The Little Black Book

“Just Cleo?”

A woman, nearly five feet tall in her soft pink flats, blinks up at the teller.

“Yes, Cleo is my full name. It’s not short for anything.”

There’s typing. It’s a calming sound in the quiet bank. Cleo pushes her glasses further up on the bridge of her nose. She straightens and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Trying to make it believable. That she, a dog walker and part-time nanny, with a hole in her left sock and a frayed hand-me-down coat, could casually walk into a bank with a check for $20,000.

The teller eyes her wearily, but hasn’t had many questions for her. Cleo wonders if that’s a good sign or not.

“One moment,” says the teller, disappearing with the check.

Cleo merely nods. Unsure. She can barely think about the check when she’s fixated on her breathing. Was it too loud? She hated the idea of heavy breathing in a quiet place. She never wanted to disturb anyone. She checks her shoes. Clean. She didn’t track in any snow or dirt. Thank God. She did that once at her favorite restaurant in Providence. It was one of Rhode Island’s best and she tracked mud from the front door, to her table, and all the way to the bathroom before she realized it.

Cleo rocks back and forth on her heels and thinks back to last week. And back to when she was barely affording her rent. Back when she was desperate to help her family receive better outside care for her ill grandmother. All of her paycheck from walking pomeranians and shih tzus went to her grandma.

Dog walking last Tuesday was when things got weird. A woman and a man in matching thick fur coats had sauntered down the sidewalk toward her. Their boots gently lightly crunching against the salted ground. Cleo watched as the woman with a cigarette on the end of a skinny stick, like in old movies, laughed so fully that her cheeks seemed to swell in time with her stomach. The man, with a dark curling mustache, whispered to her, encouraging the deep-belly cackle.

Cleo scooted to the right in preparation to pass them. But they stopped ten feet away and turned toward the street. She watched, expecting them to cross, but they didn’t. More whispering. Cleo slowed her pace. Smoke billowed around them. And then seemingly out of nowhere a growling vintage yellow taxi stopped in front of them. Cleo paused mid-step.

Neither of them noticed her as they slid into the cab. It chugged down the road and around the corner. Cleo didn’t know what to think. She shook her head. Halloween had already passed four months ago. Maybe they were just fanciful wealthy people. She was in that part of town.

The perfectly coiffed pomeranian named Antoinette pawed at her calf. She continued forward and then stopped again when she saw something lying on the ground right where the eccentrics had stood. She got closer and realized it was a little black book. The dog whined.

“One second,” she said. And bent down to pick up the abandoned book. It was stiff. She opened it and flipped through the pages. There were repeating numbers. First 222, then 333, 444, 111, and 0902. Her birthday. She sucked in a breath. Coincidence? She looked around her. Maybe she had slipped on an ice patch and was currently bleeding out while she hallucinated this entire scene. She definitely wasn’t getting paid for this walk.

She flipped through the book again. The other numbers seemed familiar too. Angel numbers. That’s what her abuelita had called them. Her grandma said she’d always see the number 222 everywhere she went.

She looked down at the little dog. “Is this a sign? What do you think?” She smiled to herself. She was not so self-important that she could believe something big was happening here. Magical. She had never been the main character in her own life. There was always someone else to take care of or tend to since she was a child. She closed the book and shoved it into her pocket.

As soon as she did, a rush of air sent her hair whipping wildly around her face. She tried to pull her hood up.

“Excuse me?”

She jumped and looked around. No one was there.

“Yes, you. The one whose pocket I’m stuffed into.”

Cleo froze. A sing-song voice was in her head. Filling up space and dread between her ears.

“I--”

“Please take me out. Now that you are my new companion, we shall officially exchange pleasantries.”

Cleo slowly pulled out the book. Ignoring Antoinette’s barking that sounded a million miles away.

She opened the book. There was a face. A soft outline of features that blinked and moved.

“How am I -- ?”

“I’m a guardian. A watchful spirit. The ultimate fairy godmother.” It smiled.

“But, how can a book be talking to me? Is this what crossing over is like?! I knew I must have slipped.” Utter panic shook her vocal chords.

“No child. You are alive and very lucky to have come into possession of such a generous book. I only materialize for those in need and who deserve it. I travel through time and to places all over the world. I can communicate in any language. Blah, blah, blah. Listen, darling. I’m old and tired. Not to mention overworked. So let’s get started.”

“Started how?”

Cleo began back toward the dog-owner’s home. The pomeranian was probably frozen by now. It skipped furiously behind her. She moved without looking up.

“You know it’s dangerous to look down at a talking book and walk at the same time, right?”

“What do I call you?”

It’s sketched eyebrows shot upward. “Hmm, I have always been partial to Charlie.”

“Charlie? The talking diary. That sounds like it’s in my head but also not.”

“I am not a diary. I am a small notebook in the shade of obsidian. My pages are macaroon cream. And I like to think of my inner spirit as vermilion. Royal and daring. And yes, I am talking in your head but also out loud. The dog can hear me as well. If that helps. My creator wanted an all-powerful and consuming feel to my design.”

“Umm, and what can you do for those in need?” She had finally reached the house. Once inside she dropped the dog’s leash and sat in front of the fireplace.

“Well, what is it you need? New clothes? You must be freezing in that thin coat.”

“No, well, yes. I guess that would help.”

“Ah, careful now. You have only one favor a year. And I cannot stop death nor bring someone back to life.”

“One favor a year?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes, odd, I know. Only one every 365 days. Most people hold onto me for years. I thought that last pair would definitely not have let me go so soon. But I guess you needed me more.”

“How were they in need?” Cleo blanched.

“Oh, you should have seen them. Their childhoods were taken too soon and their lives so bleak they could blend in with the London sky. Twins with no hope or belief in magic. I usually don’t romanticize things so much, but I was feeling charitable. So I took them through time and space and let them explore, and I threw in a couple of coats and perks along the way. It’s not conventional, but I get bored. And afterall, their favor was to experience something impossible.”

“Okay…”

“So how can I help you, sweet twenty-five-year-old Cleo?”

“Well. My grandma. She’s sick, and insurance doesn’t cover what she needs. I hate seeing her waste away in so much pain.”

“Hmm, currency then? Something to trade. The most asked favor in the history of the world.”

“Sure, yes that would help.”

“Are you sure?”

Cleo's face drained of blood. She had magic in her hands. Pure possibility at her fingertips. She couldn't mess this up. She was doubtful, but it felt so real.

“Money, yes.”

“How’s $10,000?”

“Ten grand?!”

“Ah, fine. $20,000.”

Cleo’s heart felt like it stopped in her chest.

“Now, close me up tight and hang tight.” Charlie vanished.

Her hands moved, though she didn’t really remember signaling them to do so. She slowly closed the book.

Everything went black.

Cleo blinked awake in her bedroom. Everything looked normal. Four stained, light-blue walls. A fake Picasso and small TV. She sat up. She was in her PJs. She scrambled off the bed and grabbed her phone. A week had passed. She felt sick. Then she remembered. Charlie.

Her coat was hanging off the back of her chair. She checked the pockets. Nothing. Then she went to her jeans. Bingo. She pulled out the stiff book and opened it, ready to ask a million questions. But the pages were blank.

“Charlie? I know you’re in there? What happened? How has a week gone by?”

Nothing.

Cleo was about to yell at the pages once again, when something caught her eye. Something she had missed. Right next to her pillow was an envelope.

She opened it. And there it was. A check for $20,000. Tears ran down her cheeks. The next couple of hours went by in a blur. She got dressed and headed to the bank, which is where she still is now, waiting.

“Cleo?” The teller calls her name again. She shakes off the memories and thoughts surrounding the last week. How was she suddenly standing in a bank a week later with a check for 25 grand?

“Yes?” It must be a fake. She wonders if she could get arrested for that.

“Everything looks good. It will be directly deposited.”

She finishes up with the teller and walks home, buzzing with anticipation. Her debit card suddenly feels very heavy in her pocket. Like it’s alive and wiggling around. A hot stone that feels so good against her frozen skin.

She powers up her old laptop and checks her bank account. Magically, it’s there. She squeals and throws her arms in the air, letting her legs fly with her excitement. She transfers the money to her grandfather with a note saying that it was her gift to them. She closes the laptop.

Cleo goes into her room and picks up the small book, holding it gently against her chest. Crying, and tasting her tears while she smiles. She decides to put the book in a large antique box her grandma gave her. In 365 days she would be able to ask another favor. She hides the box beneath her bed.

“Thank you, Charlie.”

But Little did Cleo know what had been taken in return for her favor… The little black book had studied and captured her features. Her essence lingered in its pages, and at night it sounded like it called to her.