Little Black Book

It was a hot summer day in 1985. I had just finished working on a deck for a customer in

Akron, Ohio. I could feel my sweat soaking into the cloth seats of my 51’ Ford pick-up. The dirt turned to mud on my skin. And all I could think of was the shower and cold beer I had waiting in my apartment.

As I pulled up to my place I noticed a shorter man dressed in a tan trench coat and hat. He looked out of place—like he belonged in one of those old black and white movies. He was standing on the tips of his toes. And he was looking through the front windows of my apartment.

“Can I help you ?” I asked as I walked to my front door.

“I hope you can” He said as he turned and started walking my way. “Are you Gram?

Gram, Michaels!”

“Who’s asking?” I said as I opened the door threw the keys on the counter and headed for the refrigerator. The man just stood at the front door and pulled a card from his vest pocket.

“I represent a law firm handling Mrs. Gloria Pots estate” He simpered.

“Aunt Gloria? I think … I think I met her once when I was very little, and I really didn’t know her. Oh and come in, you’re lettin’ out my air conditioning.” The man stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“Would you like a beer?” I asked. He took off his hat exposing a bald head. Perspiration formed around the imprint left by the rim of his fedora.

“No thank you, but if I could trouble you for a glass of water that would be great.”

He wiped the sweat off of his head with a stained handkerchief. He pulled it from inside his vest pocket. His gray/blue suit was loose fitting but he was clean-shaven and well kept.

Down to his shined black oxfords. He was short, heavy, and his cheeks were rosy from the heat.

And after a sip of water he said, “well it seems that Mrs. Pots knew you.” After another sip of water he asked if he could sit.

“Sadly to say, Mrs. Pots Passed away last year. And after our firm did some thorough investigation, we have found you to be her only living relative.” Before I could think of a reply he said that “we need you to come to the office and sign some papers. The address is on the back of this card.” He snapped it to the counter, and it made a quick swish sound when he slid the card towards me.

He stood up, and walking to the front door he put his hat back on. Without turning around he said, “there is a helicopter on stand-by. It’s at the nearest airport.” He grabbed the brass knob of the front door, “It’ll take you to our office. All of your questions will be answered then. Have a pleasant evening.” He tipped his hat and walked out the door.

I just sat there. I sat there in shock. My head began piling question after question and all I could do was sit there—looking at the card.

A helicopter.

* * *

The helicopter ride lasted about an hour. About an hour until we came to some little town in southern Ohio. It landed on the roof of an impressive looking building that seemed to modern for a rustic town. I exited the helicopter. That same strange shorter man, the one that visited me at my apartment a few days ago, greeted me. He led me through a series of corridors. Our footsteps echoed on the hard wood floors. He didn’t say anything. And I didn’t ask anything.

The corridors brought us to a set of tall, dark-stained doors. The strange shorter man grabbed both handles and pushed them wide open revealing a large—and long—library. Volumes and volumes of encyclopedia’s lined each side of the room. And in the center was an extended table. It had the sheen of glass and the chairs were high-back with red velvet.

The end chair sat another man. And when I approached he stood up, extending his hand to shake mine.

“Mr. Michaels, it is a pleasure to meet you. My Name is Bob Williams, you have already met my assistant Nicholas. Welcome, please take a seat.” He gestured towards a chair next to his. “Please, sit. Can I offer you anything to drink?”

I just shook my head and sat down, still looking at the mass collection of books. The high ceilings, the crown molding, and the chandeliers were bespoke. “I know it was a long flight and you must have a ton of questions, so shall we get right to it? Yes, lets.”

“Mrs. Pots was a wealthy woman. And synonymously … kind of a recluse. She had no friends. At least, none that we could find over the past few years. She was rather concealed.

She did have a routine and she did stick to it. And when that routine stopped we knew something was wrong.”

I raised my hand to ask a question. Mr. Williams stopped and grinned.

“Yes Mr. Michaels? And for the record don’t raise your hand, just ask.”

“What do you mean by a routine?”

He answered,

“She ordered her food from the grocery store every Monday. Tuesday, she would leave a bag of laundry with a note and money by the front door. Additionally, she’d leave a bowl of food for a stray cat—she named her Mittens. So when a few weeks passed and the typical routine lapsed, well, it was an obvious red-flag. This resulted in a police check, and they found her—diseased—in her bed.”

I sat back in my red velvet chair. Pondering the facts. Wondering why my aunt Potts was so significant as to direct this, this firm, to contact me.

I couldn’t help but ask.

“Grocery’s, laundry, and a hungry cat? That raised a red flag?” Mr. Williams sat up.

“Well, there’s a lot more. Cash contributions to the church, orphanage, hospitals, and homeless shelters all stopped. Your aunt was a very generous lady as you would imagine by such donations. Everyone in this community watched out for her. I digress. We brought you here to comply with her last wishes left in her will: we were to contact you and give you these items.”

Nicholas walked in and set an silver urn on the glass-top extended table. Next to aunt Potts, he placed a pair of keys and—a little black book. A plain, leather bound, matte black book.

“These are yours.” Mr. Williams said as he placed a piece of paper towards me with a pen on it.

“Please sign for these items. Upon completion, they’ll be transferred into your possession.”

I just sat there. Sat up. Sat and looked at the things placed in front of me.

And then looked up at Mr. Williams and asked “what is all this?”

“These are your aunts remains.” He pointed to each item to explain. “These are keys to her cars, her house, and this is her little black book.”

I had to ask, “what’s in the black book?”

“We aren’t sure what it contains but we were instructed—specifically—not to read it. But to be sure it was left in your possession. So to conclude, we need your signature. And we’ll have our driver take you to your aunts estate. Your new estate. Good luck Mr. Michaels.”

He shook my hand and left. The taps of his footsteps growing faint. I found myself leaving that out-of-place building in a rustic town. It was all beginning to blur as I got into the car that was taking me to my new house.

We pulled up. I remember asking the driver, “are you sure you have the right address, I thought they said my aunt was rich?”

I walked down the driveway and was met by a large metal gate with a fanciful lock. In the oriental engravings were the initials GP. I looked through the set of keys I signed for, and opened the lock. It took some strength to open. And the creaking sound forced my face to cringe.

The house was a wreck. The paint was pealing. And it was overgrown with yews and evergreens in need of trimming. The driveway had thistles growing up through the cracks. But when walking through the gate, it felt like I entered another world.

There was a five-car garage and there must of been fifty acres of fenced backyard. The grass was manicured, the bushes were pruned, and the back facade of house looked new. I marveled. I marveled in disbelief. Marble benches. Topiaries. Carved stone fountains. And that this was now—mine. I sat down on a bench next to a coy-pond. I opened the little black book and started to read.

Gram, if your reading this then sadly I must be dead and you are sitting somewhere very confused and looking for answers.

This little black book that you hold in your hands is the story of our life, mine and my family. I wish I could have told it, face-to-face, but that’s not how this story goes. I’m giving you the house, the cars, and the hopes that you will do something good with them. I now leave you this burden. I am also leaving you this book that has all of our accomplishments. All of our victories, and our defeats. Learn from our mistakes.

My one regret is shutting out the world. Shutting out the wonderful people. Like the young man that delivered my groceries. Like the people at the dry cleaners who always left me a note and flowers when they dropped off my dry cleaning. The sheriff who always checked up on me. Like the people who took great care of my back yard. And all of the other people I missed for fear of being afraid of life. Life is to be lived outside. With others. With friends, family, and even strangers you just met. Now you’re all I have left. And it’s why I want you to read this book and go live your life the way life was meant to be lived.

Love ya, Aunt Gloria

P.S. In the back of this book you will find a check made out to you for $20,000 dollars. It has no date, so you can cash it when ever you need it. I wish I could be there to see the smile on your face. To give you a hug. I will be watching you the way I always have, from a distance.

I sat there as the sun sank. It felt like hours until it dimmed to dusk. Light peaking over the trees. I started to read the little black book. The first journal entry was,

A hot summer day in 1915…