Last on the List

“What the hell?” Nora squinted, gripping both sides of the open, olive colored JanSport. Her brow furrowed in disbelief. She was staring at something that her brain – the same brain that had gotten her into Princeton’s school of journalism – simply couldn’t comprehend.

There had to be some explanation buried within the events of the previous day. Prying one shocked hand from the zippered lip of the backpack, Nora pinched the bridge of her nose, squished her eyelids tightly closed and tried to remember.

*****

The clouds looked like whipped butter, and the plane sliced through them just as easily. A million emerald trees passed beneath Nora as she descended over the City of Roses in a Boeing 737-700, which she knew because the young, obviously new attendant had said it four times at the beginning of the flight. Wet parking lots stretched below the plane, glossy with Pacific Northwest drizzle like lips of high-school girls, each dotted with equally damp cars that resembled lines of braille. Nora imagined a giant goddess tracing them with her fingers, spelling out stories of late-night coffee runs and camping trips, of destinies yet to be revealed.

“It’s a balmy 35 degrees,” the more experienced attendant chirped, smirking at her own brilliant joke as the plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac, “and the local time is 10:47am. We will be arriving at gate B9…”

The flight attendant’s voice trailed off as Nora exchanged excited glances with the sweet old man in the aisle seat. He was the sort of man she would have been elated to have as a grandfather – lanky and white-whiskered, with frameless reading spectacles and a proper, crinkly-eyed smile. Not a chatty fellow, but when he noticed Nora’s glassy-eyed look of boredom halfway through the flight, he cleared his throat and, with a polite, non-verbal gesture, offered to share the newspaper he was reading. For the next two hours, he’d place finished sections on the empty middle seat, and Nora would happily retrieve them with as sophisticated an air as she could manage, as if to say “Indeed, I do frequent park benches in my spare time!”

Through the entire flight, Nora had only dozed off once toward the end (for about twenty minutes, by her estimate) and when she awoke, the old man was scribbling something in a tiny, black, leather-bound notebook. She watched groggily from the corner of her eye, amazed at the way he made the pen dance across the page. Nora could have sworn at one point that he wrote down her name, although upon further reflection she realized that it would have been impossible, considering she had never given it to him.

In fact, the only thing they talked about at all was Nora’s interest in journalism, and aside from a few short words of affirmation from the old man, Nora did all the talking. She gushed about Princeton, lamented briefly about how, since she didn’t get approved for financial aid, she was going to have to go to school at a community college instead, and reasserted her affinity for newspapers (after all, she had been the elected editor of her high school newspaper three years in a row). Once, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she almost explained how she was traveling to Portland to collect interviews from the homeless for a self-assigned exposé that she hoped would capture the government’s attention and affect real change – however, she quickly decided that information was better kept to herself, if only to spare the old man’s ear.

As the plane rode smoothly up to the gate, Nora peered out of the small, oval window to see purple mountains all along the horizon, encasing the city like a jagged, clay bowl. She stood up eagerly as the plane came to a less-than-delicate stop, then stooped to free the backpack she had stuffed beneath the seat in front of her, swung it around on her shoulder, and prepared for the usual mania of plane zombies desperately clamoring to the center aisle in an attempt to beat each other to the exit. Nora was so focused on the gathering mob; she didn’t even notice that her backpack was slightly heavier than before.

Just then, the old man looked up at Nora smugly, and with a motion so swift it would have been missed in a blink, maneuvered himself between the encroaching crowd and Nora, who had been swaying impatiently on the spot. His hands were firmly clamped on two seat-backs, effectively blocking the aisle. Nora froze by her seat in confused appreciation. Her eyes roved to the old man, and he nodded toward the clear pathway, his eyes sparkling.

Nora snapped to attention, the taste of rain suddenly on her tongue, and strode easily to the door. Just as her foot finally touched Oregon ground, she heard the old man call after her in a shouting whisper, words that would later send chills racing through her skin:

“Welcome home.”

*****

Now she was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of her hotel room, still trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The backpack – her backpack – had been emptied of all the thrift-shop clothing and snacks she had packed and was instead filled to the brim with what appeared to be rolled up stacks of cash. Still dazed, Nora reached out a trembling hand and selected a tightly rolled bundle, loosed the bills from their rubber-band-binding, and flicked the edges across her thumb like a flip-book.

There must be twenty-grand in here! she thought.

There has to be some explanation.

The words swam through her head, still unreal. Nobody had touched the backpack before the flight except Nora, and it had been in her sight the whole time on the plane. She had only fallen asleep for a mere moment, and even then, who could have possibly pulled off such a magic trick? What’s more, who would want to gift Nora a small fortune? She pressed her temples.

Is the money stolen? Where did it come from? Is this some kind of trick? Why me? Why me? Why—

Then, she spotted it. It sat lurking beneath the rolls of cash, like a prize in a cereal box. Nora couldn’t decide whether she was more excited or terrified, but nevertheless she fished into the backpack to retrieve the ominous item, hoping that it contained the answers she so desperately sought. She held it in front of her. Its, charcoal-colored binding looked thoroughly worn, just as it had been on the plane, and from it wafted the familiar, musky scent of leather.

The old man’s notebook.

Nora couldn’t believe it. But now her reluctance had been replaced with determination. She would get to the bottom of this, she was sure of it. Without hesitation, Nora pulled apart the twine that had tied the notebook shut, and furiously turned to the first page. On it was a list of five names:

Kimberly

Freeda

Melody

Marcus

Nora

The page looked ancient, as though it had been pored over countless times; the corners smeared with splotches of ink and coffee stains. A line had been scratched through the center of each name on the list. Nora puzzled at the first four scribblings, and then at her own name which stood proudly at the bottom of the page. She studied the list carefully, and finally decided the other names didn’t belong to anyone she actually knew. She turned to the next page, which was covered in fresh, clean handwriting.

Nora~

I imagine you have questions. Please understand, I cannot tell you everything. Some things you wouldn’t understand, and others you simply wouldn’t believe.

However, I can tell you this: You’ve been chosen.

I looked into your heart, and saw that it is a kind one, a kindred one, and you deserve the world for all the good you will do. I don’t own the world, and therefore cannot offer it to you. Instead, let me offer you your own future. I have arranged for you to attend Princeton tuition-free (call the dean, he’ll explain), and in the back of this notebook is a letter of recommendation that should help you get a job at any publication you want. Lastly, in your backpack is enough means to help you start your own journal, when the occasion arises.

This world has belonged to old men like me for too long. That is about to change. Make no mistake, Nora - you will save us all.

~Leonard

P.S. Sorry about your clothes. The cheese puffs were delicious.

Nora re-read the postscript, blinked, then laughed until tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She had grown up below the poverty-line, the daughter of a teacher, with four brothers and a deep understanding that nothing in life is free. Perhaps even this wasn’t free – the feeling remained that this was an elaborate trick, and any minute now a television host would pop out of a corner, exclaiming loudly that she had been caught on candid camera. But as the hours passed and Nora examined the contents of the backpack over and over again, she came to the conclusion that this was real.

Chosen. The letter said she had been chosen because of her kindness; because of what she could accomplish. No, not could… would.

…let me offer you your own future.

Torn between images of the old man as an all-knowing spirit from a fantastical realm, and a futuristic robot sent back to cleverly destroy her with her own dream, Nora reached for her phone. There was likely no way she could ever fully comprehend what had happened, how all of her wishes had simultaneously been granted, but she no longer cared about understanding it. Quickly, she looked up a number in Princeton’s directory, and dialed it. This was it. The life Nora had always dreamed about, right at her feet. She could hardly contain her excitement.

The phone rang three times, and then a man with business in his voice answered. “Joe Stephens.”

Nora beamed.