Back inside her home, Mrs. Fortini had just managed to pry loose her left boot. Her feet ached from the chill. Patrick, still fully covered in his winter gear, was standing by the living room window, admiring the snow. Suddenly Patrick yelled, startling her. “Miss Townsend!” He looked briefly at Mrs. Fortini. “It’s Miss Townsend’s car; she’s next door.” He ran out the front door.
“What? Patrick? Patrick, wait!”
“Miss Townsend,” he yelled. “Over here. I’m over here.” She didn’t seem to hear him, his voice swallowed by the wind. He ran down the porch stairs, slipping on the third one. It threw him headlong into the snow. He didn’t care. He picked himself up, brushing off the snow, and ran down the driveway. The snow was falling so hard he could barely see the outline of her car as it pulled away. Patrick tried to move into the street to get in line with her rearview mirror, but a snowbank blocked his way. “Miss Townsend, wait!” he yelled one last futile time.
He couldn’t believe he missed her.
If only he had stayed in his room, like he was supposed to, he would have been there when she came to visit. It was like God was punishing him for sneaking out without asking. He buried his face into his mittens and cried, then sat down in the snowbank.
A few moments later, he was being lifted out of the snow. He looked up to find Mrs. Fortini smiling down at him. “C’mon, Patrick,” she said. “Let’s get you back to your grandfather’s.” Her black hat and hair were speckled with snow. She pulled him close to her side as they closed the distance. The wind sounded like howling wolves.
Mrs. Fortini was opening his grandfather’s vestibule door when suddenly a nice thought came to him, melting his sadness away. Miss Townsend must have come to tell them that his father was almost home. Why else would she have come all the way out here in a snowstorm? If he wasn’t home, he must be close. Maybe she came to tell them where to pick him up and when.
Once inside the door, Patrick instantly knew something was wrong. His grandfather seemed upset, not happy. Mrs. Fortini was talking quietly with him, like she didn’t want Patrick to hear. She quickly ushered him past his grandfather and took off his winter clothing in the dining room.
“Here, you sit here and I’ll get you a nice glass of milk. Are there any cookies left from the plate I brought over?”
Patrick nodded, his eyes still on his grandfather. He was sitting in his favorite chair, slouching badly, as if a single motion would cause him to slide to the floor. His cigar was hanging from his mouth in its usual place, but unlit. His eyes stared straight ahead at some fixed spot on the wall. Beside his ashtray was a bottle of some kind and an empty glass lying on its side.
Patrick turned and watched Mrs. Fortini as she set three large cookies in front of him and a cold glass of milk. It was so close to dinner, he thought. Why would she want him to eat cookies? She walked back into the living room and stood in front of his grandfather, blocking Patrick’s view. Why was his grandfather acting so strangely?
Then it came to him. His grandfather didn’t like his dad. That’s why he was upset. Patrick’s father was coming home, and his grandfather was upset because he didn’t want to see him.
Patrick smiled, just a little. He didn’t like seeing his grandfather upset, but if it meant his father would be home soon . . . He took a bite of the cookie. They were talking now, arguing quietly about something. Mrs. Fortini was so nice. She was probably scolding him for not being happier about his son coming home from the war. Making sure he didn’t do anything to spoil Patrick’s surprise.
As Patrick ate the second cookie, he thought he should run right up the stairs and start getting his things together. Should he ask to get up? Should he wait until they were done talking? He couldn’t wait another minute. He ran through the living room and scrambled up the stairs.
“Patrick,” Mrs. Fortini called. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” he yelled, crossing the hallway into his bedroom. He closed the door so he could be alone. He looked at his parents’ picture, thrill rising in his heart. “Mom, I’m not going to be alone much longer. Daddy’s almost home. Miss Townsend was just here.”
He shifted his gaze to his father’s eyes. “I’ll be home very soon, son,” he imagined him saying, clear as a bell. “You can count on it.”
This was terrible. Beyond terrible.
Mrs. Fortini stared at the telegram on the end table; she could read the words plainly, her vision about the only thing age hadn’t captured. Only three words mattered: MISSING IN ACTION. Instantly, she had felt the same heaviness that flooded her soul the day she’d received her news about Frankie.
Poor Shawn, she thought. God, where is he now? Is he in heaven with you? In a prison camp somewhere? She looked at the pathetic expression on Collins’s face; he looked like a truly tortured man. At least she was able to release her grief, to allow others to share the burden with her. But he was so proud, so self-reliant. His heart had no place to go.
Patrick was safely upstairs. The longer the better, she thought. Somehow, she’d have to get Collins sobered up. She looked at the whiskey bottle. He was barely sober. Her only hope would be to talk him into sleeping it off. Maybe she could bring Patrick home with her for dinner. With this storm, he would have to stay the night.
“Are you through staring at me, Mrs. Fortini?” mumbled Collins. “’Cause if you are, I’ve got some dinner to make for the boy.” He sighed heavily.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Collins, about the telegram.” She was whispering, hoping he’d catch the hint and do the same.
Collins’s head turned in the direction of the end table but stopped short of focusing on the telegram. “Thanks. Of all people, I know you understand.” A long, awkward pause. “What with your loss, I mean.”
“I saw that Miss Townsend leaving just before we came in. Did she have anything to say?”
An angry look instantly grabbed hold of his face. “Nothing of importance.”
He began to sit up sloppily. She wondered if he was about to fall forward and took a step back. “Nothing more about Shawn?”
“No,” he said curtly. “Could we not talk about her just now?” He stood up and, after a few moments, managed to straighten his posture.
“That’s fine,” she said in a gentle voice. She was sure a man like Collins would be an angry drunk, best not to stir him. “But how about if you let me fix Patrick dinner? Give you a little time to yourself.”
“I can do it,” he snapped.
“I know you can. No one is saying you can’t—”
“A Collins always does his duty.” His glassy focus seemed to look beyond her. “My boy Shawn did his duty, just like a Collins should.” He looked down at the bottle then made an effort to find her face again.
It was nice to hear him say something kind about Shawn for a change.
“Look what it got him. Shot down dead by the Nazis.”
“Mr. Collins. Don’t say that. You don’t know that. And please lower your voice. Do you want Patrick to hear?”
“He’s got to find out sometime.”
“But not this way. You need to get ahold of yourself.” He stood there looking at her, as though trying to grasp what she said. “You’re right, Shawn did his duty like a good Collins. And right now he needs you to do yours. I know how much you’re hurting right now. I’ve been there, remember? But you’ve got to put Patrick first. That’s what Shawn would have wanted.” Oh, why did she say that? Now she was talking as if he were dead. But it seemed to have the right effect.
“Duty. You’re right.” He even managed a strange sort of smile.
“What are you doing?”
Collins had put his arm around her waist and began to shepherd her toward the door. “You’ve already got your coat and boots on. Here’s your hat. I’ve got dinner to make. Can’t do it standing here talking with you.”
“But I offered to—”
“I know, and I appreciate the offer, but I can manage dinner just fine. It’ll give me something to do. Take my mind off—” He opened the front door. A burst of icy wind blasted them both. It was still snowing. The storm had picked up in intensity.
Mrs. Fortini realized that once she went outside, there’d be no chance to come back for Patrick. At least not tonight. And if the snow kept up this way, maybe not in the morning either. She stepped back, resisting his arm. “Mr. Collins, I really think you should have some time alone. Let me make Patrick’s dinner.”
“Nonsense. Look at it out there. He goes to your house, he’d have to stay the night. We’ll be fine.” He continued to push her toward the door.
She dug in her heels and turned to face him. Wagging her finger in his face, she said, “I’ll go, but you’ve gotta promise me you won’t say a word about this telegram to Patrick.”
They both stood there as the temperature in the living room quickly began to drop.
“Promise me. You know it’s the right thing. If you care at all about Patrick, you’ve got to keep your grief from harming him. He’s already been through too much. I know you didn’t care for his mother, but at least try to imagine being a little boy who’s just lost his. The only hope he has left is seeing his father come through this door. Don’t take that away from him. Not until we know for sure what’s happened.”
Collins looked down; tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. Mrs. Fortini watched in amazement as he willed them away before they could fall down his cheeks.
“Promise me.”
“All right, I promise. Now will you go?”