Little Black Book

Before he died, he kept telling me to find it.

“Don’t let your grandmother find it,” he whispered

“What is it? What’s in it? Tell me why it’s so important.”

“Z. She can’t know about Z, it would crush her.”

“Tell me where it is and what you want me to do with it.”

He pulled me close and said, “You’ll know when you find it.”

Grams walked in after speaking with the doctor and she went straight to his bedside. She looked at him lovingly and he reciprocated.

“I love you,” he said to her while she held his hand.

He closed his eyes and took his last breath.

A week later, Grams passed; I knew she wouldn’t last long without him. In true New Orleans fashion, she had a Jazz funeral procession. It was her final request in celebrating her life; she knew quite a bit of the locals and the second line in the procession reflected that.

It was a long day of mourning and reminiscing about Grams and Pops. I thought of what Pops said to me as I sat at Café De Monde, his favorite local spot. They sacrificed a lot in life and lot for me. I was only six when I came to live with them. My parents were victims of a drunk driver and there was no one else to care for me.

Mom was their only child and dad was an orphan, so naturally they took me in and raised me as their own. Grams was a happy homemaker who had a love for the arts. She and I would take long walks in the French Quarter admiring all the artwork from the locals. Pops was a waiter at his favorite spot in New Orleans, Café De Monde. I remember him being so happy and hospitable when the Café was busy; he was always greeting the locals and welcoming the tourists. So I made my way there after Gram’s funeral.

A young waiter came to my table and dropped off my coffee and beignet. All I kept thinking about were Pop’s last words. I have no clue what he meant by find “it” or, for that matter, what “it” was. I acknowledged the waiter and thanked him for his service.

As he walked away, my eyes focused on the older gentleman standing by the counter whose face was gentle and familiar. As our eyes locked, he smiled and waved at me. Taking a bite of my beignet, I noticed him walking towards me. Once he was closer, he welcomed me with open arms.

“So glad to see you Johnny, he said while hugging me. I’m so sorry about your grandparents,” he said as he joined me.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby. You know they loved you like family.”

“Yeah, Benny was like a brother to me and Marsha always had to play judge and jury over our beignet making contests. You know, this was Benny’s favorite table. He said it was the best view of the counter and the perfect pathway for the aromas coming from the kitchen. What are you going to do with their house? Are you going to stay there,” he inquired.

“I’m not sure Uncle Bobby. The house needs a lot of work and my cash flow is… well, not so much right now. I barely had enough to cover the funeral expenses for them.”

“Well Johnny, you know you always have a place to work here and my family considers you family, so we are always here to help.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bobby.”

As I reached for my beignet, the table shook; one of the legs was too short and it caused my coffee to spill a little.

“This was one of the first tables your grandfather and I bought and refurbished for the business. Benny thought he knew what he was doing but he made one leg too short. I told him we could fix it, but no, he insisted that it added character to the place.”

At that moment it was like a lightbulb went off in Uncle Bobby’s head and he stood up, signaled to me to wait one moment, and made his way to the kitchen. Upon his return, he sat back down and had something in his hand. He slid it across the table to me. It was a little black book.

“What’s this,” I asked.

“This is what Benny used to keep the table steady. Let me show you.”

He took the little black book and slid it under the short leg of the table.

“Perfect fit,” I responded.

“That was your grandfather’s way of fixing the table. I want you to keep it, he wanted you to have it.”

He handed the little black book to me. I passed my hand on the cover. To the touch, you could tell it was aged but very well cared for.

“What’s inside,” I asked.

“Your grandfather was constantly writIng in it but I never opened it. If he wanted to me to know, he would have shared it with me, but he didn’t and I didn’t. I had too much respect for him and so he told me to make sure it was handed off to you. He said once I gave it to you, you would know what to do with it.”

Uncle Bobby excused himself and made his way to the kitchen.

This is what Pops was talking about. I couldn’t believe it; I was frozen with excitement. My heart was beating so hard, I thought it was going to jump out of my chest. I opened the little black book and the binder cracked like a glow stick. The inside cover had Pop‘s initials hand written at the top right corner. I turned to the first page and it was just numbers written as if they were words. I flipped through the book and all the pages were filled with recipes except the first two pages that had the numbers.

I flipped to the back of the book and found the code. According to the legend, each number represented a letter of the alphabet. I slowly began to decipher the first group of numbers which were 12, 15, 15, 11. It was the word look. I felt my pulse racing in excitement.

This was a message from Pops. I continued in anticipation and the next set of numbers were 9 and 14; the word in. I kept going to find the words the and kitchen. Look in the kitchen was the first sentence.

I finished my coffee and beignet, left some cash on the table for the waiter, and headed to their home with the book in my hand. The streets of the French Quarter were bustling with people and music; it was fat Tuesday and celebrations were commencing in true New Orleans fashion. I didn’t fight the crowds, I embraced them and took in all the sights and sounds.

I was deep in thought wondering what message Pops had left for me. Why didn’t he want grams to know? Who was Z? So many questions I was hoping to have answered.

I finally arrived at the house and paused to take a moment to admire the little red shotgun with a tattered roof and cracked concrete stairs. I ran up the stairs to open the door and made my way to the kitchen. It was still and quiet, which was out of the norm. I sat at the table and opened the little black book.

I started to decipher the next word… flipping back and forth— 10, 21, 14, 11. The word was junk; not much of a clue and a bit of a setback. I looked at the next set of numbers— 2, 1, 12, 12, which spelled the word ball. I grabbed a soda from the fridge, sat down, and tried to think back to my younger years in the house. That’s when it hit me like a brick wall.

I got up quickly and headed for gram‘s kitchen junk drawer. There it was - my blue handball. Grams took it away from me because I bounced it against the ceiling in their bedroom and Pops had to patch it up. I didn’t know she kept my handball all these years. I was certain that I had to do something with the ball, so I headed to their bedroom, laid on the bed, and threw the ball at the ceiling, but nothing was there. So back to the book to decipher more code.

The next three groups of numbers spelled yard, key, and shed. Pops had an old shed in the back that he always kept locked, but I knew where the key was. I ran to the shed door, opened it, and stood in the doorway.

Everything was covered in dust. I grabbed a flashlight and turned it on. Scanning the shed with the light I saw the initials ZZ carved in a piece of wood sitting on top of a toolbox. I opened the toolbox and couldn’t believe my eyes.

There was a picture that was signed on the back. It read: To my Benny, my friend. Thanks for the memories. Love, Zelda Zonk a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe. At the bottom of the toolbox was a brown paper bag. I opened it and found $20,000 in cash. I stood there in shock and then I smiled. I looked up and said, “Thanks Pops.”