MARTY’S LITTLE BLACK BOOK

MARTY’S LITTLE BLACK BOOK

His voice carried half-way across the store: “Mom, mom! Come check this out!” I rarely hear that level of excitement from my 11-year old son. He’s the youngest boy in my trio of what I call “typical” boys—preteen and growing up too fast. Anyway, Marty got my attention by waving wildly along with the exuberant voice and huge smile I could see from aisles away.

I walked quickly, less he changed his mind about whatever it was he found. “Hey, mister shopper, what have you found? Is it something you can’t live without? Is it affordable? Is it….?”

He stopped me mid-sentence and held up an odd old, maybe really old… backpack. “Um hum,” I muttered. “Why do you find this so exciting? You have at least three backpacks at home, stashed in the corner of your closet I think. Is there room for one more?” I grinned at the look on his face.

“Mom, this is just like the backpack from that movie about the explorer who climbed all those mountains, and traveled by canoe and foot from one coast to the other. Don’t you remember?”

“Well, actually I do, although the backpack wasn’t my focus. Tell me what’s so special about this odd piece of carry-on-your back luggage.”

“Okay, for starters, it’s old, but it’s in great shape—maybe with a little cleaning. It’s historical I’m sure, and perhaps worth more money than it’s marked at, and I’d be the kid with the most rad pack around!”

“Do you have some cash to spend, or am I to be your bank today, and your bodyguard, if you choose to own this and need protection against those who would try to steal it from you as if it were worth thousands of dollars?”

“Oh, you’re being silly and exaggerating I think. But this kind of accouterment (he grins), will attract attention to my goal of looking different from every other guy in middle school next fall!”

I looked him straight in the eye, nearly at eye level, and sighed. “Well, if you don’t get the admiration you expect, then what will we do with it? Resell it at a loss, or toss it in the backpack pile with the zombie one, and the space-race one, and the one pasted over with stickers and bottle caps?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, but I’ll be careful about expecting too much. You know, like I usually do about my favorite things even though nobody else seems to grasp the importance of being different.”

“Okey, dokey, Marty smokey. Grab it and let’s go see if we can bargain the price down a bit. The cashier looks bored, and probably has no idea how important this piece of historic outerwear could be.”

This boy of mine was beaming, and if he was that happy, I can enjoy him being happy and let it rub off on me. Second-hand store shopping is not my favorite thing, but a happy son makes all the difference.

We paid our reduced price, and put it in a bag. I don’t think the cashier (tag said Posey) wanted to touch the relic, let alone handle it as the treasure we had assigned status to…

In the car, Marty began to unbutton, unsnap, unfasten and untie all the pockets, extra side seams and pull-apart parts. “Too bad they didn’t have Velcro back then,” I quipped.

“Truth,” Marty said, as he was studying the pack from top to bottom and inside and out. “Can’t find a label anywhere, although there’s a lump in the bottom we’ll need to investigate later. You’re welcome to help me.”

“Oh, goody. Is the lump moving or making noises, or home to a new species of packer pest?”

“Nope! Not that I can tell. Gonna be a busy afternoon.” He drifted off into foreign-explorer mode and I thought he was humming the theme from that movie, or from Raiders of the Lost Ark, or just a tune being made up as he delved even deeper into the fabric crevasses.

At home, Marty disappeared into the basement workshop. I noticed he took his camping knife, a pair of scissors from the junk drawer, and a pencil and paper. I stayed in the kitchen concentrating on a dinner plan for all four of my “boys.” The door banging three different times signaled that the whole family was home from work and play. Eventually, the eldest son asked where Marty was, and I mentioned he had a new project he was working on downstairs.

“Hey, smart Mart, where art thou?” Timothy called. There was a faint response from the workshop, something about coming up for dinner.

I harnessed the middle son, named after his Uncle Tom, to wash up and set the table. He dutifully did, and summoned everyone with a big whistle. ‘General Good Dad’ showed up just in time for a hi, nice-to-be-home-kiss and a smile indicating the same.

We did our due diligence to the giver of good things and waited a few minutes for Marty. He came running up the stairs with the lump from the bottom of the backpack. I shook my head for him to wait until we ate so that questions and lookie loos didn’t interrupt our only family time. He sat on something and was as patient as an 11 year-old could be. He grinned between bites all through dinner and then politely asked if he could share a great “find.” The rest of us nodded with our mouths full of custard as Marty unsat from the lump and announced he’d discovered a secret sewn into the bottom of his new-old backpack.

“It’s a book of secrets, or so I think, and I’ll need your help to decipher the contents and unravel the mystery!”

We all looked at Marty’s little black book and the enthusiasm varied from “oh geez,” to “may I be excused now” to my, “I can’t wait—as soon as the table is cleared!”

As expected, Marty and I, and man-of-the manor, gathered round the table and watched as the book was cracked open and laid out to view. There was an address, some names, some clippings, some doodles, some decent drawings, and a whole lot of words in a language we couldn’t read. Dad Frank suggested we look up the address which turned out to look like a business in Chicago: Downing, Bankcroft and Benton, Esq. on State Street. There was no such business online, although the address indicated a law firm, Bankcroft & Sons, was listed, along with a phone number and a short blurb about estate law and the importance of family when there’s a passing.

Frank said, “It’s just past 8 p.m. in Chicago, but I’ll call the number and maybe get more information.”

We were excited to hear a voice answer on the other end. Frank did his best to provide what little he knew about the book his son found in an old backpack. The person seemed extremely interested and asked for our phone number so one of the attorneys could call back either later or first thing the next morning.

So that was it, at least until morning, and Frank and I and Marty were restless and couldn’t sleep. So we were in a tight circle at the table with the weathered and worn black book in the center. We were feeling intrigued by the ciphers and illustrations and notes. Not all of the writing was in the same hand, so the book may have belonged to a group, or a family, or a sinister mob. We couldn’t tell, although each of us had imagined several scenarios before we finally crashed on the couch, the recliner, and the loveseat.

At precisely 6 a.m. our time, the phone rang. Frank answered to a Mr. Silas Bankcroft who identified himself as the firm’s oldest partner, and the great grandson of Mr. Wiley Willis Bankcroft, who he was certain was the original owner of the black book Marty had found. After a lengthy and very enlightening conversation, Mr. Silas Bankcroft asked if Marty and his parents could possibly fly to Chicago to meet personally to discuss the importance of the book and some details regarding his great grandfather’s estate.

Frank and Marty were nodding, and Frank answered, “Well, sir, we live way out here on the border of Wyoming and Montana and have no airport close by, but I believe we could find a way to get to Chicago…”

Mr. Bankcroft put us on hold and when he was back on the line, he said his firm would be happy to send one of their helicopter pilots to pick us up and the company would host us for a few days until the pending matters could be concluded!

Frank was stuttering, so I took the phone, left it on speaker, and introduced myself as Marty’s mother and any travel arrangements might be best made through me.

As it turned out, the next day being a Wednesday, a large company-type helicopter landed in the pasture closest to the house and our whole family (never having been to Chicago) boarded and flew first-class to Chicago and landed on top of a skyscraper which was owned by Bankcroft & Sons. Frank’s brother, Tom, was tasked with managing the ranch for a couple of days, and we were on an adventure about which we were clueless!

First-class took on a whole new meaning when we were introduced as the discoverers of the Bankcroft legends as told by Mr. Wiley Willis himself. The next two days were filled with meetings, legal proceedings, news mongers, and general interested parties and staff members assigned to our care and feeding. It was implausible and certainly educational and as I’ll share, changed our lives in the most delightful way.

Marty was the beneficiary of a sum of money that was originally $20,000, but had grown through investments to an amount that increased substantially over the years. Although not related, he was the fortunate finder of the history of the gold mines from which Grandpa Wiley had amassed a fortune and he thereby fulfilled one of the Bankcroft designated beneficiary roles as described by the elder Mr. Bankcroft in his little black book which had been lost to time and ownership through years of negligence and disregard for its hidden value. It was a real “finders keepers” dream come true, and now that the rightful heir has been named, the money will be in a trust and the trust custodian will act in the best interests of Marty. We signed all kinds of documents to attest to this life-changing development, and agreed to have one of the firm’s attorneys serve temporarily until, as his parents, one of us is determined to be qualified to serve. Marty will have some control through the custodian, but the age of majority in Montana is 18.

Marty’s future is not about the money, but about growing up and learning about how fortunate he is. No doubt, his brothers will be able to share his good fortune, but until that time, they will be the best brothers a boy could have, and the lessons they all learn and will continue to absorb will last a lifetime and lead to our own family’s stories, legends and traditions. The Bankcroft associates, family members and assorted others attached by blood, lineage, money or collegiality will undoubtedly affect our family through a shared experience none of us is likely to ever forget. The revered Little Black Book has been sealed in a time capsule as a reminder of life’s wonder, magic and curiosity, and the value of keeping a record. (Marty keeps the backpack.)

As a matter of fact, the members of our family now own little black books for whatever purpose they choose, and perhaps an inquisitive discoverer several generations hence will be forever grateful for an unexpected adventure.

Janna Kohl Bruns

02/03/2021