Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

Walking down a busy street in Manhattan, the last thing one expects to see is a man fall from a forty story building and splatter on the sidewalk in front of you, but that’s exactly how the day started for Percy Gallagher.

Sadly, the event marred what was an otherwise fortuitous interview with the good people of Larrabee, Martins & Koch. Percy had been in New York for only eleven hours when it had happened. A crisp, morning wind was whipping through the streets, playing havoc with his tie and the assortment of papers, which fluttered from his briefcase the moment it fell from his paralyzed grasp. The entire street was a frozen tableau, stock still and silent, save for the eerie whistle of the wind, which persisted, undaunted, even by this. Someone finally murmured, “Oh my god.”

As the firetrucks roared into position, and men in blue leapt from squad cars, Percy sat on the curb, in the shadow of a moving van, caked in bits of flesh, blood and other unknown internal organ matter. Who would pay for his dry cleaning he wondered, a private thought he dared not utter to the grieving faces of the deceased coworkers who crowded onto the street with faces awash with simultaneous confusion, shock and sorrow.

When the lead detective finally interviewed him, Percy recounted the details as best he could, insisting that no, he was not injured, and no, he did not need to see someone to cope with the traumatic events he witnessed. No one offered a word about the dry cleaning. So he casually gathered the scattered notebooks from his fallen briefcase and slowly made his way back to the hotel, shrugging off the cautious passersby who took him for either the victim, or instigator, of some unknown brutality.

A long flight aboard a crowded airbus and a winding two hour car ride, finally brought Percy back to his home in Owensboro, Kentucky. The farm had a familiar smell that immediately brought with it scenes of childhood glee, running through the fields of Jonson grass, the sweat of a good day’s labor, a feeling of belonging and safety. He loved this place, but money was becoming a problem, and there were things that needed to be bought, not just for him, but for his daughter.

Amy leapt from the porch the moment she saw her daddy, wrapped her arms around him buried her face in his stomach.

“Daddy, I found a baby bird. And I’m going to keep it.” At just six years old, his daughter was already strong-willed. Like her mother. “It goes chirp chirp chirp, just like that.”

So with a pat on her head, he acquiesced to the demand. Sarah was standing under the awning as he approached the house. Her tone was aloof. “You’re late. I was going to leave," she said curtly. "I’ll be back Sunday to pick her up. Please make sure she does her homework this time.” Then an olive branch, “Hope your interview went well,” as she started up the engine of her grey Ford Bronco.

After Amy had gone to sleep, Percy was afforded his time alone to recline in the comfort of an old porch swing. Crickets chirped a soothing evening song, rising their voices to a host of stars, arraigned like scattered jewels in the midnight sky above. He recounted the bizarre events in New York as he reached for his briefcase, and found inside it an item that most certainly did not belong: a black, leather, well-worn notebook, stuffed precariously between his work binder and a wad of receipts.

Percy withdrew the mysterious book. He flipped it open, noticing it was full of scrawled, seemingly frantic, handwriting. Not his own. Whose then? Suddenly it hit him. The jumper!

Perhaps the detritus of paperwork and notebooks that scattered along 8th Avenue had not solely come from his own briefcase. Perhaps this book had been among the accouterments of the dead man, having fallen the full breath of the forty stories to land conspicuously nearby and be accidentally recovered among Percy’s own items.

Tomorrow he would have to send it back to New York, explain what happened to Detective Whatisname. Maybe it contained a clue to the poor man’s demise. Seemed pretty clear, though, from this disjointed writing, that the fellow was nuts. Why else would he go skydiving off a hotel balcony without a chute?

In the morning, Percy determined to do a little work before his daughter rose. He fished an old cage out of the garage to house her pet bird, who she had named Destiny. It was Saturday morning, and he likely wouldn’t hear about the Larrabee job until next week.

Amy came flying down the steps, holding the black leather notebook in her hand. “Daddy, daddy, look what I wrote,” she exclaimed. She flipped the book open where she had written a little story on the pages.

“Oh darling, you shouldn’t have done that,” he scolded, gently. Unwittingly, his daughter had tampered with evidence. How would explain this to the detective? “Look, you can’t touch daddy’s things, understand?”

Her little face was crestfallen. “Will you at least read it?” she pleaded

Percy sighed. One look into those mournful little eyes and he was putty. He leaned back against the kitchen counter as Amy curled her legs together Indian style on the floor, as if it was story-time at school. He began to read... “Little Amy and father went into the woods one day. They were holding hands. There were birds. And there was a big rock and underneath it was money.”

Amy looked up to her daddy, rocking back and forth, expectantly. “Did you like it?”

“Yes, really good story, hun.”

“Can we go look?”

“For what?”

“The money.”

Before he could object, Amy was already tugging at his hand and pulling him out the door towards the small outcropping of woods that framed the edge of their property. Strong-willed. Like her mother.

As the wind ruffled the leaves in the hollow, the two clambered through the brush, along the creek bed, turning up rocks. And Percy thought, this is a beautiful day already. One he’ll remember. Then Amy yelled out, “Daddy, it’s here!”

A tingle ran up Percy’s spine as he approached the bank where Amy had turned over a rock. There, buried in a hole, was a plastic baggie stuffed with hundred dollar bills, the size of a brick.

Back at the house, they counted it out. Twenty thousand dollars in all. Percy steepled his fingers in front of him. A fear was rising from somewhere down deep he couldn’t identify. “How did you know that money was there, Amy? Did you see someone put it there?”

“No. I just wrote it. From my thoughts.”

Percy’s eyes locked onto the battered leather bound book, sitting on the table beside them. Surely this was just one of the world’s greatest coincidences, right? And that’s all it was. Right?

The sky was aflame in hues of scarlet and apricot along the horizon. With his daughter off watching TV, Percy settled back into his porch swing once more, armed with the book and a pencil. He skimmed the pages, realizing that this story was more akin to a wish list, tales of people finding brand new Ferraris, sexual encounters with famous actors, luxury trips around the globe. He also realized that the writing style had changed, perhaps as different writers had picked up the story where it left off, bending the narrative to their individual whims. So, just for fun, he scrawled across the next page…

And her daddy was very happy, because Larabee had offered him a job at double the proposed salary, and soon mommy came back to live with daddy again.

Okay, so he wasn’t Hemingway. But that’s the story he wanted to write, a happy future where he had both the job he deserved and the woman he still loved. He had to admit, he felt silly about it all, like throwing pennies in a wishing well. But then again, what was the harm?

The next day, Sarah came to pick up Amy. There was a sparkle in her eye that was unfamiliar. Instead of snatching up her daughter and driving off, she lingered around in the kitchen, asking him vague questions about his own happiness and whether or not he felt something might be missing. When he admitted that he did, she pressed herself close and kissed him, and asked if they might try again to make things work between them. A moment later, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an email from Mr. Larrabee himself which read:

We couldn’t wait until the week to tell you how impressed we were with your interview. After talking it over with the partners, we’ve decided to offer you a position here, and to seal the deal, we’re doubling your salary offer.

Percy nearly dropped the phone. His head was flashing through unlimited possibilities. He had somehow glimpsed into the presence of something both fantastical and frightening. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t try to. But what he did wonder is why he hadn’t asked for more. A million dollars. A hundred million. A better job. No job! Fame. World peace. An end to starvation. My god, so many things he could have written! He pulled away from Sarah’s embrace.

“The book, where’s the book?”

“What book?” she quizzed. Frantically his eyes scanned the room. The book had enormous, seemingly unlimited, power. He charged up the stairs, with Sarah trailing closely behind. He swung open the door to Amy’s room. The girl was sitting on the floor, doodling carelessly in the book’s pages. With a fierce burst of energy, he yanked it from her hands, unintentionally jerking her little arm in the process. “Don’t touch this goddamnit! Don’t you listen!”

Amy collapsed in heap of tears, nursing her sprained arm from where he had grabbed it too hard. Instantly he felt awful. He dropped the book, in shock, wondering how he’d let himself loose control so easily. He couldn’t tell either of them, but the book could be terribly dangerous.

“What the hell’s the matter with you!” Sarah spat, scooping up their daughter in her arms.

Percy leaned over to look into her eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Amy? Daddy’s sorry.” But the little girl continued to cry big frightened tears as Sarah ushered her out the door, scrabbling up her toys into a backpack along the way.

“I don’t know why I wanted to get back with you,” she tossed over her shoulder, before slamming the door behind her.

Percy slumped onto the bed. What was wrong with him? He’d let this frantic greed destroy the thing he’d wanted most. With a long resigned sigh, he rose to his feet, intent on apologizing. Or, worst case, write a story where he was forgiven.

He heard a motor start in the drive. From the bedroom window, he could see the Ford Bronco backing up. In the backseat sat Amy, her tears dried, scribbling in the book once more.

“Sarah! Stop!” he screamed futilely, bounding down the stairs after her and out onto the driveway. But it was too late. Red tail lights curled around the bend and vanished in the gathering gloom of night. He felt a chill.

Defeated, he trudged back into the house, letting the patio door slam shut behind him. A torn sheet of lined paper was lying conspicuously on the counter. The same paper from the little black book. And upon it his wife had scrawled a hasty note:

Gone to my mother’s. Coming back to you was a mistake. Drop dead.

Almost instantly, Percy felt the tingle in his left arm radiating all the way to his finger tips. His heart burned fire. Somewhere outside a bird was chirping.

And it reminded him of Amy.