The Small Black Notebook

I had just pulled into the school’s parking lot, when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled into an empty space, glanced down at its lit up face on the passenger seat, and saw the call was from my father.

Dad and I had just emerged from years of mud slinging. Insults would be spoken, followed by long periods of bitter silence. He and my mother had never really liked or understood my husband, and when our two kids moved on to college, there was less of a reason to continue our relationship.

But, after a series of strokes, some unseen force seemed to be propelling him in the direction of making amends. He had made several overtures, even showing up at our home with my disgruntled mother like a man with a mission, trying every door. (I was inside, not knowing what his intent was, and not yet convinced I should let him back into my life. I dreaded facing him, only to fall back into a nightmare of finger pointing and blame.)

I picked up the call.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Patricia!” he shouted in his wonderful baritone. He had always had a mellifluous, compelling voice, and I and my two siblings were mesmerized by it when he would read to us at night. His talent was not wasted in our Presbyterian church, and he was a star in the men’s choir section.

“Listen,” he was now continuing, still shouting, “I have $20,000 in an account for you, and it’s all yours. Twenty thousand! I want you to have it.”

I sat there, stunned. Twenty thousand dollars?

My husband and I were artists. We were not famous artists, we were just everyday, hard working artists who believed in creating wonderful things. The parking lot I now sat in belonged to the school where I taught orchestra part time. Jim, my mate, was a fine, as yet unrecognized, painter.

Twenty thousand dollars was an immense amount of money to us, never an amount we had in one place at one time.

“Uh, ok….” I replied, more like a question.

I wasn’t surprised he had the twenty grand (he probably had a lot more), I was just surprised he wanted to give it to me. My father had worked for a steel company in upper management, and in the expansion going on in the U.S. in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s had done extremely well. Employees and their spouses were well taken care of, straight on into retirement.

“Come over later,” he boomed cheerfully, “and we’ll get this all taken care of.”

I got out of my car to walk to the school, but my legs nearly went out from under me. I was in shock, dizzy, but I felt light and happy. What a difference this kind of financial help could make to us! I couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways we could use it; no more debt, no more applying for yet another credit card that promised a certain amount of time with no interest, getting new carpeting, since the old carpeting had holes and stains… the list was quite extensive.

I could barely concentrate on my lessons with the children. My mind kept wandering back to how to use the money Dad had promised. The school I taught in was in the inner city, and we were lacking in many areas: supplies like rosin for bows, strings, sheet music. I daydreamed about filling in some of those supplies with my newfound wealth.

I didn’t dare mention any of this secret to anyone, but having the secret made my day fly by. I guess hope does that, makes everything…..more. More beauty, more flow, more kindness, generosity. And I hadn’t realized how much a lack of something preyed on my everyday mood.

After finishing teaching, I drove through city blocks over to my parents’ home, a suburb that was about a half hour from my school. I thought back to when our two sons were little, when this was a great convenience and financial help, as my parents were more than willing baby-sitters. They adored their grandsons, even as they found ways to be judgmental of our methods of child raising.

I pulled into the driveway of their suburban home, the one I had grown up in, and the sight of it filled me with familiar trepidation. I still was unsure how to relate to my mother, who had begun to demonstrate signs of dementia. I knew she was filled with anger toward me, but she couldn’t always remember the source of this feeling, which had the effect of fueling more anger and suspicion inside of her.

I got out, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. After some time, Dad opened it, and looked a little surprised to see me.

“Hi Daddy,” I greeted him.

“Patricia, hello, why….” he responded, and trailed off.

“You asked me to come by……..about the money?”

His eyes lit with recognition.

“Ah, the money! Yes, yes, let’s go over to the bank.”

“Is Mom here? I’ll just go say hi.”

He pointed vaguely toward the kitchen, and there I found Mom sitting at their counter. She was consulting their calendar, which I had noticed since our reconciliation that she was using more and more to inform herself of where she was in her life, spring or winter, old or young?

I mustered my best theater voice, the one you throw to the back row, since she was somewhat deaf, and refused to wear hearing aids.

“Hi Mom!”

She jumped a little on her stool, and turned to see where the sound had come from.

“Oh,” she intoned, clearly not entirely pleased by the sight of me. “Hi there.”

“Daddy and I are going over to the bank. Do you want to come along?”

“The bank? What for?” It was obvious she wasn’t happy about this bit of news.

“We’re going to see a man about a dog,” my father sang out from behind me, a phrase he often used when explaining his activities.

“Oh, Hank,” my mother simpered, and waved her hand dismissively in his direction.

“C’mon, Patricia,” he nodded at me. “Let’s do this.”

We climbed into my car and drove the two blocks to the local bank. Walking in, a bank manager approached us.

“Can I help you?” she asked, with the forced cheerfulness of customer service.

I always had trouble responding to this form of insincerity, but my father was right on it.

“Young lady, I need to make a withdrawal,” he intoned with exaggerated earnesty. He leaned in a little toward the banker. “A large withdrawal.”

The woman drew back a little, and considered, eyeing him. “I think Sharon can attend to that,” she said, and led us to the glassed-in cubicle.

Sharon was a short, chunky woman with black hair and thick glasses to match. She half stood as we entered her tiny area.

“How can I help you today?” she asked with a half smile, looking over her glasses from my father to me, as if trying to figure out our relationship.

“I want to withdraw twenty thousand dollars for my daughter here,” said my father.

Sharon recoiled a little when she heard the amount, but continued on.

“Do you have your account number? And I’ll also need to see some ID.”

My father reached around to his back pocket, which was sagging off his thin frame. I just then noticed that my formerly hale and hearty dad had lost a lot of weight, and his pants hung on him. He withdrew a slim, small black notebook.

“It’s all here,” he mumbled, leafing through the little ledger.

Sharon looked at the notebook, then very deliberately looked at me to catch my eye. Her look was one of concern, but also understanding; she had obviously dealt with my father, and those like him, before. Maybe she was caretaking her own father, who was failing in some way.

Dad found the page he was looking for, and with shaking hands, gave it over to Sharon. She glanced at it, then back at me with an imperceptible shake of her head.

“I want it all to go to Patricia,” he stated matter-of-factly, and reached over to pat my shoulder.

“Okay, sir, I can make that happen,” replied Sharon. “Patricia, give me your contact information, and we’ll start the process moving.”

She tried to give the notebook back to my father, but he declined.

“Give it to Patricia. I want her to have it.”

I gave Sharon my information, mostly for show. By this point, I realized that wherever the money was, it wasn’t here at the bank. And it wasn’t worth it to me to be the one to tell him this. Dad and I left the building and climbed back into my car. Once buckled in, we sat for a moment.

“Thank you Daddy,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

We drove in silence back to his home, where I let him out, and called, “See you soon! You’re coming for dinner Saturday, don’t forget.”

He nodded and slowly made his way toward the front door, the door I had so often slammed when I was running away from his condemnations.

My father always had a very clear idea of what he thought would make my life successful, but very little of this picture matched what I actually had in my head and heart. We tussled over this, not really understanding where the other one was coming from, for most of my life. The push and pull of it was exhausting, as he tried every method he could think of to bring me into line with what he thought would work.

But, after all the years of fighting, disapproval, misunderstandings and judgment, I finally knew my father loved me, and in fact, treasured me for my true self. Everything he had previously found wrong with my life he had let go, and he was free to express all that infused him with wonder and joy. It was as if whatever cloud had hung between us had cleared, and only light came through now. That, to me, was worth far more than money.

My real father, the one I had dreamed of and yearned for as I made my way through life, and hadn’t seen since I was a little girl, had finally reemerged. His pure and radiant love was almost visible, it was so much a part of him.

Dad passed away a few years after that. I still have the black notebook. It has become a symbol to me, a token reminder of how he must have taken it out day after day, thinking of me and my future.