The Silent Gift Page 6

  “So . . . what exactly are you saying?” Grace asked, her eyes on Jack.

  “Last night you laid your hand on him and prayed.”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “I’m wondering if it’s that Jack isn’t special just to me, Grace. That he really is . . . special. You prayed that others would recognize it. Maybe they’ll—well, they’ll recognize it by his numbers. For Scripture passages . . .”

  Grace smiled kindly. “That’s a fascinating theory,” she said. “Very intriguing, Mary.”

  “Time for lights-out, folks!” a man’s voice called out over the quiet conversations in the room.

  “Oh, it’s getting late,” Grace said as the overhead lights turned off. The room was dark except for a dim light illuminating the hallway that led to the two bathrooms.

  “Can we pray?” Grace asked, reaching in the darkness for Jack’s hands. Mary bowed her head, wondering what Grace was thinking about Jack’s gift.

  “Heavenly Father, I ask your blessing on Mary and Jack, and on Jack’s special abilities—on his numbers, whatever this means. I pray that all of the chapters and verses in your Book will have great meaning in their lives. Amen.”

  “Mary? Time to get up now.” The woman’s voice was accompanied by a gentle shaking of her shoulder. Though the residue of sleep still made things fuzzy, Mary sat up quickly and looked into Grace’s kind eyes.

  “It happened again.” Mary’s voice sounded tentative even to her own ears. She reached for the Bible still next to her cot. “Last night . . . Jack’s numbers. It . . . it happened right here in this room.” She found the page she was looking for and looked up into Grace’s face, trying to determine her openness. She held up the open book for Grace to see. “I was reading Proverbs and got a pencil from my pocketbook to underline a verse that has a special meaning to me. Then Jack—he put his hand on mine and started to move the pencil across the page.”

  Grace leaned forward and Mary pointed at numbers written in the margin. “Nine, one—twenty-seven?” Grace read aloud. “That kind of dispels your theory, doesn’t it? I’m not exactly sure where the book of Proverbs falls, but I’m sure it’s long after the ninth book—”

  “Proverbs is book twenty,” Mary explained, “but Jack wasn’t writing numbers because of the page I was reading—he wrote these because of something he was seeing.”

  “Mary, I know Jack is special, but are you sure you have this right?” Grace’s tone was gentle but puzzled.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Mary said. “Let me show you,” and she thumbed through more pages. “The ninth book is First Samuel. I looked up the first chapter and the twenty-seventh verse.” Mary then read aloud, “ ‘For this child I prayed; and the Lord hath given me my petition which I asked of him.’ ”

  She looked up from the page at Grace. “No one but me ever touches Jack—but you have. Just last night. And now this.” Mary held up the Bible. “I know I’m not pregnant”—she gave a little smile—“so I’m wondering . . . if maybe this is meant for you. . . .”

  Grace’s eyes filled with tears. “I told you the other night that it’s not possible. So I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m not saying this to cause you any pain,” Mary added quickly. “It’s just that I really believe these numbers are something Jack saw and can’t communicate to us any other way.”

  Grace took a long breath, wiping away the tears. “It’s time now to get your things together.”

  “Just maybe . . . ?”

  Grace shook her head. “I can’t bear another disappointment, Mary. I know you mean well, but we both realize Jack’s numbers could mean anything.”

  “That’s true. But still I can’t help but wonder . . .” She didn’t finish when she saw the sorrow on Grace’s face. “Anyway, I want to thank you for your kindness and for the Bible.”

  “You’re welcome. God’s blessing on you today. I’ll be thinking of you both and praying you find a job.”

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS CLOSE TO DUSK when Mary exited the Blue Moon Diner with Jack in hand and stopped on the street to get her bearings. So close! She’d been so close to having an actual job.

  “Sure thing, young lady,” the owner of the diner behind them had told her. “Got an opening for a waitress, and a looker like you might earn me some repeat customers.” He chewed the end of a stubby cigar while she choked out the next bit of information that surely would send them packing. It always did.

  “My son, Jack, doesn’t go to school. He’s deaf and can’t speak. He’d need to come with me to work every day. I can’t leave him. . . .”

  The unlit cigar rode up and down on his lip while he chewed and took stock of Jack. “He’s a good-looking kid. People like happy endings to hard-luck stories,” he mused. Finally he shrugged. “I got no beef with you bringing your boy. Now—fill out these papers while I take care of a few customers. I’ll be back to look ’em over and give you your schedule.”

  Speechless with relief, all Mary could do was nod. A little over an hour later, he passed a uniform across the counter. “Okay, honey,” he said, “here’s a blouse, a skirt, and an apron.”

  “I’ll need to wear my gloves,” Mary said as matter-of-factly as she could. And she told him why. The owner took back the uniform and wished her luck.

  Standing outside the diner, Mary blinked back tears and tugged the glove of her right hand a little higher on her wrist. It hadn’t been Jack this time—her own hands had been her undoing.

  The weather had grown progressively colder throughout the long, frustrating day, and now they’d wasted so much time in the diner it would be a miracle if they made it back to the shelter before it was full for the night, the doors closed. She looked up at the street sign and realized they were several blocks away from the Salvation Army building.

  The thought of Jack going without supper was hard, but the thought of trying to sleep on a park bench made her heart hammer in her chest. “C’mon, little man. We’ve got to run.”

  They arrived breathless—and she felt sick. The door was closed and the posted sign read, Sorry—Full for the Night. “The doors are locked once we’re filled to capacity. There are no exceptions—doors don’t open again until seven a.m.”

  “This can’t happen,” she whispered aloud. “I can’t let this happen.” Is Grace inside? Will she hear me and let us in?

  She raised her hand to knock on the door, but an old man sitting on the sidewalk, back propped against the building, waved listlessly at her.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “They won’t answer.”

  “But I know someone inside. I know Captain Grace, and she—”

  “It don’t matter.” This from a man sitting next to him. “You could know the pope himself, but they won’t let you in. It’s the daggone rules of the place.”

  “The rules aren’t going to keep us warm tonight,” Mary whispered, fighting tears. Jack slumped against her, and she put her arm around him to keep him on his feet.

  “Ain’t a good night to’ve missed it neither,” the first man said as he spat a stream of tobacco juice on the sidewalk. “Some mighty fine smells comin’ outta that kitchen tonight ’fore they closed the door. Real meat—not just some watery soup with a cabbage leaf in it. I heard someone call it a celebration meal ’cause they had some celebratin’ news. Called it a real miracle. Everybody in them Sally Ann uniforms was grinnin’ like Cheshire cats. Talkin’ ’bout some ‘boy prophet’ who predicted the impossible—a baby or somethin’—and it’s comin’ true.”

  “Boy prophet?” Mary stared at the man.

  “That there’s the scuttlebutt.” The man nodded sagely and went back to his own cogitations.

  In a daze Mary took Jack’s hand and led him back up the street. Her thoughts mulled over her conversation with Grace that morning. She glanced over her shoulder at the door to the Salvation Army. A baby . . .

  “Maybe it’s because of you, Jack, that they’re eating meat tonight,” she murmured. “You are spec
ial—and now maybe others are going to know it too.”

  Sleet came down in waves as Mary pulled Jack along the busy downtown streets. Her mind raced with worry about where they would spend the night—and finally she remembered a movie theater about a mile down the road. If we can sneak into the lobby and then up into the balcony, maybe we can hide out until morning . It would be warm—and safer than sleeping on the street. Her stomach ached from hunger, and she couldn’t even bear to think about how Jack must be feeling. Wet, cold, and miserable, she pulled Jack into a storefront doorway. At least for a while they’d stay out of the sleet and hope for a break in the weather. If misery was measured like money—we’ d be rich.

  She looked down at Jack shivering against her, then out at the cars on the street, at the people who all seemed to have someplace to go. She crouched down so she could put both arms around her boy. But, Jerry—we couldn’t have stayed. . . .

  Mary watched a long burgundy-colored Rolls Royce slide to a stop at the curb just a few yards away. She could see the front tire had gone flat. A reed-thin man in a uniform and billed cap climbed out of the driver’s side. He hurried around the front to the spare tire, attached in its special receptacle on the passenger side.

  Mary could barely see through the sleet streaking the car’s windows, but she could make out the figure of a woman in the backseat.

  Olivia Edmunds looked the part exactly—elegant, privileged, rich, and certainly immune to the everyday worries of money and food and shelter. Wrapped in fur with diamonds sparkling at her neck, she sat in the back of the Rolls waiting for her driver, Phillip, to change the flat tire. The sleet pinged against the back windows of the car, but her eyes were fixed on a woman and a little boy who were huddled in the doorway of a business long since closed for the day. She hadn’t taken her eyes off them since the car had stopped.

  The Rolls shifted as the tire was changed, the minutes ticked past, and the sleet never let up, but the woman and her child remained under the umbrella of concrete—not moving. After Phillip stowed the jack and the flat tire in the trunk, he slammed it closed, opened his door, and started to climb into the driver’s seat. But Olivia stopped him.

  “Here, Phillip”—she reached over the seat—“would you please give this to that lady over there?”

  Phillip took the bill with alacrity. “Yes indeed, Mrs. Edmunds.”

  It took only a few steps for the man to arrive in front of Mary and Jack. He held out a five-dollar bill. “My employer would like to offer you this money,” he said without preamble.

  “Sorry?” Mary questioned.

  He frowned. “Just take the money, miss. She wants you to have it. Maybe you can get a meal or two and a room for the night.”

  “I . . . I can’t just accept a stranger’s money,” Mary said, even as she eyed the five dollars.

  The wind picked up, and in the blowing sleet, the driver shrugged down into his coat. “I’d take it if I were you,” he suggested. “Pride won’t keep your boy warm tonight.”

  Mary hesitated, then finally held out her hand. He slipped the bill across the palm of her glove.

  “Please . . . please thank her for me.”

  “I will,” he said, turning immediately for the car. He slid back into the driver’s seat, and Mary heard the engine start. She picked up her suitcase, took Jack’s hand, and started past the car. Ducking her head to keep the sleet out of her eyes, she turned toward the back window as they passed. She hesitated for just a moment to look through the window at the generous woman in the backseat.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed carefully and saw a slight nod from the woman behind the glass. Mary started walking, head still bent against the wind, and heard the car pull away from the curb.

  They hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when the Rolls backed up along the curb just past them—and stopped. The back window rolled down.

  “Please—won’t you get in,” the lady invited. “It’s awfully stormy out tonight. I can take you wherever you need to go.” She opened the back door partway, then slid over to the other side of the backseat.

  Mary barely hesitated before she climbed in with Jack in tow. For a second she could do nothing more than relish the heat in the car. Feeling like a drowned rat, she tried to smile at the lovely woman, who looked as if she’d just stepped out of a fairy tale.

  “I’m Mary . . . and this is Jack,” she said. “I don’t . . . I don’t normally take money from strangers—or rides, for that matter, but I’m in a bit of a bind right now and my son—”

  “I’m Olivia Edmunds,” the lady said. “I’m happy to be of help. Where can I have my driver take you?”

  “Oh, uh, well, I don’t know. The Salvation Army shelter is full tonight, and they told me about a few other places—”

  “A hotel, then? There must be something suitable.”

  Mary looked down at the now-damp bill still in her hand. “Yes, thank you,” she said softly.

  Olivia leaned forward. “Phillip, we need to find a hotel. Something clean—affordable.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Edmunds. I think I know just the place.”

  The car moved smoothly into the traffic. Mary looked out at the mix of rain and snow splashing against the glass.

  “So, Jack”—Mrs. Edmunds turned toward him—“I have a little girl at home who might be close to your age. She’s ten. How old are you?”

  “He’s seven,” Mary answered.

  “Oh, seven is a great age. Do you like to play with cars or read books, Jack?”

  “He likes blocks,” Mary said. “And I hope you won’t think him rude, but he’s . . . he’s been deaf since his birth. He doesn’t speak.”

  Mary saw the flicker of sympathy in the woman’s eyes as she looked at Jack. And now she sees him differently than just a little boy. Just once, just once I wish someone else would see what I see when I look at him. . . .

  “Oh, I’m . . . sorry,” Mrs. Edmunds said.

  Mary slipped her arm around her son and pulled him closer. He relaxed into her side but stared straight ahead. “No need to be sorry. Jack is exactly who he was meant to be—a very special little boy.”

  Mrs. Edmunds turned her gaze from Jack to Mary. “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “No, I mean he’s truly . . . special. He has a . . . a gift.”

  The woman hesitated, then, “That’s wonderful. I think all mothers need to recognize their children’s unique gifts—no matter what limitations they might have.”

  “That’s . . . that isn’t what I mean,” Mary said as Mrs. Edmunds smoothed out her fur coat. “Jack has a divine gift— a gift from God.”

  Even in the semidarkness of the car, Mary could see Olivia Edmunds’s eyebrows lift. Keep going—say something. I can explain it . . . I think. “Sometimes Jack can touch someone’s hand and . . . and ‘see’ things,” Mary hurried on. “He communicates what he sees by writing numbers, and they correspond to a chapter and verse in the Bible.”

  The eyebrows rose a little more before Mrs. Edmunds offered a still smile and leaned just a bit away from Mary. “That’s . . . very interesting,” she said. “Certainly not something one would hear every day.”

  Mary was very aware that the woman’s expression had gone from sympathetic to wary. Now she thinks I’m crazy . . . she believes I’m a crazy woman with a deaf-mute son. What was I thinking? Mary gave a tiny shrug and smiled. “I guess it’s like you said. A mother can see her own child’s uniqueness. I’m sure you can see all kinds of special gifts your little girl has.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Olivia Edmunds smiled. “As her mother, I would champion her to the moon and back.”

  Mary returned her smile. “That’s a mother’s gift.”

  At Mrs. Edmunds’s nod, Mary relaxed. The three in the backseat shifted a bit as the driver made a turn.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mary?”

  “No—”

  “I’m just wondering how you ended up in your . . . present circumstances.”


  Mary drew Jack even closer. He’d closed his eyes, his chin resting against his jacket, suggesting he was asleep. She turned and looked Mrs. Edmunds in the eye. “My—well, my present circumstance is as much a nightmare as a surprise to me,” she began. “No one ever expects to be standing on a street without a bed or roof over one’s head. But with no job, no money, I can’t provide my own son with something as basic as food and shelter.”

  “So you’ve been looking for employment?”

  “Yes, of course, but no one will hire me, since I need to keep Jack with me at all times. He cannot stay alone, and I can’t afford to hire someone to look after him.”

  “What kind of work are you looking for?” Olivia asked.

  “Anything, really,” Mary replied. “I’ve answered waitressing postings, clerking positions in stores . . . I can cook, clean, do laundry, iron, scrub floors and windows. I tried for two different maid positions, but as soon as I mentioned Jack, they turned me down.”

  Olivia turned away toward the window for a moment. When the car started to slow, she looked over at Mary. “I have a maid— Matilda . . . but she is getting on in years. She could probably use some help.” Her musings seemed more for her own benefit than for Mary’s. She sighed as she looked intently at Mary’s face. “You’re a lovely young woman, Mary. It’s possible you aren’t going to get a maid position easily because some women might feel threatened with someone so attractive in their homes.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Mary said, feeling rather awkward. “But I’m a hard worker,” she added, trying not to read anything into the woman’s musings about her maid Matilda.

  “You know what they say,” Olivia observed as she glanced at Mary’s gloves. “You can tell a lot about how hard someone works by looking at their hands.”

  “I suppose that’s true, but I . . . I have to keep my gloves on all the time.”

  “And why is that?”

  Mary curled gloved fingers into her palms. “My hands . . . they were burned when I was a little girl. They’re scarred and ugly—it’s hard for people to see them.”