Trouble

A fortune is neither fate nor fabulous wealth. As some jaded old fellow from Florence once said, it’s our virtues that determine the shape our fortunes take. This story is a quiet, inconsequential example of how that worked out for someone I’ve known well.

January 11

Ana walked into my office without a word and sat down in front of me. I knew something was wrong and knew exactly what to do: nothing. She sat there for a long time, motes of dust dancing above her head like the thoughts swirling inside.

This wasn’t unusual. We’ve known each other for years and Ana will stop by, sometimes often and sometimes not. Our conversations involve the world with all its madness and beauty and tragedy, wherever the conversation flows. I sometimes bring up questions but I don’t offer advice. I’m not a friend, I’m something deeper, more sacred. I’m a confidante.

Finally Ana took a deep breath and told me what happened. She’d come home to her apartment and found something under her doormat. She was breathing fast and I couldn’t tell if it was in excitement or fear, but then again, what’s the difference? She tossed the envelope on my desk and I saw why she’d feel either.

It was a plain white envelope, a little creased, with the words “FOR YOUR TROUBLE.” written on the front. Inside was a tiny stack of paper that called itself twenty thousand dollars.

January 12

I wasn’t surprised when Ana came by again. She started talking, rambling really, about what she wants and lacks. She didn’t tell me what she was talking about and didn’t have to. What else does someone who stumbles into a pile of money think about but how to make it smaller?

I reminded her of a few things she’d told me she wanted in the past. Responsible things like paying off debts. Fun things like a vacation to Spain. Selfless things like donating to the needy. Enriching things like building a collection of vintage books. The fact she considered spending a fortune on old stories was one of the reasons I liked her. Ana was the classy type.

She came up with far more things to do with twenty grand than I could think of. I suppose money’s a bit like a magnifying glass: the closer it is to you the bigger the vision of what could be done with it. I was happy for her. Ana wasn’t rich in any way that shows in a bank account and I knew she could use that money. But I kept waiting for the other half of the excitement to sink in.

In time she stopped talking about what was inside the envelope and I knew she was thinking about what was on it.

FOR YOUR TROUBLE.

We thought about what kind of trouble the envelope could be talking about. I didn’t know everything about Ana’s life but I knew enough. She’d been through plenty of troubles but nothing someone would be forced to pay her back for. So either the world had grown far more generous and just, or the envelope hadn’t been intended for her. I had my doubts about the former.

I don’t know why, but the period on the envelope somehow made it much more ominous.

January 14

I was thinking over our last chat when Ana happened to stop by for a bit before going to work. I was surprised but didn’t mind. She told me that she had been thinking about how to deal with the cash. Not how to spend the almighty money, but what to do with the worthless pieces of paper the money was stamped on.

She mentioned that she had thought of putting up an ad asking for the rightful owner of a lost envelope of money. I was thinking of how to articulate the countless ways that was a terrible idea before she informed me she’d thought better of it. Thank goodness. Going for a dip in a steel swimsuit is a better thought than that, if you ask me.

She had to get to work, but in a rush she told me she’d stashed the money somewhere. You’ll understand if I don’t tell you where. Confidante and all that.

January 15

Sometimes I look at the way things work out and marvel at the close calls, near misses, and what makes the difference.

It was late when Ana burst through the door, her eyes wide and red. She started talking rapidly, almost incoherently, as though afraid the words would slip away if she spent too much time on them. I didn’t interrupt her once, I just listened and let her get it all out.

Ana had come home to find a man leaning against the door of her apartment. When she approached he asked her name but she wouldn’t tell him. I always knew she was a sharp one. He asked if she’d received any unexpected packages. Before she could answer her neighbor came into the hallway and Ana’s guest quickly made himself scarce. After some trouble with the lock Ana slipped inside her apartment and locked the door.

Things weren’t better inside. Her apartment was a mess, having obviously been searched by someone interested in more than her collection of penguin statues and costume jewelry. She called the cops, which was the right call but rarely a good one. Since the police lacked a clear suspect they made up for it by treating Ana as one, subjecting her to an hour of interrogation and veiled accusations.

Before leaving to get some much-delayed sleep, she told me with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety that she still had the money. She hadn’t mentioned the twenty grand to either the man or the cops. Like I said, she’s a sharp one.

January 18

Sometimes restraint is the greatest gift we can give. The next time I saw Ana all I wanted to know was the situation with the money, the cops, and the burglar, but that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about. She was filled with a sudden drive to think of all the local news organizations and how to search their story archives. I swallowed my curiosity and focused on what she needed in that moment.

I’m afraid that for all my intentions I wasn’t much help. I don’t get out much and I’m not very technologically savvy. Some people call me old-fashioned; I like to think of myself as timeless. Whatever you call it, I think simplicity can help people process their thoughts better than any number of flashing devices.

January 27

I had gotten used to seeing Ana more often since she found the envelope and was beginning to worry that I hadn’t heard from her in more than a week. Fortunately she came by, not only safe but filled with excitement. She had found what she was looking for.

Apparently her focus on media outlets wasn’t a random interest, but an attempt to scour the news for any clue as to who the intended recipient of the money may have been. I’m both impressed by her careful scrutiny and embarrassed I didn’t think of it myself. After days of combing through current events she found something, and I’ll admit it’s definitely a something.

She explained that she realized her apartment must have been mixed up with a drop for some sort of criminals, so she searched for any locations referenced in new or old articles that had similar addresses. Sure enough she found an article dated to January 14, covering a police report of a raid into an apartment used as a staging place for organized crime.

The address of the staging place was 12212 Milano Street. Ana’s apartment was 21221 Milano Street.

I reminded her that was the day before the visit of her unwelcome guest, and we concluded he might have seen the article too and realized the money was dropped at the wrong location. Ana told me she’d be back in a couple days to let me know what she’d decided. Now we know whose money it was. The question that hasn’t yet occurred to her is whose money it should be. It hasn’t yet but I know it will. In any case it’s not my question to ask.

January 30

As promised Ana stopped by today. We didn’t talk about man who broke into her apartment, or the criminal organization, or the police. Instead she came equipped with a slew of new uses she could put the twenty grand to.

I halfheartedly played along as she described the fun she could have with that much money. Nothing responsible or enriching entered the conversation this time and I knew it wouldn’t. Ana talked about the trip to Tuscany she would take, the new car she would put a down payment on, the luxury cross-country train trip she wasn’t sure existed but wanted to experience nonetheless. I absently agreed and listened with a mixture of sympathy, sadness, and pride.

I knew she wasn’t listing the things she would do. She was listing the possibilities she was letting go of.

February 2

Ana walked into my office today and sat down heavily. But there is a heaviness that comes from bearing more burdens and a heaviness that comes from bearing more character. Ana’s heaviness was not a burden.

She told me that she couldn’t knowingly keep blood money. I already knew that. She told me that she had donated the money to an afterschool literacy program for children. I was not surprised. She told me she couldn’t decide if she’d done the right thing.

I told her a story of a woman who had found a fortune. A woman who thought of wondrous things to do with that fortune. A woman who had faced danger because of it and hadn’t rested until she knew the origins of it. I told her of a person who had refused to give up a fortune in the name of fear but had surrendered it in the name of generosity.

She said she wasn’t sure if she was proud of what she’d done or sad about what she’d given up. I say she doesn’t have to choose.

February 3

My time is done, my job completed. Ana penned my last page today and my covers were shut. She arranged me with the other little black books, those who had come before, in the office we share. I would wait on a shelf, gathering dust like the memories within me, until Ana needs to dust them off and remember what once was.

I wish I could hear what happened after all this and whether Ana faced any more trouble, but that’s for another diary to know. I’ll have to content myself with the last line Ana wrote, and I think I can.

“To Be Continued”