Albert Foundling

The man in the black coat had been sitting at the lamppost for over an hour. His body had grown tired of the bench, so now he stood, stretching the muscles in his legs to warm them up. His leather bag lay snug across his chest. With a single tap, he ashed his tobacco pipe, rolled it in its canvas pouch, and returned it to its spot within the bag. The leather was worn. The tooling at the edge had softened. The face of it was a darker shade of brown than the rest. But nothing on the man, the pouch, the pipe, the black coat, or the leather bag was as tattered and worn as what he brought forth next. From his bag, the man brought out a black book. It was the most faded version of black there was. Almost translucent in the man’s ashen hands. He pulled the band from its cover and opened the binding. His eyes studied the handwriting on the first page. His fingers traced old ink and water stains. It was a wonder the cover and page were still intact with the amount of obvious wear of this book. He fumbled a few pages over until only a few fresh lines sat on the page.

The entries were listed as followed:

Date, location, description of the incident.

The man stared blankly at the page for several minutes. Tears sat thickly on the edges of his eyelids but never seemed to break the surface. He read the page once more, clapped the book shut, and returned it to its spot in the bag. He tightened his scarf, checked the street for any signs of movement, and slowly made his way up the steps of the dark stone building.

_____

They found the boy in a ditch. Mud coated the knees of his dungarees. Attached to the lapel of his wool coat was a wet note. It simply said, “We are sorry. His name is Albert.” The nuns of the school brought the boy in, bathed him and gave him fresh clothes. They added his name to the school registry. Albert for his first name, and in place of the surname, one of them wrote “Foundling.”

Albert was smaller than the rest of his class. He was quiet and did anything he could to keep the attention off of him. One day, he stumbled upon a book in the cemetery on the west side of the school. Among the dead former headmasters, students, and nuns sat this book propped against a headstone. He picked it up, pulled the band from its cover, turned to the first page, and saw a secret no one else could have known. Below that, another thing he had told no one in his life. The first line said:

October 19th, 1943, St. Francis School For Boys, Albert Foundling took food from the school kitchen and hid it in his cupboard.

The second line said:

March 5th, 1944, St. Francis School For Boys, Albert Foundling wished that his headmistress, Desdemona Smith, were dead.

A wave of guilt washed over Albert. He wanted to hide. If his secrets were so readily available, then others must know as well. He faked sick for nearly a week. Occasionally, while lying in his bed, he would pull the book from behind his pillow and see if the words were still there. When he had decided to get dressed and partake in his regular activities, he glanced at the book and fresh ink looked back at him.

September 2nd, 1944, St. Francis School For Boys, Albert Foundling lied about being sick for six and a half days.

These were the worst things he had ever done. He scrubbed the page with a rubber eraser, hoping to break up a bit of the ink. It seemed to only darken. He tore out the page and slowly the words faded. But they reappeared on the next page in the book. No one was to see this book. Over the years, its pages would fill with more terrible things that he was to commit. He decided he would keep it on him at all times.

_____

The public house was full of dinner guests. The bartender slid a cold frothy mug to a slender young man with a pale face. There was another man at the back table wearing a bowler hat. He looked hopeful. A jingling of bells signaled the entrance of two other men through the front door. The bartender waved, and the one dressed as a clergyman waved back. His other hand clutched a small attaché case. The young man stood and moved to a closer perch near the back table.

“I am hoping for a clean transaction,” the man in the bowler said.

“The money is all here. Every cent,” said the clergyman. The man he entered with raised a hand to make him stop talking.

“My client and I are here under the assumption that this will keep the information you have on my client private.”

“Upon seeing the money, I will gladly agree and sign whatever you like.”

“Here, here. It is all here,” said the clergyman. His attorney touched his shoulder to calm him.

They passed the attaché under the table. The man checked it and returned his hands to the table.

“I am ready to sign,” he said.

The young man at the bar finished his drink and pulled a thin black book from his bag.

The man signed the contract, and it was over quickly. The clergyman stood, finished the rest of his cocktail, and made his way to the back restroom. The young man at the bar stood and followed him in.

When he entered, the clergyman was relieving himself at a far away toilet.

“Those men are lying to you,” the young man said.

“Excuse me? Who are you?” asked the clergyman now approaching him at the sink.

“I am a journalist for the gazette. These men you are with are tricking you.”

“Why would I believe you?”

“Because I have proof. They gave this to me.”

The slender young man produced the black book from his bag, pulled the band from its cover and handed it to the clergyman. The reverend’s face turned white.

“They have everything,” he muttered. “Even things I have never dared to share.”

“It was the attorney’s idea,” said the young man.

The clergyman’s face shifted to red. With a growl, he tore out the incriminating pages from the small black book and ran back out into the restaurant. The young man picked up the book from the restroom floor and followed him out.

“You lying sons of --” The clergyman punched his attorney in the mouth. The other man stood to defend himself. “You will never get away with this.” The table flipped. A small attaché case fell into the aisle. As the whole public house erupted in fists and shouting, the young man grabbed the attaché and quietly exited the public house.

A few blocks away from the bar, the young, slender con man opened the small black book, and on its new front page appeared lines of text. Incidents dating back to 1943. He flipped five or six pages forward. Unsurprisingly, a new line appeared.

November 13th, 1965, Pippen’s Public House, Albert Foundling tricked a clergyman out of $20,000.

_____

The oak doors slammed shut behind the man in the black coat with a familiar thunderous boom. The hall that lay before him hung onto the sound for far too long. Despite the years, he knew the layout of the building well. He made his way up the marble staircase and saw a light coming from beneath her door. He was nervous, but after all these years, he was ready. He knocked.

“Come in, Mr. Percy,” said a small voice from behind the door. “Are you done cleaning for the night?”

The man in the black coat twisted the knob and entered. The entry room was the headmistress’s formal office and sitting room. And after decades, the only thing that appeared to be different were the walls. Where once was art and crucifixes was empty space.

“It is not Mr. Percy,” he replied. The old lady sat in a rocking chair, holding a small tissue and watching a small tv perched on what was once her office desk. She stood slowly, smoothing out her nightgown and grabbing her robe from a nearby hook.

“I was not expecting any guests,” she apologized. “Do come in and tell me who you are.”

The man took a seat on the nearby sofa. He set his leather bag on the ground and laid a small black book on the coffee table.

“I was once a student here. My name is Albert Foundling.”

Desdemona looked up from tying her robe. She looked deep in the eyes of the man claiming to be Albert Foundling.

“Is this a joke?” She asked, almost frustrated.

“No, mam. My name is Albert Foundling. Do you remember me?”

She looked again, studying his eyes, and this time she believed him. She wept.

“There is no need to cry, Headmistress Smith.” He put his hand on her back. This once tall, powerful woman had been reduced to something small and meek. She wept, still clinging to the tissue in her hands.

“I have come to my senses, Headmistress. This school that gave me this name turned me into something quite unnatural. I now find myself quite wealthy by ill-gotten gain, and now I feel I must pay for it.”

She continued crying. Wiping her nose and eyes with her hand.

“When I was young, I found a book that told me all the wrongs I had ever done,” he continued. “On the first page was always you. I hated you. I wanted you dead. This little book reminds me of it every day.”

He took the book from her table, undid the band from its cover and showed her the first page. It was littered with her name and his hatred.

Instinctively, she took the book from his hands and the words all dropped from the page. Albert knew she would see her own mistakes now. Things she hadn’t probably thought of in years. Quickly she was through the book, even more emotional. She stopped on a date and turned it towards Albert. It included his name and an incident he no longer remembered.

“I know how this book works,” she admitted. She pulled out the tissue from her hand. But it wasn’t a tissue at all. It was a worn page from a journal. She unfolded it and sat it on top of Albert’s journal. The torn edge matched perfectly to the leftover edge from when Albert first tore out his sins from this book.

“I have read this page again and again for years now,” she said. “I found this piece of paper under your bed after you left the school. It only showed me my wrongdoings until I was seven. But your book here showed me things I wished I would have never remembered.”

She cried again. Albert reached a hand to touch her shoulder.

“We do things we hate,” he said. “That is why I came tonight. I wanted to use this book for good for once. I came to say I am sorry that I wished you dead, and that I am happy tonight to have found you very much alive.”

Albert pulled a pen from his pocket. Taking her torn sheet in his hands, he wrote a note across the page in thick black ink and returned it Desdemona. She looked it over, folded it neatly, and placed it on the side table. She took Albert’s pen, and on the first page she wrote:

I forgive you, too.