An Open Hand

The tenement door had worn at least a dozen coats of paint in its protracted lifetime, half of which were visible where the years had slowly flaked it away. The hallway, stiflingly hot and thick with the scent of cigarette smoke, was pocked with primer where the landlord had attempted to cover graffiti. Somewhere down the hall, a baby cried—its tone blending with a police siren so well that Conner Marquand struggled to tell where one began and the other ended.

The door was numbered 937, though the 7 had lost a nail and was hanging upside down like an italic letter L. Conner knocked vigorously with the brass knob of his cane, then stepped back to make certain he could be seen through the viewer. He heard three locks disengage before the door opened slightly, revealing a narrow portion of a woman’s face. A security chain kept it from opening further.

“You ain’t delivering pizza in that suit,” the woman said. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Ms. Tanisha Allen,” Conner said, loosening his tie a bit.

“You found her,” the woman replied. “Now, I’ll ask again…what do you want?”

“Ms. Allen, my name is Conner Marquand. I’m an attorney with Howe, Winters, and Ogden representing the estate of Howard Travers. Are you familiar with the name?” He passed her his business card through the opening of the door. She looked it over for a moment before answering.

“Rich fella that passed a few weeks back. Cancer, I think. Made the evening news.”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you mind if I come in?”

“I don’t see what some rich fella dying has to do with me,” Tanisha Allen replied. “And I was about to start supper.”

“It won’t take but five minutes or so, I assure you, Ms. Allen.” He leaned closer to the door and spoke softly. “I don’t feel comfortable discussing the details in the hallway. I’m sure you understand.”

Her right eye—all that he could see of her through the barely-opened door—narrowed as she considered the man before her. His bespoke suit fit his average frame rather nicely, but it was his kind eyes and hobbled leg that made it clear he wasn’t a threat. After a deep breath, she unlocked the chain and let him in.

“Excuse the place,” she said, ushering him past the kitchenette into the main room where she offered him a seat on a futon covered entirely by a threadbare afghan.

“I’m sorry to have popped by unannounced, Ms. Allen,” he offered, leaning his cane against the arm of the futon as he sat. “The phone number I found for you was out of service.”

“That’s what happens when you can’t pay the bill,” she said, dropping into an orange recliner several decades past its prime. “My boy, DeShaun, had the crud for a day or two and the clinic got what would’ve gone to pay the phone.”

“Is he alright now?”

“Lord, yes. More energy than that pink bunny from the commercials,” she said with a bashful smile.

“I admire anyone with the fortitude for parenting,” Conner said, pulling a little black book from the inner pocket of his coat and placing it on his lap. “Is DeShaun your only child?”

“He’s more’n enough and all I need,” Tanisha answered, her face growing serious. “Now what’s this about exactly?”

Conner opened the book and thumbed through several pages before landing on the one he had marked with a sticky note containing Tanisha Allen’s address and phone number.

“As I mentioned, I represent the estate of Howard Travers, Ms. Allen,” he said, scanning the page once more, “and it seems you left quite the impression on him.”

“I don’t see how that could be so. I ain’t never met the man.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Just that he died,” she answered honestly.

“Mr. Travers wasn’t born into his money, Ms. Allen. Quite the opposite, in fact. He spent nearly seven years homeless in his mid-20s right here in Chicago. A man named Gary Isaacs pulled him off the street and took a chance on him. He taught him a trade and Travers turned his inventive mind toward his new skill set and wound up revolutionizing an industry. His patents earned him his first million and a string of good investments did the rest.”

“Well, good on him, I guess,” Tanisha said. “Still not sure what any of that has to do with me.”

“In spite of his money, Mr. Travers was as humble as he was private. He flew coach. Did his own grocery shopping. Ran his own errands. He even rode the city bus, which is how he met you and DeShaun,” Conner said, consulting the book. “Someone bumped into your son and knocked a toy from his hand.”

“Some cheap kid’s meal thing,” she said, her eyes drifting away from him as she remembered. “That jerk didn’t even apologize. Some old man sitting next to me gave me $20. Said he didn’t like people who act as if they can’t see folks like me. Not knowing him from Adam, I was surprised he wanted to pay for someone else’s offense. That was him? Travers?”

Conner nodded and handed her the little black book.

“He’d been diagnosed some months before you encountered him,” the attorney explained. “Not having a family, he began thinking long and hard about what to do with his money. He made provisions for charities, including a small church in the inner city that runs a shelter where he had stayed when he lived on the street. But he wanted to do something more personal than just throwing money at people on the frontlines. Before I explain the offer on the table, Ms. Allen, might I ask you to read the page I’ve opened in Mr. Traver’s journal?”

Tanisha’s eyes dropped to the black ink scrawled on the ivory pages before her. Though Conner Marquand could not read her expressions any more than he could her mind, he noted that her features softened as she read. Whatever her understanding had been of Howard Travers before that moment, reading the man’s own thoughts set loose something inside her. The heaviness in her eyes was replaced with compassion…and perhaps sadness for a friendship that might have been.

“I didn’t remember that part,” she said quietly, closing the book and handing it back to the attorney. “About Ms. Mabel, I mean. Dragging my boy off the bus and into our home is a battle, Mr.—”

“Marquand.”

“I’m sure you must’ve noticed this ain’t the safest block and, while I’ve got some good neighbors that look out for DeShaun and me, I’m never on the streets any more than necessary. But Ms. Mabel always sits on that corner and always has a kind word. She ain’t ever asked me for a thing but…when I can spare a dollar, or when the corner bodega slides me an extra bagel, I pass it on.”

“As you just read, Mr. Travers saw your act of kindness as the bus pulled away,” Conner said.

“It wasn’t anything. Truly. I didn’t earn that $20. Hadn’t expected it or been counting on it. Why keep it?”

“Many would have. Or bought the boy something and given her the rest.”

“DeShaun has plenty. Maybe not everything he wants, but nobody needs everything they want.”

“True enough.”

“I’m not sure how Mr. Travers knew how to find me,” Tanisha said, “or why me blessing Ms. Mabel would prompt him to write such kind things about a stranger.”

“When Howard Travers made his fortune, everyone wanted a piece of him,” Conner replied. “Money is a useful tool, Ms. Allen, but it corrupts even the noblest of men. Knowing this, he lived with an open hand…not considering his wealth to be anything other than an instrument of grace he could put to work in the world. He lived his life with that open hand but, once the diagnosis came, he sought a way to continue that mission after his death.”

“A fine goal,” Tanisha admitted. “Still not sure what it has to do with me, though, Mr. Marquand.”

“Most people who put $20 in a beggar’s cup have it to spare,” the attorney said. “What inspired Mr. Travers was the selflessness of a woman for whom that $20 would likely mean an easy meal or a portion of a utility bill, instead, giving it to someone with a greater need.”

“Oh, I can be as selfish as anyone,” Tanisha replied. “Like most folks, I’m a jumble of decisions good and bad. The world is a me-first sort of place, Mr. Marquand. If my actions seemed selfless to your Mr. Travers, it’s only because he had too little to compare them to.”

Conner smiled at that. Though his task didn’t require it, he rather liked Tanisha Allen.

“There are two offers on the table, Ms. Allen,” he said, taking his cane so that he was ready to stand. “I can give you a check made out in your name for $20,000. A helping hand, I suppose. A chance to clear some bills and sleep a bit easier for a while.”

“Or?”

“Or, instead, ten checks for $2,000 each. It would then be up to you to fill in the names of the recipients—to decide whose needs outweigh your own. The only stipulation is that you may not fill one out for yourself.”

“So, I can give or receive…but not both.”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes,” he admitted, standing with the help of his cane. He tucked the little black book back in the inner pocket of his suit coat and watched Tanisha Allen’s brown eyes dart back and forth as her mind engaged with the options before her. He was confident of her answer before she uttered it.

“I need to decide now?”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever your decision, I have the appropriate checks with me.” He patted one of his pockets for emphasis.

“You a religious man, Mr. Marquand?” Tanisha asked.

“A bit of a lapsed Catholic, actually.”

“Momma wasn’t always big on church—mainly because she had to work most Sundays—but she made my brother and me memorize scriptures growing up. I’ve forgotten as many as I remember, but Acts 20:35 is still rattling around in here,” she said, putting a finger to her temple.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Conner admitted.

“It basically just says that we labor for the need we see around us,” she said before biting her bottom lip. “That it’s better to give than receive. When DeShaun and I have gone without, a few kind folks have helped however they could. Aside from my phone bill, though, I’m making it alright now. Same can’t be said for some other folks on this block. If I can help them and repay that kindness, I’d like to.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, I am. Mr. Travers did more than enough for me on that bus…and I didn’t keep that either. I’ll let his generosity shine on someone else.”

Conner Marquand pulled an envelope from his inner pocket and presented it to Tanisha Allen.

“Ten checks, as promised, for whomever you choose,” he said. He then retrieved another envelope from his pocket. “And this is for you and DeShaun.”

She opened the second envelope, peeked at the check inside and then, perplexed, looked back to the attorney.

“It was only $20,000 if you were selfish,” Conner said, unable to subdue his wide smile. “Mr. Travers added a few zeroes to this one…which you were only to receive if you were, indeed, the woman of grace he found you to be.”

“Wait…what?”

“Keep that open hand of yours, Ms. Allen,” Conner said, turning to go. “The world will be better for it.”

He limped out of her apartment and back into the hard world, eager to find the next name on Mr. Traver’s list.