Under the Crooked Crane

The book came with a note: “Read me.” So I tried. But my grandmother’s handwriting was small and cramped, and I gave up after the first two pages, which consisted mostly of half-written poems.

“Did you read Nanny’s book?” My mother asked the next day.

“Sure.”

“Have you found it yet?”

“Found what?”

“Read the dratted book, Sylvie.”

So I tried again. Page 6 was a recipe for cornbread. Page 8 had directions to a field, where she’d buried a time capsule at 16. It looked like I was reading notes from her entire life. Thank God there was no more poetry though. I mean, it was OK, but my grandmother wasn’t Emily Dickenson.

A guest list for a wedding. She’d gotten married at 18. A painting of a garden...

On Page 26, there was gold dust. And a note: “Under the crooked crane, more.”

“Did Nanny leave gold for me?! Mom, that can’t be right! Nanny was as poor as a field mouse!”

“Your Nanny was frugal. She scrimped and saved. There’s a difference between that and ‘poor.’”

“What if she did leave gold? And how the heck did you know about it?”

“It’s called a deathbed confession. She had a cousin who won the lottery, and liked gold. She didn’t tell me where she hid it though.”

“Under the crooked crane? Does that make any sense to you?”

“Well, remember, we had a crane lawn ornament in Jersey that was sorta lopsided.”

“You sure it’s not a rock formation?”

“Honey, the closest your Nanny got to a mountain was drinking Coors Light.”

“Should I go to Jersey? What if there really is gold? What if I end up digging up someone’s property? What if they dig it up first, and find the gold?”

“Nanny left me that house in her will. So all you’d need is my permission.”

“Do I have it?”

“What do you think?”

I booked a train ticket, and left the next day--had to call off work at the grocery store, but they understood. I also coughed a few times while talking to them, sorta-accidentally, for good measure.

I paid for a hotel stay, and an Uber to the house, and breakfast, ‘cause man, being maybe-rich sure makes you stress-eat.

Then I was there, at the house, with the crooked crane smack-dab in the middle of the lawn, and I realized I’d forgotten a shovel.

I went in the back--my mother had given me a key, and if I remembered correctly, there was a shed back there. I opened the door, and a rat skittered towards the shadows. Good. A shovel.

Back to the front of the lawn. Dig...dig...more...how deep was this gold, anyway? Nanny was a spindly thing, it couldn’t be that far down.

After the hole was three feet deep and three across, I finally admitted defeat. I sat on those porch steps, and I sniffed a little. Man, but I’d been dreaming about that money.

There was a bang from upstairs. Someone was there, in the house!

I gripped the keys between my knuckles, ready to gouge an eye if needed. I opened the door, then the next door, then went carefully up the stairs, and then…

An old man in ragged clothes sat on top of my grandmother’s bed. He was rocking, back and forth, “Call me a gypsy, call me a fool, call me a tool...call me a gypsy, call me a fool, call me a tool…”

Obviously, he was bonkers.

Suddenly, he noticed me. He shouted, “Hey, you can’t be in here! This is private property!”

“It’s my mother’s house, and you’re trespassing!”

“Darned idiot,” he muttered. He started rocking again. “Call me a gypsy...man, I gotta pee.”

He got up, and walked towards the bathroom. At least he wasn’t soiling the house, I thought. I walked downstairs.

Should I call the police? It was an empty house, and he was obviously homeless. Why not let him stay? What would Mom want? Mom was a softie. I’d let him alone, for now. For today, at least, I told myself. A little bit of time under a roof couldn’t hurt him.

Footsteps on the stair. “Call me a gypsie...time for breakfie. Oh, you’re still here, what?”

“I am. And you’re still trespassing.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“‘Course it doesn’t. Now let me eat.”

He opened the fridge. There was a block of sliced cheese in there, and nothing else. He carefully took it out, and peeled off a slice, and folded it in half. Then he folded it in half again. He put it into his mouth.

“Ummm...breakfast.” He looked at me. “You want?”

“No...no, thank you.” What do you say to a man, who has a slice of cheese for breakfast, and probably lunch and dinner too?

I ran out the door. Carefully, I refilled the hole, and replaced the crane. Then I ordered an Uber to a local supermarket.

Beans. Biscuits. Bread. Coffee. Broccoli--can be eaten raw, right? Milk, maybe a little more cheese. Carrots.

I kept shopping, until I knew I couldn’t carry any more. Then I carted it off to the house, on yet another Uber.

I opened the door. The man was sitting on Nanny’s couch, looking at the closed window. He turned and looked at me.

“Food,” I said, dumping it all on the table.

His eyes got wide. “Food! Breakfie, lunchie, dinner! Not cheese!”

He started dancing, then hugged himself, and grinned at me. “Thank God you’re a youngun, honey. Not too old and jaded to give a man a good meal. I thanks ye.”

I grinned back at him.

He rubbed his hands together. “Now, we feast!”

And so we did. I had cheese and broccoli, leaving most of it for him.

After eating, we sat on the couch. He gave a contented sigh. “What were you doing outside, anyway? You dug the hole, then filled it up!”

“Looking for something.”

“Oh? Buried treasure?” He laughed.

I laughed back. “Sorta. My grandmother left me something under that crane.”

He snorted. “Back when I had a house, and a wife, and my meds worked mostly, I used to drive by this house sometimes. They moved that crane when they did a bit of landscaping. It used to be off to the side, right in front of the big tree.”

Gold doubloons. A gold necklace. Gold coins. Gee, whiz. I brought the haul to an appraiser, then sold it at Sotheby’s. Danny--that was his name, Danny, got half, and got to stay in the house indefinitely. He used some of it for booze, but said he was “doing better now.” I got him some good clothes, then bought a house in Jersey. And I finally, finally finished that little black book. There was a little more poetry, but I didn’t mind so much. It was growing on me.