The Little Black Book of Regrets

The Little Black Book of Regret

It was an unassuming little notebook. Midnight black leather and no bigger than your hand. It had been well used for years, it seemed. A blue rubber band stood in for the broken elastic band on the back.

The most remarkable thing about the book was how clean it was considering where Robbie found it – on a dirt path in the middle of the most desolate woods in Pennsylvania. It was the best place he knew to hide things. Twenty thousand things to be precise.

Robbie had just pulled off his biggest heist yet. But he’d have to lay low and hide the cash until things settled down.

As he drove the three hours back to town – an hour out of the woods and two more on the highway – Robbie kept glancing at the book on the seat next to him. He had a weird feeling that there was something important about this simple book. But for now, he was hungry. He saw a diner and pulled in for a bite.

“Sit anywhere, hon,” the waitress said. “I’ll be right with ya.”

Robbie took a stool at the end of the bar and pulled the book out. He rolled off the rubber band and opened the cover. The first page shone with a gold-leaf print, bold and decorative like something from one of those old-timey western medicine shows, he thought. It said:

UNBURDEN YOUR SOUL for a PROFOUND REWARD

Then in smaller print:

‘On the first blank page, write the story of your most regrettable deed or omission, and fortune will be yours! But be careful to observe these rules:

1) The book will not accept lies or fiction. BEWARE: This book has already read you.

2) Contrived sorrows and petty peccadilloes are not sufficient. The book desires only your deepest remorse for wrongs which cannot be undone. The darker, the more hidden your regret – the more ample will be your reward.

3) You must sign your name and the date to seal the contract.

‘Once your confession is written, it cannot be erased. The book shall vanish and your confession will be lost to the ages – or until the next soul finds this book.’

“What is this?” Robbie in a loud, mocking tone.

“Looks like a book to me, hon,” The waitress said. “What’ll ya have?”

“Oh, um,” Robbie stammered and snapped the book closed on the counter. “Just some coffee… maybe a couple eggs over medium with bacon?”

“Are you askin’ me or tellin’?”

“Forget the wise talk and go, would ya?”

The waitress turned toward the kitchen and Robbie slowly opened the book again.

He thumbed through page after page of writings, many in languages he couldn’t read, but recognized – Spanish, French, maybe Swedish or something?

But some of the pages had symbols that looked more like art than language. Squiggly lines, dots and slashes went every which way.

But all the pages had something in common. It was like they’d all been wet. But not like the whole book had been wet, just the pages with writing. Almost like they’d been cried over.

Robbie kept flipping pages until at last he found an entry written in English.

“I killed Charles Kimbrell. I didn’t have to kill him. But he cheated! I was meant to go on this mission – I trained for years before he came along. I would have been sent before he came to the program if only the launch hadn’t been delayed so many times.

I could have kept him down a hundred other ways – ruined his reputation; poisoned his mind or his body enough to get him scrubbed from the mission. But my rage had the better of me. If his body is found before I return to Earth, they’ll know it was murder. And they’ll know it was me.

Jack Prower, Mars Colony

January 2185

“Mars!? January 2185!? But that’s imposs -- ” Robbie stopped himself and looked around. One of the patrons was looking at him like he was a Martian. So was the waitress filling his coffee cup.

“You okay, buddy?”

Robbie closed the book again, then shook his head and held his hand up to stop her pouring.

“Your eggs will be ready soon,” she said, and slowly backed away from Robbie.

Robbie glanced at the calendar on the wall by the register. Yup, still February 1958, he thought. Then, in the mirror, he saw two highway patrolmen enter the diner and sit in the booth behind him.

Play it cool, Robbie, he thought. Even if the cops could suspect him of robbing the old man’s safe, they’d never find the proof in a million years. It was under the earth in a forest three hours from here.

He reopened the book and thumbed the pages to look at more dates: 1478. 1869. 5781? How old is this thing? Or did it come from the future?

He flipped through the pages trying to find another entry in English. He finally found one dated 1975. It was written in script – which Robbie couldn’t write and could only barely read – but the penmanship was bad and the writer’s hand shaky. All he could really make out was something about “leaving my sweet baby at the fire station…”

It was a book of sad and sometimes ugly stories. And yet… the book promised a fortune.

I could use a fortune about now, he thought. He knew he couldn’t go back to the money he just buried for a long time. But now, a solution was staring him in the face. But what to write?

Robbie couldn’t think of any real regrets in his life. He was a stern and solitary man. Nothing and no one ever got in the way of him getting what he wanted in life. But the more he read, the more he realized most of these regrets weren’t for things people had missed in life, but for things they wish they’d never done or said – or neglected to do or say.

He thought hard. He had lied. He had cheated people. He had robbed, beaten… killed a couple men. But he felt no shame. No regret.

Then he thought about Jenny. She was a doll, he thought. Jenny could have been his high school sweetheart, but Robbie’s jealous temper was too much for her. We coulda been great, he thought.

He flipped to the next clean page and began to write. But as he did, he watched the ink evaporate from the page almost as fast as he could write. He shook his pen to help the ink flow. Then he wrote on a napkin: JENNY. Nothing happened. The ink stayed and Robbie tried again in the book.

But again, the words just vanished before he could finish a sentence.

“What is this…?” he whispered. Then he jerked his head to look at the guy down the bar. No one heard him, apparently. Then he thought, the book knows… it really knows me!

He hadn’t given Jenny two thoughts since high school. Once he beat up her new boyfriend, the football captain, and she swore she never wanted to see him again. After that, he was on to other things and she was just a beautiful memory.

Regrets? I don’t know if I have a single –

“Here’s you breakfast, hon’,” the waitress said, and placed a hot plate in front of him. Robbie closed the book and tucked a napkin into his collar to cover his dirty tie and sweat-stained shirt.

The eggs were more easy than medium. Runny yolks were okay, but Robbie hated undercooked egg whites. But when he took a bite of the bacon… it was like a wave or a strong wind.

Funny how the little things dredge up forgotten memories from years ago. Just the right touch of brown sugar, pepper, and a touch of maple. Robbie closed his eyes and savored it slowly.

“This ain’t store-bought,” he said to the waitress.

“Nope. Chef makes it himself.”

“Tastes just like my mother used to make,” Robbie said, and then he froze.

“Yeah, he got the recipe from his mom. Good, huh? Want a couple more strips?”

“Huh – uh, no. No, thanks.”

Robbie disregarded the rest of his breakfast and reopened the book to begin writing. ..

It was 1946. Robbie was 16. He awoke to the smell of bacon on the stove.

“Come and get it, Robbie,” his mother said. I’m not callin’ you again!”

“I’m comin’!”

“I’m goin’ to help your brother at the pond! Don’t let the eggs burn!”

“I’ll be right down,” he said. Help Jack at the pond? he thought. What was his little brother into that he would need mom’s help?

He hustled to the kitchen and rescued the eggs from the hot stove, placing the pan on a potholder. He scooped out some scrambled eggs, then pushed them far to one side of the plate to make plenty of room for bacon.

“Robbie – get out here!” His mother’s call was faint from the distance. Jack was probably fishing, and he thought she must want him to help Jack with a lure or something.

He was the last one to wake up, but there was practically a whole slab of bacon on the counter. He delicately arranged five or six slices of the flavorful fortune on his plate.

“Robbie!” Her call came again, but Robbie ignored it. Jack had his breakfast. Let me have mine.

Then he slowly walked his plate to the table with an almost religious air of ceremony, the bacon held up to his nose so he could slowly breathe in the aroma. How much time had passed, he could not guess. But with momma’s bacon, time could just as well stand still for all he cared.

Then his brain jarred in fear, like a bright, silent lightning bolt. Robbie waited for the thunder.

Before he knew where the fear came from, Jack burst into the kitchen, wide-eyed and panting.

“Robbie, quick… MOMMA!”

He pushed past his brother in a flash and ran toward the pond about 50 yards down a winding, wooded path. When he got out of the woods, he saw his father’s wheelchair sitting on the dock, and that was all he needed to see. He knew what waited for him at the end of the dock.

Jack and dad had gone to fish after breakfast, but somehow dad fell out of his chair and into the water. Mom was too late to save dad. Robbie was too late to save mom.

Robbie looked at the page in the little black book, now filled with his scribbles and covered in his tears. His selfishness had cost him dearly. But never so dearly as the loss of his mother. He blamed his selfish heart for all of it.

Jack still tried to reach out to Robbie occasionally. But he could never bring himself to face his little brother again.

Now his nose was running yellow and his shoulders shook uncontrollably.

“You alright, fellah?” he heard from behind.

Robbie turned to see the patrolmen, now standing right next to him.

One of the officers handed him some napkins and repeated, “are you okay?”

“I’m sorry…” he said shivering. “Just havin’ a tough day.”

“What’s with the pen?” the other officer said.

Robbie looked at his right hand. His knuckles were white from the death grip he had on it.

“Oh… just writing some thoughts in this old book…”

But when Robbie turned, the book was gone.

In its place was a pile of money. Twenty thousand dollars, to be precise. It was covered in Pennsylvania soil and wet from the melting snow.

Robbie had one last glimpse of his fortune. Then they lead him away to a prison that would never be as inescapable as the one in his cold heart.