But the check was written out to a woman and ain’t no way anyone would give no little black boy that much money. No way. He'd have to tell his mom and she'd do with it as she would. Still, they'd be better off than they were fifteen minutes ago before Jesse started chasing the blue scrap of paper down the street.
Meanwhile, if I don’t hurry up, I’ll be late getting home from school, and Mom will skin me alive, check or no check, Jesse thought, as he raced down the street towards the bus stop, hoping he hadn't missed the four o'clock bus. If so, he'd have a long wait ahead and a lot of explaining to do when he got home. As he rounded the corner, he saw the bus just pulling in to the bus stop and three or four people waiting to climb on board. This was certainly his lucky day. No one else was ever at this particular bus stop waiting on that particular bus. Never before. Then again, he'd never found four hundred dollars just lying on the street waiting to be picked up and spent. Yes sir, today is my lucky day.
"You heard what I said. We're going to return it to Ms. Lawson. It ain't our money. It’s hers."
"But, Mom," Jesse wailed. "Finders keepers . . ."
"Now don't start your shenanigans. We may be poor folks, there can be no doubt, but we're honest too. You did a good deed today chasing down this slip of paper, but it's only a good deed if you finish the job. It goes back to Ms. Emily Lawson."
Jesse glared, first at his mom, then at Jessica and Jamie, his younger sister and brother, who were snickering under their breath.
"Well, there's no telling where she is, and there ain't no way to track her down,” Jamie declared, with a smug look on his face.
"Simple enough," his mom retorted. "There's a name and phone number of the person who wrote the check. I'll just call her and tell her that my honest and caring son found Ms. Lawson's check and wants to return it to her. It's that easy."
"Yeah. It's always easy to lose money. When we going to start finding a way to keep some of it?"
"Hush child, I don't want to hear any more out of you. We've not done so badly. You three children are in school getting an education that I never had, and we finally have a roof over our heads that isn't paid for by the state."
"This old shack is so run down, the roof is likely to come down on our heads and knock all the foolish book learning right out of your three children,” Jesse retorted, then ducked just in time to avoid the damp dish rag his mom had been using to wash the few plates they'd acquired in the last few weeks.
Jesse shuddered despite the heat coming from the dying embers of the charcoal that had served to cook their hotdogs, as well as to provide what little heat there was in the house. He glanced at the bag his mom had brought home with her this evening. How long did she expect them to live in this drafty old place, trying to stay warm on a half dozen lumps of charcoal at a time?
Sometime he wondered if she had good sense, but despite himself, he had to admire her determination to raise her children without outside support. Maybe she is crazy and stubborn, he thought, but she was also the only person he knew from the street that had managed to save twelve hundred dollars to buy their own house. He stared around the dark corners of the room, only partly lit by the dying embers and three stubby candles. And they were about to give back four hundred dollars to some woman who’d probably turn out to be white and have so much money she wouldn't even notice it was missing.
The four of them sat on the cold concrete steps of the red brick house that the voice over the phone had given as the home of Ms. Emily Lawson. Jesse gazed across the street at the line of neatly trimmed lawns and the multicolored Christmas lights. The Lawson house was the only one on the block without its lights on, although there were a gracious plenty lining every one of its straight edges.
Probably spends four hundred a month on her electric bill, Jesse thought, as he slipped his hands under his rump to give his cold cheeks a break from the hard and chilly surface."Why do we have to spend the whole night out here freezing ourselves to the bone waiting for some silly woman who can't hold onto her own money?"
"Hush your mouth, Jesse, 'fore I have to give you something worth complaining about. Ms. Lawson is probably just working late, with it being the Christmas season and all. The lady on the phone said she usually gets home about this time."
"Couldn't you have just told the other lady where Ms. Lawson could come if she wanted the check? Why do we have to be the ones sitting out in the cold?"
"Lord, child, no one would have ever guessed you've spent most of your life out on the street, the way you carry on 'bout a little weather. We're waiting for Ms. Lawson here because I want to be sure we get the money to her as soon as possible. No need for us to be tempted by it. Besides, it's a good bit safer for us to travel to her than it would be for her to come into our neck of the woods. Look, there's the bus pulling up down the street. I bet that'll be her getting off now."
But the few people that got off the bus headed in the opposite direction. "Oh, well, it won't be long. Just be a little patient,” Jesse's mom said in a quiet voice, as she pulled the worn collar of her jacket tighter around her neck.
And she was right. In less than ten minutes, a blue sedan pulled around the corner where the bus had been and stopped in front of the brick house. A short, stout lady with strawberry red hair climbed out from behind the wheel and waddled up the sidewalk. Jesse groaned. Just as he’d thought. They were getting ready to give the money he’d found to a whitey.
"Why, you all must be the Capel family. Loreen called me at work and told me you had called her. My word, I never expected to see that check again. It was so foolish of me . . ."
She continued to ramble on as she unlocked the front door with a large ring of keys.
"Come in, Ms. Capel. All of you, come in and get yourselves warm. I'll fix us some hot chocolate."
Hot chocolate! Jesse thought, and his mouth drooled. How long had it been since his last hot chocolate?
"Don't you bother none, Ms. Lawson. We can't stay. I just wanted to get your money back to you in case you needed. . ."
"It won't be no bother. I'd like some myself. It's the least I can do. Which one of your children found the check?"
Ms. Capel pushed Jesse forward, pulling his shoulders back as she did so to get him to stand up straighter.
"My oldest one here. Jesse, tell Ms. Lawson how you found it."
Jesse stared down at the worn toes of his tennis shoes and mumbled something unintelligible.
"Stand up straight and don't talk to your shoes,” Ms. Capel said in her I-mean-business voice.
Jesse forced himself to take his eyes off the floor and spoke louder.
"It was in the street, like someone had thrown it away. I figured my little brother and sister could finally have a real Christmas if I could only catch it before my hands froze."
"Enough of that silliness,” his mom scolded him.
"Well, you were a very brave little boy,” Emily Lawson said. "I think you deserve the largest mug of hot chocolate."
Four hundred dollars for a mug of chocolate. What a trade.
Emily turned to his mother. "What can I do to repay you for your kindness?” she asked as she handed the second mug to her.
"Nothing. Really, nothing at all. It's just the Christian thing to do,” she replied, as she took the steaming mug and sipped carefully on the hot brew.
"Nonsense. You and your son deserve to be rewarded. There aren't many people in the world who would do what you're doing. Not many at all."
You can say that again, thought Jesse. Leave it to my mom to do the right thing even if her children go without presents this year. No wonder we've spent so many years on the street.
"Well, there is one small thing you can do for us,” his mom said, as she set her mug down on the table.
All right. Go for it, Mom. Ask her to buy us each a toy for Christmas. Don't forget I want a Walkman this year.
"If you wouldn't mind writing me a thank you note and sending it to our house. I'd like to have something the
children can look at to remind them to always be honest.”
Cripes sake! You've got to be kidding. A thank you note?
"I'll be happy to do that, but are you sure there's nothing else I can do?" Ms. Lawson asked, as she fetched a pen and paper to take down the address where to send the note.
"Nope. That's it. It'll be the first mail we've gotten. It'll be perfect."
EMILY LAWSON STARED at the dilapidated house, still finding it difficult to believe that the family she had met only a couple of days ago actually lived there. The house looked like it had been abandoned for years. Although there were still a few specks of paint here and there, for the most part, the house had obviously been ignored for a long time. The next door neighbor had said as much, once Emily finally convinced her that she was not a policewoman or from social services.
The elderly black lady had said someone had started living in the house a few weeks ago. The City had come out and removed the condemnation notice off the door and, in a few days, the Capel family had shown up. Emily remembered reading about the experimental housing project in the paper. The City was selling dozens of previously abandoned and condemned houses to anyone who would agree to bring them up to standard within a two year period.
But how in the world did Ms. Capel think she and her children could possibly do that? Emily wondered. It’ll take thousands of dollars and no telling how many hours of work. Hard work, and much of it skilled labor.
Emily placed the thank-you note in the crack of the front door. As she did so, she stared through the dusty window once more. Someone was living there, all right. She could see a small hibachi grill sitting in the middle of the main room, where a small circular area had been swept away. The rest of the room and as much of the house as she could see through the cloudy window looked more like the remains left over from a hurricane or tornado.
She shook her head as she walked down the frozen path to the street. Already, an idea was blooming behind her teary eyes. The Capels were a hard working honest family. A family that deserved a change of luck. Well, Emily thought, we'll just have to see what we can do about it. By the time she arrived home, she'd already come up with a list of friends who owed her a favor. It was time to start collecting.
"WHAT ARE ALL THOSE trucks doing out front of our house?" Jesse asked, as they neared home.
"Hush, child. You think I'm some kinda psychic or something?" his mom said, as she slowed her stride, a worried look forming on her face.
Jesse shrugged his shoulders. He didn't know if his mom was a sigh-kick or not, since he had no idea what one was.
As the family started up the path to their home, the white lady with all the money and the delicious hot chocolate opened the door to their house and walked down the steps to meet them.
"Iffen you don't mind me asking, what are you doing in our house?" Jesse's mom asked, an edge of irritation just barely disguised in her voice.
"I sure hope you aren't angry with me," Ms. Lawson said. "I tried reaching you all day and, well. . . when I couldn't get you, I had to make a decision. These men are friends of mine." She pointed to the line of trucks. "They're here to help with your home. Mr. Deacon owns his own plumbing company and he's one of the ushers at my church. Jim Weatherspoon has the blue truck there. He's an electrician; one of the best in town, and Willie Struther does all sorts of odd jobs, including wallpapering and painting.
"I told them a little about you and your son's kind gesture. Each of them decided it would be a merrier Christmas for them if they pitched in and helped with a few things around the house. Besides, they all owe me a favor or two. This gives them a chance to start the new year with a clean slate."
Jesse's mom didn't say anything at first, just stood there facing Ms. Lawson, a look of confusion replacing the irritation. "I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"
Ms. Lawson slipped a plump arm around her shoulder and steered her toward the door, with the three kids following close behind. "Let's just say I'm returning the gift you gave to me."
FRAGRANCE
Christmas. Albert P. Flinnery's favorite time of the year, but not for the same reasons most people loved the holiday season. Albert didn't care about gift giving. Not that he was a scrooge or anything. He just didn't have many friends, except his fellow workers at the Foster Flat Sentinel, and most of them were stuck in the groove of passing around hard, tasteless fruitcakes. Ugh. He still had three of them taking up space in his freezer and a fourth one serving as an effective doorstop.
No, Albert P. Flinnery loved Christmas because, as a professional people watcher, the Yuletide season provided him with no end of interesting people to watch. People doing what people do best: acting strange, dressing in outlandish outfits, mixing and mingling—an exotic brew of quirky personalities.
Albert pushed himself away from the black enameled column that helped support the fourth floor of Stacey's Emporium, Albert's number one prime spot for people watching and story gathering. In a good year, Albert easily collected enough stories in the four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas to fill his weekly newspaper column through to the first week in August, when he made his annual fishing trip to Michigan. Between August and late November, he'd slide in fish yarns from his two-week vacation along with recirculated stories from the last twenty years at the Sentinel. Then, the cycle would begin again. Yes, the Christmas season made life pretty easy for Albert P. Flinnery, if not all that exciting.
Albert tossed the cigarette he'd been smoking down on the linoleum floor of Foster Flat’s largest (and only) department store and studied the crowd. People watching was an art form for Albert. Not only did he make his livelihood from it, he lived for these precious few weeks. The trick was to mingle with the crowd without actually becoming part of the crowd. To notice everything while remaining unnoticed, a feat that Albert had taken to a masterful level.
He paused for a final moment with his knees slightly bent, watching for a small crack, a tiny imperfection in the river of people passing through the aisle. When it appeared, Albert expertly filled the gap, floating gracefully along the river of humanity. Periodically, he would adroitly step to the side, jot down a few notes, then step back into the river, to be carried gently downstream by the human current. As he was swept along by the river of warm, happy shoppers, it being still early in the day and the season, he felt in the pockets of his overcoat for the reassuring bulk of six small notebooks. He would have several of them filled before he left Stacey's in the late afternoon.
The fourth floor was one of his favorites. It contained a conglomeration of some of the most unusual gifts the fine purchasing agents of Stacey's could uncover. It attracted a large crowd of affluent shoppers, many from outside the area, and often some of the more exotic stories. Only one area of the department store could boast of better material—the bargain basement. But Albert didn't like to jump into his work too fast. He had developed a system, a flow. First, he'd stand off to the side and feel the crowd—get a sense of what was in the air for the season. It was always different, being influenced by many things: the economy, the political climate of the world, the new toys and gifts that had been Introduced since the previous season.
After tasting the season's atmosphere—a time of arousal for Albert, a little foreplay, so to speak—Albert would begin to mingle with the crowd, staying on the first three floors for most of the morning. He saved the fourth floor for just before lunch. It worked out nicely since his favorite eating place was also on the fourth floor. He found that the best time to eat was right at twelve, when the restaurant was splitting at the seams with people. Albert never worried. His special table was always waiting. It was one of the few extravagances he allowed himself. The table cost him two hundred bucks a season, a "tip" to Julio, the head waiter. It was worth every cent.
On this particular day, Albert was interrupted from his normal pattern by an especially interesting display of perfumes which was a bit unusual for the fourth floor, but it was not the location that
attracted Albert's attention. It was the model demonstrating the cologne. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Now, being a professional people watcher, Albert was not easily taken in by beauty. He saw thousands of women every season that were attractive, hundreds that were pretty and dozens that were beautiful. But he had never in his forty-three years of people watching (he had started very early in life) seen such a breathtaking example of the opposite sex. The amazing thing was that she wasn't even his type. Albert preferred the erotic, sensual type, the ones with the big lips, the sad eyes, the husky voice, plus well-endowed feminine attributes.
This woman had none of those. She was blonde, while Albert preferred dark hair as a general rule, certainly not the platinum hue that haloed her head. Her lips were small and very red, and when she spoke, her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, as though the small mouth could produce no larger volume. Her small frame was too petite for Albert's normal taste. No more than five feet or maybe five-two, her loose-fitting silk blouse made it difficult to detect her curves, but it was safe to say that voluptuous she was not.
Yet, Albert could not take his eyes off her. When he first saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks and was instantly pushed and shoved by a dozen shoppers. Albert knew better than to stop in the river of people. The crowd could be merciless when it came to those who tried to buck the currents. Besides, it drew attention, something Albert never did, but this time he couldn't help himself. The woman had taken his breath away.
Slowly, he edged his way out of the traffic flow and found another black column he could back up against for protection and where he could still watch her unnoticed. He lifted a cigarette out of the pack with his lips and lit it without thinking. It was several minutes before he could focus on anything else but her face. Finally, as the flame of the cigarette threatened to scald his lips, he spit the cigarette out and crushed it underfoot. Shaking his head slightly, he pulled a new pad out of his pocket, and wet his pencil.
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Volume Two Page 10
