Whose Angel Keyring (5 page)

“Do you recognize this?”

James nodded.

“Know what it opens?”

So many times through the years James had scripted this very scene. Master Zackery would ask, and James would have a thoughtful, reasoned reply. Somehow all those predetermined words fled, now that the moment had arrived.
 

“Something special was put aside for you, Zackery.”

“By whom?”

James paused one more final moment before divulging the secret he’d held so many years. “Your mother.”

Zack inhaled sharply, and his eyes bored into James.

“Knowing her, it will be something wonderful.” James extended his hand, asking for the key. When it was given, he said, “Follow me.”

The two men walked to the den, then to the fireplace. Standing in front of the chest-high mantel, James inserted the small key into the second keyhole of the clock. “This would not have happened now, if it were not the proper time,” he said. Then he left the room.

Zackery Calvin stood staring at the clock, listening to its stately
tick-tock
. His mind began piecing together childhood puzzles. A key for the second hole: years ago, Dad had said it was missing, and now, here it was. A message from the mother who loved him: he always wondered why she’d never left one for him, and now, apparently, she had.

This key ring, then, was something his mother had chosen. The angel seemed a reminder of how he might have looked to her all those years ago—a golden-haired cherub. And the key itself with its intaglio design was the sort of thing she’d love. The ring that held both pieces together struck him as the most beautiful section of the whole assembly—embossed with a wave pattern, it reminded him of the family’s longtime connection to the sea.

With an unsteady hand, he turned the golden key, then watched, intrigued, as the base panel of the clock revealed itself to be a little door that opened. Within the dark interior of the hidden compartment, a pale envelope caught a glint of light. Reaching in, Zack withdrew it.

A rich, antique odor assailed him, a strange combination of must and ancient perfume. Moving back from the crackling fire, and leaving the compartment’s door open, Zack held his fragile treasure and sank into the couch. Breaking the seal on the envelope’s old glue, he slid out a letter. It was typed on crisp, pale blue sheets of personalized stationery. Calma it said across the top in deep, indigo ink. Touching the indentations on the smooth, cool paper, he remembered the sound of her typing.

“Clack, clack-clack.”

“
That’s right, darling. Want to try?
” She’d lifted him into her lap, then guided his fingers onto the little square keys.

The memory arose as a proof of authenticity. Knowing, now, the letter was real, he began to read.

Calma

Dearest Zackery,

By the time you read this, I will be a distant memory, and, I hope, a good one. As I write this, my illness has given me limited time. I have made peace with it, for the most part. My chief regret at leaving this world is in leaving you.

This is, however, the natural order of things--that a parent should die before a child. It’s something we all must face at some time. It is not the end of the world. By now you have long-since stopped grieving, and this, too, is as it should be. I do not leave you this letter to reopen old wounds, nor to impose a false sense of loyalty that would demand you grieve again.

I dare to hope I may even have been replaced, and you have had a loving stepmother. If not, it must be because you didn’t need one. Certainly your father has enough love to give you the double affection you deserve.

I do want to apologize for your parents’ fights. “Arguments,” your father prefers to call them, but I think a good fight clears the air sometimes. It concerns me that, despite our best efforts, you overhear us. Young as you are, I’m afraid you’ll feel our raised voices and heated sentiments mean we don’t love each other. We do. Our issues are our own. They are not for you to solve. They never will be.

Do we argue about you? Yes. All parents argue over their children. Is this your fault? No. Let our disagreements go. You will have more important battles of your own.

I will admit to one theme our arguments have included lately. I keep reminding myself that as you read this, you’re sure to be a grown man, and I can speak to you both as a parent and as a friend. We argue, your father and I, over whether to tell you about your adoption.

I should say
when
to tell you, not
whether
--for I believe it is your
right
to know. Your father disagrees (at least for now) but agrees in principle. We both want what is best for you. We always have.

How must it feel, my darling boy, to know the mother who loves you is not the one who gave birth to you? I do not know, for I have not been in your situation. I can guess it might be a terribly sad and lonely thing to discover that the person who brought you into this world might not have wanted you after all.

My hope is this will be counter- balanced by the fact that there is someone in this world who wanted you more than anything else. How can I describe my desire to find you, know you, bring you home, become a family with you at its center? I cannot, for my desire exceeded reason and rational thought, and the heart cannot speak in words.

You give me more happiness than I ever thought was possible to find in this world. As your tiny steps become larger, my heart swells with pride and anticipation. When I answer your endless questions, I thrill at the scope of your curiosity. When I read you bedtime stories, I watch the seeds of big ideas take root in your eager mind, and then marvel that in hours-- or minutes--the ideas have already begun to flower.

It pains me that I won’t be able to see how you develop. And yet, looking down the future is like looking across a wide sea. I can follow your boat a long distance before it slips over the horizon.

Already I can see your qualities. You’ll have a profound impact on your father, and you have much to learn from Joseph. You, Zackery, have special gifts that may not come fully to fruition till later in your life. But be patient with yourself and let them unfold--they certainly will.

Someday you may want to search for your birth parents. If you do, be kind, if you can. Whoever she was--the woman who gave birth to you--she may have been in circumstances that were so overwhelming, the choice of keeping and raising you was taken away from her.

I never knew who the birth parents were--the terms of the adoption did not allow them to know us, or us to know them. I don’t know what good would come from finding them. But I can appreciate the drive to understand your genetic history.

Your emotional history, however, can best be discovered by understanding your father. He has such dreams for you! And yet, good man that he is, he will never insist you follow them. If it happens that you have, then perhaps by now you two are jointly running Calvin Oil. How I would have loved to see that day, for I am convinced you’d make a formidable team and realize dreams of success beyond what either of you could achieve independently.

Your father has some secrets. So does everyone who leads a rich, complex life. Some of his secrets I will never know--the years before you were born he had a government job of which he spoke very little. His real dream was the company--and you.

If I have any advice to offer, it is this: some of the most significant accomplishments in your life will be disguised as simple things: kindness toward a spouse, patience toward a child, understanding toward your flawed parents.

Mostly, my dear, wonderful son, I want you to know you are loved. Were the choice mine, I would never leave you. Wherever I go, I will always know, remember and cherish you. As surely as I know my own name, I know my love will stay with you always.

I hear a distant call, now, and have no choice but to follow where it leads.

Remember when we used to watch the ships disappear over the horizon? We never worried about them, because we knew they were fine. They were just continuing their journey, and so shall I.

Perhaps we’ll meet again one lovely day. Until then I wish you happiness in love and success in life. I wish you fair skies and a following sea.

All my love forever,

Mom

(Joan Grace Calvin)

Her signature seemed to swim on the blue page, like letters floating on a pool. Zack swiped at his face to push away tears, but they cascaded down his cheeks.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought of himself as that small, vulnerable child he’d once been. But what he got from her letter was something altogether new—a view of himself as a bright bundle of potential. She had believed in him. He’d forgotten how vividly she cared, and now the sense of her pure love flowed through him.

Her insights struck him like slender mallets touching xylophone keys, each producing a clear, perfect note. Her wisdom burbled past his mind like a soothing brook, and her patience warmed him with as much comfort as the glowing embers in the fireplace. He sat still, letting her love bathe him in light, allowing her grace to instruct him

Zack stood with his father bidding Zelda good night. She’d been full-color tonight in the best possible sense—funny and charming, attractive and bright. She’d helped the two Calvin men entertain several other dinner guests, and managed not to upset James’s kitchen routines. It seemed to Zack that she even sensed the state of grace that had rubbed off on him from his mother’s letter.

After Zelda left, Zack looked at his dad as if to say something, then stopped himself. It was the end of a long holiday fraught with emotion—not the time to approach Dad about his long-departed wife. Instead, Zack hugged his father, then watched him climb the stairs to the second floor.

There was still one more conversation he needed to have before calling it a night. Heading down the hallway, he walked into the kitchen and found James rinsing pans in the utility sink. A large apron covering his clothes, his hands encased in rubber gloves, he looked both authoritative and endearing.

James looked up at Zack’s entrance, and both men began speaking at once.

“I deeply regret—”

“Thank you, James—” Zack smiled at the family butler who was so much more—a mentor, a second father, a friend. “Just wanted to thank you. It . . . she. . . .”

“She was very special, and oh, how she loved you,” James said quietly.

“I’d forgotten,” said Zack. “Now I remember.” He paused for a moment, then lifted the key ring. “You’re the keeper of keys around here,” he said. “Mom entrusted you with this. I better do the same.”

“Very good, Master Zackery,” James said, slipping the key into his breast pocket.

The fire in James’s cozy cottage had nearly burned itself out, and it was time to go to bed. The angel key ring had absorbed the last heat in the room, making a hot-spot in the palm of James’s hand. As if the angel had one more task for him.
As though it wants to go home
, he thought.

Standing up from his comfortable chair, James pulled a winter coat on over his robe, then stepped out of his slippers and into gardening boots. When he opened his front door, fog swirled around his ankles and moistened his cheeks. Shivering against the damp chill, he hastened down the stone pathway to the main house and let himself in through the back door.

Leaving his boots behind, he padded quietly into the den. The sight of Mr. Zackery sleeping on the couch did his heart good. The boy was sentimental after all—not wanting to leave the room where his dear mother’s letter had reached him at

last. Tiptoeing past his sleeping charge, James lifted the golden

ring from his pocket. Carefully, he inserted the key in its lock. He couldn’t help standing in the quiet room for a moment, reflecting on an eventful Christmas. Unexpected letters had appeared from two women—each important in Zackery’s life, but for different reasons—the new letter leading to the old one. And all day, the key ring had rested against the clock, shrouded in Miss Cynthia’s envelope.
Like a magnet, he thought, the key drawn to its lock.