Julia's Black Book

Julia was waiting, sitting as usual, on the front porch of the farmhouse, her gray hair loose and stirring in the warm spring wind. The blue cardigan sat primly on her bony frame and as always, her smile was framed by the pearls at her neck. Julia always wore blue on Wednesdays. She waved when she saw my car pull up the drive, and stood up to meet me as I approached with her delivery.

“Morning, Wes! I’m so glad you’re early. I’m starving!!” The ninety year old had a cheerleader’s spunk. “Where’s the Floof Troop?”

“Hey Julia! Huskies are home being lazy. How are you today?” I put the bags on the table next to her, careful they didn’t touch the little black book she was always writing in, reading aloud from, or oftentimes just holding, closed, across her heart.

“Oh it’s a glorious day isn’t it? Spring is always so hopeful,” she smiled. “Did you make sure the roast beef is extra rare?”

“Of course! Nick made Wedding Soup this morning, so I brought some…don’t tell anybody.” I whispered behind my hand.

“Splendid! Thank you,” she patted my arm.

“Milk and eggs are in the other bag, turkey sliced thin, and fresh cookies on top. Still warm.”

“Oatmeal raisin?” Julia raised an eyebrow.

“Cranberry macadamia?” I offered hopefully.

“Even better! Tea today?”

I shook my head sadly, “Not if I’m going to fill those feeders for you. And I wanted to take a look at the faucet in the kitchen…”

“Wes, it’s doing fine. Hasn’t dripped since you tightened it.”

“Well, I want to look anyway.” I winked at her, she returned it, and I let myself in.

Neat and perfect as the last time I’d been inside last week. I took a quick walk around, checked faucets and drains, opened doors, checked locks, checked the stove. I walked the trash out to the bins in the garage, filled the feeders with a hot seed mix so the squirrels would leave it alone, and replaced them on hooks in the garden where Julia could view from the porch.

When I finished, I returned to find her already halfway through the soup, reading from her black book. She looked up at me.

“Is it bad I ate the cookies first?”

I laughed and told her that at ninety, she’d earned dessert first if she wanted.

“Sure you can’t stay? I found a lovely poem I think you’d like.” She patted the book.

“Saturday,” I reminded her. “I will make sure I have time for tea and a poem. Nick won’t tell me no.”

Working at my cousin’s deli isn’t my dream job, but he’s in a bind right now. Main Street Heritage Deli is the busiest deli in the downtown Main Street district. Deli life is not for the faint of heart. Prep starts at three am, counter service by six am, and the lunch rush goes till almost four in the afternoon. Deliveries start eleven-thirty. I drive his famous sandwich platters, salads and baked goods anywhere within a five mile radius. Julia’s further, but I’ve been bringing her Nick’s food since high school, when I worked weekends.

High school.

I am the square peg. School never made sense. In the six years since I finished, I never looked back.

See, I’ve known all my life, been told all my life, that I’m not a team player. I promise I’m not a sociopath. Just hate whole team thing: team sports, group projects, boy scouts. I’m athletic, and been snowboarding since I was six. Skateboard, wakeboard, longboard. Swim, run, tennis, badminton. Seeing a theme? Backing up trailers since I was fourteen. Worked for my dad, uncles, and grandparents. Carpentry, computers, mechanics. I can fix anything. Recently, food service. I don’t like waiting for others to catch up. So no, definitely not a team player.

However, I should note that I’m absolutely, one hundred percent a PACK player. Yes, pack. As in dog pack.

I have four dogs. Huskies. Count me, that makes five. I’m alpha, mostly because I’m in charge of food, potty, snack and play time. And I drive places. Got a truck. Extended cab. Five years old, bought second hand.

How do you fit four huskies and Alpha into a pickup? Easy! Two in the front and three in the back. We five are quite a sight! Super friendly, we meet lots of people, visit lots of places. And the adventures! Wind in our faces, sun on our backs and snow flying around us. And the fur I clean out of my truck each week could make blankets for a small village.

Got two females, two males and yes - everyone is neutered. I’d love cute fluffy puppies, but I have no time now.

Soon. Puppies are on my bucket list.

Life is with my husky pack. Occasionally friends will come along for the ride (I make them drive their own car. Huskies first. Always.) Then last night, things got weird. Dad came home from work and dropped a bomb:

He sold the house.

I’ve had two childhood homes; the first I hardly remember. Lived here since I was five, and it’s perfect. Family Christmas and birthdays, summer pool parties. All my friends know it, Hell, even the cops know it! But that’s another story.

Anyway, he sold the house, and is moving someplace smaller, with a fenced yard and a garage. He’ll update it so the bathrooms aren’t gross.

But.

His girlfriend is moving in. Not so bad, except…

Chiquita is a 5 year old Chihuahua dressed in tutus, elf costumes and football jerseys. Sounds cute, right? Wrong. This dog is a terror! She has bitten me, all of my friends, all of dad’s friends, two landscapers, and a guest at a summer party. Soon, Chiquita is moving in with us.

Yeah, it’s four huskies against one Chihuahua. No problem, right? Wrong again. Chiquita may be a nasty, snarling, vicious little princess, but she is Dad’s girlfriend’s snarling princess. When they weekend at our house, I take the pack exploring, or go to my mom’s. Otherwise four huskies end up in the yard.

Did I mention huskies dig? Great big holes. And then lay down in them. Dad gets pissed. I get blamed. When they’re inside with the little terror, she picks fights with them. Dad’s girlfriend cries. Dad gets pissed. Huskies go outside; huskies dig holes, get dirty, and come back inside. Girlfriend cries. Dad gets pissed. Guess who gets blamed?

I want my own place. Need, really.

I’ve been working and saving since I was eighteen. I have a decent nest egg. But it isn’t enough yet for me to do what I want.

What I want is pack life in Vermont. Smallish house, biggish yard. Garage, snow, lakes, mountains.

Paradise.

Palm trees and white sand beaches? Nah. Give me wintry winds on a snowy trail head any day, and four fluffy buddies to share it.

Thing is, I’m short money. Like twenty thousand short. Yeah, I can afford a place near Killington, but I still need money to close, pack, move, store and rent until closing. Tips are great, but working at the deli isn’t enough. I have eight weeks to avoid pack drama with Chiquita. I don’t count the girlfriend. Six years later, I still don’t think I have said more than “hi”. Dad likes her enough to move in. That’s where I exit.

I ruminate when I’m out on deliveries. Four hours of GPS telling me where to turn isn’t enough to quiet my mind. I drive, I think, I plan. Home by three, then…pack time! Play, feed, walk and play some more; dogpile at nine with a movie. My life is good. I don’t want it ruined by some nasty dog in a pink tutu.

I’ll figure something out. Always do.

Saturday morning brought a forgotten chill. By the time I got to Julia’s mid-afternoon, the sun still hadn’t come out to warm things up. She wasn’t outside waiting. Still holding the bags, I rang the bell with my elbow.

When I didn’t hear her shuffling behind the door, I put the bags down and knocked hard.

“JULIA??” I called.

I heard a faint reply which sounded like,

“It’s open.”

I let myself in. Things were very wrong. Seeing Julia on the sofa wearing a flowered bathrobe, hair back in a terrycloth headband, confirmed this. Her eyes were tired. I noticed the black book, closed, in her lap.

“What’s…” was all I managed before she interrupted me.

“Everything’s fine,” she snapped. “Sit.”

“Julia? What’s…”

“Listen to me!” her blue eyes sparked, “I might not see you next week. But I want you to come Wednesday all the same. I’ll leave something here for you. Take it home, open it there.”

I had a million questions, none of which she answered. She wouldn’t let me check on anything, or get her anything, or do anything. She read a poem to me, one I hadn’t heard before, about wind and wild water. Ten minutes later she put her hand on mine, and said simply,

“Thank you. You have been a good friend to me.”

I knew she meant me to leave. Impulsively, I kissed her hand.

The questions swirled all week. Wednesday when I returned to the farmhouse, they multiplied. Shiny black cars parked in the drive, strangers milling on the porch. I was greeted inside by a balding man who asked my name. When I told him, his eyes brightened.

“Wes, I have a package for you.” He handed me a box with an envelope taped to the top.

“Where’s Julia?”

“Mrs. Whitmore died on Sunday.”

My stomach tightened, and I left. I couldn’t see.

Four ignorant huskies gleefully pounced about while I sat on my bed contemplating the box. Eventually, I opened the envelope. Shaky cursive told me, among other things, the contents of the box were mine, and I rightly deserved them. Inside the box was a small rectangle wrapped in brown paper. My heart stopped.

The black book.

I choked when I opened it. It was blank! Not a word or picture. Just worn pages and dog-eared corners. I didn’t know what to make of it. She read to me out of that book. I saw her writing in it! Invisible ink? Different book? I was losing my mind. I grabbed it by the binding and shook it. Maybe a lottery ticket would appear, or a photo. I heard a metallic thunk.

A small silver key fell out.

Tied to the key was a yellowed tag with six numbers handwritten on one side and a stamped address on the other.

First National Bank. What?

I flew off my bed, huskies scattering, yelling for my dad.

Well.

It’s been five wild weeks. I’ve hired an attorney, a realtor, opened new bank accounts and signed a contract on a small farm in Vermont. Husky heaven! I’m moving next month. All because of that black book with nothing in it but a key.

Nothing! It certainly wasn’t nothing. That key fit a deposit box at the bank. Inside that box was $20,000.00 in hundreds, four handwritten letters and a will. That will left everything she had to me. Everything! She changed that will when I was eighteen. All this time I never knew.

But Julia knew. Yes, Julia knew.