My Mrs. Williams

Sitting quietly in Brooklyn Heights public library Erica leans on her elbow, smashing her fist against a sore cheek longingly looking through foreign books like The Tale of Genji, Pedro Paramo, and The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas. She sighs glancing at the history book that has been glaring at her screaming “OPEN ME, READ ME, STUDY ME.”

I don’t speak Japanese, Spanish, or Portugese. I’ll never get out of New York. She sighs and closes the books, looking around the library for people she knows as she packs her messenger bag to leave.

Ah sweet Mrs. Williams. I love the musty smell of the old books she’s always reading. I can't believe someone visits the library as frequently as me.

“Bye Mrs. Williams, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Erica smiles as she passes by.

“Perhaps!” Mrs. Williams exclaims standing up, more like staggering up, to give Erica a hug.

What the--- Well this never happens. How sweet. Although confused, Erica heartily returns the hug with a shy smile as Mrs. Williams slowly sits back down, her body old and frail.

As she walks out into the brisk New York September air, Erica heads home smiling. Hugs are great!

The familiar smells of pizza, car fumes, and trash bombard her nose. The subway passes above making it impossible to hear let alone talk, not that she has anyone to talk to. As she passes a small public garden on the way back, she wanders through breathing in the remnants of the dying flowers from summer and the foliage as it prepares for winter.

Reaching her building Erica tramps up four flights of stairs, her heavy footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell. Finally she makes it to her small studio apartment. After throwing the keys down she hops on the couch and empties the contents of her bag onto the coffee table.

Ah, home! My small sanctuary. Coffee time, study, then work. You got this, you got this! As she stands something odd catches her eye.

“I didn’t put that in my messenger bag,” Erica mumbles reaching for the black notebook sandwiched between her pile of books.

“This isn’t mine,” she says to herself confused as she turns it over. She opens the cover and an envelope falls out.

Without even acknowledging the envelope she pages through the notebook.

A journal of some sort? Short stories? Records? She pages back to the front and finds a small poem written on the back of the cover:

In this n otebook

You will find

Hidden secrets lay inside

Always be kind, always be wise

What does that even mean? She finally notices the envelope and picks it up, staring at it like it's an alien.

Do I open this? It’s not mine, that wouldn’t be right. But who does this belong to? How do I even find out? She rips open the envelope and gasps, throwing it on the table as if it was on fire.

What is going on? Why was this in my bag? Am I in trouble now? She stares at the envelope on the table for an unknown amount of time before picking it up and pouring the contents of it on the coffee table. A pile of one hundred dollar bills spills out. Two hundred of them to be exact.

“20,000 dollars,” she says numb and in shock. “20,000 dollars,” she repeats multiple times.

It seems like hours go by as she stares at the stack of money sitting on her table, so many ideas and questions running through her head.

Do I keep it? Do I find the owner? Oh lord, I want to keep this. I could go to Japan, Mexico, Brazil, Taiwan, I could go ANYWHERE! She starts pacing, absentmindedly running her hand through the same patch of hair. No more waitressing at Denny’s Diner, no more ramen dinners, no more thrift store clothes…

She spends the next five days going through the motions of a routine: school, avoiding the library to go home and “study” a.k.a stare at the money, then go to work. She becomes so obsessed with convincing herself to keep it.

The notebook! Days had gone by and her obsession over the money consumed her enough into forgetting completely about the notebook!

Snatching it off the table she opens to page one.

May 29, 1967

"I was born on Wednesday September 25th 1940 in the British colony called the Gold Coast, which is now known as Ghana. My parents immigrated to New York when I was 15. It was not an easy transition. I’m sure most can imagine how difficult being a black woman is in the United States. I’m beginning this notebook by congratulating myself for recently receiving my PhD in Philosophy and History from Columbia University. Perhaps this is my only way to brag but that is quite an accomplishment for someone “like me”. I bet some of my colleagues would say “right on!”. There are many things I would like to say about the trials of my educational journey, but even hidden in this notebook it would do an injustice to all educated women of any race. My first day of class during freshman year I…”

Erica finds herself pacing as she continues to dive into this anonymous person’s life, vicariously living it through each word on the weathered pages.

June 15, 1975

"After getting back from a small lecture tour in Europe at Cambridge University in the UK and the University of Paris at the end of last year, I was rushed to Massachusetts to begin teaching my course at Harvard University as a guest instructor. This specific topic was for the 2nd year students learning philosophy. Although I don’t tend to be cruel in nature, I do believe exploring Michael Foucault for most of the semester may have been a bit harsh. Most of my students did very well, I am proud to say. Harvard was a very interesting experience, battling with the hierarchy of the tenured professors, the adjunct professors, and the guests (plebs) like me. It was quite an exhausting experience but worth every second because that’s where I found Roger. I have never considered myself to be a romantic person but I am convinced he is the love of my life. He is a beautiful person and I do believe he loves me considering the flowers he always brings me and the way his eyes light up when he smiles at me. Notebook, I believe I am going to marry this man. I’m beyond jazzed."

She fell in love with her “one”. Man, I hope I find my “one”. I can’t believe she taught at Harvard and gave lectures in the United Kingdom and Paris! A small bubble of jealousy rumbles in her stomach but quickly subsides as she reads on.

After days of reading, Erica is left with only one page. She puts the notebook down not wanting to finish it, not wanting it to end.

“How can you feel so close to someone you’ve never met through a NOTEBOOK?” Erica exclaims, flustered.

Reluctantly she picks up the notebook and turns to the last page.

June 20th 2005

"Unfortunately this will be my last entry into this small black notebook and the end of my notebook journey altogether. It is amazing how much of my life I was able to cram into it over the years. I have not written as much as I would have liked, but I feel I have put enough of myself into these pages. One thing I will leave you with, notebook, is that I am very proud of my life and consider myself very content. I have achieved beyond what anyone thought was possible and the entirety of my education cost only $20,000. Only $20,000 for a PhD that changed my life and has given me years of individual happiness and self confidence. I have learned that the journeys we choose are the doors to our future. Thank you for always listening. I bid you mah krow."

The last page bore the signature “A. Williams”.

She stopped writing over ten years ago. What is she doing now? How did I get this? This mysterious A Williams person is my secret benefactor? Williams, Williams, Williams...I know an Andrew Williams but he’s a year younger than me. He couldn’t possibly---Mrs. Williams! THE LIBRARY!

Erica shoves the notebook and the money in her bag as she bolts out the door and runs to the library.

I’ll finally be able to figure this out! Panting, she swings open the heavy library door and scans the booths.

“Hey Adjo, have you seen Mrs. Williams?” she asks the library clerk. The look on his face freezes Erica in her tracks.

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. She passed.”

Wait, what? “H-how? When? Why?!”

“I don’t remember, I think it was about 9 days ago. I’m sorry, honey, she was just old. The service was a few days ago I believe.”

Slowly Erica turns away, but before leaving she turns back. “Adjo, did you know her first name?”

“Her name was Akuba, she was from Ghana like me,” he says proudly and nods.

My A. Williams was Mrs. Williams and now she’s gone. Numbly she walks out the door and leans against the side of the building. I knew her heart through a notebook in ten days yet we sat near each other over one hundred times with only small chit chat.

As she stands there feeling guilty and mourning the loss of her new dear friend, Erica looks in her bag and gapes. The money!

Did she? Is this? Is this real? So many questions run through her head as clarity starts to set in.

For individual happiness and self confidence, huh? Thank you, Akuba. My Mrs. Williams.

Erica looks up at the sky, takes a deep breath and looks around at the bustling streets of Brooklyn.

“First stop...Japan.”