The Little Black Book

The Little Black Book

Bethany Williams

That damn black book.

He corrected himself, that darn black book. Even with his grandma dead and buried, standing in her house, he felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. She always had a newspaper ready to whack him and his brothers with—for cussing, for being too noisy, too dirty, too alive. And later she would smile and point to it. Her little black notebook. She was always writing in it. For twenty-eight years Alan had watched her. She would point to it and say, “Someday this will be yours, Alan. Someday you’ll understand everything” And he would say, “Yes, Grandma Baker.” Never Granny or Gran or Maw-Maw. She was always Grandma Baker to her grandchildren.

Grandma Baker’s funeral was held earlier that blazing summer day. Bees droned lazily past them as Alan stood in the cemetery and listened to the pastor lie through his teeth. “She was a kind woman that was loved deeply by her family. We will miss her.” That was about all the pastor could manage and everyone was impatient to get back to the air conditioner, so he soon sputtered out. This was taken as a cue to head back to the house for the wake.

And now, Alan found himself standing alone in Grandma Baker’s study while everyone else was in the kitchen eating stale sandwiches and drinking lukewarm iced tea. He had to find that book. He had waited his whole life for it. He always felt that he would understand everything about his childhood if only he could just read it. Why did his parents leave him with his hateful grandma? Where were they? Who were they?

Sweat dripped down his face. He was so nervous. What if it had been thrown away? What if he had imagined it? He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw it in the drawer. It had a black leather cover that felt cool in his hands. It was high-quality, only the best for Grandma Baker. He sat down in her old, overstuffed chair. The room was spinning slightly and the scent of her stuffy perfume and candles was overwhelming. He flipped it open to the first page. It was empty. So was the second page and the third. It did not seem possible. She was always writing in her tiny scratchy handwriting. It should be full of her writing. As a child he had imagined that it was full of her hateful thoughts and all of the hateful ways that she was planning to ruin his life.

He vividly remembered one summer when he was about twelve years old. He was told to wash the dishes. But before he could start, he was distracted by a kitten in the yard. When he went outside the tiny black kitten climbed a tree. He climbed after it as quickly as his lanky arms and legs would take him. When he reached it, he gently cuddled it to his chest and started climbing back down. It was much harder on the way back down with only one free arm. He felt a bolt of panic as he started to slip. The kitten managed to jump clear as he fell the final four feet and landed on his wrist. He had pretty much blocked out what happened next, but he came home with a small blue cast and instructions to rest at home. He had never seen his grandma that angry before. She kicked the kitten like a madwoman in a fairy tale. She spent the entire day scribbling furiously in that notebook. And now nothing. He kept flipping through expecting to see any evidence of her existence. Finding nothing, he slammed it down on the table and went back to the kitchen. He grabbed it on his way out though. It was left to him specifically in Grandma Baker’s will, one last joke to play on her eldest grandchild.

Later at home, he took out the empty black book flipped through it again. The front page now said Why. The second page said Where. The third said Who. He could have sworn that those pages were empty before, but stress does funny things. Her handwriting was tiny and in the top corner of each page. Maybe he had missed them before. He turned to the fourth page and it said, “I know you have many questions regarding your childhood. I hope to provide you with some answers. I’m sure that you know that it was difficult to spend my twilight years taking care of three rowdy, careless boys. I did the best I could for you, but I’m old. When you finally read this, I’ll be dead. It’s hard to write that and the fact has been getting to me lately, but there it is. Did you know that I saw a therapist the month before my 80th birthday? He told me I was anxious and depressed. I said, aren’t we all? I can’t blame him though. He was a young guy still in his forties. How could he know how it feels to be old and uncomfortable in your own skin? This body is ancient and rickety and quite literally a pain in my ass, but it’s also been the source of 80-some years of happiness. And now there are days where I wish I could rip my soul from this old carcass and stow it away somewhere it could be at peace. Other days I would sell my soul for another pain free day to enjoy the sunshine on my skin and the sound of the ocean against the pier. But that’s the reality when you’re dying of cancer. Now I’m rambling and I’m sure this is unpleasant to read. I should get to the point and tell you about your parents. Or at least give you the choice to learn about them.

You were only four years old, but maybe you still remember them and the day you came to live with me. I can tell you what sort of people they are, but whether you want anything to do with them is up to you. At their best they were drunks, and at their worst they were drug addicts. I never knew what; meth, crack, heroin, they’re all the same. They stole the light from their eyes, and you weren’t safe in that house. I came over to visit one day and there your parents were on the couch. They had overdosed and were just barely alive. The ambulance took them away and I took you three home. Your little brothers were sitting in stinking diapers and you were crying because you were hungry, and your Mom and Dad wouldn’t wake up. So, there it is. My son knew where to find me and you three, but he was angry and never reached out. He didn’t fight the court. I only knew your parents survived because they both signed the custody paperwork, but we never spoke. I think that’s why I made an appointment with the therapist. All these years I’ve blamed myself for his failings. I think now I understand that people make their own choices, but I still feel responsible. I know I’ve been strict with you, but hopefully you can forgive an old woman.

I will never forget the look in your eyes when I kicked that kitten the day you fell out of the tree, but I was in a blind panic. I had done everything I could to protect you and your brothers and it seemed like my efforts were going to be destroyed by a tiny bag of fur. I gave that poor scrawny cat to our neighbors down the street while you were sleeping off the pain killers. They had a little girl who doted on the thing. Fat lot of good it did me; the cat hissed at me whenever I visited. I know that I made mistakes raising you three, but I hope I can take some credit for the fine young men that you three have turned out to be.

Now in my final years it’s abundantly clear that I never said this as often as I should have, but I love you. I love you and you brothers with all my heart. You were far better than my son, and I know it’s wrong to have favorites, but you were always my favorite grandchild. So now I want to give you a choice. Your parents or $20,000, my life’s savings. There are two keys taped to the last page of this journal.” He checked; there they were. He flipped back to the final words in the notebook. “Take either key to the bank. The red key will open a safety deposit box that contains information about the whereabouts of your parents. I tracked them down last year when my health started failing. The blue key will open a safety deposit box with the money. The bank has been instructed to destroy the contents of whichever box you do not open. You are an adult now. I cannot hide this from you anymore, but I want you to choose. The Money. Or your Parents.”

He stared at the book, for a moment? an hour? He couldn’t have said which. He sat there trying to remember his grandma as she actually was. She was strict, but she needed to be with three rambunctious boys. Their upbringing had been relatively normal, and both of his brothers were settling down and had successful careers. He has been afraid to ask what had happened to the kitten, but he had seen an elderly looking black cat puttering around the neighbor’s yard on his way there.

This was a test, Alan thought to himself, “Shouldn’t a son want to meet his parents no matter how terrible they were?” As he thought about it more, he felt guilty, but not because he had no desire to meet his mom and dad. He felt guilty because he never saw the worth in the parent he had all along.

He took the blue key.