The Most Perfect Gift Read online

  Flanker Press Limited

  St. John’s

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Furey, Hubert, 1939-, author

  The most perfect gift / Hubert Furey.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77117-696-5 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77117-697-2 (EPUB).--

  ISBN 978-1-77117-698-9 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-77117-699-6 (PDF)

  I. Title.

  PS8611.U72M67 2018 C813’.6 C2018-904924-3

  C2018-904925-1

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  © 2018 by Hubert Furey

  All Rights Reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Printed in Canada

  Edited by Robin McGrath Cover Design by Graham Blair

  Flanker Press Ltd.

  PO Box 2522, Station C

  St. John’s, NL

  Canada

  Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

  www.flankerpress.com

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  We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

  Dedicated in loving memory to Lawrence Whelan, Bridget and Thomas MacDonald; George Michael Furey, and Margaret and John F. Woodford

  Contents

  Preface

  A Very Blue Christmas

  Christmas at a Checkout

  The Most Perfect Gift

  Return to Brine Cove

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  Christmas is a special time of year.

  It is a time to gather around a festive table with family, to visit and enjoy the company of old friends who haven’t been seen in a long time, to enjoy the aura of peace and goodwill which emanates from brightly coloured lights and decorations which are everywhere to be seen, to laugh and sing as if yesterday never happened and tomorrow were yet to come.

  Above all it is a time to exchange gifts and tokens which are symbolic of the love they represent and the deep emotions they evoke. For many, such gifts and tokens are practical and concrete, tangible proof of the feelings held in the heart, of the passion that still remains, chosen to satisfy some perceived need, with usually not a lot of time involved in the selection.

  For the main characters in the following stories, the gifts they give are neither mundane nor hastily chosen but are the product of profound inner change and, in the case of two of the characters, follow deep mental anguish.

  For Rachel Kearning in “The Most Perfect Gift,” confronted with the chance discovery of a loved one’s shocking revelation, the gift is her deep and enduring love. For old Levi Cohen, in “A Very Blue Christmas,” the gift he gives Nora Fennessey becomes the perfect act of atonement for years of torment over his failure to be grateful for a kind act. And what could be a more perfect gift than the offering of one’s life to save the lives of others, as Jimmy Blanchard does in “Return to Brine Cove,” to seek redemption, in some measure, for the criminal life of his youth and the hurt and suffering he has inflicted on others?

  As representative examples of humanity, each of the characters, in his or her own unique way, reminds us that Christmas, above any other time, is a time to give the most perfect gift.

  A Very Blue Christmas

  It was the first time old Levi Cohen had been to the jewellery shop in weeks. Although age and arthritis had forced him into an unwelcome retirement three years before, he still liked to come and help out, especially at the height of the Christmas rush. He had always enjoyed his customers, especially prior to the Christmas season, when lines of people flowed in and out the door in an unending stream, the tinkling of the little bell above the door barely audible above the noise and clamour of customers as they stamped the snow off their feet, talking excitedly about gifts that had caught their eye in the big display window.

  He didn’t serve across the counter anymore, but he would still come to the store and busy himself, rearranging or replacing merchandise his two nephews had disturbed as they made hasty sales. He was glad he had handed over the business to them, and he could see they were running it well.

  Other people might complain about the madness or the crowds, but not Levi. He loved to see the expressions on the customers’ faces, the excitement in their eyes as they gestured to items in the showcases that attracted them, and he would pretend not to hear their conversations as they noisily babbled about their purchases.

  When he wasn’t helping, he would spend hours looking through the big display window fronting the street, watching the crowds of shoppers bumping and jostling on the sidewalk. He would smile as they peered through the window, especially the little ones, with their noses pressed against the glass, their faces lit in awe at the sight of some precious item. He would try to imagine what they were saying as their lips moved in silent conversation, unaware that he was watching them. He would then chuckle to himself with enjoyment as they moved on to continue their pursuits of the moment.

  His wife, Miriam, would accompany him on these occasions, ostensibly solicitous about his arthritis, but in reality, as everyone knew, to ensure that he did not interfere too much with his nephews as they ran the business. Her presence always brought Levi back to the days when they were first married, when they had first bought the store. She was beside him now as they moved around, adjusting and arranging some small ring boxes and necklace stands which the younger men had accidentally knocked over as they rushed to serve the steady flow of customers.

  Times like these, he was truly happy, feeling one with the bustle of the marketplace, as he used to describe it, having the opportunity once again to fondle the precious merchandise which had brought him such success over the years.

  They had spent this particular morning in the basement, opening up and sorting a new shipment of watches for his nephews to display. After lunch, he had come to loiter in the shop, wandering contentedly from showcase to showcase, peering here and there to ensure that everything met his inward satisfaction.

  Levi was stopped behind the centre showcase when it happened. He was standing beside Miriam as she tidied an array of sparkling bracelets. The centre showcase faced the street, and he had paused to look through the window, welcoming the opportunity to indulge in his favourite pastime, following the hurrying crowds as they made their way up and down the snow-covered sidewalk.

  He froze in disbelief. There was no mistaking th
e familiar build and tall stature of the woman glancing uneasily toward the shop door, her movements suggesting her reluctance to enter.

  He had to squint his eyes to see clearly through the thick glass pane streaked with melting snow, but even in the half-light of the late afternoon there was no mistaking it. It was her.

  She looked much bigger in the shabby winter coat which hung loosely about her shoulders, and her arms hung heavily by her sides. Her right hand gripped a large, plain-looking handbag, its cheap quality blending with the aura of poverty which emanated from her presence. She was standing uncertainly, wet snowflakes gently settling on her shoulders and on the hood that covered the dull grey in her hair.

  That was what struck him most forcibly. Her hair! Where was the bright, flashing red of her earlier years, which he remembered most about her? Her jaw was set in determination; otherwise her face was expressionless, except for the tinge of sadness which was plainly visible to a discerning eye. An interested passerby might have wondered why a person of such obviously poor means was staring in the window of a posh jewellery store, but this was not a question which bothered Levi, who was becoming more excited by the minute.

  “It is her,” he whispered, turning to address his wife.

  “Are you sure, Levi?” Miriam had sensed his excitement and had followed his gaze to the woman outside the window, her motionless form solitary amid the background of hurrying forms.

  “You’re not seeing as well as you used to, and you won’t get your glasses changed.” She was admonishing him in the same caring manner to which he had become accustomed in over fifty years of marriage. “You remember the last time?” She was frowning, fearful that he would embarrass himself recklessly as he had done two years before. “You were certain then, too, and you know how that turned out. She had never seen you before, and you know what she thought.”

  She became more solicitous. “Perhaps it’s because you want to see her so much.”

  “Miriam, I have prayed. Every morning and every night I have prayed. I have asked God to let me find her, to find the woman who gave so much to our little Simon.” His eyes moistened at the memory of his dead grandson . . . so small, so sick, so helpless.

  The bell tinkled, and a group of younger women noisily entered the shop. Levi looked at the clock on the wall. They would be from the government building down the street, he thought. They always quit about this time.

  The woman had followed them in, trying to look inconspicuous as she trailed them at a distance. While they made their way through the store, unconcerned about the loudness of their voices, she stood alone upon the mat inside the door, nervously surveying the scene around her, her saddened look a stark contrast to the spirited conversation and happy laughter which emanated from the group she had accompanied.

  Levi was appalled. The apprehension which now surrounded her presence did not belong to the woman standing before him. What had happened? Had it been that long ago? Where was that flaming mass of red hair, that proud stance, that defiance that once blazed through fearless, invincible eyes, now so sad and burdened? What could have destroyed the tower of courage he had once known? What terrible forces had reduced the woman he remembered to the broken, timid creature standing before him, so ill at ease in the midst of ordinary Christmas shoppers in a small jewellery store?

  Watching her make her way nervously through the other women, he was horrified at the change in her appearance, her movements slow and uncertain as she stooped to gaze in silence at the showcase of rings a little to the left of where they were standing. How long ago was it?

  He tried to remember. His daughter’s marriage had fallen on troubled times. She and her husband had separated, then divorced. The old man sighed as he savoured the presence of his beloved Miriam, unable to comprehend the meaning of such strange words. His daughter Judith and her husband, Abram Mentovitch, had divorced, and they had sent them little Simon Mentovitch to be cared for.

  His daughter had wanted to find a new life, she said, and her husband . . . . He did not want to care for a small, sick boy. Little Simon had only reminded him of Judith. Levi shook his head, not understanding. How could anybody not want such a small boy? He was such a beautiful boy, but so sick. His face was pale and his little frame wasting from the bone disease that had no cure.

  He remembered the doctors shaking their heads. They were good doctors, they had done all they could, and little Simon was so much joy to them, he and Miriam. Miriam would hug him in her arms and kiss him and kiss him . . .

  His thoughts were tumbling over one another in his mind. He didn’t cry, but hot tears were forming under his eyes, for the memory of a child, of a child’s helplessness, not only because he was sick, but also because he was Jewish. Tears gave way to anger as he remembered the toughs, the young toughs with their vicious hatred of everything about Jews. Over here, they had hardly ever seen a Jew, let alone be hurt by one. But they had learned the hatred, and they were practising it, just like those others, the ones with their trim, starched uniforms and their flawless marching.

  Hiram the butcher had told him about it first. A pang of guilt, of unrepressed remorse, surged through him at that awful memory. How could he have sent such a small, defenceless boy alone to school in that neighbourhood? What kind of crass, unthinking person must people have thought he was? But what could he have done? The business had not been going well. There was the recession, he had had some bad customers, very expensive items on credit. He hadn’t thought anyone would mistreat a physically weak, sick boy. Miriam was ill in bed, and he had to make a living.

  His self-recriminations gave way to crueller memories. It had begun the first day with the harrying, the name-calling. The next day, little Simon was pushed about. The third day, his books were scattered over the dirty sidewalk, littered with refuse. He was told all this by Hiram, who had returned his little grandson to his home every morning. And the fourth day . . .

  Ah, the fourth day. He remembered well the fourth day. He had, God forgive him, sent little Simon off alone again, hoping and praying that yesterday had been the last time, that the young toughs were satisfied at last. He could not afford to lose customers. But little Simon could not face a fourth day. He had come back. He had to close the shop, ask the two angry customers to leave so he could accompany Simon to school.

  He had been prepared to walk little Simon all the way to the school, but when he arrived at the little grocery story on Vinnicombe Street, from where he could see the whole length of the street where it ran along the railroad property, the toughs were nowhere in sight. He had no way of knowing they had hidden themselves. He could let Simon go on alone now, return to his shop. Perhaps the customers had waited outside.

  He remembered reassuring little Simon. “God will protect you,” he had said, but his words had sounded hollow and insincere even then, more so now alongside the feelings of guilt and helplessness. That cursed store! He remembered how the child had believed him, how he had smiled and gone on alone, trusting him. Levi remembered Simon waving, before he turned and ran back to the store. The two customers had gone, but there were two others patiently waiting outside the door. He had just begun to serve the first one when Nelly Brannigan burst through the door and shouted at him, panting and out of breath.

  “You’d better come right away, Levi Cohen, if you don’t want your little Simon in the grave. They’re givin’ him a terrible beatin’. Now you go on, I’ll mind your shop.”

  Nelly Brannigan, God be with her! He hadn’t been nice enough to that fierce old Irish woman who had come for him and who minded his shop while he had gone. He thought of her respectfully for a moment, but her image was overshadowed by the sickening feeling he remembered in his stomach as he bolted toward the door, leaving the surprised customers standing by the counter. He did not take time to reach for his coat, even though the November wind was cold enough to cut the skin.

  He
had hit his shin on the corner of the old trunk which sat just inside the door, but he had not heeded the pain. He had raced past the little grocery store on Vinnicombe Street, panting and wheezing, giving no thought to his lifelong asthmatic condition, driven by guilt and fear. He had rounded the corner by Hiram’s butcher shop, prepared for the worst, and was stopped dead by a sight which he had no way of foreseeing and at which he still marvelled, every time he thought about it.

  His first glance had fallen on little Simon, sitting on the sidewalk crying, his back to the chain-link fence which bounded the railway property. His top lip was bruised and swollen, blood was trickling down his left cheek from a cut above his eye, and he was holding his elbow, his face contorted with pain.

  But it was not Simon who held his attention. It was the tall, solid figure of a teenage girl who stood in front of him protectively, shielding him from further attack. She was leaning forward, in a fighting stance, her hands gripping a murderous-looking length of board which she held at the ready, prepared to strike the next blow.

  One of the toughs was on the street in front of her holding his head, moaning and cursing while he attempted to crawl to safety, blood flowing through his fingers from a gaping wound she had inflicted. His companions stood in a slowly retreating circle, reluctant to press closer, within striking distance of the girl’s wrath. As they retreated, she edged toward them, her weapon poised, her eyes burning with rage and defiance. Levi’s feeling of concern for his injured grandson gave way to admiration for the drama being played out before him. He had seen strong, powerful men dispose of opponents who outnumbered them, but . . . a young girl?

  He watched and listened as she continued to edge her body forward, her half-turned face glowering sideways at the attackers, the board raised threateningly, her voice clear and strong, hissing unsuppressed anger through her bared teeth. It was the lilting sound of the Irish immigrants from the docks, spontaneous with anger and cursing.