bed. But almost as to a magnet, her eye was drawn to the Bible still lying on the end of her cot. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t seem to ignore the fact that it was there. “I don’t believe the words in the Bible are responsible for causing your pain, Mary.”

  Mary, with Jack beside her, did not even feel the cold wooden bench beneath her as she sat in the nearly deserted park the following day. The morning stretched into afternoon. The cold, gray sky matched her mood after another fruitless day of searching for a job. She knew there were still hours left and that she should be moving on to the next possible job—the next diner looking for a dishwasher or a waitress, a hotel that needed a maid, or a store looking for a clerk. But she couldn’t will herself to do it one more time, couldn’t find the energy to tell her feet to get moving—just so one more person could shake his head at her, another could say no. She had no idea how long they’d been in the park—half an hour, an hour maybe? What day is this? . . . don’t think . . . need to wash our clothes—don’t think . . . is it possible—don’t think—not to think? . . . did I figure out what day this is? . . . I said, don’t think . . .

  A brisk gust reminded her that she wasn’t alone in her misery, and she glanced beside her. But Jack now sat in a nearby sandbox, dragging a stick back and forth. Though he always seemed oblivious to the weather, she knew he must be as cold as she was. She shook her head, disgusted at her own inability to provide for her son. They didn’t have a door to walk through, a bathtub to bathe in, a kitchen where she could heat a warm cup of cocoa—let alone a bedroom they could sleep in and forget the world was such a hard place. Jack suddenly looked up at her—one of his clear moments—and she noticed his nose was running.

  “Oh, sorry, buddy. Hold on a second.” She crouched down beside the sandbox and opened the suitcase. “I’ve got something to wipe your nose.” She rifled through its meager contents, moving aside her new Bible to pull out an extra white glove. She turned to wipe his nose, but Jack’s attention was back on the sand. She followed his gaze.

  “Looks like you’re drawing a picture,” she said as she studied the sand. She frowned. “Wait—not really a picture, is it? It looks more like . . .” She kneeled on the sand and stared at the pattern of the marks, cocking her head to the side. Jack turned and looked at her again, and she met his gaze. “Maybe I can help you finish?”

  She moved closer beside him and put her hand over his on the stick. Together they traced the marks he’d already made, but with Mary’s help the sand etchings became clearer, more defined. She stared at them, sitting back on her heels.

  They’re numbers. Five, four, four, one, four? Five, four, four, one, four . . .

  “Get offa me!” a man yelled loudly from across the way.

  Mary looked up from the sand to a scruffy-looking man wrestling with two police officers. The man’s clothes were in tatters, and his arms were wrapped around a woman’s handbag he had clutched to his chest.

  “C’mon now, give it up,” one of the cops ordered, yanking the handbag away from the man. He staggered backward, and even from Mary’s vantage point, it was easy to see the man was drunk. “I’m hungry and I need money to eat! Is that a crime?”

  The officers laughed. “Well, yeah, moron. It’s called stealing.”

  “God help me, I haven’t eaten in three days. What’s a man to do? Tell me!”

  As Mary watched the man, she felt a wave of panic that she might be witnessing her own future, her own desperation. I can’t let that happen—I can’t! She couldn’t bear to watch as they pulled the man’s hands behind his back to handcuff him. She turned her attention back to the sand, back to Jack’s numbers. Five, four, four, one, four. She shifted her focus to her son, who was still watching her. She forced a smile she hoped looked reassuring and then glanced at her watch. She knew they needed to leave plenty of time to get back to the mission. Once the place was full, the doors were locked and didn’t open again until the next morning. It was the only rule, Grace had told her, besides the fact that one could only stay three nights during a seven-day stretch. No exceptions. We have tonight and tomorrow night and then . . . don’t think about then. . . .

  “We’ve got to get back to the shelter, little buddy,” she said urgently, reaching for the open suitcase behind them, where the black Bible lay prominently against the white background of one of Jack’s shirts. She closed the suitcase, got to her feet, and helped Jack to his—then hurried past the officers as they led the handcuffed homeless man from the park.

  “Grace!” Mary called.

  Grace smiled as she made her way to their cots. “Mary . . . Jack. You made it back,” she said. “Any luck?”

  Mary shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. But I’ve been waiting for a chance to ask you about something.”

  Grace sat down opposite Mary and Jack and smiled again when she saw the Bible in Mary’s lap. “I’m so glad you decided to read it.”

  “You said I’d find answers,” Mary told her, looking down at the open book.

  “That’s right, I did. It may take a little patience. . . .”

  Mary leaned toward her. “I think I’ve already found an answer.”

  Grace raised her brows. “Really? That’s wonderful.”

  “Something . . . remarkable—no, I think miraculous—happened today,” she said. “And I need to be able to say it out loud to someone. Talk it through. Do you have time?”

  “Of course. It’s my turn to supervise tonight, so I’m here until tomorrow morning.”

  Mary nodded and tightened her grip on the Bible while she gathered her thoughts. “It’s about Jack,” she finally said. “He did something today when we were in the park.”

  “Really? What did he do?”

  “I want . . . I want you to keep an open mind.”

  Grace smiled her agreement. “I believe I can do that, Mary.”

  “Remember when you prayed for Jack—that people would realize he’s special?”

  Grace nodded. “I remember.”

  Mary looked around to be sure they would not be overheard. Grace leaned toward her as Mary went on, “He is special, Grace. I’ve always known it—but today he did something that shows it. Proves it.”

  Grace shifted her eyes to Jack. “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, like I said, we were in the park—and I don’t mind admitting I was pretty discouraged, so at first I wasn’t paying much attention when he sat down in a sandbox and started dragging a stick through the sand. After a while, I noticed he wasn’t just dragging the stick—he was actually making specific marks in the sand. At first I thought it was some kind of a drawing”—Mary’s voice rose with her excitement—“but then whe
n I put my hand over his on the stick and we traced the marks together, they became more clearly defined.”

  “What were they?”

  “Numbers.”

  “And he doesn’t usually write numbers?”

  “He’s never drawn or written anything before.”

  Grace beamed at the boy. “Wow. Good for you, Jack. That’s really something!”

  “He wrote five, four, four, one, and another four.”

  “That’s impressive—very special.”

  “The specialness is not that he wrote the numbers—it’s what the numbers mean,” Mary said carefully.

  Grace looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. . . .”

  “I started wondering if the numbers might be his way of communicating, so I started counting out the numbers using the alphabet as a guide—A would be one, B would be two, and so on. But it only spelled out gibberish—‘eddad’ or something.”

  “So what do you suppose Jack was trying to tell you with the numbers?”

  “When we got back here and I opened our suitcase, he picked up the Bible. The only thing I could think of was that he wanted me to read to him—even though I knew he wouldn’t hear a word. So I started to read every word, every number of every chapter, and every number of every verse. And that got me thinking about Jack’s numbers again. Maybe the Bible had something to do with the numbers. I tried to combine his numbers—but there were too many for it to be just the chapter and verse. Then I started to count how many books are in the Bible, beginning with Genesis as book one and went all the way through—and that’s when it occurred to me that maybe the first number or numbers were the book, then the chapter and the verse. So I’ve been working through all the different possibilities, and I finally came to this combination—the book of First Timothy is the fifty-fourth book in the Bible.” Mary flipped to a page she had marked with a piece of paper. “Chapter four, verse fourteen: ‘Neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy, with the laying on of the hands of the presbytery.’ ”