Two cans

I remain unclear about many things. One thing however in particular that day was clear and it compelled me to leave my room, the smells of breakfast in the kitchen, an unmade bed, and the sounds of airplanes hourly battering my roof, windows, and walls. I headed to the airport for a last minute purchase; I am clear about the outlandish, extra expense of last minute decisions.

I made no final decision about my destination until I read and reread the details. I rode in silence first on the electric train, then on the white shuttle bus with large blue letters as it manueuvered its way through massive parking lots picking up passengers headed to different airlines and varied destinations. I knew my chosen airline carrier; I have frequent flyer miles in my pocket. I am sure they would be drained once I stood at the gate.

I entered the bustling building, rode the escalator, and headed to the Delta counter. I’d been there before, but for very different reasons and journeys; destinations well planned and payed for in advance. I had grown up two miles west of the giant airport. As a youngster I played there, I in the nineteen-fifties; these suburban runways then were mostly green farmer’s fields. The runways were relics of an old and longtime gone military establishment. The land was conscripted soon after by Chicago’s long time mayor.

I approached the counter at last with a clear path in mind based on my most recent reading and research. I put together the last piece of the puzzle as I rode up that escalator. Other travelers entering and leaving were nearly invisible to me. I did not listen to their stories as they passed me by. I paid little attention to gender, clothing, baggage, food courts, or security. My heart was beating. Ticket personnel and security people barely raised an eyebrow as I made my way; they’d seen it all before. And mostly knew what to look for.

A friendly and very pretty ticket agent processed my frequent flyer miles, handed me my ticket and receipt, and then pointed me to the appropriate gate. TSA agents directed me to the appropriate security entrance where I presented my Global Entry Identification card. As usual, the X-ray machine found metal pieces lodged in various places on my frame: shoulders and lower back titanium implants and accutrements necessary to keep me upright and functional. I’d had four surgeries which required their permanent placement over the past twenty years. I knew the drill. I would pass the test.

I waited a bit impatiently for the final line to form and jetway doors to open. Agents in well ironed uniforms and starched white shirts pitter-pattered around their post, engaged in mostly trivial conversation, waiting for the captain and crew to arrive. Once they did so, secured codes and doors worked together to provide access to the cockpit and cabin. Baggage handlers tossed luggage into the belly of the plane below. I had none. At last, I sat anxiously in my first class seat; window, row three, on the pilot side. Habit. I hoped to find what I was looking for.

We arrived in Racine with little fanfare. I exited the airport in my inconspicuous rented grey Subaru Forester, a familiar vehicle. I pulled up Google Maps, put in my destination, and followed directions to a park on the western central shore of Lake Michigan. I had my black swim trunks on; under my street clothes. In the parking lot I took off my blue jeans, green Alaska tee shirt, black socks, and black shoes. I walked barefoot north along the beach looking for clues I’d found during my reading: a tree, a pole, a sign. Things were becoming more clear. The sand was burning hot and so was the unseasonably warm Michi Gami.

I opened the little black notebook once more to scan my notes and clues before locking it in the glove box. I secured the car first and then the key in my swimsuit pocket. I noted landscape features and counted steps as I made my way along the rocky beach. Not long after, I discovered what I believed to be the spot I was looking for. The boulders had not moved for many years; this had to be the spot. Everything led up to this the point.

I stepped into the waters seeking one shape, one size, and one boulder in particular; they do not all look the same. I soon found the boulder I was after. I had learned the difference between a rock and a boulder: An average person can lift a rock, never a boulder. There were a few rocks near and around the boulder I was after, perhaps left there by some long forgotten icemound or storm. I moved them carefully, so as to not disturb their surroundings. Then with my hands I dug and moved sand near and under my boulder; yes I felt possessed and possessive. Once I knew that I was in the right place and on the right side of the large boulder I dug a little deeper. Then I felt it. It was a red 2 pound Folgers Coffee can; though a bit rusted, it was intact enough in my estimation to be the can I looked for. I still can feel its weight in my hands; more than two pounds and not filled with sand.

I left the water without opening the can. Anticipation caused me to shiver. Once in my car I drove to a secluded spot in the park. There near a bush and under a shade tree I pulled off the plastic lid, pulled out a smaller old veggie can inside, also covered with a milky white Tupperware top. Inside I found a white cloth bag, and heard the rattle. Gold coins create their own sound.

Ma Raymaker owned a tavern in Racine during and after prohibition. Grandpa worked there and so did my dad. Family stories shared over the years suggested she stashed treasures in various locations to hide them from the Feds or the mob. My father helped. Their story was passed on to me by my father. My father gave me the little back notebook before he died. No one believed, except for me.