And he thought, Lady, you have no idea how bad it is here in Iowa.
“Mrs. Parker,” he’d said soothingly. “I understand you’re upset. But I swear the Calvin Evans who was here is very much dead. Whoever appeared on that cover shares his name, nothing more. It’s a very common name.”
“No,” she insisted. “It was Calvin. I recognized him immediately.”
“You’d met Calvin before, then?”
She hesitated. “Well. No.”
“I see,” he said, using a tone that effectively communicated how ridiculous she was being.
She canceled the endowment five seconds later.
* * *
—
“Ours is a tough business, isn’t it Reverend Wakely?” the bishop said. “Donors are slippery fish. But I’ve got to be honest—we could really use your donation. Even if this Calvin Evans wasn’t here, we do have other boys who are just as deserving.”
“I’m sure they are,” Wakely agreed. “But my hands are tied. I can only give this donation—did I mention it’s fifty thousand dollars?—to Calvin Evans’s—”
“Wait,” the bishop said, his heart beating fast at the mention of such a large sum. “Please try to understand: it’s a privacy issue. We don’t talk about individuals. Even if that boy had been here, we’re really not allowed to say.”
“Right,” said Wakely. “Still…”
The bishop glanced up at the clock. It was almost time for his favorite show, Supper at Six. “No, now wait,” he barked, not wanting to lose the donation or miss his show. “You’ve really forced my hand on this one. Between you and me and the wall, yes, this is where Calvin Evans grew up.”
“Really?” Wakely said, sitting up tall. “You have proof of this?”
“Of course, I have proof,” the bishop said, affronted, touching his fingertips to all the wrinkles Calvin had given him over the years. “Would we be home to the Calvin Evans Memorial Fund if he hadn’t been here?”
Wakely was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“The Calvin Evans Memorial Fund. We set it up years ago to honor that precious boy who went on to become an amazing young chemist. Any decent library will have tax documents proving its existence. But the Parker Foundation—they endowed it—insisted we never advertise it, and you can probably guess why. It’s not like they could afford to fund every home that lost a child.”
“Lost a child?” Wakely said. “But Evans was an adult when he died.”
“Y-y-yes,” the bishop stammered. “Correct. It’s just that we still refer to our past residents as children. Because that’s when we knew them best—as children. Calvin Evans was a wonderful kid, too. Smart as a whip. Very tall. Now about that donation.”
* * *
—
A few days later, Wakely met back up with Madeline in the park. “I have good news and bad news,” he said. “You were right. Your dad was at All Saints.” He went on to tell her what the bishop had told him: that Calvin Evans had been a “wonderful kid” and “smart as a whip.” “They even have a Calvin Evans Memorial Fund,” he said. “I confirmed it at the library. It was funded for nearly fifteen years by a place called the Parker Foundation.”
She frowned. “Was?”
“The foundation stopped funding it a while ago. That happens sometimes. Priorities change.”
“But Wakely, my dad died six years ago.”
“So?”
“So why would the Parker Foundation fund a memorial for fifteen years? When”—she did a calculation on her fingers—“for the first nine of those years, he wasn’t even dead yet?”
“Oh,” Wakely said, reddening. He hadn’t noticed the date discrepancy. “Well—back then it probably wasn’t really a memorial fund, Mad. Maybe more of an honorary fund—he did say it was in honor of your dad.”
“And if they have this fund, why didn’t they say so the first time you called?”
“Privacy issue,” he said, repeating what the bishop had told him. At least that made some sense. “Anyway, here’s the good part. I looked up the Parker Foundation and discovered it’s run by a Mr. Wilson. He lives in Boston.” He looked at her expectantly. “Wilson,” he repeated. “Otherwise known as your acorn fairy godfather.” He sat back on the bench, waiting for a positive response. But when the child said nothing he added, “Wilson sounds like a very noble man.”