Sins of the Forefathers

Six months after his wife moved out, Brody lost his job. Like the unraveling of his marriage, it happened slowly, then all at once. Now, along with loneliness and regret, he had to cope with the mortgage on his family home.

The depression, which circled him like a buzzard for most of his adult life, finally landed. Even doing nothing felt like a chore; simple tasks like taking showers and changing clothes became Herculean undertakings.

Brody realized that he had come to a crossroads. If he didn’t reverse course, it would become more difficult with each passing day. The trick, he learned from YouTube videos, was to find meaning in small and measurable tasks whose completion would reward him with a much needed serotonin boost.

He rose from the couch and after wandering around his house like an indecisive ghost, something compelled him to peek through the kitchen window. The patio, which he had been planning to replace for the past ten years, lay naked and decrepit in the sun.

Brody swung the sledgehammer and smashed it down. Rotten wood flew in all directions. He swung again, feeling the pleasant burn in his shoulders.

An hour later, the remnants of the patio lay scattered in a thousand pieces. Brody stretched his back and let the sun bathe his face.

Trading the sledgehammer for a shovel, he began scooping up the bedrock. Lost in the moment, he only stopped when his shovel gave out the sharp clang of metal hitting metal.

His shovel had struck a lockbox, the kind used to keep documents dry. Dented in many places, its black paint flaking, the box looked as if it had been buried decades ago.

He carried it inside and used his pen knife to scrape grime from the lock. It finally opened with a squeak. Dust tickled his nose. He pulled an oily, waterproof cloth from the box. Unwrapping it revealed a small, black notebook, the kind artsy-types were always scribbling in at The Daily Grind coffee shop. Only five pages were filled with writing.

Stacked under the notebook were papers, protected in individual plastic sleeves. There were seven of them, each the size an oversized business card. Brody was about to pull one out, when his eye caught a number.

1775. Continental Currency was written in cursive across the top.

A banknote. From the time of Colonial America. Twenty dollars worth. Was it real? And if it was, who buried it under the porch and why? More importantly, was it valuable?

He navigated to eBay on his phone and typed in Continental U.S. currency. The search returned five entries, one of them accompanied by an image of the banknote that lay on Brody’s table. The price was listed in bold numbers. Brody squinted through his reading glasses.

$80,500.

A (former) accountant, Brody could add numbers without a calculator. a Continental in mint condition fetched $90,000. Multiplied by seven that made $630,000.

A tidy sum. Not enough to retire on, but enough to give the world the finger for a while.

His phone vibrated.

“Hi Liz. How are you?”

“This isn’t a social call, Ted.”

Everything’s just business, including moving my son to Florida with the man you were banging behind my back...

But he said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the Continentals, as if by sheer willpower, he could turn the 200-year old banknotes into today’s dollars.

“Did you get the divorce papers?”

Brody tried to remember the last time he checked the mailbox.

“Not yet.”

“I heard about your job. Don’t worry about paying child support for a while.”

The phone kept bumping against Brody’s ear. He realized his hands were shaking.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Don’t be a hero, Ted.”

“Let me talk to Ethan.”

“Vincent took him to the playground.”

“Then why do I hear them talking?”

Liz sighed. Brody pictured her giving Vincent the look she used to give him when she had to deal with someone difficult.

“It’s not a good time. He’s taking us very hard. We have to give him time.”

“You mean I have to give him time,” Brody said and wiped away a tear. Then, unable to think of anything else to say, he hit his phone’s End button.

He googled “Rare currency dealers” and found a reputable one in New York City.

He dialed.

Afterwards, he poured himself a glass of Scotch and opened the notebook. The first pages were filled with scribblings that made sense only to the writer. The last page contained the only coherent section.

The reason you won’t find the Battle of White Plains in the history books is because it ended in the retreat of the Continental Army. What few Americans know is that George Washington planned a flanking maneuver which would have caught the British by surprise. But Captain James Perry, an officer on Washington’s staff revealed the plan. The British rewarded him with 200 Continental dollars--a fortune at the time.

Washington suspected that someone had betrayed him and Perry abandoned the Army before he was found out. Presumably he headed west--his remaining nine Continental bills were found in the possession of an Algonquin tribe west of the Appalachian Mountains. A cartographer traded two horses for them.

This is the last known link in the story. When I found the box buried in the woods where I was searching for Indian arrowheads, there were eight bills left. Whoever buried them spent one and like Perry, only one. For whatever tragedy befell Perry also found him. I’m certain of that, because of the misfortune that came to me after I spent the eighth Continental.

Except that’s not correct. Misfortune did not come to me, any more than it did to Perry. We had invited it by spending the blood money. For I have come to know what the Continentals represent.

Revenge. Some crimes are so heinous that their punishment is not exhausted in one lifetime.

Brody closed the notebook. The writings were clearly the work of a lunatic. Old currency whose revenge struck through the ages? Who had written this nonsense? Brody’s house had been built in the 1920s. Most likely, the writer was one of the early owners.

He finished his Scotch, but it didn’t put him at ease. Despite being tired, sleep was a long time coming.

Karl Kagan of Kagan’s Rare Coins and Currency fixed a lens in one eye and with gloved fingers pulled a Continental from its protective sleeve. He placed the banknote on a tray and flicked a switch. Ethereal blue light shone down on the bill.

Kagan leaned in. Brody held his breath.

“The best condition I’ve seen from the period.”

“Worth ninety thousand,” Brody said.

“Correct. I’ll give you eighty for it.”

Kagan held up a stubby index finger.

“You’re welcome to sell it on your own. Except you don’t have a reputation as a seller, nor the contacts. It would take you months. Whereas, I could wire you part of the eighty thousand today. Say twenty. The rest when I find a buyer.”

The world was divided into two kinds of people, Brody reflected on his drive home. Those who were desperate for money and those who took advantage of that fact. And Brody was about to move from the first category to the second.

His phone pinged. Brody pulled into a mall parking lot.

Transfer of $20,000.00 to checking account complete.

Brody took deep breaths. He watched luxury cars pulling in and out of the parking lot. By chance, he was parked by Cycleworld - Your World on Two Wheels. Rows of gorgeous bicycles were lined up behind the floor to ceiling window of the shop.

They reminded Brody of soldiers standing at attention.

A week later, Brody was applying the second coat of Midnight Peach to the living room wall when his phone rang.

“Dad! Thank you so much. It’s awesome!”

“It arrived early, eh?”

“It’s the greatest bike in the world. 24 speeds!”

“Don’t forget the carbon composite wheels.”

“But why? It’s not my birthday for another four months.”

“You’ve gone through a rough time because of your mother and I. You deserve it.”

Ethan gushed for another five minutes about the bike’s light weight which allowed you to easily pop a wheelie.

Liz came on the line.

“Did you rob a bank?”

“My luck changed.”

“I got the check. It’s too much.”

“Spoil him until I come down to visit.”

After he hung up the phone, he took up the brush and finished painting the wall. The sales brochure was right. Midnight Peach was the perfect shade to inject life into his living room.

He went to bed feeling elated and fell into deep sleep. At dawn, the pleasant dreams turned into nightmarish visions as if punctuated by the violent flicker of a strobe light.

Brody fell out of bed, hitting his head on the floor. His visions ended, but the sounds petered out slowly.

He climbed back into bed. Daylight was creeping in through the curtains. His phone rang, making him jump.

“Liz, for God’s Sake, do you know what time it is?”

Her tears kept drowning her words.

“Ethan...he’s….”

A sound like a phone hitting the ground followed.

Brody came fully awake, pulled into consciousness by raw terror.

“Ted, I’m so sorry,” Vincent said, his voice absent of his usual smarminess. “Ethan snuck out this morning to ride his bike.”

“What happened?” Brody’s words came out like icicles.

“The front wheel came loose in the middle of the intersection. Route 1, you know...four lanes in each direction. A truck--”

Vincent spoke for another few minutes, but Brody heard none of it. His wife’s boyfriend was white noise.

He sat on the edge of the bed, as if trying to turn into a human still life. His phone kept ringing and ringing.

Daylight filled the room.

He dialed.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m reporting a suicide,” Brody said and hung up.

The front door opened. Vincent helped Liz through the door. She nearly stumbled on the threshold of the house which had been half hers for ten years.

The smell of fresh paint and burnt wood hung in the air. Liz sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Vincent studied her hunched over figure and the strands of white that shot through her dark curls. She had aged ten years in the last two weeks.

Vincent walked to the living room. The color of the walls reminded him of Miami.

Something lay on a bed of ashes in the fireplace. Kneeling down, he saw that it was the blackened corner of a book. Under it lay six bank notes, miraculously untouched by flames.

He pulled them out, sending fine ash swirling.

“Continental Currency,” he said to no one in particular.

Vincent knew nothing about rare currency, except that the bills were probably worth a fortune.

Through the open door, he heard the ebb and flow of Liz’s sobs.

Vincent wrapped the notes in a sheet of paper and slid them in his jacket pocket, the way a cartographer had done deep in the Appalachians more than two hundred years ago.

He tried to remember the name of a distant cousin who was a rare book dealer in Tampa. He walked back to the living room, mulling over his father’s favorite saying.

With every great tragedy comes the opportunity for great triumph.