The Gift
Chapter 2
Thanks for the comments! They're much appreciated. I wasn't sure if I was going to continue this story, but the ideas kept coming, so I decided it was better to continue it than not. Anyway, I hope readers like it, but feel free to leave comments whatever your opinions. Also, this isn't the final chapter; there are more items in the box. ;-)
The box under the cassette was made of wood, and from the look of the color and grain Callen guessed the wood was birch. The corners were beautifully dovetailed and the wood had been well-oiled to protect it from moisture. The only decoration was on the lid: a hand-painted wreath of detailed, botanically accurate, pink dog rose bush blossoms, the national flower of Romania and bushes Callen remembered growing in abundance near their house. After seeing the matroyshka dolls Nikita had painted when Callen and the others escaped from Russia years before, Callen thought this painting was likely his handiwork. He ran his hand along the lid. The wood was smooth and cool to the touch, but he could feel the texture of the paint. Nikita hadn't put any varnish over it, so it was surprising the painting was still almost perfect. Nikita must've taken good care of this box. Callen lifted the box out of the box carefully. It was about 10 inches square and 6 inches deep, and it weighed, he guessed, a pound, more or less. He felt items in it shift as he lifted it and set it down on the table. The lid had no hinges, but it fit securely. He stared at it for several moments. He wondered who had put in whatever items the box held. Had his mother had put the items in the box years ago? If so, had she put in things for both Callen and Amy? Were the items reminders of their years in Romania or gifts to help them start a new life in America? Or were the items chosen by Nikita for Callen, and did they include items from Nikita's past as well as Callen's? Were the items Nikita wanted to pass along from father to son, but why would he? Callen had spent most of his life without a father, and Nikita had never reconnected with his son until 40+ years had passed. They barely knew each other. The emotional bond that a father and son should have—at least, the bond Callen imagined a father and son should have—never developed between them. Part of that was Callen's fault. From early childhood he'd protected himself by not letting others in, not letting his emotions govern him, so he couldn't simply "open up" to a man he'd never known. He also found how much anger he felt at being abandoned, and he could control it but not erase it. His anger would sweep over him suddenly and without warning, sometimes during a casual conversation, sometimes while watching Nikita play with Jake, and it took all of Callen's self-control to keep his anger buried and not let anyone, especially Nikita, see it. It was also partly Nikita's fault that he and Callen had not become closer because his work had demanded emotional detachment, so by this stage in his life, Nikita struggled to express affection to anyone, even his son.
As Callen stared at the box, he felt a sharp ache, maybe sorrow, that fate had given him so little time with his mother, his sister, and finally, his father. As grateful as he was that Nikita had given him the cassette, listening to it increased his feeling of loss for the family he had never really known. And now here was this box and whatever it contained. Was it worth opening the box if the contents only added to his feelings of loss? Callen knew the answer even before he asked the question. He carefully pried the lid off the box and set it down on the table.
A paper was the first thing Callen saw. He recognized Nikita's handwriting, but the words were almost ineligible—and in Russian. Callen guessed Nikita had written it shortly before his death because a failing hand had written these words, and Callen knew how weak he'd been. Maybe Hetty had helped him, Callen thought and sighed. It would've been one more time she'd kept a secret from him. Callen picked up the letter and read it silently, translating the words into English as he read.
Grisha,
I have done some good in my life, but I have regrets. One of my
greatest regrets was not being able to save your mother. Choosing
my work over my family, you and your sister, is another. I
should have stayed with you and been your father, but I chose
my work. I excused what I did by saying I was giving you and
Amy a better life, that you would be safer without me. I was
wrong. I thought I was too important, that no one could
replace me and do the work I did. The truth is many people
could have done the work I did, but no one could replace me as
your father. Sending you away did not give you or Amy a
better life, Grisha. You lost your childhood and your sister
lost her life. I am to blame for the pain you suffered as a child,
and I have regretted that decision all of my life.
Saving the people you love is the most important thing you can do.
I am glad to see that you know this, Grisha. Maybe you inherited
that knowledge from your mother. It was a lesson she knew before
she met me and never forgot. She also believed certain things mean
something special at certain times in our life. When she prepared
to leave Romania, she put some of those things in a box for you
and a box for Amy. This is your box.
You have few happy memories of your childhood. Maybe these will
bring back some of them, Grisha, and remind you how much you
and your sister were loved.
You are a good man, Grisha. Your mother and your sister would
be proud of you. But they would be sad to see you alone. I will not
offer you advice as your father, but as a man who, like you, has
lived most of his life alone: do not let work become your life. When
there is opportunity for love, you must take it. I know you will be
a better husband and father than I was.
Nikita
So, if this was his box, he wondered what had happened to Amy's. He couldn't ask Nikita. He wondered if he'd given any of the items to Alex, his other daughter, but they wouldn't have meant anything to her. No, he thought Nikita had probably kept whatever was in Amy's box and maybe been buried with some of them. Hetty would probably know; he'd ask her later. Right now, Callen wanted to see what his box contained. He set the letter aside and wondered if he'd remember the things that had meant something to him as a child.
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The first item under the letter was a small, well-worn book with the picture of a chessboard on the cover. The book was a simple, folded paperback; the spine stapled, not stitched or glued, and the title was in English, First Lessons in Chess. He opened the book. On the back of the cover in faded ink he read, Моему сыну, быстрому ученику и достойному конкуренту (To my son, a quick learner and a worthy competitor.) Callen smiled as he remembered Nikita sitting with him on the floor, the wooden chess board between them. His father had set the black pieces in order on his side and then watched closely as Callen had set up the white pieces, checking how his father had set up his pieces across the board frequently . Callen looked in the box and there it was—a hand-carved horse's head painted white with a coal black mane. The paint was duller and some of it had flaked off, but the horse's eyes still blazed with defiance. The knight had always been his favorite piece. Callen remembered that, as a boy, he lost a lot of chess matches because he tried so hard to protect his knights; it was only when he learned to sacrifice them that he began winning. He thumbed through the book. The black-and-white illustrations were simple. The first one showed the board with the black and white pieces arranged opposite each other, waiting for the first move. His father had tried to teach Callen to memorize the squares by letter and number (a1, b1, c1, etc.), but while Callen used the numbers, he always used the first letter of the piece. So, instead of a1, Callen called that square R1 and the square at the other end of the row was R8 (R represented the rook). That's how Callen identified all the squares, and he still referred to squares that way even though he had memorized the other notation method back in middle school. On a few pages he could still make out the words and phrases he'd underlined with pencil and a few notes he'd written in the margins. Some of his notes referred to specific chess openings—the Sicilian Defense, Colle System, the Queen's Gambit, the Scotch Game, and the Grob Attack (with the words "never use" written next to it)—and openings weren't mentioned in the book, so those must have been notes that he'd gotten from his father. Callen closed the book and put it on the table, setting the knight piece on the cover. Then he turned back to the box, wondering what other items from his childhood his mother had thought deserved to be included in it.
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Underneath the book was what appeared to be a folded piece of blank paper. As soon as Callen's fingers touched it, he knew what it was. The paper was thicker than regular bond and had a rougher feel. When he took it out, he moved from his chair to the floor and unfolded it carefully into a single sheet that was two feet wide and three feet long. His father had brought him this special paper because he'd wanted to make a map, and here, more than forty years later, was the map he'd spent over a week making.
It was a map of Odysseus' journey home to Ithaca. Callen had read a simplified version of the Odyssey three times in succession and after the third time, he decided to map out his 10-year journey home. The center of the map was the Mediterranean Sea (including the Aegean, Adriatic, and Ionian seas) surrounded by the coastline of Italy, Greece, and all the way to Tunisia. Even the Black Sea was included, and scattered throughout the seas were the major islands, like Sicily and Crete, along with all the smaller islands that had been stopping points along Odysseus' journey. The coastline was outlined in thin black marker (the reason he needed thicker paper) and it was wobbly in spots, but even Callen had to admit he'd done a very good job since he'd drawn everything freehand. True, he'd had professional maps to use as guides—his father had given him those—but he'd done all the drawing himself. After drawing the outlines, he'd colored the map: the seas were blue, the land was a combination of brown and green (for the trees), and the islands were grey (they were mostly rocks). Even though Amy offered to help him, he hadn't let her until the very end when she offered to draw the border—simple drawings of Odysseus' bow, the stake used to blind the Cyclops, waves symbolizing the sea, and symbols for the Greek gods. At first, he didn't want to let her, but she promised him she'd be careful and she was a good artist, so he agreed. Drawing the border had taken Amy two days, but she'd been very careful, and looking at it now, Callen was glad he'd let her because her border was perfect and it gave the map a finished look. And now, knowing what had happened to Amy, he was grateful to have something that she'd done for him to remember her by.
Callen had always loved adventure stories and the story of Odysseus was one of his favorites because of all the risks and challenges he faced without every giving up. Even though it took Odysseus ten years to get home, he never quit. (Callen joined the army at 18 because he wanted a challenge and an adventure, but unlike Odysseus, he didn't want to go home; he wanted to find a home. The army was a challenge and he got a little bit of adventure, but it turned out to be less of a home than he thought it would be, so when he left the army, he gave up looking for a home and decided adventures and challenges would have to be enough. He found both with the DEA. It offered him more adventures, but there wasn't the escape he craved because he was stationed in the same area for extended periods. After being loaned out to the CIA for a job in Russia, he thought that agency might be a better fit for him. And it was for a few years. He was sent on assignments around the world, there weren't too many complaints from his superiors about his "unconventional tactics," but some of his partners weren't reliable. When he worked alone, he didn't expect help from anyone; when he worked with a partner, he expected his partner to do their job. Working with partners who didn't do their job was one reason he preferred working alone. He wasn't disappointed in anyone else when he only had to depend on himself. When Hetty approached him about joining the OSP division of NCIS, he told her he wasn't interested, but she kept coming back. The fourth time she asked him he finally said yes. It took a while, but she formed a team he could depend on and he eventually felt he'd found a place that offered him the challenges and adventure he wanted, and also a home. When he learned of Hetty's connection to his past, it all made sense.)
Turning from thoughts about his professional life back to the childhood possessions his mother had saved for him, Callen studied his map. He remembered checking and double-checking the names of places and the route Odysseus took, first penciling them in and then finally—when he was sure they were correct—writing them with pen. The key in the lower right hand corner identified who or what Odysseus had found at each location: the Cyclops, sirens, Calypso, and more. He got up from the floor and walked over to a small bookcase. He ran his fingers over the spines until it rested on one and he pulled it out. It was a hardback copy of the first printing of The Odyssey of Homer translated by Richard Lattimore. He took it back with him to the map, sat down on the floor, and read Book XII.
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