Little Black Book

It was a Friday afternoon in mid-January. The sun was low on the horizon and mostly obscured by heavy clouds. I walked briskly down the suburban sidewalk from my house to the local grocery store a mile away. There were a few stubborn residents in the area with Christmas lights still twinkling in the dusk, and a few diehard patches of snow that had refused to melt. I walked past a smart looking high peaked two story and noticed a particularly large patch of snow on the shady side of the house, which looked like the remnants of a sad, left over snow angel. A small rectangular shape caught my eye. It was made of a shiny black material that reflected the flashing Christmas lights on the house next door.

The object was partially buried in the snow making up the angel’s right hand. The house itself was dark leading me to assume no one was home. I quickly looked around to make sure no neighbors were watching then casually sauntered across the yard and picked up the rectangle which turned out to be a little black notebook about 3x5 inches, bound in shiny black leather. I opened the book and squinted but it was now too dark to read. I stuffed the book into the pocket of my jacket and went on my way to the grocery store, intending to look at the book once I was in better light. Oh, curiosity!

I completed my trek to the store and made my way home lugging two bags heavily laden with trappings of a taco dinner that had cost more than I had expected. I liked to tell myself I was “on a budget” but in reality I was unemployed and had just received my final unemployment check. I was flat broke. Skint.

My car had been repossessed a month ago and my roommates, all college friends, were patiently waiting for my share of the last two last months’ rent. In my favor was the fact that, at least for now, my roomies were allowing me to stay rent deferred as long as I was willing to assume all domestic duties from cleaning the toilets to doing their laundry, including their hand washable “delicates”, and cooking their meals. So, in a rather bleak state of mind I took off my jacket and hung it on a peg by the back door, put my shopping bags on the kitchen counter and began making the tacos that had been ordered for dinner.

I began putting the groceries away in between stirring the ground beef and grating of the cheese and heard Isabelle, the chattiest and most sociable of our little household, apparently in the living room talking on the phone to her fiancé de jour, “Oh of course it’s OK! (Giggle Giggle) She won’t mind! See you soon!” This was followed by a shout out to me, “Marion, my love! Brian and some friends are coming for dinner! Imma take a bath, now!”

“How many friends?” I shouted back.

“I think there’s three, maybe four!” she answered, her voice fading as she toddled off to have her bath in the tub I had scrubbed and polished to a sparkling shine just a short time ago.

"OK, instead of tacos and Margaritas for four it’s now tacos and Margaritas for eight, maybe nine.” I grumbled.

At that moment the phone on the kitchen wall jangled. I answered and found Juliette, my second roommate, on the line. “Hey Mari, I have a couple of friends from work coming home with me for dinner! I told them about your Margaritas and they literally begged me to let them come!”

“OK, sure,” I said as cheerfully as I could. I hung up the phone and grumbled to myself again as I added another package of ground beef to the skillet. “Tacos and Margaritas for eleven, maybe twelve. I gotta get a job.”

I shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes and onions for taco toppings, then more dicing and slicing for homemade salsa. Prior to acquiring a live-in maidservant, my roomies had been content with salsa from a jar. Now it has to be homemade.

I started mixing the ingredients for a large pitcher of Margaritas. No, not the premixed kind from the supermarket. Now the Margaritas have to be made-from-scratch. I soon heard my room mates and their guest arriving. Music blared and they were all laughing it up in the living room.

My third roommate Louisa, or LuLu as she now preferred to be addressed, came through the swinging door into the kitchen to see how the dinner was progressing, declaring they were all “ravenous.”

“Almost ready,” I told her. I put the pitcher of margaritas and a dozen margarita glasses on a tray. “Wanna put this on the table for me?” I asked as she was about to exit the kitchen.

“Oh just bring it,” she said, smiling as she left, motioning for me to follow.

I took the heavy tray into the dining room and placed it on the credenza at the end of the dining room, then retrieved a bucket of ice, lime wedges and salt for the rims that I had previously placed in the built-in mini-fridge. The group in the living were room chatting and laughing.

“Hey Marion!” Brian shouted to me. “Come join the party!”

“In a minute,” I shouted back. “I’m just finishing up the tacos.” The rest of the group gawked at me, smiling or laughing inanely at nothing in particular, because they were making their effort to be Having Fun on Friday Night.

As they descended on the pitcher of Margaritas I went back through the kitchen door, shaking my head. “Have they always been this obnoxious?” I wondered aloud.

“Yes, they have,” said a voice from the back door.

I whirled around, heart pounding. A smallish man in red sweat pants and a gray hoodie stood by the back door. I had not noticed him when I came into the kitchen, but I had been aggravated and distracted by shallow people waiting to be fed tacos. He was maybe 5’ 5” and had a short, brown and neatly trimmed beard and longish curly brown hair. I could see what appeared to be a plaster cast sticking out from under his sleeve on the lower part of his right arm, wrapping around his right hand. Another cast encased his right foot and peeked out from the leg of his sweats. He was leaning on a crutch. He looked as if he had recently been in an accident.

“Oh Hi!” I said brightly, recovering. “You startled me! I don’t think we’ve met.” I continued, assuming he was one of the last minute dinner guests.

“I’m Nick, he said shuffling across the kitchen toward me. His cast and crutches made a thump- swish- thump noise as walked. “And we have met. You are the Maid Marion,” he smiled as I shook his plastered hand and we both laughed at his joke. He had a surprisingly deep, wicked laugh.

“Yep, that’s me! I answered brightly. “The scrubber of toilets, killer of spiders, purveyor of tacos! I’m sorry I don’t remember meeting you. Which one of my roomies do you belong to? “

“Oh, I’m not with them,” he said mysteriously, “I’m here for you.” This further startled me, causing my heart to start racing again (stalker!).

I assumed he was joking or attempting to flirt and decided to play along. I turned to finish loading the tacos onto a tray. “Oh, I see…Well, Mysterious Nick, dinner is about to be served and I just put out the Margaritas. We should join the others.”

With my back still turned Nick said, “Don’t tell the others, but don’t forget to look at the little black book you found. I’ll be in touch.”

“What?” I said, truly puzzled. No one knew about that little black book except me. I turned to question him further but he was gone.

I was dumbfounded and a little frightened. The swinging door leading from the kitchen to the dining room had been in my view during the entire encounter. He had not gone into the dining room. I had not heard the thump-swish-thump or any other sounds he would have surely made if he went out the back door into the back yard. I could see the dead bolt on the back door was locked and the chain lock was also in place. The door had been locked from the inside so that meant he was still in the house. Grabbing a stainless steel ladle I opened the door to the pantry, poised to whack the intruder if needed. He was not there. I then checked the laundry room just off the kitchen. Nothing. The small square access door to the attic crawl space was firmly latched. My rational mind told me he must have gone into the dining room and I just failed to notice.

I went through the swinging door into the dining room and placed the tray of tacos on the table then went back for the toppings. Still no Nick.

Once the dinner was on the table I turned off the music, causing childish protests from several of the guests. I looked from one face to the next. Isabelle, Lulu, Juliette with their friends Brian, Jon, Marcus, Pete, Miranda, Tori, and Patty. I knew all of these people as we had gathered numerous times over the years while I had shared this house with my college friends. But, no Nick.

“Where is Nick!” I shouted.

“Who’s Nick?” Isabelle asked, wrinkling her nose and cocking her head to one side as if she detected a bad smell.

The rest of the group shrugged and someone murmured “I don’t know Nick.” They looked at each other as if to see if there was some stranger named Nick lurking in their midst.

“I was just talking to a guy in the kitchen.” I bellowed, pointing to the kitchen door as if to ensure they all knew where it was. “He said his name was Nick. We shook hands. He knew my name! He had a broken foot and broken wrist. He had casts and a crutch!” Having decided the joke had gone far enough I was becoming agitated.

“Did anyone invite someone named Nick to dinner?” Lulu asked.

“No!” they all answered.

“Well let’s go look around,” Brian said hesitantly, trying to appear heroic without actually having to do anything. Everyone gathered behind Brian, who was clearly waiting for me to lead the charge.

I walked slowly back toward the kitchen door checking every few seconds to make sure my brave defenders were following. Once in the kitchen we did a thorough search. Brian and Pete unlocked the kitchen door and turned the flood lights on and checked the back yard. Nothing. They returned to the kitchen and Brian said in hoarse, frightened whisper “He must still be in the house!”

“We have to check the rest of the house,” Juliette whispered, also waiting for me to take the lead.

I retrieved my ladle and told everyone to grab a weapon. Oddly enough, no one went for the kitchen knives, which were the only real weapons in the house. Personally, my decision was based on the fact that I knew I would be no good in a knife fight. I was pretty sure that the intruder would take a weapon from me and probably use it on me. If I had to choose I would prefer to be ladled. Perhaps everyone else had a similar concern. So, armed with an array of kitchen utensils we moved in slow shuffling steps as a single unit, literally holding on to the arm or shirt or jacket of the person next to us. We moved from room to room, noting that the front door was still closed and the dead bolt locked from the inside.

“He didn’t leave by the front door!” Someone whispered vehemently. “He’s still in here!”

We moved from room to room, checking all closets and under all beds, behind all drapes and shower curtains.

“There’s no one here!” Brian noted in a loud voice, feeling bold and brave now that it appeared there was no actual danger. “You messing with us, Marion?”

“No!” I shouted back. “He was in the kitchen, then he wasn’t!”

“You’ve lost it, Mari! You’re imagining things.” Lulu taunted. “Tell me, was he cute? You making up an imaginary boyfriend?”

“Oh, shut up Lu!” I shouted. “Yeah, he was kind of cute but also NOT imaginary, and NOT a boyfriend!”

“Whatever you say!” She replied coyly, clearly convinced I had made the whole thing up because, in her world, that’s what people do. “Let’s eat, drink, and NOT be Mari!”

“Ha Ha Ha!” was the best snide comeback I could muster.

We all gathered around the table and ate tacos and drank Margaritas, talked about each other’s lame lives and bad hair. Soon the incident seemed to be forgotten by everyone. Everyone except me of course, as I knew Nick had been very real.

After dinner I washed the dishes, frequently looking over my shoulder at the spot where Nick had stood. I was reminded of the day I killed a really big spider in the dining room. It took a couple of weeks for me to walk past that spot without checking for more spiders, as if that spot was now Spider Territory and that’s where they would all go to hang out. The spot by the kitchen door was now tainted. Or haunted.

“And there it is!” I whispered aloud, annoyed with myself. “I have said The Word. Haunted! I want to go home to Momma now.”

At that moment I spied my jacket hanging on the peg beside the door, and remembered the little black book in its pocket. The apparition had told me not to forget to look at it, and I was of the mind that if an apparition tells someone to do something they had damn well better do it. I had to walk sideways with my back to the counter to get to the jacket without turning my back on the Haunted Spot. I retrieved the little black book from my pocket then quickly went sideways back to my safe spot in front of the sink. I opened the book and, once again, received an adrenaline boost. The book contained a list of names, five names to be exact. Next to each name was a four digit number. The adrenaline-producing shock was that my own name was at the top of the list, and the four numbers beside it coincided with the year I was 9 years old.

I felt dizzy, light headed. Immediately Nick was in front of me and pushed one of the stools from the breakfast bar island toward me. I stood there, mouth hanging open. “You!” I said incredulously.

“Sit down, you’ll feel better,” he said casually. “And for your own sake, don’t scream. I can feel you wanting to, and I get it! This is way out of the ordinary. But, what will happen is your friends will rush into an empty kitchen and probably start making plans to rent your room to some less crazy girl. Sit down, I’ll tell you whats going on.” Then he laughed his wicked laugh and said, “Trust me, it’s a great story!”

I sat down on the stool and accepted the Margarita pitcher Nick handed to me, which still held a couple of sufficiently large gulps. “Here, have a swig!” He said. I drank from the side of the pitcher, not blinking, not taking my eyes off Nick for a moment.

“Who are you, and what THE HELL is going on?” I demanded.

“Well, my name is Nick, as you know," he said. "I am trying to clean up some errors that were made many years ago. “

“Errors,” I repeated stupidly, in between gulps of Margarita.

“Yeah. Here’s the thing," Nick continued, now leaning casually against the kitchen counter eating one of the left over tacos. “You know how there is a naughty list and nice list? Naughty-listers get lumps of coal, Nice-listers get the good stuff? Well, once in a while it gets mixed up. It usually happens when we change book keeping systems. You know how system upgrades are, right? These are good, by the way, “ he interjected, raising his half eaten taco in a sort of salute. “ Well, anyway when we updated from paper to spreadsheets things went really bad. Learning curve, you know. Some of the naughty-listers got the good stuff and the nice-listers got lumps of coal. It was very sad and, trust me, I still feel awful about it.”

“So you’re St. Nick?” I said flatly, trying not to laugh. “Santa Claus?”

He smiled and shrugged. “We finished an audit and for the past 20 years I have spent the offseason fixing things, trying to get naughty and nice back in balance. The little black book shows the last five cases.”

I reopened the book and, now numb to more shock, I read the names of the other four people on the list, who were, coincidently, still in this house. Next to each name was the letter P, and a third column showed a 4 digit number that I assumed was a year.

“OK,” I said deciding to play along with whatever joke was in progress, “Is this the naughty or nice list?”

“Oh, definitely the naughty list!” he said emphatically, shaking his head. Column A shows the name, Column B shows they received a Present, and column C shows the year the debacle occurred. What did you get that year?”

“This is when I was nine years old,” I said. “I got a new bike for Christmas. It was shiny red, the best bike ever!”

“Exactly!” he said, triumphantly, as if the rest of the story should now be self-explanatory.

“Exactly what?” I asked, becoming more exasperated by the minute. “And besides, I was a good kid!”

“Really?” Nick said, incredulously. “Does the name Bobby LaRosa mean anything to you? Or how about Christine Weaver? You caused them to break up the morning before their wedding!”

“Who the heck are they?” I demanded.

“And, you don’t even remember them!” he finished indignantly, throwing his hands in the air and shaking his head in disbelief.

“Oh wait a minute!” I said, finally connecting some very absurd dots. “We were nine years old. We were in 3rd grade. Christine Weaver and Bobby LaRosa were going to get married at afternoon recess. I gave Bobby LaRosa Red Vines at morning recess and he called off the wedding!”

“There you go, Nick said. “That put you on the naughty list and yet you still got the shiny red bike for Christmas. You were supposed to get coal.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said disdainfully. “I was a little kid! I gave another little kid candy and he decided to blow off a stupid fake wedding.”

“But you enjoyed it!” Nick continued. “Admit it! You manipulated him and it made you feel powerful! And, metaphorically speaking, you have given Red Vines to quite a few other boys since then, interfering with their afternoon recess plans. If you had received the lump of coal you would be a different person.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I said in disbelief.

“I wish I was,” Nick said sadly. “Because now it’s payback time.”

“Pay back?” I said with a start. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That means I have to take something from you of equal value to that bike, and hopefully you will learn the lesson you should have learned by receiving a lump of coal.”

“I have already lost everything,” I said, suddenly feeling the effects of the Tequila I had been swilling all evening. Yes, I was spiraling down into a sad, self-pitying kind of drunk.

“Yes, I know he said,” looking me squarely in the eye. “You uh… shared your Red Vines with your manger’s boyfriend at a company party, didn’t you? And then she fired you.”

“Oh, shit. How’id you know that?” I asked through a haze of tequila, slurring my words.

“He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake,” Nick sang cheerfully, bobbing his head from side to side. “He knows if you’ve been bad or good…” He stopped singing and smiled. “Well, I think you get the picture. “

“That shong is creepy as shell,” I slurred just before I slid off my stool and onto the cold tile floor.

The next morning I woke up on the kitchen floor with a pounding head ache, which was only made worse by the vomiting. Apparently I had planned ahead and put a trash can nearby. When the heaving stopped it took a minute to get oriented. “It’s Saturday,” I said relieved. “They will all sleep in. They won’t see me on the floor! Or that I threw up. Repeatedly.”

“Who ya talking to?” Nick said cheerfully, smiling down at me as he leaned on the kitchen counter holding a cup of coffee. I knew it was coffee because I could smell it, and that resulted in more heaving so I was on my knees hugging the trash can again.

“Not you again!” I said. “Go away!”

Nick laughed his wicked laugh and held out the cup of coffee. “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

I sat up on the floor and sipped the coffee. “Then take a shower,” he continued, “and…” he paused for effect, “in the name of all that is holy, brush your teeth. We have work to do!”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Need that.” I struggled to stand upright and, still staggering, made my way out of the kitchen, down the hall to the bathroom. After sitting in the bathtub with the shower on letting hot water run over me for a few minutes I felt somewhat better and managed to undress and shower for real.

“Nick is real,” I said to myself. “He is St. Nick and he wants me to pay him back for a bicycle because I gave Bobby LaRosa some Red Vines when I was in the third grade.” I dried myself and went to my room where I dressed in sweats, a tee shirt, and hoodie. “Look at me,” I said to myself in the mirror. “I’m wearing a Santa Claus suit.”

“Those aren’t Santa’s work clothes,” Nick said. He was now seated on the chair in the corner of my bedroom. “When Santa works he wears Dress Reds.”

“What do you want from me” I asked. The novelty of being followed around by an apparently supernatural being was wearing thin. “Sit down,” he said and motioned me to the bed.

I sat.

“Here’s the thing. At my last collections gig I lost my footing and slid off the roof of the house where you found my book. Normally I would just walk it off but I was knocked out and broke some bones. Apparently some neighbors saw me fall and called an ambulance. So, I wake up in the hospital with a concussion and casts on my arm and leg, and all hooked up to an IV full of pain medication. It took me a solid week to get mentally normal enough to get out of there. I went back to that house to get my book but there you were, slogging your way to the neighborhood grocery store and finding my book. I followed you and the rest is history. When I was watching you manage that bunch of miscreants you call friends, I had a truly brilliant idea!”

“Tell me something,” I said. “How does a supernatural being who regularly flies all over the world handing out toys to kids, and who can apparently pop in and out of a room at will, who sees you when you’re sleeping and all that, how does that guy lose his footing and fall off a roof?”

“There was some Gin involved,” he answered sheepishly. “It interferes.”

“Doesn’t that put you on the naughty list?” I asked spitefully.

“Nope, doesn’t apply to me. Well, as you can see I am a bit under the weather,” He quickly changed the subject and raised his plastered arm and foot as evidence of being under the weather. “I am also bone weary. I want a break. And, your generosity with Red Vines aside, you are a decent sort of person. Do these last 4 collections for me and that will square us for the whole Bobby LaRosa and red bicycle thing. In addition, I will give you $5,000 for each collection you complete. That’s $20,000! Could you use $20,000?” he asked smirking.

“What exactly would I have to do?” I asked, surprised at how natural all this was beginning to feel. Am I actually accepting this as real? I asked myself. The answer was “Yes. It’s real.”

“It’ll be a piece of cake,” Nick said. “Look at the book.”

I opened the book and again, saw my name at the top of the list. It now had a green check mark beside it. Four of my friends were listed I alphabetical order.

“You have to make them tell what they got for Christmas the year listed in the book, admit what they did that should have landed them on the naughty list, and make them give you something of equal value to their ill-gotten Christmas presents. Oh, and you can’t tell them about me or what you are up to.” He smiled radiantly, “Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy!”

“And where will you be while I’m doing all this?” I asked.

“I have a storage unit in midtown where I put all the stuff I have collected. The address is in the back of the book. I put up a hammock, I have a cozy blanket, and a nifty IPod and wireless headphones I had to take back from a really nasty kid out in Arizona. I will be on my hammock wrapped in a warm blanket, listening to music and taking a damn fine nap. This should restore me to my former magnificence, and when you are finished you deliver the goods to the storage unit and I give you the cash. OK?”

“OK,” I said hesitantly.

“Bye, now!” He said with a mock salute. “See you on the other side!”

“Wait!” I called out as he began to flicker like a lightbulb with a bad connection. Having never actually seen his exit before I found this disconcerting to say the least. It also confirmed either this was real or I had gone totally off the rails.

“What?” He said impatiently. “I have a nap to take.”

“Can you tell me what…uh…naughty things they did, so I can get this done?” I asked.

He considered this for a moment then nodded and said, “Okay. I want you to know we are dealing with some of the Deadly Sins here. There is a promiscuous floozy. Oh wait!” he said innocently. “That was you.”

I rolled my eyes as he smirked.

“So now we have an adulterer, a thief, a liar, and…” he paused and leaned toward me, then whispered dramatically, “a murderer.”

“A murderer.” I repeated flatly. “Well, if giving Red Vines to a boy in the third grade makes me a promiscuous floozy,” I said using an air quote gesture, “I have to assume this murder was something like swatting someone’s pet fly.”

“Hardly!” Nick exclaimed indignantly. “It was a hamster.”

He then flickered out and was gone.

After cleaning the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water, with which I washed down two aspirin, I went to bed.

Several hours later I awoke to the sound of voices coming from the dining room. I got out of bed still stiff and sore from my night on the kitchen floor, pony tailed my still damp hair, and joined them. My three room mates were seated at the dining table along with Brian, Isabelle’s current fiancé. Four people, I mused silently. What a coincidence. They were sipping coffee and had a plate of pastries on the table.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Brian said brightly. “You look like hell!” Everyone laughed, as was expected of them.

“Thanks,“ I muttered as I went past them into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I rejoined them a minute later and sat down, trying to come up with a way to bring up their past transgressions and how to get them to give something to me cancel the debt.

“How’s everyone today?” I asked trying to sound interested.

“It was fun last night,” Lulu said. “Thanks for making dinner!”

“But what was that weirdness about someone breaking into the house?” Juliette asked.

Now is my chance, I thought to myself. Think, think, think! “I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying to come up with a plausible story. “I had a lot to drink, and I have been dealing with some pretty heavy stuff. You know, breaking up my boss’s engagement.” Then it dawned on me, the perfect ploy! “You know I have been seeing a therapist,” I lied, “and she has me thinking about all sorts of things that cause me to behave the way I do, you know…with men.”

“A therapist!” Isabelle said, eyebrows raised. “I’m your best friend. Why didn’t you just come to me?”

“Well, it’s too personal,” I said, baiting what I knew would be an irresistible trap. Isabelle cannot walk away from deep personal conversations.

“You’re among friends here,” Juliet said gently while Lulu and Brian nodded their agreement. “Whats bothering you, hon?” she said, trying to sound sincere and not at all gleeful at the prospect of uncovering some dirt on a friend.

“Well,” I shrugged, continuing my lie, “My therapist did say I need to learn to be more open.”

They all leaned forward, eyes gleaming like cats in the night. “We’re here for you, Mari!” Lulu said.

“Okay, if you’re sure it’s not imposing on your time…”

“No, not at all!” they said in unison.

“Well, I have this really deep guilt over what I did, you know. When I got fired.” I stared down at my coffee in what I hoped appeared to be shame. “It wasn’t the first time I did something like that, and I am starting to see it really all started when I was in the third grade.”

“You were a slutty third grader?” Brian said in disgust. “What did you do?”

I knew my roomies were a captive audience at this point. “I wasn’t slutty, per se,” I protested. “But I did get between a girl in my class and a boy she liked and it made me feel really powerful.” So I told them the story of Bobby LaRosa and Christine Weaver and the Red Vines. They all leaned back in their chairs, clearly disappointed that it was such an innocent story.

“So from that point onward, I have on many occasions used my feminine wiles, as they say, in ways that caused pain to others. For instance my former boss and her fiancé. It’s a pattern,” I said looking at them to gauge their reaction. “My therapist says I have to make some token restitution so I can put it behind me so I am going to donate my prom dress to a charity that will give it to a girl who can’t afford a prom dress.”

“Oh, but you love that dress!” Juliette said empathetically.

“Yes,” I continued to lie, “My Mom gave it to me for Christmas just before senior prom. It will always remind me of Greg Palmer. He was dating my friend Monica. But no, that didn’t stop me!” I shook my head in apparent self-loathing but failed at trying to muster a tear.

“Well, sounds like another story worth telling..” Brian said, providing an opening.

“Not on your life,” I responded sharply.

“Hmm.” Isabelle said. “Interesting.”

“Yes, it is interesting,” I continued. “My therapist says our character is formed when we’re kids, and we keep repeating the same mistakes until we become self-aware. I am now disgustingly self-aware.”

And there was the challenge! My current roomies and their friends wear self-awareness like a badge, even though in truth they only play at self-awareness because it is a pop culture prerequisite if you want to be perceived as cool and woke, and don’t we all want to be perceived as cool and woke?

“What about the rest of you?” I asked the group. “I know you are all very self-aware. What was your defining moment? When you were a kid did you lie, cheat, steal or… something?”

It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Lulu was the first to spill her guts. “Well, when I was ten my older sister won a mall beauty pageant. They gave her a little tiara, and I was so jealous! I snuck into her room and stole it.” Her eyes welled with genuine tears as she set us all up for the big finish where we would be expected to fawn over her with exaggerated compliments to appease her ego. “You know when I tell you all you’re wearing too much make up, or your clothes are frumpy? It’s because I have been competing with other women all my life because I am so insecure about my looks. My sister was so much prettier than I am!”

We followed with the obligatory complements she had been fishing for. “Oh, Lu, no! You are so beautiful, the rest of us are jealous of you!”

Fully sobbing now, she continued. “To make matters worse I got a tiara for Christmas that year! I still have it!”

“Well, that would be a fabulous bit of spiritual restitution,” I suggested, amazed at how easy this was. “Send it to your sister and tell her what you did.”

“Oh I couldn’t! She would never forgive me.” She said tearfully, just as I knew she would, as she and her sister were famous for their long distance cat fights.

“Well, I can take it to the prom charity shop when I drop off my dress.” I offered. “That would be a nice thing, too.”

“Yes! Perfect!” Lulu sprinted from the table and returned a few minutes later with a cut glass tiara mounted in a plastic case. “Thank you, Marion! You’re the best. I feel better already!” I gave her an obligatory hug and reassured her it was the right thing to do.

“Anyone else? I asked, looking from one face to another. They were eating this up, loving every minute of the baring of souls.

“Well,” Brian said hesitantly. If we are sharing, there was one thing that happened when I was eight, that I think made me so squeamish I can’t watch a slasher movie or even put a band aid on a cut finger.

“Boy, that’s the truth Isabelle said nodding. “I cut my hand a couple of months ago slicing tomatoes. I bled, he fainted.”

“And now I can’t eat tomatoes,” he said pathetically. “But as I was saying, when I was eight my little brother Stevie had a hamster. Stevie got in to my Halloween candy and ate all my Snickers bars so I let his hamster out of its cage. You all know how I like Snickers bars,” he said, looking around the room for understanding and support. “We search for the hamster for a few days but didn’t find it, then the cat killed it and left it on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge. Stevie found it and started screaming. We all ran to the kitchen and there it was, hamster guts everywhere.”

“Eew,” Isabelle said wrinkling her nose. “No wonder you fainted.”

“I actually think about that every time I see blood, even fake blood,” he finished sadly.

“Well, Lulu is giving up the tiara she got for Christmas and I am giving up my prom dress that I got for Christmas. Do you have something from your childhood that may represent your guilt at causing the gutting of Stevie’s hamster? What did you get for Christmas that year?”

“A lump of coal, maybe,” Isabelle laughed wickedly.

“No, I got a Swiss Army knife,” he said, looking sideways at his fiancée. He stood and pulled a set of keys from the front pocket of is jeans. A small red pocket knife was attached to the key ring. He sat back down then took the knife off of the key ring. “This is it. I will donate it to a charity shop or something. That’s my restitution.”

“I can take it for you, I offered innocently. “It helps my healing process to feel like I am of service to others,” I said, remarkably straight faced.

“Thank you Marion, you are a peach!” He said, passing the knife across the table to me.

“What about you, Isabelle? Juliette?” I said, trying to sound casual. How nice if I could get them to all come clean at one sitting!

“I fibbed about something when I was six or seven.” Juliette said sheepishly. “It caused my uncle to be thrown out of our house.”

“What? Do tell!”

“When my oldest sister Megan was sixteen she had a boyfriend over for dinner one night and as they were watching TV in the living room they started making out on the couch. I was sitting on the stairs and saw the whole thing. Boyfriend was groping Megan pretty good when my Dad walked in. Oh my God, what a scene!” We all nodded, envisioning the aforementioned scene. "Boyfriend was never allowed in the house again.

Then, a few months later my Dad’s brother, Uncle Mark, had just been discharged from the Army and was staying with my family. He was really good looking and a lot of fun and all the girls had a crush on him, even me. Like I said, I was only six or seven and as the sixth of eight kids in the family I was sort of just another face in the crowd. I was old enough to feed and bathe myself so I didn’t require a lot of attention from my parents, but not old enough to be of any interest to anyone. Megan had a girl friend staying over and of course the two girls started showing off, trying to get Uncle Marks attention. The friend played the guitar and they sang some pop songs, and asked Uncle Mark to join. I asked if I could sing too, and was ignored. Well they giggled and sang and carried on for hours after I was sent to bed, and I was pretty jealous. The next day the friend went home. Recalling how Megan’s old boyfriend had been swiftly and permanently dispatched after the make out session on the couch, I hoped to accomplish the same for her girl friend. I told my Dad that Uncle Mark and Megan’s friend had been lying on the couch kissing and touching each other. I expected the friend to be banned from the house but, of course, Uncle Mark was the one sent packing. I didn’t really understand at the time that Uncle Mark was an adult and Megan’s friend was only sixteen, so I had basically accused my favorite uncle of molesting a child. He denied it of course, and so did Megan and her friend. I lied and it cause a pretty bad rift in my family.” Juliette was clearly filled with regret and guilt.

“Wow!” I said, truly moved by her remorse, “This is why you refuse to do or say anything even remotely untruthful? Like when you told Professor Schmidt you had actually written the essay I turned in for English 101 final?”

“Yes,“ she nodded tearfully. “I cannot handle guilt. Once the truth came out that I had fibbed about Uncle Mark he said he forgave me but I still feel awful.”

“You have to forgive your six year old self now,” I said as she wept. Since we seem to be working on the theme of giving back Christmas presents, is there something you have that could represent the present you got that year?”

Juliette thought for a moment. “My porcelain doll!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Uncle Mark gave it to me.” She dashed into her room and returned with a porcelain doll. It had ringletted brown hair and was dressed in layer upon layer of pink lace. “Here!” she said through tears as she put the doll on the table. “I feel better already!”

“I’m so glad!” I cooed convincingly, recalling the day Juliette and I were both expelled from English 101 for cheating. Juliette was a natural born writer who had no qualms about writing the essay for me. Just apparently one really big qualm when the essay I turned in received a higher grade than the one she turned in.

Three down, one to go. I am on a roll! I thought to myself. $20K in my pocket!

“That leaves you, Isabelle.” I said gravely, opening the door, inviting her in for a soul cleansing. “Is there anything you can think of that may have set a repeating pattern in your life?”

Looking thoughtful and wrinkling her nose ever so slightly, she shook her head. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

At that moment Brian’s cell phone rang and interrupted our soul searching. He left the table and sat on the couch, apparently talking to Mom. “Oh my God, is it that late?” he said loudly. “I’m on my way!” He hung up the phone and began putting on the tennis shoes he had dropped by the couch the night before. “I have to pick up my Grandmother for our weekly walk in the park,” he said. “Want to go Izzy?”

“No, not this time,” she said in the high, squeaky voice she used when she intended to convey actual regret.

Lulu and Juliette had drifted from the dining room back to the kitchen for more coffee. They were just returning when Brian kissed the top of Isabelle’s head and said “Bye, then. Call you later!”

After he was gone Isabelle said sadly, “I have to break up with him. He is such a Mommas Boy! He takes his Granny for a walk in the park every Saturday.”

“I think it’s kind of sweet, I said.

“Then you marry him!” Isabelle snapped vehemently. “Seriously, he likes you. He’s all yours! Isn’t that your MO? Breaking up couples just before the wedding?”

“Uh, no thanks,” I said, truly repulsed. “If you are going to break up with him you have to do it yourself. I’m not going to take one for the team.”

Isabelle started to cry, genuine tears streamed down her face. “It’s so horrible!” She wailed. “I am so horrible! Yes, I have a character flaw that started early on.”

This instantly brought Juliette and Lulu back to the table. “Go on,” I prodded gently, again holding the trap door open.

“I was not a child but I was still really young. You know how I said I took a gap year after high school? That wasn’t really the whole truth. I got married when I was eighteen, right out of high school.”

This was a revelation worthy of the word. “Really?” I said astounded. I had no idea.

“Yes. We had been married about six months and I got bored. You know how easily I get bored with men. Remember how I was engaged to Bob Williams in college?

“Yes,” we all nodded. “He had a really round head,” Lulu interjected.

“I told everyone we broke up because he was pressuring me to have children right away. The truth is, I broke up with him because his name was Bob. I hate that name. If he went by Robert or Rob, or even Robbie it would have been Okay. I would have had a dozen little round headed babies right out the gate, but no, he wanted to be called Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. It sounds like something that has been cut off. Bob!” She ranted.

I knew she was shallow but this was a new low.

“Anyway,” she continued after recovering from her rant, “When I was eighteen I married a boy named Michael. He wasn’t just handsome, he was genuinely beautiful. He had curly jet black hair and sapphire blue eyes. He was tall, athletic, funny, and literally everything I thought anyone could ask in a husband. We lived in a little dump of an apartment in a bad part of town. He worked as a stock clerk at a hardware store. I played at being a housewife. But after six months I began to realize he had no ambition. He didn’t read books other than sci-fi or comic books, and he watched Star Trek all the time! He didn’t want to go to college, didn’t want to do more in life than work in a hardware store and watch fantasy on TV. When I would mention I’d like to travel, or buy a house he would say it cost too much. I once suggested he look for a better job so we can have some nicer things, he would say stupid things like “We have each other, we don’t need money.” Well, I needed some money! So I got a job as a bank teller and immediately fell in love with my boss. He was married, I was married, but it didn’t matter to me. He had seen the world. He was ambitious. He was interesting and he wanted more out of life! I was bored with my husband but too childish to just end the marriage so, I cheated on my husband.”

She paused to let the story sink in. “It happens,” I said, trying to sound appropriately shocked and offer some support. I am really jaded so that was not easy.

“You made the mistake of getting married too young,” Juliette added sympathetically. “Like Mari said, it happens. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Well, that’s not the end of it,” Isabelle wept again. “I found out later that my husband was also bored with me, and was having an affair with the girl who worked the paint counter at the hardware store. He accused me of being shallow and money hungry. So now, I can’t trust anyone,” she wailed, “But most of all, I can’t trust myself!” The tears flowed freely now. “I really want to be married and have a family, but if even I am capable of cheating on my husband, who I dearly loved, how can I trust anyone?”

“So, you meet someone and everything is great and you get engaged. Then at the slightest provocation you break up because you are bored and feel if you go through with the wedding you will eventually cheat on your husband?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah I guess so,” Isabelle said more calmly.

“Isabelle,” I said, trying not to sound patronizing. “Isn’t it possible you didn’t really love your husband, nor any of the men you were engaged to? If you truly loved Bob, would it matter what his name was? If you truly love Brian, would it matter that he’s a Mommas Boy?”

“I don’t know,” She said suspiciously.

“I am convinced that it wasn’t Bob’s name that lead to the break up,” I said. “Tell us about him.”

“He had a really round head,” Lulu reminded us.

“He loved jazz,” Isabelle said. “We listened to jazz all the time. I don’t like jazz. I don’t understand jazz. I wanted to go to a club and dance. We ended up at a jazz club. Listening to jazz. Have you ever tried to dance to jazz?”

“Maybe it was the jazz and not the name?” I offered. “You were simply not compatible! Just as you and Brian are simply not compatible. I am going to guess you and your husband were simply not compatible. You wanted different things in life. Maybe you were in love with the idea of being married? Eighteen is awfully young to be married. Neither of you were completely grown up at that point. ”

Isabelle looked thoughtful. “I have never really considered that,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course she’s right! Juliette said, laughing. “You have been beating yourself up for 10 years because you didn’t want to admit you have never really been in love!”

Isabelle smiled. “I’ve tried to force myself to be happily married. I had such a crap family as a kid. I desperately want that happy family. I tried to mold one loser after another into my dream husband.”

“Exactly!” I said. “If you want that happy marriage and family you have to find someone who is already compatible, already on the same page. You cannot force it!”

“When did you get so smart?” Isabelle laughed, relief literally lighting up her face.

“I have a good therapist.” I said with a smile.

I should get his number, Isabelle said.

“Oh, not possible,” I said quickly. “He just moved to New Jersey, some teaching opportunity or something.”

“Too bad,” she frowned.

“Well, what is your restitution?” Lulu asked. “What are you going to sacrifice?”

“There is only one thing I have held on to from my marriage,” she said, getting up from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone I went into the kitchen and took a box of cake mix out of the pantry. I had promised my roomies I would make a cake, and after all my manipulations of the morning and my newly formed intention of running out on them as soon as I had my money from Nick, I felt I owed them at least a cake. I put ingredients into a mixing bowl just as Isabelle called me back to the dining room. Wooden spoon in hand, I joined the others to hear the rest of the story.

“The Christmas after we got married my husband bought me a set of flatware I had been wanting,” Isabell said in a confessional tone. “It was cheap but I thought it was beautiful. When we broke up we had a massive fight and I threw it at him, one piece at a time. He picked them all up and I never saw the flatware or him again. This pickle fork is the only thing I have left.”

She placed a small fork on the table in front of me. It was tarnished but, she was right. It had a pretty floral pattern on the handle. “Okay I said, picking up the fork with my left hand. “I’ll put this with the other stuff and donate to charity.”

“No, wait, Isabelle wailed, lunging at me. I want to keep it! It’s all I have! He was so beautiful!”

When she lunged at me I raised my right arm to shield myself and accidently hit her on the shoulder with the wooden spoon. She began sobbing again. “Give me back my pickle fork!” she shouted.

As my $20,000 was at stake I was determined to keep the fork. I stood up and held the fork over my head in my left hand and my formidable wooden spoon in my right. I am tall, 5’ 10” in my stocking feet so I had a definite advantage over the 5’3” Isabelle. She climbed onto the chair and tried to take the fork from me but only managed to put me off balance. I began to fall forward, and flung my arms out to break my fall and in doing so, I hit Isabelle, who was still standing on the chair, squarely in the right knee with the wooden spoon. I fell to my knees and immediately sprang up, holding the pickle fork aloft and the wooden spoon like a cudgel.

Ouch!” Isabelle shouted, sitting down hard on the table, rubbing her knee.

“Oh my God, you two! Stop!” Juliette said.

“Really! Mari, if she doesn’t want to give up the fork give it back to her!” Lulu scolded.

Isabelle wept. No, she’s right. Time to let go of the past.”

“Are you sure,” I said warily.

“Yes,” she said as she hopped off the table. She hugged me and said, “You are a really good friend, Mari. Thank you!”

Not wanting to waste another moment or risk anyone else changing their mind I gathered the tiara, the knife, the doll, and the fork and told my baffled roomies I would be right back. I exited out the back door stuffing my cell phone into my purse and grabbing my jacket from the peg as I went. I called a cab and when it arrived I gave the driver the address in the back of the little black book. I also noticed a green check mark beside each name on the list. Success!

Off we sped, to Mid-Town Storage, where I hoped to find Nick and $20,000 waiting in unit 21. It was a short ride. I was dropped off at the gate, which was locked. Of course I had no gate code and couldn’t very well just ask the attendant to open the door for me. “Okay, Nick,” I said to the air. “I’m here. I did what you asked!”

The gate opened ever so slightly, as if blown open by a strong breeze, just wide enough to allow me to squeeze through. I found storage unit 21 and knocked loudly. The door rolled up and I was greeted by a smiling and rumpled Nick. “Get in here! Don’t want anyone to see you,” he said.

I gave him the items I had received from my friends. He tossed them into a bin. “Where’s my money? I asked.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “You did do as I asked but I am not sure about your methods.”

“What?” I shouted angrily.

“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” He hissed. “You didn’t exactly go about this like someone from the nice list. I think you made the naughty list again.”

“You didn’t say anything to me about methods,” I said getting angrier by the moment.

“You just kneecapped your friend for a pickle fork!” He said wagging his index finger at me. “Naughty!”

“It was an accident and it was a wooden spoon.”

“It was a big spoon. She’ll never skate again.”

“She didn’t skate in the first place!” I yelled, now beyond caring if anyone heard us. “You conned me into doing your work and now you want to question my methods? You got drunk and fell off a house then got drugged out of your mind, and that’s why you didn’t finish the job yourself! I helped you!”

“Oh calm down, Marion. Here’s the money,” he said, tossing me a black zippered pouch. “Just playing with you a little bit.”

I unzipped the pouch and found it filled with $20s and $50s. “This is real money?” I asked, now on my guard.

“Yes, of course. As real as can be,” He said. “I get my money from a bank, same as you.”

I zipped the bag and put it in my purse. "Oh, I’m going to need my book," he said. I took it out of my pocket and tossed it to him then turned and grabbed the handle of the door, pulling it open.

“Nice doing business with you, Nick.” I said sarcastically, turning to face him. Of course he was gone and the storage room was empty. I again checked my zipper bag and it was still filled with the cash.

“Whatever!” I said, relieved that it was finally over. I again called a cab and went home.

A few days later my plans were set. I used several thousand dollars of my newfound wealth to buy an eight year old car, packed all my bags and decided to slip away unnoticed. I left my farewell note in the kitchen and was just zipping the last suitcase when Nick appeared, sitting in the chair in the corner of my bedroom.

“You again! Go away,” I said.

“I had to say good bye. Where you off to?” He asked.

“Someplace warm, that’s all I know. “ I told him.

“Well, what about it? He smiled, laughing that wicked laugh. “You got any Red Vines for me? We make a great team.”

“Oh God no!” I said, grimacing.

“Oh come on! I heard you tell Lulu you thought I was cute,” He protested.

“Well, you’re no Bobby LaRosa,” I said, slinging my purse over my shoulder and grabbing the handle of my suitcase.

Still laughing he said, “Well, if you change your mind just whistle. Old Nick is always here for you.”

I shook my head and rolled my suitcase out the door, down the hall and out of the house. An icy wind was howling and the sky threatened more snow. I stowed my belongings in the trunk of my new old car and got behind the wheel. “I am finally free. Finally on my way!” I breathed, “to Somewhere Warm."

Halfway down the block I slammed on the breaks as the realization hit me. “Old Nick?” I said aloud, now utterly self-aware. From deep inside that icy wind I heard a wicked laugh.