Peter's Little Black Book

“I have been listening to sad songs in the shower these days” Peter murmured softly to the cockroach, who had just emerged from a small gap in the corner of the living room.

Peter was a simple man. His daily shower was a brief, uncomplicated time to reflect. The calming stream of water washing down over his face, momentarily depriving his senses of the world outside, except for the music passively floating in. The song chosen always aligning with his current mood. He had played music in the shower, ever since he was a young lad. His songs of late were slow, forlorn melodies.

Peter couldn’t quite put his finger on when exactly the music had shifted from upbeat, cheerful tunes which had reverberated across the bathroom walls, filling the room with an energetic liveliness. He was 90 years old now. His enthusiasm and energy for the world had long since faded along with his youth. Today, he felt especially weary and alone. After his regular morning routine consisting of two pieces of toast, a strong black coffee and his daily newspaper, he thought to himself that the most suitable agenda for the rest of the day, would be to fall asleep in his favourite brown leather armchair watching the news.

Leonard Cohen’s sombre, baritone voice continued to echo from the bathroom, spilling wistfully into the living room for him and the cockroach to hear. He mouthed along with the words of Cohen’s hauntingly beautiful lyrics,

“But he himself was broken,

long before the sky would open.

Forsaken,

almost human,

he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone.”

"We are both so very misjudged, aren’t we?" Peter said to the cockroach as he reclined in his armchair, peering down through his small, black-framed glasses at his miniature companion. The cockroach’s feelers quivered and touched. Peter nodded thoughtfully, as though the cockroach understood and had countered with a meaningful response.

He tentatively grasped his little, black book from his front shirt pocket. The worn, leather notebook was frayed from its hard-working endeavours; only a few blank pages remaining. Before long, it would meet its inevitable fate, stored in one of numerous cabinets in the quiet, dusty basement.

He never left home without a notebook. He would always keep it tucked safely in his front shirt pocket, retrieving it anytime he wished to make a note of something to remember. He chuckled to himself as he recalled how others had never quite understood his note-taking habits.

He paused as his attention was captured by a page in the middle of the notebook. The words $20,000 reward, emphasised by a solid line drawn underneath, were penned boldly across the top of the page. He stopped and glared at the words. His bushy eyebrows furrowed as he tried to recall when he had noted this down.

The page continued with the words “..for any information leading to the whereabouts of Cooper Anderson, who has been reported missing for 48 hours. Cooper was last seen leaving his home shortly after 3pm on Thursday. His family has offered a reward for anyone assisting with his safe return.”

A cut-out photo of the missing young man was glued on the opposite page. Peter squinted at the picture, sensing a strange familiarity about him.

“Was this boy in the photo famous?” he mulled aloud to himself and the tiny cockroach who remained motionless on the antique rug as though the cockroach felt it inappropriate to leave the conversation.

A soft knock at the door caused him to look up abruptly. He wasn’t expecting guests.

“Happy Birthday Dad!” said the woman at the door, smiling at him expectantly. When she received no response, her smile faltered slightly as she studied his puzzled expression. His eyes were widened with confusion and he nervously brushed his fluffy, grey hair over the balding part of his head.

"Dad?!" he stammered, confused. She looked at him with a sad, tolerant smile and then glanced at the ground, somewhat dejected.

“Look - I don’t want to overwhelm you, but the others will be here soon, and we have something to take care of first” she pleaded, in a more rushed tone.

“Others?” he muttered. Uncertain of what else to do, he stood aside to let this strange woman inside.

‘I am too old for this' he thought to himself resignedly as he walked back down the hallway.

Peter’s choice of sullen music could still be heard echoing from the bathroom.

“Sad songs in the shower again?” she questioned knowingly.

'How does she know?' he pondered to himself, perplexed. Feeling embarrassed, Peter switched off the music before hovering awkwardly in the doorway, an uneasy silence filling the room.

The strange woman strode abruptly over to the coffee table and slowly dragged it off the rug. His cockroach comrade, who had been hiding there, fled the room as quickly as it could.

“Gross!” she yelled.

“It isn’t hurting anyone.” he said quietly, feeling a little embarrassed.

“It has been a good listener too” he added quickly, staring off in the direction the cockroach had escaped to. She smiled faintly at him, amused.

Continuing with her disruptions, still without a reasonable explanation, she tugged at the old rug, prompting a thick cloud of dust to fill the room. Peter grabbed his white cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and hastily cleaned a layer of dust off his glasses. The woman pulled on a sunken handle, yanking a secret trapdoor out the floor and then, promptly pulled out an old, tattered bag. She opened the mysterious bag and began pulling out copious amounts of cash, placing it down on the floor in front of them.

'Only criminals have this amount of cash' he thought to himself, his mouth open in shock. She paused briefly to look up at him with an apologetic smile, seemingly remembering that he had no clue what was going on. She laughed when she saw the baffled look on his face, appreciating how ludicrous this must all look.

Peter had never trusted the banks. He was old-fashioned and if he had it his way, there would be no banks or credit cards.

‘Nonetheless’, he thought to himself, ‘storing this amount of cash could only mean trouble.’

After the woman finished emptying the contents of the bag, she glanced up at him and nodded, seemingly content.

“Still no memory, Dad?” she asked with a hopeful tone, her eyebrows raised slightly.

“When you started to forget things, you wrote a letter to yourself and told me everything.” She outstretched her hand, gently offering him a letter.

“About saving Cooper that night, the reward money and your 90th birthday, which is today Dad! We planned to celebrate this afternoon!” she said happily. “I told Cooper to bring chocolate cheesecake.”

“That’s my favourite” he said, impressed.

“I know!” she responded, nodding knowingly.

Feeling self-conscious, he unfolded the letter, his hands shaking. Remarkably, he found himself staring down at his own handwriting. The words on the page, however, he did not recognise.

____________________________________________________

19th February 1988

Dear Cooper,

When I saw you on the side of the bridge that evening, I recognised you. A picture of you from the newspaper was glued into my notebook.

As I retrieved it from my front pocket and checked, glancing between you and the picture, you eyed me suspiciously. I did not blame you. After all, I was just a strange man who, without any explanation, decided to stop and consult his notes in the middle of a bridge.

Not knowing what else to say in the situation, I decided to provide you with an insightful, short history of the bridge that we were standing on. I held up my notebook and explained I knew this because I liked to write interesting things down. As I continued rambling, you stared at me, unsure of what to make of this strange man.

After a long silence, you whispered that you had spent the morning writing. A letter to your parents.

‘Terrific!’ I thought.

"I wrote to them as if I will never see them again" you clarified. The realisation of the heartbreaking meaning behind your words is a moment I will never forget.

I kept thinking of my daughter, who is the same age. I would never want to receive such a letter.

For the next few hours, we remained in silence, broken only by several brief exchanges. By some miracle, you decided to clamber down from the side of the bridge.

When I tried to return the reward money from your parents, who had already been through so much, they refused. However, a young Cooper promised that I could return the money on my 90th birthday.

If for some reason, I shall one day lose my mind or am no longer physically on this earth, I write this letter to fulfill the promise for the amount of $20,000 to be returned to Cooper on my 90th birthday, regardless of whether I am alive to celebrate the occasion.

Regards,

Peter

____________________________________________________

As he finished reading, he suddenly felt a sense of clarity, as if he was waking from a daydream. The memories of his life flooded back into his mind, overwhelming him with emotion.

The doorbell rang and he heard the indecipherable buzzing of muffled voices. Suddenly, four friendly faces were staring at him in his living room wearing colourful party hats. They stared at him cautiously, trying to carefully gauge his awareness of the situation as Peter scanned the room of people. His eyes filled with tears.

“Maggie!” he yelled, hugging his daughter, who he now remembered! The corners of her eyes wrinkled, as she smiled at his recognition.

Peter remembered holding Maggie’s tiny hand for the first time in the hospital, terrified of being a father. He remembered Maggie and Cooper’s wedding, stunned at how quickly she had grown up.

“Cooper!” he exclaimed, warmly embracing his son-in-law. He remembered vividly the night he had found Cooper by the bridge, the events in his mind as clear as ever. Peter felt so foolish that he had not remembered earlier.

"Andy! Bella!" he cried, squeezing his grandchildren tightly.

“We have him back!” they yelled, everyone’s faces streaming with happy tears, all hugging him tightly.

It was a wonderful feeling to remember his life. And what a life he had led.

“And Mum is here in spirit.” Maggie added, teary-eyed. His wife, Anna, the love of his life had passed 4 years earlier. Peter nodded. He had missed her every day since. Every day that he could remember her.

As Peter’s family spent the afternoon celebrating, the backpack of money sat forgotten in the corner, no longer the most important thing in the room. No amount of money could buy this time spent together.

Just after 10pm on his 90th birthday, Peter fell asleep in his armchair, his snoring an indication that it was time for his guests to leave.

They decided not to wake him, avoiding any potentially painful farewells. There was an unspoken sadness where his family was always uncertain if they would be remembered tomorrow and if so, how much time they would have.

As the sun streamed in through the window the next morning, Peter awoke groggily in his armchair.

When he opened the fridge to look for the butter, he was surprised to find a slice of chocolate cheesecake. "My favourite!" he mused aloud to himself. As Peter sat down to his breakfast of cheesecake, an old, dusty bag sat unnoticed in the corner of the room.

Choosing his shower-time music on this particular morning, the sunny sounds of the celesta filled the bathroom spilling out through the rest of the house.

Peter stopped before his shower and quickly jotted down the words from his favourite Buddy Holly song in his little, black book.

"Everyday,

seems a little longer.

Everyway,

love’s a little stronger.”