Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 60, No. 1. Whole No. 344, July 1972

A Certain Gift by Charles Blessing{© 1972 by Charles Blessing.}

This is the 368th “first story” to be published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine... a moving little tale about a runaway boy...

The author, Charles Blessing, was 36 when he submitted “A Certain Gift,” and fully aware, he wrote, of his “late start.” But he’s a persevering man, God bless(ing) him. Believe it or not, he received 162 rejection slips before we accepted his “first story,” and never lost his determination to be published. Almost needless to say in these circumstances, he has “an understanding wife who, when I start kicking the dog or cat around, still pats me gently on the head and speaks encouragingly.” His literary tastes “run all the way from Charles Dickens at his worst to Raymond Chandler at his best,” and you can always tell a lot about a person when you. know that person’s reading preferences...

As Gordon sped round the curve he saw the child, clearly and distinctly outlined against the sky, rising above the crest of the steep hill just ahead. Then the boy disappeared, sinking below the horizon into shadow as he walked steadily toward the onrushing patrol car.

The state policeman passed him and was all the way down the other side before he found a place to turn around. When he caught up, he drove on past a few feet and pulled over to the side of the road. The boy walked up to the car and stood waiting, peering in without saying a word.

Gordon stared back. The last remnants of twilight were gone and the turnpike was deserted. “You’re walking on the wrong side of the road,” the policeman said gruffly.

The boy remained silent, noncommittal. He was wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans, and seemed to be totally unaware of the crisp cold night air. About twelve years old, Gordon decided, tall and skinny for his age, with short-cropped blond hair, probably blue eyes.

“You a mute?” Gordon asked.

But the sarcasm was wasted. “No, sir,” the boy answered, the words rolling out on a stream of condensed air.

“I’m glad. Do you have a name?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gordon waited, then said, “What is it?”

“Charles. Charles Craig.”

“Mine’s Gordon. Manley Gordon. They call me Flash.”

“Are you going as far as Benton? It’s just down the road.”

“I know exactly where it is.”

“May I ride that far with you?”

Gordon gave a short laugh. “Get in, said the spider to the fly.”

While the boy walked around to the other side of the car, Gordon picked up the radio mike and spoke quickly to the dispatcher: “It’s nothing, Fred, but see if you’ve got a pickup on a Charles Craig, possible runaway. I’ll call you.”

“Ten-four,” Fred intoned.

The boy got in without having heard, and they moved off down the turnpike.

“Home for Christmas?” Gordon said after a bit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Been away long?”

“Ever since yesterday.”

“All that time.” Gordon glanced at the boy, who looked confused. “If you’re going home, you must be coming from somewhere.”

“Yes, sir.”

This one wasn’t exactly a mine of information, Gordon thought. “Where might that be?”

“Hot Springs.”

“That’s a hundred miles. Pretty far for a boy your size.”

“Too far.”

“I should think so. Know anyone there?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why bother?”

“The races, mostly.”

Gordon looked at the boy sharply. “Now, listen, Charles, they don’t let boys your age in to see the races by themselves.” For that matter, the track was closed this year. “There’s no reason for me not to take you all the way home, but you mustn’t tell stories. Don’t forget, I’m a trained police officer. I know all the answers before I even ask.”

“Then why bother?”

Gordon looked to see if he was being laughed at, then laughed at himself. “All part of the training. When in doubt, ask stupid questions.”

They drove along in silence for a while. From time to time the policeman would look at the boy, who kept his eyes steadily on the road ahead. Something about the child bothered him. He’d taken plenty of nervous young boys home before, and they all had some wild tale or other to tell. But it wasn’t that; it was something else, some ill-defined feeling Gordon couldn’t put his finger on.

“To tell the truth,” the boy suddenly volunteered, “we hopped a freight train over there.”

“Just hold it. Who is we?”

“My friend Eric. Eric Paul Bowen.”

“Of course. How stupid of me. Eric P. Bowen of Benton.”

“You know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He lives at the Children’s Home. He’s done it before, lots of times.”

They were beginning to enter the small village of Benton. “You’ll have to show me the way,” Gordon said.

“Turn left at Fernwood,” the boy instructed, “then go down Chatham four blocks.”

“Where is Eric P. Bowen now, Charles?” Gordon asked.

The boy hesitated. “He decided to stay,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean, stay?”

The boy continued to stare out the window as they moved along the quiet street. Here and there house lights were augmented by multicolored Christmas decorations. A light fog had set in, causing all the street lamps to project little blue and white halos. “It’s all right,” he said finally. “You see, he didn’t have any real home to come back to.” Then he shouted, “There it is!”

Gordon pulled up in front of a neat white frame house. A porch light was on, but there was no holly on the door, or any other sign that Christmas was being celebrated within. He turned to face the boy. “I think I’d better see you inside. They’re probably worried to death about you.”

“No!” the boy said in alarm. “It might spoil things.” He seemed agitated, ready to bolt from the car.

“It sure might, because you haven’t been telling me the truth, have you?”

“Not all of it, maybe. But it’s all right, Mr. Gordon, honest it is.”

“You two could have gotten into all kinds of trouble and you’re old enough to know it. As it is, now I’ve got to waste my valuable time finding out about your pal Eric.”

“Yes, sir, you do that!” the boy said, then quickly added, “But it’s Christmas, you said so yourself.”

“What if I did?” Gordon snapped, irritated by the boy’s impertinence. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that I believe in it.”

The boy flinched, as though he’d been slapped. “You don’t believe in Christmas?” he said in wonder.

“I believe in what I can see.” It was still there, that feeling he couldn’t rid himself of — and why was it making him sound so bitter?

“Some things you’ve got to believe in without seeing,” the boy said.

“That requires a — well, a certain gift,” Gordon said, “a certain kind of person.”

“My father said just one thing was enough. You could build on that, then everything else would fall in place. He told me that!” It sounded like a plea.

Was the boy lecturing him, Gordon wondered. At this point it was supposed to be the other way around. “It’s a nice thought,” he admitted. “Your father must be a very nice man.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said absolutely.

“All right, then,” Gordon relented, “you promise never to—”

“Yes, sir, I promise!”

Such a tired, hungry look on the boy’s face. “Okay, cowboy. Just don’t leave town again. See you around sometime.”

“Thanks, Mr. Gordon, and thanks for the ride.”

The boy was out of the car and running up the steps almost before Gordon had time to shift into gear and drive away. Kids, he thought, pulling back onto the turnpike, they’ll do and tell you anything these days.

Except that he remembered how he and Jim Rice had done almost the identical thing. And then spent most of the night trying to hitch a ride home. Finally they had given up and gone to sleep under a haystack till morning. A thousand years ago, it seemed now. Sleeping out in the open like that and not being the least bit afraid. You took a lot for granted when you were young. He felt a warm glow just remembering those good times.

You forget so much as the years rush by. Things that should be remembered always. Like what a wonderful thing it is just to be a child — something very different from being a man. How had the poet put it? To be a child is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief; to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything — for each child has its own fairy godmother already built into its soul.

He had told the boy it took a special gift to believe in belief. Yes, that was why he’d felt so bitter — a gift given to you as a child, then taken from you all too soon.

A speeding car flew past. Gordon, deep in thought, was jerked back to reality. He grabbed the mike from its holder.

“Fred, call Benton and tell them to watch out for some maniac in a blue sedan. Oh, and about the kid I called in to you. Check on an Eric Bowen from the Children’s Home there. The Craig boy is home safe and sound.”

The dispatcher’s voice came back loud and metallic. “I don’t think that’s funny, Flash.”

“What’s that, Fred?”

The patrol car swept under a group of high-voltage power lines. The radio crackled with a sudden surge of static, then went silent.

“What, Fred — what did you say?”

“Both those kids were found dead Christmas Eve in a gondola car, where a load of pipe shifted on them.”

As Gordon sped round the curve — for a moment, for one brief moment — he saw the child, clearly and distinctly outlined against the sky, rising above the crest of the steep hill just ahead.