Whose Angel Keyring

by Mara Purl

  He couldn’t talk to Miranda—not now, at least. And Cynthia would probably slam down the phone in his ear.

  The images of his boat being bashed against a treacherous rock suddenly washed over him again. But now he felt imperiled— not so much by the possibility of collision—as by the sense that, as his own dark fears swirled, he might be sucked down into the depths. To the drone of the television announcer’s play-by-play, Zack slipped into a fitful sleep.

  The muscles of his upper back and shoulders burned, but he had to keep rowing. The sense of urgency was overwhelming, and Zack pulled hard on the oars in a smooth, repetitive motion. He had to get there in time—otherwise he’d miss her. That’s all he knew.

  In the fog, it was hard to get his bearings. On the boat’s extra seat in front of him, a huge compass held steady at 270 degrees —due west. And then, as he watched, the compass began to spin.

  What in the world? A spinning compass could only mean he was near a powerful magnetic field. But his charts had indicated no such anomaly. My charts, he thought, where are they?

  Suddenly his oars disappeared, and he was trimming sail. His hand was at the familiar till of the family sailboat, the Kipling; he felt the craft gather speed. Despite a blustery wind, the fog dispersed only intermittently. In brief glimpses he saw the glassy sea lift into waves that rolled away into endless ocean.

  The urgency was even greater now. The wind seemed to have arisen as an ally, and Zack spoke to it. “Help me get to her in time,” he implored. In reply, he heard the distant sound of a high, clear female voice singing. Relief flooded his mind—if she was singing, she was still all right. He still had time. The Fates were with him.

  Then he heard another voice—a male voice, deep and resonant. “Be careful, Zack!” it called. Intermingled with the wind, another sound reached him—a swirling of waters that first crashed into rocks, then sucked at them as it drained away.

  The sea continued to rise, the fog to lower. His ship was drawing dangerously near rocks on some unknown shore. Where was he? He needed his charts! They were in the locked box in the wheelhouse. He had to open the box! Now, where was the key?

  Waking with a start, Zack flashed his eyes toward the door, flung off the throw James had placed over his legs, stood and stretched. Running fingers through his disheveled hair, he wandered into the living room, where his father was enjoying a cup of tea.

  “Want some?” Joseph asked. “Plenty more in the pot.”

  “What? Oh,” Zack replied. “No, thanks.”

  “Have a good rest?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Weird dream, though.”

  “A little snooze in the afternoon is just the thing.” Joseph poured himself some more tea. “What was your dream about?”

  “Can’t remember much,” Zack said, yawning. “Maybe I will have some tea.” His father poured him a cup. “Something about a small key.”

  Joseph’s hand wavered, and tea splashed onto Zack’s saucer. “Sorry,” he said, reaching for a napkin.

  “No problem.” Zack poured the saucer-spill into his cup. “I don’t know . . . a key, a boat... Didn’t we used to have a key to the Kipling? The old boat, I mean, not Kipling II.”

  Joseph looked closely at his son. “We did.” He consulted his watch. “Zelda should be back in about two hours. Think I’ll shave again. We should dress for dinner.”

  Zack groaned. “We’re having more food?”

  “The best it yet to come—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and mincemeat pie!” Joseph smiled, patted his belly and headed upstairs.

  The living room seemed too large a space for Zack to enjoy on his own, and with no Christmas tree here it looked forlorn. The spiced tea tasted good so, thinking he might like more, he lifted the tea tray and returned to the den. Looking for another ninety minutes of distraction before changing for dinner, he put wood on the fire, sank into the couch and grabbed the television remote.

  But from the mantel, Cynthia’s envelope drew his attention. Unable to resist its patient presence any longer, he pushed himself up from the deep cushions and walked to the fireplace to retrieve it. He felt something small and heavy slide along its interior, surprised it contained more than just a note. He ripped the envelope open to discover a gold key ring folded in Cynthia’s stationery.

  A key! Oh, no, he said to himself. A ploy to initiate reconciliation? He might entertain the idea. But he did not want the commitment that receiving someone’s key implied. He opened her note. It was brief—thank goodness. He sat down to read it.

  Dear Zackery,

  I apologize for not joining you and your family today. I think it’s best this way. A new year is about to begin, and it seems like a good time for each of us to make a new start. To keep things simple, I’ll just say I am grateful for all our good times, and I’m sorry for our bad times.

  As to the enclosed—I found it in one of the boxes I used to pack my belongings at your house. I’ve never seen it before and can’t imagine how it got mixed up with my things. I’m very sorry if it’s something you’ve been looking for.

  Merry Christmas, Zackery. Take good care ,

  Cynthia

  Zack sat in morose silence. In the more than two years he’d known her, he’d never sensed the self-possessed calm and aloof independence permeating her letter. Swamped with shame that he’d assumed her note would be some sort of plea to win him back, he tried his best to let it become a window into a more sparkling Cynthia than the one he thought he knew.

  James bustled into the den to stoke the fire and clear dishes. After adding a log and stirring the embers back to life, he gathered cups and saucers. As he lifted the heavy silver tray, he brought his eyes to bear on Zackery, who seemed transfixed by Miss Cynthia’s letter. “Shall I bring some more tea, Mr—” James broke off in mid-sentence, his eyes fastened on the key ring dangling from Zackery’s finger.

  Balancing the tray before the china went shattering to the floor, James excused himself and rushed back to the kitchen. As the tray clattered to the kitchen counter, he exhaled and clutched the butcher-block edge for support.

  The key! his mind shouted. In Miss Cynthia’s letter!

  Wildly casting about for theories, James leapt at the idea that he himself must have dropped it in Master Zackery’s cottage. But that didn’t make sense. It wasn’t as though he carried the key around with him. It had a permanent home in the miniature chest of drawers on his own desk.

  What the key opened was, of course, hidden in plain sight. That had been Mrs. C.’s idea. She wanted to write her son a letter, something special to be read years later. She’d suggested placing it in the base of the family clock.

  A handsome piece carved from mahogany, the large mantel clock rested on a base that disguised a locking compartment. Two keyholes adorned the front of the clock: into the top hole, the winding key was inserted once a week; the bottom keyhole was never used. Since James was the keeper of all the keys—and the winder of the clock—it made sense he’d been given the second key as well, the one that sealed the secret compartment.

  But how did the key ever leave my desk?

  Of course! James pinched the bridge of his nose. When the photographers from Architectural Digest had visited the estate last year, they’d moved things around. It had taken him weeks to replace chairs in their proper rooms, paperweights on the correct desks. . . . That had to be it. They’d wanted to move his miniature chest to Mr. Zackery’s cottage. They’d completed their photography sessions and brought it back. But somewhere during the process, the key ring must have fallen out. Then last month, when Miss Cynthia cleared out her belongings, she’d swept it up un-aware.

  “Sometime it will show itself.” Mrs. C.’s words came back to him as though she were speaking them now. “When it does, that’ll be the time.”

  Perhaps she’d been right all those years ago.

  Image

  When Zackery walked into the kitchen, James wasn’t surprised. Meeting his eyes with an even gaze, he waited fo
r the question, knowing it would come.

  “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 love
ly 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.