ALL GOOD GIFTS
sequel to "Yesterday..."
ACT I "Elementary, my dear..."
She was grading papers, leaning over the desk, her glasses within reach. It had been a long day, and she yearned to sink into a bubblebath, but she had scheduled a conference and like all busy parents everywhere, he was late.
He snapped the door smartly behind him so that it startled her. She recovered her composure quickly, a professional trait that stood her in good stead with fourth graders.
"Mr. Kuryakin," she greeted him with a kind smile. "I'd know you anywhere from your picture," she pointed to Virginia's very original masterpiece.
He cut to the quick. "Miss Donnelly, I monitor my daughters' homework and grades quite closely. I have not seen any cause for concern, nor for this meeting."
She took a long breath. She was used to wielding authority in her own classroom, and would not be bullied by this-this-Parent.
"Please sit down, Sir. You're correct. Virginia's scholastic work is consistently excellent. She is especially skilled in reading, and demonstrates an advanced understanding of classic literature."
"We read together every night. Obviously her studies are not what concern you. I find it difficult to believe her behavior could be a problem."
She flushed. Was the man deliberately trying to provoke her? "Certainly not. Virginia is a sweet, sensitive child."
"Then I fail to see why you summoned me here."
"Mr. Kuryakin, Virginia seems to feel responsible for the emotional well being of your entire household. That's a big burden for a little girl…" She spoke calmly and kindly. "I've read her records and talked to her former teachers. I understand that her mother left the family under tragic circumstances. Virginia needs to talk to someone."
"My daughters can always come to me." End of story.
He was defensive. She was persistent.
"I'm sure that's true. But sometimes a girl needs feminine perspective. Perhaps an auntie, a friend's mother, a female… companion…?"
"The girls and I have each other. It's all we have, and it's all we need. Her sister is doing just fine."
"I've spoken to Natalie's teachers. They agree that she is a cheerful and uncomplicated child. But Virginia, well, she's a bit young to be in the throes of adolescent melancholia."
"I did not realize one is required to have a psychology degree to teach 4th grade."
She was blushing again. "I don't-"
"Then kindly refrain from diagnosing my daughter. I suggest you limit your duties to spelling and arithmetic."
"I don't need a degree to see when a child is suffering. Please, don't let your stubbornness and pride-" she knew she had gone too far. He looked scalded.
His voice was low and under deadly control. "How dare you presume to know what our family has been through, or judge how we have handled it. I think it wise that Virginia transfer to another classroom for the remainder of the year."
"Oh, no, please!" Meg Donnelly was a proud woman, but never hesitated to beg for her children. "Take me to the principal's office, or before the school board, but please don't move Virginia. She needs security."
He was moved by her offer of sacrifice for his child. "I'll consider your suggestion, Miss Donnelly."
The flowers arrived the next day. She did not understand how he had gotten her address. She was unlisted and the school would never have given out personal information. And how did he know she liked white violets and baby's breath? The note read "Recent behavior notwithstanding, I am not a bully. Thank you for the insight into my daughter's heart. Forgive me. Virginia's father."
Virginia was at her regular desk Monday.
# # # # #
Twenty-five children engaged in a wild game of tag, while the grown-ups huddled around the bonfire with mugs of steamy-sweet cider. "Hold still," Miss Donnelley said, and she playfully plucked stray strands of straw from the Russian's hair. "I'm so glad you could chaperone our field trip, Mr. Kuryakin. Virginia has been more relaxed lately, and I know it means a lot to her, that you are here."
"I confess I've never been on a traditional American hay ride." He was more relaxed, too.
It was a brilliantly sensual autumn afternoon, the air crisp with the perfume of harvest, trees scarlet and gold. It was as if Illya's senses were re-awakening to life. The three years since his wife's unexplained suicide had been like slogging through a constant fog, colorless, heavy, obscure.
Recently, he had been aware that flavors were re-asserting themselves on his tongue. Ellie Waverly rejoiced. He tended to be thin, but that first year had become nearly skeletal.
Sessions with Dr. Teddy Mason, and the unflagging friendship of Napoleon Solo, helped him recover some sense of stability. He was finally able to give himself permission to survive.
Kuryakin was noticing a lot of things today : Miss Donnelly's curly black hair tangling in the breeze; how her eyes gleamed green in the firelight; how she smelled deliciously of apples and meadow grass (although he could attribute that to the orchard); how her voice was clear and bright as winter bells.
They were all holding hands around the fire, swaying and singing endless verses of Kum By Yah, when he realized how reluctant he was to see the day end.
As she herded the class back into the yellow bus, he noticed she was favoring one foot, her smile twisting to conceal pain. He walked over to offer assistance. "Did you twist it on the trail?" he asked with concern.
"No," she forced a smile," just a gift, a souvenir of an accident years ago."
ACT II Stormy Weather
It was an October rain, dark, bone-chilling. Kuryakin was stopped at a light, idly scanning the street when he spotted her huddled under the absurd cotton-candy umbrella. "Miss Donnelly is it?" he called. "May I give you a ride?"
Meg peered through the car window and without hesitation she slid in beside him and snapped the umbrella shut in a single graceful motion.
"Thank you, Virginia's Father," she sniffled and dripped.
"Where may I take you?"
"I can catch the 5:45 at 27th street."
"Nonsense. It's too cold and wet and dark for that."
"Well.. .I live at Primrose Hill, off the expressway."
He slid the car into gear and felt compelled to make conversation. "Everyone is grumbling about the weather..."
"Oh, I love it."
He glanced at her sideways.
"Well, not the weather per se, but how sogged and chilly you get, how wonderfully cozy it is to come home to warmth and light. A pot of soup simmering, soft piano music, a bubblebath...I'm certain you've had your share of inclement weather. Virginia said you studied in England."
When he pulled up the drive to Primrose Hill, the blond frankly stared at the grand old Tudor home. Not on a teacher's salary...
It was as if Miss Donnelly could read his mind. "Not on a teacher's salary, of course. It's my husband's home."
And suddenly Illya's vision of adorable Miss Donnelly and her damp black curls, glowing in the candlelight in the clawfooted tub of his imagination, evaporated-pop!-like the bubbles in her bath.
Meg reached over and took his hand tenderly. He couldn't pull away, because her green eyes were penetrating his. "Pain is a gift," she whispered. "It means you're alive."
And she limped into her door.
# # # # #
One of the perks of working for UNCLE was the access to information. Within thirty minutes the research department compiled a dossier on Meg Donnelly and delivered it to Kuryakin's office.
There were the usual stats:
Megan Marcella Tennyson, born Rochester, NY, 1962
Married 1985, Mark Francis Donnelly
Studied dance, L'academie des Arts, 1983-86 (grades, reviews, enclosed)
Drunk driving accident, 1986 (see NY Post articles, enclosed)
BA in Education, Taft College, 1989 (grades, awards, enclosed)
Advanced degrees studies, 1990-
Professional awards, 1996,1998 (enclosed)
The articles included a series from the NY Post, following the trial of Raiford Pennington III, 17. He was charged with vehicular homicide, reckless endangerment, and driving while under the influence.
Mark Donnelly, 26, teacher at St James Academy, was killed instantly when young Pennington ran a stop light and plowed into his car. Dance student Megan Donnelly was crushed in the metal accordion and it took rescue crews several hours to cut her free. She sustained multiple severe injuries.
Her attorney's poignant summation resulted in a criminal conviction, and a hefty cash settlement for the young widow.
There was a follow-up feature five years later. The reporter found Mrs. Donnelly teaching at St. James Elementary School, and completing her masters degree.
"I thought the court could give me closure-justice-Mark back. But I was empty. Bitterness and anger don't fill your soul, they consume it. I was shipwrecked, but I could cling to Mark's dream to keep me afloat, and take me safe to shore."
It explained so much. He put the file in his drawer. He hoped someday to reach her level of peace.
Then a sudden inspiration: maybe she could help him. It was a difficult notion for the independent, self-reliant Russian to entertain. But he would never have gone to Dr. Mason if Waverly had not made it a prerequisite to returning to work. So maybe this was a healthy sign: to admit need. To reach out for help.
Especially since the vodka wasn't working any more.
# # # # #
"Mrs. Donnelly, this is Mr. Kuryakin, Virginia's father."
"Yes-?"
"Mrs. Donnelly-well, there is no gracious way to put this. My good friend has unilaterally decided that it is time for me to re-enter the social world. If I go to his party Friday evening unaccompanied, he will assuredly "fix" me up. I am trusting that you are too merciful to leave me to that fate."
He held his breath, and she was so silent he wondered if perhaps she had fainted. "Mr. Kuryakin, perhaps we could help each other..."
ACT III "The Play's the thing..."
"If it would not imperil our Parent-Teacher Association status, may I say you look lovely?"
Meg smiled self-deprecatingly. "For a crippled old widowed school marm."
"No," he disagreed. " For a courageous lady."
"Not so courageous that I could endure this ballet alone," she admitted.
He shrugged. "It is difficult to face the past. Let me be your leaning post tonight."
The ballet was fair. Illya had always appreciated the blend of cat-like grace and exquisite timing that dance required. He glanced at his companion during the show. Even in the dark, he saw the tears trail silently down her cheek, but he had no mandate to comfort her. Their relationship (was it a relationship?) was tricky and tenuous and too new, so he pretended not to notice and spare her dignity.
After the show they went backstage to meet Meg's "old friend", who was more like a professional rival. It was she who sent Meg the tickets, almost crowing in cruelty. Illya sensed her cattiness from the moment they met.
"Yes, it's sooo exciting to be touring with Mme. Kornakova," she gushed. "And to be featured as 'Giselle'-wasn't that your signature role, Meg dear? I mean, before…well you know...such a pity that you can't dance anymore..."
Illya took two steps closer beside Meg. It had been a long time since he'd considered other people's feelings, so wrapped in his own misery. But now, he felt protective of this woman, wanting to absorb the meanness before it could touch her. Sacrifice? How long had it been since he'd manifested that?
Meg stood strong. "Well, Elise, if I only danced with my feet, I would've quit 10 years ago."
"That's true," the blond could not resist the baiting. He encircled Meg with his arms. "My Meg, she dances with her heart, her soul, her spirit, and her gorgeous green eyes," at which point Meg's eyes went round with surprise and she gave him a weak smile.
"Have you shown Elise pictures of the girls, Darling?" He was relishing his role. Kuryakin reached for his wallet and produced a string of photos. "This is Giselle, and this is Rosamonde. Well, do wish we could stay and chat, but, babysitters, you know," he shrugged, then added pointedly, "No, I guess you wouldn't. Shall I fetch the car, M'love?"
"It's such a lovely night, let's walk," Meg said quite determinedly.
"As you wish, Milady," and he swooped her up into his arms and carried her out into the night, in full view of audience, artists and attendants.
Not far down the street, he set her down gently. "Twit!" he muttered. "Now, everyone will be talking about you, and no one will fawn over her lackluster performance. She's too old to dance Giselle anyway. Snippy, self-absorbed cow. I'm glad you're not part of that world."
She smiled. "Tonight, I am too. Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. Your performance was better than Elise's."
"And Friday is your turn."
# # # # #
Solo greeted them at his door. "Illya, I'm so glad you decided to come. That subpoena sure came in handy." He was frankly evaluating Meg. "And your charming companion is-"
"Napoleon, I would like you to meet-"
"Giselle!" she dissolved into a fit of 4th-grade giggles that left Solo bewildered.
In a proprietary move, Illya put his arm around her. "She's always like this. I can barely get her to contain herself."
April Dancer sauntered over to check out the Russian's date. "However did you two meet?" she cooed. "Rumor has it the Ice Prince sleeps in a cryogenic chamber in his beloved lab."
In a proprietary move of her own, Meg gracefully but purposefully blocked her body between Illya and April. She looked the sultry spy dead in the eye, and without a smile, purred. "I picked him up at a PTA meeting."
"No, I picked you up at the ballet. Shall we demonstrate?" Kuryakin threatened to swoop her up again.
"I think it's too early to take our feet off the floor," she nestled against him
Ellie and Alexander Waverly had spotted them. "Behave yourself, Mrs. Donnelly. Here comes my boss, and his boss."
"Scaredy-cat," she whispered, and proceeded to charm them both.
Mark Slate strolled over with a brunette on his arm and elbowed Illya. "We need some mood music, Mate. Play something."
The reticent Russian hesitated. "I haven't practiced in a long time..."he protested, but other guests chimed in and he reluctantly sat at the bench.
Meg slid beside him. "You never told me you played."
"Technically, I've never told you my full name, my hat size, or my favorite color."
"Music is a gift. Play," she encouraged quietly.
He drew a deep breath and his hands hovered over the elegant keys. He warmed up to some Chopin exercises, moved into Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the final chord echoing in his soul.
"C'mon, Mate, I promised Cassie we'd dance."
Confidence growing, Illya began to pound the keys in a furious boogie-woogie beat, delighting the dancers. He shook the shaggy blond hair out of his eyes as the passionate, primitive music coursed through his veins and down his fingers, intensely aware of the woman beside him responding to his beat with every cell of her body. He raced through his repertoire of hot beat music and segued into cool, swaying jazz. Finally drained, he excused himself and guided Meg to the balcony to cool off.
They gazed straight into the starry city night, avoiding each other's eyes.
"I need glasses to read," he began. "Cats like me. I stir honey in my tea. I've never been to Niagara Falls. My hat size is classified. "
"Mr. Kuryakin, are we crossing a border here?" she asked softly, still looking into the distance. "Because I'm not very good at playing tourist."
He shook his head imperceptibly. "No, Mrs. Donnelly. I see you more as a pilgrim."
ACT IV "We gather together..."
Meg spotted him slouched in a chair. Asleep, but not peaceful; alone, as she knew he would be, in the corner of the waiting room. She would not disturb Kuryakin, just sit across from him and read quietly, be there.
When Virginia was absent Monday, Meg made a routine call home and Mrs. McCoy the faithful housekeeper told her about Virginia's appendix. Assured that the home front was secure, Meg filled a thermos with soup, grabbed a book, and dashed to Metro General.
After a couple hours, he startled awake violently, naked fear crossing his face til he oriented himself. Meg was the first thing he saw.
She knelt swiftly beside him. "It's all right-Virginia will be fine. The doctor will be by in 20 minutes. Have this," she poured.
"Thank you," he accepted the mug with both hands, relieved it was not more coffee. "Somehow, I'm not surprised you're here."
"I spoke to Mrs. McCoy. She's staying over, and Natalie's fine."
He breathed deeply and gratefully. "Are you always this organized and calm?"
"Only in other people's crises. I can only imagine how frightening-"
The mug began to tremble dangerously. She reached her hands around his to steady them. "She's fine. Virginia is fine," she repeated quietly.
All Illya could think of was the unreasoning panic that consumed him faced with his child's pain. How utterly vulnerable he was to loss. He had to change the subject and it was the only question that he could think to ask. "Why do you live in that big house?"
She took a moment to answer. "Mark chose it. He wanted a great big house to fill with babies."
"Someday-"
She looked at the floor. "No. No babies. Not ever."
"Surely-"
"We don't know each other well enough to discuss anatomy. Suffice it to say, my foot was not the only part crushed."
"I'm so sorry." For all the anxiety and expense and inconvenience of parenthood, Illya knew his life would be empty without Virginia and Natalie.
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. "Another gift," she murmured. "Just not the one I asked for. Still, 'Every good and perfect gift cometh down from the Father of lights, in whom there is no variableness, nor shadow of turning.'"
"St. James, of course."
"But I get twenty-five children every September, all gifts." Now it was her turn to change to subject. "Virginia should be home for Thanksgiving. That's a good gift. What have you planned for the holiday?"
"We haven't celebrated much these past few years," he conceded.
"I understand. The first few years after the accident, I spent all my holidays with my cousins in Quebec."
"That's nice."
"Not really. I don't particularly like them." She crinkled her nose and confided "I was just running away from home."
"We'll probably just watch the parade and eat turkey somewhere."
"I'll lend you my cousins," she offered. "You don't even have to return them." It was the first smile she coaxed onto his weary face.
The doctor appeared, and led to couple to Virginia's bedside. Kuryakin leaned over, and nuzzled behind his child's ear as if he needed physical assurance that his daughter was really there, safe.
Meg produced Virginia's beloved Pookie Bear from her bag, and snuggled it beside the sleeping child. "I'll pop by later, Mr. Kuryakin," she whispered.
# # # # #
For some years now, Ellie Waverly had sponsored a Day-After-Thanksgiving-Open House-Buffet. "So many of your people are unattached, or posted far from home," she lectured her husband," and I work so diligently to cook and decorate for a family celebration that's over in just one day. Why not share our bounty with anyone who needs a holiday home?"
So each year Miss Ellie played hostess to a variety of folks who dropped by to share esprit de corps, sparkling cider, and creative left-overs in front of the fireplace.
The Kuryakin sisters were delighted to be reunited with the Waverly grandchildren. Illya's attention wandered to the stonehewn fireplace, crackling with light; the displays of wheat and gourds and fruit; the sweet, homey aromas. Harvest is a gift, she would say. What would he harvest this year? What had he sown?
"Illya, dear," Mrs. Waverly called," could you answer the door? My hands are full."
"Certainly, Miss Ellie." He walked down the long hallway to greet another of her holiday refugees and opened the door to Meg Donnelly.
"Ellie asked me to bring sweet potato pie," she explained simply. Her cheeks were blushed by the chilly wind, ice crystals glistened in her ebony hair.
Illya set the pie on a ledge and took her coat.
Gravely, Meg offered her hand to him, and in her sweet clear voice said," Hello. I'm Meg."
He accepted her hand, cradled it under his chin a moment and replied "Hello, Meg. I'm Illya. I am so very happy to meet you."
The long soft kiss was as gentle as November snowflakes.
finis