Money Grows on Trees

“Money doesn’t grow on trees, Mikal!” echoed my mother’s voice in the back of my mind. A flea market north of Brooklyn and a charcoal leather-bound journal worth more than the few dollars I’d accumulated that one autumn. You can imagine raking leaves off of the communal path which was the closest to a front yard any of us folks had - on a road in a city where the grass is not known to grow, my selling point was rather debile. Though times became tough and my toes would peak through my socks like worms to an apple, I remembered her scent. It smelled of rich fragrance, strong in musk and vanilla that would dance around her almost like an aura. Like a ghost follows a broken soul, my nose would follow her scent through to the kitchen where garlic and onion, ingredients with pungency she only cooked to fill the house with an aroma other than the moulding ceiling in the single bathroom by the back door. Wrapping my arms around her lower half and sighing at the warmth she radiated, everything seemed whole at that moment.

Inhaling the crisp air like I once inhaled her in a city that seems so far ago, I unbound the little black notebook in my sweaty palms despite the melting snow beneath my boots. Held together by tape and string, page upon page, in blunt pencil scribbled questions to who’s answers my aged 11 self was in no way prepared for. “Do we know each other, who are you?” Was the last question scribbled on the pages in white ink now before the familiar musk scent had seemed too close, and out of my hands was the little black book and into hers. My mother wasn’t an entirely religious woman but, on her neck, hanged a chunky gold cross to which she never removed, I’d always believed it meant something other than religion to her, something more. Perhaps someone. It seemed to be her muse whenever she became flushed which was frequent in the life we’d lived. I recalled that she believed I’d made ties with the devil through a little black book that saved us from alleys and dumpsters behind the building we situated ourselves in. From age 11 to 16, I brought home money to which she thought I’d made through shining shoes – a city in which is made to walk, it was of my better lies. Though it did bring me coins and nickels, the book brought me paper-like leaves I’d piled up in our streets, except these leaves were not tarnished and had their colour drained of them but smelled of fresh print and were bright green. The white ink danced across the black pages and before that, my hands trace over the indentations I’d made with a pencil as a child in hopes something would appear. If I’d been wiser, I would have stuck to pencil, both to erase my once wishes and commands and be invisible in the dark where she could only find the time to sneak through the pages. Sighing, I shut the book, leaving my trail in the untouched morning snow, my only track of time being the rising sun turning the softness below my boots into liquid, revealing what is left of the discoloured grass below. The sun hit the buildings and like oozing syrup on breakfast waffles, gradually makes its way down to the pavement where the city has started to wake up.

“Mikal! Mikal!” bounced her voice off of the hallway walls. I have a streak with making us miss the bus every Saturday morning. Running past, her to the stop, she grabbed a hold of my worn-in puffer jacket, sighing to herself at the new tears in the fabric. For a moment, her eyes welled up before preoccupying herself with aggressively tucking the small hairs sticking out in wild directions back into my beanie, a minuscule smile dancing on her lips. Taking our usual seat, I emptied the plastic baggy into the small gap between us. What had seemed like a gold mine made to $2.37, and with a sigh of defeat, I fell back into my cold seat. Noticing my sudden change in mood, she grabbed a hold of my hands and told me of all the wonderful things I could buy at the flea market with my tiny amount. The bakery downstairs made three

Nadene Abdulkader

fresh rolls for $2 or four for $5 and to us, that was our gold mine. However, we’d struck gold in between fold-away tables and worn in beach chairs used as employee seats, where a pair of gloves wouldn’t mark your funds and little gadgets you could enjoy free of guilt. Amidst a sea of coloured books and planners, there it was. A little black book, smooth to touch. I’d seen others like it before, but I’d never been enticed as I was to have one like this. Picking it up, I went to move the elastic and open to the pages before the groggy gentleman behind the table put his hands above mine.

“Nine, son” I nodded in response before attempting to open the book again.

“Nein” He repeated, stopping my hands once again. Did he expect customers to purchase books without seeing the inside first? Testing my luck, I picked up a grey notepad and flicked through the pages, he didn’t respond. I did the same to the horrible shade of pink school planner, calendars and even the fax books before returning to the little black notebook to which his hands shifted from supporting his bodyweight to above mine.

“Nein, son” he muttered. I want that book. My eyes searched the sea of people until my eyes met with her brown worn in coat across the lot, more specifically the bag on her shoulder.

I often think back to the talk my mother had with me once we’d arrived home that day, and I say talk because a discussion requires things to be discussed. This was one-sided and a ramble of nonsense. Bumping into an elderly lady’s trolley brought to my attention that I’d reached town. There it was, the flea market getting set up in the same lot I’d corrupted my view on money in so many years ago now.

“Money doesn’t grow on trees, Mikal!” was the last thing she boomed up the stairs. Dragging my desk chair across the floor, I plopped myself down and the book in front of me. Upon opening it, the urge to write burned in my palm and so I did, I told it of how a ten-dollar note had potentially ruined my mother’s trust. How if I could I’d give it back to her and so much more, I would. Laughing to myself I wrote into the book a question “Do you have money? Do you have so much that you don’t know what to do with it? I know what I’d do with mine and how much of it I’d need.” I wrote. With a sigh, I continued. “$20,000. I wouldn’t ask for a million or something crazy like that. Just enough to fix the ceiling in the bathroom, to stop the man with briefcase coming by and calling when my mother leaves certain mail unopened and to buy myself new socks.” Smiling to myself, I climbed into bed, pulling my sheets over my head, praying tomorrow my mother’s head be clear.

The waft of breakfast waffles and syrup turning me out of my sleep told me she’d forgiven but the no wakeup call reminded me that my mother does not forget. To my confusion, my feet landed on my book. Picking it up, the sides gleamed green and curiously I hurriedly opened it. My jaw dropped, page upon page was no longer black but green and had one and two zeros without a decimal separating them in each corner. The first page read in handwriting other than my own and in a language that took scuffing down breakfast and heading to the library across town to find out in German was “For the ceiling, the debt, and your cold toes. Money does not grow on trees she said, so don’t bring her into this, otherwise, it’ll end.” My heart hadn’t thumped so hard in my chest before. $20,000 was in my palms but what worried me most was her knowing anything at all. I couldn’t help but wonder why the man at the flea market would be selling it for $9, he yelled after me repeating that same number after I’d assured him the $1 change, he didn’t have was fine. In the library, I looked at the German language and the meaning of the number nine. It seemed that it meant something of significance as he was persistent with it. Into the search bar on the small screen, I wrote in “Nine German” to which appeared a correction to Nein, meaning no.