A Gift of Time Page 2

  I had been so devastated then that I couldn’t bring myself to part with his things, so I’d spent the day away from the house and asked Carter to do it. I knew she would have donated his clothes and shoes to charity, which meant I was going to find even more personal items in this box. Mementos she, or Grizz, thought should be kept. I couldn’t blame either one for what I might find. I’d wanted no part of it. I remembered tasking Chicky with packing up Moe’s belongings many years earlier. Clearly, I had a difficult time staring at tangible reminders of painful events.

  But there would be no escaping it today.

  I swallowed the lump that was beginning to form in my throat and opened the box. The cardboard at first resisted but then opened easily. I peered into it and inhaled deeply, making a conscious effort to release my breath and inhale again. My hands shook as I pulled out the first item. Clutching it tightly I had to loosen my grip so I didn’t snap it in half. It was a record album still encased in a pristine cardboard jacket. My Barry White album.

  Memories attacked my senses. I could feel the hot water as my hands stiffened in the motel’s tiny kitchen sink all those years ago. I could smell the clean, fresh scent of the soap coming from the sponge I’d been using. I could see Chowder’s homemade strainer sitting on the drain board. I could feel the gentle and feathery kiss Grizz left on my temple. And I could hear Barry White crooning to “Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up” as I led Grizz back to the bedroom. I gulped and heard myself whisper out loud, “You saved it.”

  No, stop it, Ginny! Don’t do this to yourself. I laid the album to the side and reached in for the next item. I couldn’t tell what it was at first but immediately recognized the soft plushness of a stuffed animal. Grizz had a stuffed animal? I stared at the small toy for a second. It was a little gorilla, and I was transported back to a happy memory. On one of our many midnight dates, Grizz had taken me to a zoo. The night caretaker, who owed Grizz a favor, told us we only had two hours to ourselves before other employees would be reporting to work.

  We had wandered through several parts of the zoo when we stopped at the gorilla exhibit to read the names and histories of some of the primates. One stuck out. Apparently, the silver back, or alpha leader of the group, was a big nasty gorilla named Grizz. I’d teased him about it for months after that date. As we were leaving the zoo, Grizz had jumped over a railing to get to a beautiful rose bush. He snapped some off, not even noticing the thorns had drawn blood from his hands. He had quickly removed his T-shirt and wrapped the roses in it. I remembered holding those roses and smelling them in the car during the drive home. The memory was so fresh I felt like I could still smell them. I looked down now, noticed something dangling from the stuffed toy’s wrist. It was a card with a picture of a gorilla cradling a tiny kitten to its chest.

  I carefully opened it and read what was neatly printed inside. “Happy Birthday. I love you, baby.” It was signed, “Grizz.”

  I was holding a birthday gift he’d never given me because he was arrested. I felt my chest tighten. There was more handwriting at the bottom, but it was smaller and hard to see in the dim light of the little bedroom. I squinted. “I’m taking you to our special place tonight. Please wear them for me.”

  Wear what? I knew our special place. It was a little dive down by the docks called Vincent’s. But what was I supposed to have worn? I looked back at the little gorilla and couldn’t tell if I was missing something. Then I noticed them. The gorilla had a diamond stud earring in each ear. I’d almost missed them because of the thickness of the fur. That’s what he’d wanted me to wear to my birthday dinner. Diamond earrings. Oh, Grizz. Why would you do this to me? Or rather, why would I let you do this?

  With a trembling hand, I laid the toy down and swiped at the tears that were starting to form again. Without looking, I reached into the box and latched on to the first thing my hand came into contact with. I pulled it out and stared. A slingshot. It wasn’t the store-bought kind. This one looked like it was handmade out of wood, some kind of tree branch, and a heavy-duty rubber band. I’d seen Grizz teach some kids how to properly use a slingshot once. Tommy had told me the story about how Grizz had been out squirrel hunting the day his little sister had died. Maybe he’d used a slingshot that day. Had this been his? Why had I never seen it?

  I gently laid the slingshot on the bed next to the album and stuffed animal. One more item was at the bottom of the box, and this one I recognized immediately. It was a small black bag with a zipper running up the center. It was familiar because I’d bought it for him. It was a shaving bag. I’d presented it to him one Christmas and stocked it with necessities. His favorite— or rather my favorite—cologne that he always wore, razors, shaving cream, deodorant, scissors, and other manly items. I started to unzip it and hesitated. What if his cologne was in it? I didn’t think I could handle remembering how he smelled right then. Don’t open it.

  But I knew I had to. I sat down on the bed and reached into the worn leather bag. I took out the single item it contained. And even though I didn’t remember the incident, I knew exactly what I was seeing.

  It was a box of bandages. They were old and sported an outdated logo. The box was dented, yellowed and worn, but it was recognizable.

  They were the bandages I had given Grizz back in 1966.

  Chapter Two

  Grizz

  1988, Prison, North Florida

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning. Grizz carried himself in a sure and confident manner through the prison’s dimly lit halls, not noticing as the janitor and laundry attendant, also inmates, avoided eye contact with him.

  He was the only man on death row who was given free rein to take a stroll through the maximum-security prison in the middle of the night. He rarely took advantage of this privilege during the day. He didn’t like calling attention to himself. But at night, he needed to get out of his cell. To stretch his legs; try to feel a little normal. In the short time he’d been here, he’d discovered the library was his refuge. He usually visited it sometime between eleven and midnight, but tonight he had been so engrossed in the book he was reading he hadn’t realized the time. Eleven? Two? It didn’t matter. The room was always empty after hours, and he liked taking his time perusing the bookshelves. He’d recently discovered he loved to read. Shit, what else was he going to do in this place? Blue was handling things on the outside and usually called him or made the trip for a face to face for any important issues. He had no pending responsibilities, so he needed an occupation—reading it was.

  It was getting harder and harder to get messages to Blue unnoticed. Even with his clout, Grizz didn’t like to be obvious about some things. Communicating with Blue was one of them. Carter would have her animal ministry set up soon enough, and he would use the dogs to get messages to her, and she would, in turn, get them anonymously delivered. She was a smart one, and he was glad he’d stepped in all those years ago and helped her with the man who’d been stalking her. He’d done it for Kit, not realizing then how useful it would prove to be.

  He quietly let himself in the library and immediately noticed he wasn’t alone. He silently ducked behind a shelf and peered between them to see another inmate who sat behind a large glass window in the tiny library office and typed on a computer. Grizz could hear the keys clacking as the screen illuminated the man’s face. Grizz looked closer and recognized him as a kid from the chow hall. Grizz didn’t know his name. “Pretty” is what the other inmates called him. Grizz could understand why. He had very soft, feminine features. He was tall and slender and had eyebrows that seemed more naturally arched than most females, and he had very little, if any, facial hair. He also had a full head of brown hair that curled on the ends as it framed his youthful face. Yeah, he was a real beauty by prison standards.

  One of Pretty’s jobs was to stand by the garbage cans to sort and dump the trays after the inmates were finished and headed out of the chow hall. He never spoke to or looked anyone in the eye. Grizz wondered what he was in for, an
d now wondered what he was doing in the library in the middle of the night. Grizz swiped a hand over his smooth head, mourning the long locks he’d purposely shaved, then tugged at his beard. Didn’t matter why the boy was here. After tonight, he would belong to Grizz.

  He left the library as quietly as he had entered and returned to his cell.

  The next day, Grizz was sitting in the chow hall. It wasn’t his habit to eat with the general prison population, but he had on a few occasions. Today he used the time to sit back and observe. It was his prison, his turf, and he liked to watch, to listen, to be a presence. It didn’t take him long to establish himself as the penitentiary’s new inmate authority. He sat at a table that was close to Pretty but kept his back to him. He listened to the comments from the other inmates as they handed Pretty their trays. Some were engaged in conversations with each other. Some didn’t say anything. Others used the opportunity to taunt the young prisoner.

  Grizz observed through his peripheral vision as the line started to build up. It was time to make himself known. And he wanted an audience.

  Purposely, he went to the back of the line, then wordlessly made his way to the front as the other men stepped aside and let him pass. As he got to the front, he listened as two men who hadn’t noticed his approach spoke to Pretty.

  “You still taking care of that rodent you call ‘Buddy’?” One of them, a heavyset dark-haired guy, leered at Pretty.

  No answer.

  “Awwww, Pretty is embarrassed that he doesn’t have any friends, Psycho. He’s like that weirdo in that movie. What was it called? The one about a kid who fell in love with a rat.”

  There was some snickering, and Psycho crossed his arms. “Ben. The movie was called Ben. You sing your little rat buddy lullabies like Michael Jackson did?” He took a step forward. “You can sing ‘em to me when I get you in the shower later.”

  Still no answer.

  Grizz had heard enough.

  “Move the fuck out of my way,” Grizz said slow and low, shoving the two inmates out of his path.

  Grizz tossed his tray at Pretty and purposely took his time perusing the young guy from his head to his feet. He noticed Pretty’s nametag read “Petty.” So that was his last name. Grizz could understand how it had eventually turned into Pretty.

  In a voice that made it clear there would be no challenges, he said for those within earshot, “He’s mine now. Only mine.”

  Pretty's face turned pale.

  Without making eye contact with any of them, he headed back to his cell.

  Chapter Three

  Mimi

  1997, Fort Lauderdale

  Mimi sat back on her bed, the plump pillows cushioning her against the sturdy headboard.

  “Done!” she exclaimed out loud to herself.

  She had just put the finishing touches on a poem she had written for her parents. They had an anniversary coming up, and she wanted to surprise them. She had recently discovered she had a knack for writing, which she loved. Her teacher had encouraged her after she wrote an essay that focused on a poor migrant family who’d overcome insurmountable odds and found a new life in the U.S. Mrs. Horan had been impressed when she’d read the level of detail Mimi delivered in the essay, and she questioned her about her research. Talking with Mrs. Horan, Mimi had realized she not only loved writing about the family, but she thrived on the research, on digging in to find details someone else might’ve missed. Her teacher suggested she think about going into journalism. “You’re still young and can change your mind, but when you have a passion for something, it shows in your work,” her teacher had told her. “I see that passion in you, Mimi.”

  Mimi tucked the poem for her parents into her nightstand drawer, slipped off her bed, and bent down to pull something from under her mattress. It was her secret journal, another something she could credit to Mrs. Horan. Earlier in the school year, Mimi had taken Mrs. Horan’s advice and started writing down her thoughts and dreams. She even had some short stories in her journal. She was still too shy to share her words with her family. Her newfound love of writing was her secret. She was going to present the poem to her parents for their anniversary and gauge their reaction. She loved and trusted her parents, and even though they encouraged her in every way possible, she was still not confident enough to share something she considered so intimate.

  Absently, she tugged at her earring and smiled as she tried to envision their response. “Mimi, we didn’t know you had this talent in you! Why have you been hiding this for so long?”

  She daydreamed about what she wanted her parents’ reaction to be, but because she couldn’t be certain, she decided to keep her journal and her dreams of writing to herself. At least for now.

  She took a few minutes to write some thoughts down about how excited she was to present the poem, but she had something else to do. And since she only had the house to herself for another hour, she had to work fast and make the time count.

  She closed her book and slipped it back between her mattress and box spring, tidied her bedspread, and walked to her bedroom door. Before opening it, she kissed the Titanic poster that was hanging on the back.

  “When I’m a famous journalist, Leonardo DiCaprio, you’ll be begging me to interview you!”

  And with the innocence and excitement of a twelve-year-old on the brink of a future with endless possibilities, she headed for her parents’ bedroom. She had some research to do.

  **********

  Inside their darkened bedroom, she hunted. Where would it be? They had to keep it somewhere, and she’d had no luck at all going through her father’s office.

  She stood in the center of her parents’ walk-in closet and surveyed the shelves. There were boxes on each one, but they were labeled neatly with their contents. Not a single box referred to personal papers or anything similar. Think, Mimi. You want to be an investigative journalist. Investigate. A marriage certificate is personal and something to treasure. Where would you keep something you treasured? Maybe with something else you treasured? She allowed her mind to wander while she imagined presenting her parents with this special gift and her poem.

  When she’d noticed a silver-plated teaching certificate on Mrs. Horan’s wall, she’d gotten the idea to have something made for her parents. Her teacher was only too happy to help her. She’d saved her allowance and babysitting money for years with the plan to spend it on something special. Now she knew what it would be. Mrs. Horan told her the personalized plaque would be expensive, and Mimi was thrilled to know she had enough to cover it. But she had a hurdle. She had to bring her parents’ Marriage Certificate to Mrs. Horan so she could have the plaque made.

  Where, where, where? She came out of the closet and slowly scanned the master bedroom. Her eyes landed on her mother’s nightstand. A lamp, alarm clock, hand lotion, and a book. The Bible. Her mother’s most cherished possession. Maybe it was folded up in the Bible.

  She sat on the edge of the bed as she lovingly ran her hand over the front of the holy book. She smiled when she saw the initials that had been embossed on the bottom right-hand corner. G.L.D. They were so small they were barely noticeable and hard to see against the deep brown leather unless you were looking for them. She knew the history behind this Bible. Her father had told Mimi how he had presented it to her mother for her sixteenth birthday and how the printer had made a mistake. It should have read G.L.L., but Ginny wouldn’t let Tommy have it replaced back then. Maybe she knew she was going to marry him one day. Mimi hugged herself. It was fate.

  Mimi smiled as she brought herself back from the romantic memory and softly fanned through the pages of the Bible. Two cards fell out, each containing Scriptures in Ginny’s handwriting. She hoped they weren’t marking anyplace special and returned them to where she guessed they went. She noticed her mother’s neat handwriting in some of the margins on the pages she was flipping through. Almost every single page had a notation. She turned back to the beginning and noticed the first few pages. It was where you coul
d fill in your personal information. Marriages, births, deaths. She smiled as she saw where her and Jason’s names had been recorded, along with the day they were born. Her mother also had notations of when they made First Holy Communion and other important dates.

  Her parents’ names were written in with their wedding date, and beneath it was a verse from Scripture. It was Matthew 11:25. Maybe it was a Scripture someone had read at their wedding. Mimi had been to weddings and knew people did that all the time. A backup plan began to form in her mind in case she wasn’t able to find their marriage certificate. Maybe she could do something with this Scripture. Surely they would remember a Scripture that had been read at their wedding. She quickly flipped to the New Testament and, finding the page she’d been looking for, read the words out loud: “At that time Jesus said, ‘I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.’”

  She looked up from the Bible and was puzzled. What in the world could her parents’ marriage have to do with Jesus telling God about things He’d kept hidden? What could this Scripture have to do with anything? There was no reference to marriage that she understood, unless she just wasn’t getting it. She reread the Scripture slowly and this time noticed some numbers in the margin next to it. 23-07-15. Her eyes darted back and forth from the Scripture to the numbers. The numbers, the Scripture. The words. One word.

  Hidden.

  She broke into a wide grin when she realized what she’d discovered. She couldn’t be positive until she tried it out, but she was pretty sure she knew what she was looking at. A lock combination. Or in this case, she hoped, a safe combination. Was this her mother’s way of remembering the combination to the safe in her father’s office downstairs? She’d heard her mother claim many times she could be forgetful. Mimi heard her father telling her mother one time she purposely forgot about his business dinner because she subconsciously didn’t want to go. He said something about how she had a mental block about things she didn’t want to deal with.