The Little Black Book

“What’s this?” I turned to my sister and showed her the small, black journal I’d found tucked into my father’s sock drawer while we were cleaning out his house.

She squinted at the book and shrugged. “Who knows? Why don’t you open it up and find out? I doubt it’s anything important.”

I opened it up and thumbed through the pages, my sense of alarm growing as I scanned the names, numbers, and addresses of women I didn’t know. Dates were beside each name and between 1 and 5 A’s written next to it, as if he were rating them. Some of the dates included the week my mother had been in the hospital dying. I was horrified.

“What is it?” My sister’s question must have arisen from the expression on my face.

Not wanting to disturb her until I could investigate further, I tucked the book into my purse. “It’s nothing big. Just an address book. I’m going to call them and let them know of his passing.”

That was a partial truth. I did intend to call these women and discover the nature of their relationship with my father. It bothered me to think that he’d been cheating on my mother all those years with so many different women, all while appearing so faithful to her.

When my mother had grown ill with Alzheimer’s disease and the care of her had gotten to be too much for him by himself, he’d moved her into a nursing home but he’d taken an apartment in the assisted living facility on site so that he could be near her. I’d never once seen him grow impatient with her.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, he’d stayed by her side even when she lost the power of speech and could no longer speak so much as his name. He’d never stopped looking at her with eyes filled with adoration and he’d never stopped caressing her as tenderly as a man might caress his new bride.

Was it all a lie? Was it all some act on his part? To what end? I couldn’t begin to imagine, but I knew the answers would be in that little black book.

I started with the most recent date. The name was Carmen Santiago and there were 4 A’s beside her name. Just a week earlier, on Thursday, my father’s day out at the senior center.

I dialed the number and a young woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Is this Maria Santiago?” I asked.

She seemed suspicious. “How did you get my number?”

I understood the suspicion. “This is Emmeline Carter, Craig Carter’s daughter,” I explained to her. “I regret to inform you that my father has passed away.”

I waited to hear the response. “I am sorry to hear that, Emmeline. Your father was a good man. He was such a big help to me last Thursday. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

The response tugged at my curiosity. “A big help to you how?”

Her voice grew tearful. “I was on the way to work last week when the snowstorm started up. I hadn’t had the money to fix my tires. I was going to do it when I got paid. The back tire blew. We were too far away to walk home and too broke to replace the tire. I remember sitting there, crying my eyes out, thinking the three of us were going to freeze to death, trying to figure out what to do. I started praying and that’s when your father showed up.”

I felt a sense of pride wash over me as I listened. “What happened?”

She chuckled. “Your father was so generous. He got us all into his car and drove me to the service station. I told him I didn’t have any money. He told me not to worry about it. He got my tire replaced and helped me put the wheel back on the car. Then he had me drive back with him to the station to make sure that all of my tires were replaced. He gave me $200 for groceries, too, when he found out I didn’t have much at home and made sure we got home safely. He gave me his card and told me to call if I needed anything else.”

I remembered my father coming home later than usual that evening and when I asked him where he’d been, he told me he was visiting a friend. Now I knew who he was talking about and what he’d really been doing.

“Thank you, Maria. It means a lot to me to hear this.” I hung up feeling somewhat relieved, but now even more curious about who these women were.

Each woman I reached had a similar story to tell me. Each one had been helped by my father in a way that meant enough to them they remembered it even now. The more help he’d given them, the more A’s beside their name and date.

It was in the middle of the book that I found Kelly Graham’s name. Her entry had but a single A beside it, my father’s code for a small deed that took relatively little effort on his part. I doubted she would remember him and almost didn’t call, but something inside me urged me to go ahead and make the effort.

I dialed the number and a man’s voice answered. “Graham residence. To whom am I speaking?”

He sounded so formal and so stuffy that I nearly hung up but I was determined to speak with her. “This is Emmeline Carter, Craig Carter’s daughter. I was calling with important news about him. May I speak to her?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I will deliver your message. Is there a number where she may call you?”

I gave him my number and waited to see what would come of it. I didn’t have long to wait. Within a half hour, I received a call back.

When I told her the news, I could hear the sorrow in her voice. “He was a wonderful man. He will be sorely missed. If you would like to come to dinner tonight, I would like to give you something that belongs to him. He left it with me but I think you should have it.”

Unable to resist the mystery, I agreed. She gave me her address, not that I needed it, and we agreed to a time. I wondered what it was my father left behind.

Kelly’s home was in the nicest portion of the city, where the majority of the truly wealthy lived. I entered the gates and marveled at what I saw. Fountains of marble and gold spraying water high in the air sat to either side of the walkway. It reminded me of postcards I’d received from a friend of the Kensington Gardens outside the palace in London, and perhaps had even been modeled after it.

The house itself rose 3 stories in the air, resting on sturdy Grecian styled pillars that seemed to be made of the same material as the fountains. I parked my sturdy but aged Mitsubishi CX9 in the circular driveway and stepped up to the front of the house. I climbed those steps suddenly feeling like I didn’t belong and swallowed hard before knocking on the door. I reminded myself I was an invited guest.

The man who had answered the phone was the man who opened the door. I recognized his voice. “Ms. Graham has been awaiting your arrival.”

He showed me into a dining room that was as large as my living room and kitchen combined. An older woman with greying hair sat at one end of the huge table. She gestured toward the seat to her left and I took my seat.

I couldn’t wait to hear the story. “How did you meet my father?”

She smiled. “I fell in an airport on my way to the gate. Everyone was passing around me, too busy with their own lives to stop and help me up. Your father noticed and came to my rescue.”

That explained the single A. Not much trouble at all. “You remembered that? It seems like hardly anything at all.”

She gazed at me for a moment. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have remembered it, but your father went beyond helping me to my feet. He spent the next hour we were waiting for our flight listening to me pour out my story. I was a new widow, with no children, and felt I had no reason to live. He reassured me that day that I had every reason to live, that happiness would find me again someday. It was because of him that I am still here today.”

I was astonished at the impact such small gestures seemed to have made. “But that’s it?”

She shook her head as she took a sip of her wine. “No, my dear. That’s hardly it. Every week, without fail, he came by to check on me as he told me he would that day. I tried to pay him for his trouble but he would not take a single dime from me. He told me that service to others was its own reward and my friendship was all the payment he needed.”

That sounded like my father. We continued talking about my father throughout the dinner and she shared with me the stories of his visits. I thought it so strange that she would value so highly these visits from my father. “Didn’t you have other friends?”

She patted my hand. “I have many people who are more than happy to visit me, my dear, but only with your father was I certain of his motivation. I knew that he came to visit me not for my money or what I could do for him, but out of the goodness of his heart. That was more precious than gold to me, for such friends are rare when you have the kind of money that I do.”

I could only imagine having that kind of money. My father had always seen to it that we had our needs met, but he’d always struggled to do more than that.

When the last course was served, she gestured to her butler. He came over with a silver platter bearing a single envelope with my name on it. I picked it up off the platter and opened it. My eyes widened as I spotted a check bearing a sum of $20,000.

I looked at Kelly. “But, why? What is this for?”

She smiled. “Your father refused my money in his life, but I nevertheless kept it for him. Now that money is yours. I hope that you put it to good use.”

I started to refuse but an idea struck me. I knew what I would do with it. “Thank you. Do you mind if I visit you in my father’s place?”

She looked at me in surprise. “Why, I would be delighted. Perhaps next time you can tell me stories about your father I don’t know.”

I took that money that Kelly gave me and I placed it into savings. Whenever I spotted someone in need, I would use my father’s money to serve them. I keep my own little black book these days. Whenever I feel lonely or miss my father, I pick up that little black book and I am reminded that his story lives on through me.