On a matter of a few dollars

I hated cleaning out the garage. I didn't take the trouble when I started living on my own so mine was a horrible mess. My Dad's was always clean and organized. We cleaned it once a month when I was in school. But then, after my brothers and I graduated and moved out, Dad got frail. He moved into the facility and never went "home" again.

The renters had parties in the garage. There were holes in the walls, beer and liquor stains on the floor, and Christmas lights strung near the ceiling. After college let out and the renters had gone home, we (my husband, son, and I) went to inspect the house. The light green walls were dulled by cigarette smoke. The automatic garage door was no longer automatic. My dad's meticulously kept garage was a horrible mess with broken glass and bottles, rancid cheese dip, and evidence of vermin taking advantage of free food and nest-building materials. The house was not in much better shape, but it was the garage that broke my heart.

We filled six garbage bags with the detritus. We wore masks to keep the smell manageable, and my son had applied Vicks on his. After about four hours of back-breaking work, we sat down and contemplated our next steps. I noticed something sticking out under the leg of my dad's workbench. I managed to wrench it out and was surprised to find it was a "little black book." It was full of numbers. There were some speculations about my dad's social life, and we had a good laugh. Now, my dad was in his eighties and his handwriting was shaky and didn't stay on the lines. But each entry was in the same pattern. It looked like a date and an account number and either a plus or a minus after each series of numbers. The dates began in the 1990s and continued for eighteen years. I was now officially curious.

I had been handling his finances for the last five or so years, so I checked his bank account numbers, his investment account numbers, his IRAs, his student's phone numbers...none of them matched. On the back page of his notebook was one word. RLndT. Really helpful! That was the best guess we had because, as I said, he had awful handwriting. I called my brothers and asked what the letters meant, and they didn't have a clue. I went to his church to talk to the pastor to see if he knew what the letters meant. He said he'd look through the church directory and ask around and give me a call if he came up with anything.

I tried to ask Dad when I went to Ohio to visit. We had moved him there so my brothers could see him on a more regular basis. It was a really nice facility, but he needed help finding his room. He didn't recognize the people that were working there. Some he had assaulted. I couldn't believe my sweet little old dad would ever hit anyone! My brother took me in to visit and announce my name. He lit up like Christmas. "Becky! You're here!" We had a nice conversation and then I brought up the book. His eyes glazed over and he seemed asleep. Then he shook himself and looked at me and said, "Becky! You're here!" Then, while my brother was helping him get his shoes on, my dad got this strange look on his face...it was pure rage. Just as my brother finished tying his shoes, dad took a backhanded swing at him. My brother caught his wrist and calmly and cooly said, "Dad, we don't hit people." I was shocked. I didn't bring up the little black book again. My brother didn't recognize the book, and though we speculated into the dead of night, we couldn't figure out what it was for.

Three days after I got home, I received a call from the pastor who suggested that the letters on that back page might have referred to my dad's trusted friend, Roland Tuttle. I had known him for decades but hadn't related the letters to a name! I quickly called him up and asked about the black book.

"OH!" he said, "oh oh oh..." Roland was a bit forgetful but not as bad as my dad was in his last few years. "Your dad was in a golf foursome. Every time we went out, your dad would compare our scores to our handicaps. He'd write them in the book and at the end of the month, we'd see who came up with the lowest score compared to their handicap. Whoever did the best would get the 'pot' and then we'd go to the bar to celebrate and talk about our games."

"How much was in the pot?" I was thinking that it couldn't have been more than a couple of dollars.

"I don't really know. Your dad won the pot the last time we were out."

"So that minus sign was a good thing? He was below his handicap?"

"Oh, yes. He was so pleased with himself. '85 years old and I beat you young bucks!'" Rolland said, imitating my dad.

I hadn't seen any deposits into his bank account or any additional investments. I wondered what he had done with his newfound wealth. Maybe he had lunch at the fast-food joint. He might have bought a mop. I smiled to myself. My dad was strange with his money: hiding it here and there, guarding it like the crown jewels, then spending it on something really stupid like a time-share. I don't know how many times we stopped him from helping the Nigerian Princes. I didn't see any evidence of a spending spree in his house or his assisted living quarters.

A month after the funeral, I got a registered letter. My piano was arriving on Tuesday. My new, $20,000 piano. He had paid cash.