Twelfth Angel (17 page)

“Mr. Harding, you came to see me! Wow! Mom, look, Mr. Harding is here!”

“Yes, I know. Isn’t that nice, dear?”

I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward, wrapped my
arms around him and kissed his cheek, then his forehead. He returned my kisses with both his arms around my neck.

“I knew you would come. I knew it! I knew it!”

I wiped at my face with the palms of my hands and handed him the two gift-wrapped boxes, which he immediately opened. “Oh, wow! Mom, look! Baseball cards! Hundreds of them! Neat! Here’s Bobby Bonds and here is … Wade Boggs! Wow! Thank you, Mr. Harding. Thank you.”

“Timothy, I would have come to see you before, but I didn’t even know you were sick. Honest. I’ve been working in Concord … long days … so I never knew until Doc Messenger told me.”

“Did he tell you that I was going to die?”

I didn’t know how to respond. Finally I just nodded.

He ran his tiny fingers through his blond hair and grinned. “But I got my wish, Mr. Harding. I prayed to God, you know. I asked God to let me play the whole schedule of games and get a hit, and I did … I did, thanks to you … and … and God.”

He reached under the blanket that covered the lower part of his body and held up his baseball glove. Then, as suddenly as he had awakened, his energy seemed to drain away and his eyes began to close. Within minutes he was sound asleep. I patted his arm, turned, and went over to his mother, who had been patiently sitting at the kitchen table, having left Timothy and I to our “men” talk.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Harding? I just made a pot.”

“I’d love a cup. Thanks.”

Sitting next to her, in that tiny kitchen, I felt so helpless. Then I remembered, reached into my inside jacket pocket and removed the brown envelope with the money. I slid it across the table toward Mrs. Noble, reached out for her hand, grasped it and placed it on top of the envelope.

“What’s this?” she asked.

I held her hand. “Just call it a little unemployment compensation, okay? Now, don’t say anything, please.”

I then reached back inside my jacket, removed my personal checkbook and ballpoint pen and wrote out a check to her. “And I would like you to use this, as you wish, so that you and Timothy can get whatever you need. Also,” I said, removing one of my business cards from my wallet and scribbling on the back, “here is my home phone number. You need anything, you call me, promise? The office number is on the front, and I’ll make arrangements so that if you phone me there, the call will get right through to me.”

She just sat and stared at me, shaking her head, looking completely confused. “Why are you doing all this for us? You hardly know us, Mr. Harding.”

“Mrs. Noble …”

“Peggy, please.”

“Peggy, when that little boy of yours came into my life, early this summer, I was about ready to end it.
Without my wife and son I had absolutely no desire to go on living. My life had no value at all to me, but Timothy’s courage and soaring spirit penetrated my blackest moments of despair, picked me up, brushed me off, taught me how to smile again, reminded me to count my blessings and encouraged me to deal with each day, one at a time. Timothy’s struggle on the diamond reminded me of the miracles any of us can accomplish when we refuse to give up. That little boy taught me how to live again. What’s my life worth? How can I put a price on Timothy’s salvage work? How could I possibly repay him for the candle he lit in my life? What price?”

I buried my head in my hands.

“Mr. Harding, sir …?”

Timothy had awakened. I rose, walked over to him and sat on the floor, next to the wheelchair. “Yes, Timothy?”

“Do you pray for your little boy?”

“I sure do.”

“Will you pray for me, too, when I’m dead?”

“Every time I pray for Rick, I’ll pray for you too.”

He nodded and smiled. “And as long as I’m here, will you still come to see me?”

“I promise.”

And I kept my promise, several times each week, even including Thanksgiving … and Christmas … and New Year’s … and Valentine’s Day.…

XV
 

T
imothy Noble died on April 7th.

He was buried in a plot not far from Sally and Rick.

As I had promised, one day I drove Peggy Noble to consult with the helpful saleslady at the monument company. Although I had told her that she was free to pick out any stone and size she wanted for Timothy, she finally selected a piece of dark-gray granite in the shape of a small obelisk, on which she had engraved:

TIMOTHY NOBLE

March 12, 1979   April 7, 1991

I never, never, never gave up!

On Memorial Day, early in the afternoon, I visited Maplewood Cemetery and lovingly placed a wicker basket of pink Simplicity roses close to the red stone marking
Sally and Rick’s resting-place. After several prayers I remained on my knees for I don’t know how long before I finally rose and walked slowly to Timothy Noble’s grave. I knelt near the side of his gray stone, close enough to touch it, and removed from a paper bag the baseball glove I had given Timothy. At my request his mother had returned it to me, a few hours ago, without any questions. Now I placed it at the front of the stone with the base of the glove spread widely so that it stood balanced on the grass with its leather fingers pointed upward as if they were reaching for heaven with a small hand still inside.

“Thank you, little guy, for being
my
angel of hope and courage. I’ll always love you, and every time I take a breath, I owe you a little more.”

Sometime during the warm days of summer baseball, three years hence, the township of Boland will celebrate their opening of a new public library. All the arrangements have been finalized for it to be erected on the site of the old one that was destroyed by fire. I have already taken care of all the financial details.

The library will be called the Harding-Noble Public Library—and in its carpeted foyer will hang separate oil paintings …

 … paintings of two little boys.