Good Deeds

“This is crap!” Uncle Bobby bellowed, leaping to his feet. "I came here to get paid, not write a novel!” He shook the black notebook with such force that it might have been a small animal clamping down on his finger, then flung it to the ground where it cartwheeled twice before coming to rest.

Mira peered around the wood-paneled law office at the aunts, uncles, and cousins crammed shoulder-to-shoulder between overstuffed bookshelves and paintings of fox hunts. All were murmuring and nodding their agreement with Bobby. Embarrassed, Mira bowed her head to hide hot cheeks.

“Master Trent,” the executor replied, his weary tone indicating Bobby’s outburst had not been unexpected, “the terms of the will are clear.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Your father made his wishes quite clear. When you have completed your task, and not a moment before, you will receive your inheritance.”

Bobby sneered. “Which is?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand?” Bobby’s mouth dropped open and stayed that way for several seconds. Then he clenched his teeth and fists, looking for all the world like a frustrated toddler working up to an ear-splitting screech. “Father was a millionaire many times over! Why would he leave me pocket change?” Bobby twisted to glare directly at Mira. “Who got my money?”

Mira, whose cheeks had cooled, dropped her head again and fixed her gaze on the black notebook in her lap. With any luck, the storm would pass her by and disappear over the horizon.

The executor sighed. “All eight of you get the same, children and grandchildren alike. I’m not at liberty to divulge what Mr. Trent did with the remainder of his fortune.”

Bobby tore his eyes away from Mira. Taking an aggressive step toward the executor’s mahogany desk, he placed both palms flat against its polished surface and leaned forward. “I’ll fight this,” he said, his voice low and resonant enough to attract whales. “We all will. You can count on that.” He whirled and stormed out of the office, slamming the door with such force that its frosted glass rattled.

In his wake, indignant voices uttered vows of solidarity. A rotund, gray-bearded cousin Mira didn’t know by name cast his notebook to the ground beside Bobby’s. Aunt Marie, clad in her trademark shades of pink and sporting a scowl deeper than usual, rose and deposited her book on her chair. Angry glances shot Mira’s way; it was no secret she had been Grandpa’s favorite and suspicion hung thick in the air. Mira feigned interest in the new pair of tan heels pinching her toes and rubbing blisters on her heels, hoping no one would address her. She needn’t have worried; one by one, family members shuffled to the exit without comment. The executor excused himself, retreating through a small side door like a judge leaving his courtroom.

Mira sat alone, running fingers over her notebook. Her name was inscribed in gold foil on its hard cover and a pretty ribbon served as a bookmark. She opened the book to a message written in looping script:

My Dearest Mira,

I was born a wealthy man, but it took great effort to stay one. “What effort?” you might ask, “Hard work? Long hours? Sacrifices?” No. Those are the things my money bought from others who crawled for the coins I cast at their feet. I maintained my fortune by taking what I wanted without regard for others. Those who didn’t share my privilege were not respected, and those who did were enemies.

With advanced age comes perspective, and I entered my twilight years keenly aware I did nothing in my time on earth to make it a better place. I will not bestow upon my descendants the same curse.

I have left each of my children and grandchildren only a small slice of my fortune, yet it must be earned. Every good deed you perform will be worth $100. You may take up to one year to record 200 deeds in this book and return it to Thomas Grant, the executor of my estate. If he agrees that you followed my directions in good faith, you will receive $20,000.

I love you, Mira. Be a better person than I was. Make your grandpa proud.

Mira donned sunglasses as she stepped from the white-brick office building onto a portico lit by bright, late-summer sunshine. She removed the offensive heels, slipped them into her oversized purse, and sighed with pleasure as she pulled on well-worn sneakers. Mira glanced left down 4th Street toward downtown. Shopping carts and mounds of possessions covered in tarps dotted the sidewalk. Men with vacant eyes stretched hands out to no one. A woman with bird-nest hair and an army jacket tied around a ripped maxi dress argued with a bush. Mira peered across the street to the city park, a space more concrete than grass and devoid of flowers and trees. Mothers dressed in mismatched rags pushed malnourished kids on the few swings without broken chains. To Mira’s right, skeletons with the heads of dogs slunk from one overturned trash can to the next.

She hesitated at the top of the stairs. The next step would begin her journey to fulfill grandpa’s wishes and the world, with all its problems, seemed so vast. How had she never noticed? Where on earth do I begin? Mira bit her lip, staring at the desperate surroundings that represented only one tiny patch of the planet. The only place to begin is at the beginning. She placed a foot on the second step, then the third, then the fourth. Her journey had begun.

****

Day One was rough. Mira’s depression insisted she ignore her morning alarm. As she dragged herself upright, her brain sapped the strength from her muscles in protest, making her want to roll to her bathroom rather than walk. Mira rubbed her eyes, cursing the clock. She had chosen an at-home job so she wouldn’t have to wake at dawn and drain her limited energy reserves interacting with the public. But she had agreed to deliver groceries to elderly neighbors today, and depression notwithstanding, people needed to eat. Mira pulled the black notebook from her nightstand drawer. She turned to the first blank page and wrote, Good Deed #1.

Good Deed #2 proved difficult, as well. Mira spent the day caring for infants of working mothers, her energy levels circling the drain. She fell into bed that night exhausted, but with a surprising sense of accomplishment.

Good Deed #3 was more manageable. Mira walked excited shelter dogs through back alleys with an unexpected spring in her step. She even played fetch.

Ever so slowly, the pages of the notebook filled as Mira distributed coats and socks to the needy, collected trash in parks and hung swings from new chains, cleaned up after natural disasters and held strangers as they cried. Each day brought someone in need of help and Mira rose to the challenge.

Inch by inch, day by day, her depression faded a little farther into the background. Sometimes it retreated so far she could pretend it had taken a permanent vacation. Thoughts of her own situation were replaced by concern for others. Each time she brought a smile of joy to a new face, a bit of her misery receded. The morning sun shone a little brighter through her bedroom window and sleep brought genuine rest.

****

Late on a Tuesday afternoon, one year to the day after receiving the black book, Mira once again climbed the steps to the white-brick building on 4th Street. No sooner had one heel clicked on the foyer’s checkerboard marble than she was greeted by a familiar face.

“Ms. Trent! So nice to see you.” Mr. Grant smiled as he clasped her hand, then gestured down the hall. “Please.”

Mira followed him to the office that still boasted the mahogany desk, the disheveled bookcases, the terrible paintings. Mr. Grant moved to a wide leather chair and waited for her to sit before releasing the buttons of his suit coat and doing the same.

“You brought the book, yes?” he asked.

She pulled the notebook from her purse and handed it to the executor, who lowered bifocals from his balding head before settling in to read. Mira’s foot tapped with nervous energy as she awaited his verdict. A stately grandfather clock in a corner of the room marked the seconds, stretching them to a maddening degree.

At last, Mr. Grant closed the notebook and clapped his hands like a child being offered a balloon. “Wonderful job! Your grandfather’s faith in you was well deserved.” With precise movements, he opened the top drawer of his desk, withdrew a small key, and used it to unlock a larger drawer. From it he produced a metal box which he pushed across the desk to Mira. “There you are.”

She stared at the box, confused. “Real money? Not a check?”

“That’s right.”

“Twenty thousand dollars is in there?”

Mr. Grant shook his head. “Of course not.’ He grinned. “One hundred sixty thousand dollars is in there.”

Mira’s jaw unhinged. She reached up and closed it like a character in a cartoon. She gawked at the box, which was deceptively small with no side longer than eight or nine inches. “I don’t understand,” she said after her breath returned.

“It’s quite simple: You’re the only beneficiary who completed the assignment.”

“What? How can that be?”

“Pride? Laziness? Who knows? In any event, per the will the unclaimed shares are yours.” He held up a finger. “But that’s not all.” The executor dove into the drawer again, withdrew a stack of papers, and slid them across the desk. “I’ll need your signature on these to release the money—and to transfer the rest of the estate.”

“The...rest...of…”

“Yes, Charlie, you won the chocolate factory.” He laughed, delighted by his own joke. “And just like Willy Wonka, your grandfather knew you could do it.”

Mr. Grant handed her a pen, watched as she signed with trembling hands, then stood and extended his own hand. Mira rose on unsteady legs and shook it, head buzzing.

“Congratulations,” the executor said, smiling, “you’re a wealthy woman.” The smile faded to puzzlement as Mira lingered.

“Can I have the book back?” she asked.

Mr. Grant cocked his head. “Why? You’re done.”

“It was a gift from my grandpa.”

His smile returned and he placed the book in her hands. “Enjoy your millions, my dear. Your good deeds earned them.”

Mira took her leave and retraced her steps to the front door, heels echoing in the silent hall. Slipping outside, she pulled a light, denim jacket over her too-serious dress and traded the heels for her pair of ripped sneakers. Below, the city sprawled gray under a clouded sky. Homeless men and women still wandered, mothers still swung malnourished children, skin-and-bone dogs still plundered trash piles.

Make your grandpa proud.

Descending to the sidewalk, Mira rummaged through a trash can like one of the street dogs and located several plastic bags. She opened the metal box, withdrew bundles of bills one at a time, and placed each in a bag. She paused after removing the last stack to glance at the holes in her shoes. Mira pulled a single bill from the bundle, placed it in her purse, and stowed the rest in her jacket pocket.

Looking both ways for traffic, she crossed to the park and approached a woman tending a gaggle of children. She offered a bag to the young mother, who stared a long while before accepting it with raised brows.

“Keep it safe,” Mira told her.

Mira turned and strolled down the sidewalk, slipping a bill from her pocket into each outstretched hand, until she reached the bus stop. She sank onto the bench, placing the gift bags beside her like groceries. Mira fished a pen and the notebook out of her purse. Turning to the first blank page, she wrote, Good Deed #201.