The Black Book

The first time she saw him, she was on the bus, headed home from school. She always sat up front, near the driver. Some of the people on the bus were pretty skeevy.

It was only two more stops to her house when the man boarded. She glanced up as he sat down opposite her. He was wearing a suit and tie, not common in this neighborhood. Staring back at the floor in her usual slumped pose, she noticed his shoes were polished, maybe even new. Definitely not from this neighborhood. When the bus stopped on her block, she got up and made her way to the door. Shouldering her backpack full of books, she hopped down the steps and, with a wave to the driver, trudged down the street to her house.

The next day after school, the man in the suit was already on the bus when she got on. He watched her as she climbed in and sagged into her seat. Studiously, she avoided his gaze, staring at the corrugated floor. She could feel his eyes on her. She thought about telling the driver. But what could she say? The well-dressed man who hadn’t come near her was scaring her? It wasn’t as though one of the addicts or grifters had tried to grab her bag or worse, grab her. The man just sat there.

The third time was Friday. She didn’t know why he bothered her so much. He was just a guy. Sure, he didn’t belong on this bus, in this place, but he hadn’t done anything wrong. She jerked her head upward and stared at him, full in the face. Maybe she could out-stare him, make him ignore her. But the man met her gaze steadily, never flinching, never looking away. She dropped her eyes and decided to get off at the next stop.

It was raining, so she pulled her knit cap down lower. The driver had looked surprised when she got off the bus early, but she had just waved him on and stood under a store awning until the bus was out of sight. The man had watched her through the window. All the way down the street, until she couldn’t see him anymore.

She trudged home, her socks growing soggy in her worn out shoes. Letting herself in with her key, she dumped her bag on the floor of the dingy hallway. She gathered the mail and carried it into the tiny apartment she shared with her mother. Her mother wouldn’t be home until her shift at the care home was done. More often than not, she had to work late because someone didn’t show up or had walked out early. But the girl was used to fending for herself. She had never known any other way.

She fetched her backpack and carried it to the table. She always did her homework as soon as possible. Her mother had hammered it into her that her only hope of improving her life was to get a decent education. She didn’t want to end up scrubbing floors or wiping the asses of the indigent elderly like her mother.

She sat down and reached for the mail. Shuffling through the meager pile: bill, bill, overdue notice, junk, bill, and one overstuffed envelope. The envelope had no address on it, no name, nothing to say where it had come from or why it was here. She turned it over and used a kitchen knife to slice it open. As she finished cutting the flap of the envelope, a small black book fell onto the table. It was old. No bigger than a pack of cards, and only half as thick. The corners were bent and the edges had worn down to a soft, gray cardboard. She riffled the pages. There was nothing there. There were no marks, no writing, no torn pages. It was as if someone had just carried the book in their pocket for years and then decided to get rid of it, unused, by shoving it through her mail slot.

She tossed the small book aside and reached for her backpack. She didn’t have time for guessing games. She had a history essay due in a week and her last math test hadn’t been stellar. She needed to get to work. As she slid the textbooks out of her backpack, she knocked the envelope to the floor. A single piece of paper fell out. She picked it up off the floor and read, “Bring it on Monday.”

Bring it on Monday? Bring it where? Was this a joke from some classmate? She didn’t really have many friends, and none of them knew where she lived. She wasn’t allowed company while her Mom was at work, so no one had ever visited their place. Why was this dropped through their mail slot? It was weird. But again, she shook her head and pushed the notebook and the letter away. She had to get down to work.

On Sunday afternoon, she cleaned up the apartment. It didn’t take long. She washed the dishes, made up the beds, swept the floor, and gathered up the trash. She scooped the notebook and the letter up, planning to add them to the trash can, but she had to admit to herself that she was curious. It wasn’t like the notebook was dangerous. It couldn’t hurt to hold onto it for a while. She wrapped the letter around the notebook and shoved them into the bottom of her backpack. She would just hold on to it and see if anything happened in school on Monday.

The next day, she got up, had a cup of coffee, and headed out to the bus stop wearing her backpack. It was cold, but at least the rain had stopped. The bus was late. She would have to run at the other end to get to class on time. Typical for a Monday. She fidgeted in her seat the whole way across town and was already waiting at the door to the bus when it pulled up in front of the high school. She pushed through the door and ran inside and down the hallway, making it to her first class just as the bell rang. She fell into her chair, earning a disapproving frown from the teacher. But at least she wasn’t technically late.

The day ran on as most days did. Classroom to locker to classroom. Gym to lunchroom. Free lunch. Your tax dollars at work. Back to classroom to locker to classroom. As the last bell of the day rang, she gathered her books and returned to her locker once more. She pulled out her backpack and shoved the books in. She would be taking a full load home today. Hefting the weighty bag over one shoulder, she pushed past other students, anxious to get to the bus stop on time. The bus pulled up and she climbed on, swinging into her usual seat.

The man was there. Again. She had almost forgotten. She refused to look up at him. One stop went by, and then another. Neither of them moved. Then she heard him quietly ask, “Did you bring it?” She looked around. There was no one else sitting near them.

“Bring it?”

“Yes. The notebook. Did you bring it?”

Now she really WAS going to complain to the driver. Who was this guy? How did he know where she lived? Had he followed her home? Was this some sort of sick game? She opened her mouth to yell for the driver to help her when the man calmly said, “I am so grateful to you. In fact you have helped me more than I can possibly tell you. If you have the notebook, I would like it back. If not, that’s OK, but it would mean a lot to me to have it again.”

She stared at him blankly. “I don’t want your stupid notebook. Just take it and leave me alone.” She fumbled in the bottom of her backpack for the notebook. Pulling it out, she shoved it at the man. He took it with a smile. As she rose to change seats, he was tearing a page out of the small notebook and writing on it, saying, “Wait. Take this, please. And I promise, you’ll never see me again.”

He held the paper out to her. She grabbed it roughly from his hand and moved away quickly. She watched him as he got off at the next stop. He walked away, his hat pulled low over his eyes. As he moved out of sight, she looked down at the paper. All he had written was “First Commercial Bank” and a series of numbers. She snorted and shoved the paper in her pocket.

As the bus continued on its route, she stared out the window, thinking of the strange exchange, hoping the man had told the truth and that she would never see him again. They passed the used car dealers and the park with the graffiti-marked skateboard ramps before turning into the downtown district. On a corner, she suddenly saw a sign. “First Commercial Bank.”

She jumped up and rang for a stop. It was silly. It was foolish! But she had to find out what those numbers meant, if anything. She jumped off at the stop and ran back to the bank. They were still open. She walked into the lobby. It was large, with high ceilings, and nearly as quiet as the library. She had never been anywhere like this before. She stood, uncertainly, until a woman in a stylish navy blue dress walked up to her.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh.” She laughed nervously. “Probably not. It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“Well, somebody gave me this piece of paper and I just wondered if it meant anything.” She handed the paper over .

“Well, it’s the right number of digits for one of our accounts. Let’s go see, shall we?” She ushered the girl to a desk in the middle of the lobby. The girl felt herself sink into the soft, velvety chair.

“Hmmm.” The lady frowned at her computer. “It does look like one of our accounts. Let me just get the manager for you, dear.”

She waited, nervously swinging her feet. Had she done something wrong? Was the man involving her in some sort of criminal activity? She gathered her bag and stood, edging towards the door. Just then the woman came out of an office, a large, portly man by her side. They advanced on the girl as she tried to find a way out. Could she make it to the door? Had they already called the police?

As they neared her, she blurted, “I didn’t know the guy. I didn’t do anything.”

The manager lifted placating hands. “Don’t worry. It seems that you have found yourself a benefactor.” The gentleman gestured for her to sit again. As she cautiously perched on the edge of the seat, he continued, “You see, I opened that account myself. They left very specific instructions. They said that the account would belong to someone else, that the owner would come in with a page with the account number written on it. It looks to me like you must be the account owner.”

“Banks don’t work like that. You have to have proof. Well, except in stories.”

“Well, this was a special favor for an old friend who wished to remain anonymous. Now, how would you like to access the account? Checks? Debit card? And what is your name, child?”

“Johnson. Marlena Johnson. Can you tell me, how much is in the account?”

“Of course. Your benefactor has left you $20,000. Plus a little extra in interest.”

She collapsed into the chair. Her mother had always told her not to speak to strangers. She wasn’t going to believe this.

The next day on the bus, she looked for him. But she never saw him again.