Fair Trade

Margot sat on a park bench and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Pain radiated through her eyes and into her head. How could she have gotten laid off? She needed that crappy, low-paying job. Her family needed that job. She imagined her dad’s disappointment. The worry lines eroding his once handsome face. Margot groaned and pushed the heel of her palm into her eyes, trying to slow her racing thoughts. A dull thump on the bench yanked Margot from her thoughts.

Frightened a rogue squirrel had descended to rip off her face, placing the perfect ending to a horrid day, Margot peaked through her fingers. Instead of a rogue squirrel, a black, leather-bound notebook regarded her, ushering away any thoughts of a rabid rodent on the offense.

It can’t see me, Margot thought, it’s just a book. But she felt watched.

Margot glanced around. Despite the sunny summer day, the park lay nearly empty. She found not a soul nearby. Plus, she thought, I’d have heard someone walk by. Puzzled, she picked up the notebook and thumbed through its pages. Each was blank save the first. 

Take six giant steps forward, the neat cursive ordered. 

Peering around the park again, Margot wondered if this wasn’t a practical joke for a lame YouTube channel. A secret recording would explain the sensation of being watched. The few folks enjoying the park appeared to be minding their own business.

Margot glanced at the notebook again. A new word had added itself below the first five: Now.

Startled, she dropped the black book. It hit the grass but remained open to the first page. The neat handwriting waiting.

She stared at the writing with trepidation. Finally, with a shaky hand, Margot retrieved the notebook. She stood and took a deep breath, feeling foolish. What the heck, this day can’t get worse. She threw out her leg and took six of the largest steps she could muster. Her eyes never leaving the page.

After a time, Margot sensed a growing impatience, as if someone or something waited for her next move, but she took none. With what felt like a sigh from the book, if an inanimate object could sigh, the words on the page changed before Margot’s unwavering gaze. Look down, the neat scrawl commanded.

Heart racing, Margot flattened the book against her chest and leaned forward. Next to her feet lay a crumpled $100 bill. Margot’s jaw dropped. She stooped, grabbed the bill, and spun around, searching for a full-on film crew. This had to be a setup. She found no one even glancing in her direction. No cameras. No microphones. Nothing. Squinting, as if it might blind her, Margot pulled the black notebook away from her chest and looked at the page.

Corner of 53rd and Adams.

Without hesitating, Margot ran.

It took her less than five minutes to reach her destination. She stood breathless, scanning the corner. A large bank with a stone facade dominated the street corner. A homeless man dressed in dirty clothes, hunched within a small depression in the wall. Along the street, people waited for a bus, each preoccupied with their phones. Unsure of her next move, Margot consulted the book.

Give the homeless man the $100, announced a new message.

Margot balked. That was her C-note. She needed that. Margot prised her eyes from the page. The homeless man shook a crumpled paper coffee cup where an assortment of change rattled. The toes of a ratty pair of shoes poked out from a jumble of what was once a sleeping bag. Even though the summer sun warmed the day, he huddled into the alcove’s corner as if he had a chill he couldn’t shake.

Something shifted in Margot’s chest. So she’d lost her job and had enough debt to last a lifetime. She had a home, a family, a network. The least she could do was give this person something that she hadn’t even had a handful of minutes ago.

She approached the man, the smell of whom struck her nose before she reached speaking distance.

“Sir, this is for you.” Margot smoothed the bill and held it out to the man.

The man stopped shaking his paper cup and scrutinized the bill before turning his shrewd eyes on Margot.

“Is this a joke? Probably not even real.” The man disregarded Margot and bounced the cup, change chattering again.

Margot resisted the urge to pull the bill back and walk away. “No joke. It’s for you.” 

The homeless man paused. “For real?” His hard eyes softened and became glassy. “Thank you!” he said, taking the bill. 

A small smile lifted the corners of Margot’s lips as she turned to walk away. 

“Wait, miss,” called the man. “A trade.”

Surprised, Margot turned back to the man. What on earth could he have that she could want? “That’s OK.” She waved him off. ”You can have the cash. No trade necessary.”

“I insist.” He held a three-foot-long cylindrical container out to her. “Take it.”

Margot hesitated. The tube, covered in grime, smelled as rough as the man who held it.

A passerby bumped Margot’s shoulder. The forgotten black book hit her thigh. She consulted it.

Written on the page was a single word that punched her in the gut.

Wimp.

A flush raised in Margo’s cheeks, and her eyes narrowed. This book had some nerve. She squared her shoulder, lowered the book, and stepped towards the homeless man. “Thank you,” Margot said, taking the container. She returned the man’s wide smile and started for home.

***

“You’re home early,” Jeffery called from the living room. 

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Margot deflected the inquiry. 

“Teacher in-service. Got the entire day to myself,” Margot’s teenage brother replied. 

“So you’re watching the news?” she inquired, eyebrow raised as she sat next to him on the faded floral couch.

“It’s an art documentary, thank you very much,” Jeffrey said, turning his attention to the dirty canister in his sister’s hand. “What’s that, and why does it smell like garbo?”

Margot regarded the three-foot-long canister. “Um, I’m not sure. A homeless man traded it to me for some cash I gave him.”

Jeffrey’s jaw dropped. “You gave a homeless person money and took something from them? Why didn’t you throw it away?”

“Trust me. I’m shocked too.” A frown creased Margot’s forehead. She turned the filthy canister around in her hands. One end had a plastic cap. She pushed it opened and peered inside, ready for something to jump out at her. The frayed edge of something coiled caught the light. With care, Margot slipped the item from the tube and unrolled it.

The heavy canvas resisted her attempts but yielded. The painting depicted three men at a table dressed in bright blues and greens They wore strange crescent-shaped hats topped with fur. Their figures leaned towards one another conspiratorially as they chatted.

“Whoa,” breathed Jeffrey. “How much cash did you give the guy?”

“A hundred bucks,” Margot said, her voice far away.

“Where did you get $100?” Her brother turned his entire attention to her, eyes wide in disbelief. “Dad’s going to kill you if he finds out.”

“Relax, I found it.” Margot inspected the painting for a signature. She found it at the top left corner.

“N.C. Wyeth,” droned the documentary host, “was an American illustrator.”

Margot’s head snapped to the television. N.C. Wyeth was the name on the painting.

“His famous paintings for Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel, The Black Arrow,” continued the host, “went missing from a private collection in Portland, Maine, back in 2013. The collection included ‘Go Dutton, and that right speedily…,’ ‘The encounter on Freshwater Cliff,’ ‘The Unwrit Dogma,’...” 

“Holy crap,” Margot breathed. The documentary flashed images of the stolen paintings. The third on the list was the exact painting she held. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

The host named three additional paintings also stolen from the same collection. “If anyone has information on this art theft, please contact the FBI. A $20,000 reward is offered for any information leading to the recovery of the paintings.” A number appeared on the screen in bright yellow numbers.

“Pause the TV,” Margo managed, her mouth dry.

“Oh my gosh, Mar, that’s the same painting!” Jeffrey gaped. “Do you think the homeless guy is the art thief?”

Margo thought of the black notebook. How it had led her to the man. She shook her head. “I need my phone.”

With trembling hands, Margo dialed the number for the FBI. She told an edited version of how the painting came to be in her possession. The operator instructed her to go to her local police station. FBI agents would meet her for an interview.

On numb legs, Margot took the bus to the police station. Once there, the agents ushered her into an interrogation room for her statement. After the fifth retelling, the black notebook omitted each time, the agents appeared satisfied. Margot gave a description of the homeless man who’d given her the stolen painting, and the agents thanked her for her help, taking the painting before promising to be in touch about the reward.

***

Two weeks later, Margot stepped out of the police station and into the bright sun of the afternoon. Green and blue spots polluted her vision from the camera flashes of reporters. A $20,000 check rested securely in her wallet.

“Excuse me, miss. I believe you have my book.”

Margot turned, startled. “Pardon?”

“My book,” the man took a step closer. “You found it in the park several weeks ago. It has served its purpose, and now it is time to move on.”

Margot’s heartbeat raced. She recognized the man. He was the homeless guy who had given her the painting, except now he was clean and dressed in a dark hand-tailored suit. He held a leather briefcase in one hand and a silver-tipped cane in the other. “The FBI thinks you stole the painting.”

The man gave a soft laugh. “Margot, I am many things, but a thief is not one of them.” He placed the cane under his arm and held out his hand. “The book, please.”

She took a step away. “What if I say no?” After the notebook had led Margot to the painting, she’d waited for another message, but its pages remained blank.

“I’m afraid, ‘no’ is not an option.” He took another step toward her. “I take the book where it’s needed and give it to people who deserve, something.”

“Deserve? Did I deserve $20,000?” Margot asked. Her hand slipped into her purse and gripped the book.

The man shrugged. “The book thought so. But you had to pass the tests first.”

Without her knowledge or instruction, Margot pulled the book from her purse. She fought the urge to hand it over and opened its cover one last time.

Follow your resolve, the book stated before overwhelming Margot’s will, forcing her to hold it out to the man.

He smiled and took the black notebook. “You see? All who cross its path do its bidding, whether or not we consent.” The man opened the briefcase and stashed the book inside. He gave a small bow and walked away. Margot’s eyes followed him as he left until she lost him in the crowd.

***

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