Keep Your Thumb Up

The man at the bank handed Denise a twenty-thousand dollar personal check and a black pocket-sized Moleskine notebook. She was instructed to eat it and burn the notebook by the end of the week. The check was made out to her and signed by her recently deceased husband, Ron. The notebook only contained four words, 'keep your thumb up.' The man softly closed the safety deposit box. He turned towards her while shrugging his shoulders and said, "I wish I could tell you more, but those were your husband's only instructions." Denise nodded her head in understanding and stood up to leave. She snapped the little elastic band around the notebook and grabbed the check, then slide them both into her purse.

Ron was always full of surprises. I guess his death would be no different. Even the way he died was all Ron. He'd fallen through a hole in their floor to the basement, landing on top of his miter saw. She had been away for the weekend, and he had died a slow death, eventually succumbing to internal injuries. She had come home, as usual, expecting him to jump out of the hall closet like he sometimes likes to do. It had taken her a moment to notice the hole in the floor, the emptiness in the house she had felt immediately. She peered down into the hole and saw Ron sprawled out at an impossible angle in the basement below. She then saw the word he had traced in the sawdust by his head, 'YOLO.' That was a month ago. She still felt a twinge of guilt over her first thought upon discovering him: I don't have time for your shenanigans, Ron. But as the days wore on, it was becoming clear there would be no more shenanigans. She was so pissed he went and died on her, leaving her a sink full of dirty dishes, a hole in their floor, and her heart.

Denise left the bank and went home. She sat down in the kitchen with half a glass of red wine and examined the little Moleskine, running her thumb over its comforting soft leather cover. Over the years, most of Ron's Moleskines contained drawings and measurements of his woodworking projects. The little notebooks contained the seeds of his ideas and were always the first step when creativity struck. He could be anywhere, but mostly he was in the bathroom when his best ideas and solutions popped into his head. He always kept the little black notebook in his back pocket, eventually thinning the denim so that the shape was visible even without the notebook in it. He would place it under his pillow at night, just in case he had a dream with a good idea in it. Ron was always an odd bird; she missed his sweaty sawdust smell, hearty laugh, and even his missing thumb, resulting from a childhood carpentry accident. Denise had immediately understood the singular 'thumb up' in the notebook as it was Ron's running joke, for apparent reasons. Ron was prone to making bad puns in general, mostly about his missing thumb, it was a hobby of his, and it irritated her every time he did it, which made him do it more. She was not surprised these were his last words to her.

Denise knocked back the rest of her wine. She was trying to decide between eating the check or eating dinner first. There was no use in doing anything other than what Ron had instructed. He'd probably haunt her forever by opening the closet door when she least expected, so there was no use 'thumbing her nose' at his last request. Denise smiled inwardly and rolled her eyes. She did not consider herself as creative as Ron. Denise tended to think in black and white and ran a tight ship when it came to her life. That's why they had been such a good pair, she grounded his dreams; and he encouraged her to reach for hers. Denise decided to eat the check first, she'd burn the notebook tomorrow in the fireplace.

Denise tried carefully chewing the check then decided she needed a glass of water; perhaps getting it wet would make it easier to swallow. She walked towards the sink; she was sure the check would have bounced anyway. She maintained all their finances, and she highly doubted Ron had a secret stash of money. He was a good carpenter but absent-minded, and he often forgot to collect payment from his clients. It was also why he fell through the floor; he probably got distracted by another project and momentarily forgot about the missing floorboards. 'Keep your thumb up,' what could that mean? Denise contemplated while chewing the paper. She had already figured out why she was eating the check. Ron was forever telling her to put her "money where her mouth was" when it came to her dream of opening a small gift shop specializing in houseplants. She always had an excuse; mostly, she was too busy to 'plant the first seed' of her idea.

Denise glanced at the kitchen drawer where Ron would throw his old Moleskines. A lifetime of ideas and projects were in that drawer. It was one of the few things Ron was consistent about, his Moleskines. He had received his first one on his 10th birthday from a well-meaning Aunt. She had told him, 'all ideas start with a firefly's spark, and you need a notebook that fits in a pocket to capture them, or else they fly away to land somewhere else.' This captivated Ron's imagination for the rest of his life, as all truths do. Every major holiday, he would receive a brand-new Moleskine. Tucked into his Christmas stocking, Easter baskets, and even once or twice thrown into his Halloween trick or treat bag by the same well-meaning Aunt. He was one of a kind. We all are. Denise thought about organizing the Moleskines in the drawer but decided against it. She would save it for when the grief hit like a fist, and she needed to hold onto Ron's leftover pieces. Denise would 'thumb' through them later, rolling her eyes again at Ron's voice still running through her head on an endless loop. She finished eating the check and went to bed. She placed the Moleskine from the bank under her pillow like Ron used to do and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, she felt under her pillow for the little black book and reassured herself by plucking its elastic band a few times. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, flipping through the pages again. Unbelievably, there was a new word! She couldn't have missed it previously, could she? But there it was, it merely said, 'start.' In a fit of anger, Denise threw the little book across the room. "Start what, Ron?" She screamed into the empty house. "My whole adult life was woven into the fabric of yours!" She glanced at the book on the floor, angry tears stinging her eyes. She picked it up, brushed it off, saw another word, 'over.'

Start over. Denise flopped back on the bed. The Moleskine still in her hand with her thumb on top of its cover. She raised her hand towards the ceiling, holding the little notebook like a preacher shaking a bible towards the heavens, her thumb pointing upwards. Her eyes gradually switched focus from the notebook to the ceiling fan turning lazily above her. She rarely turned it on; however, last night, she did. She suddenly noticed the fan was a little lopsided. She stood up on her bed and peaked inside the frosted glass dome of the light fixture. Inside she saw a little black book with the words 'YOLO Denise' written on a piece of masking tape stuck to its front cover. She quickly retrieved it and flipped through its luxurious, soft blank pages. Denise smiled widely at the first blank page and was suddenly filled with possibility.