The Ledger Book

The morning was damp and chilly as Peter James walked through the woods. Sun rays cut through a light fog and streaked through the trees. But Peter was lost in his head. It had been a rough year and his landscaping business was not doing well. Peter saw his father before him, still wearing his hardhat from the day’s work as a lumberjack. “Son, there are only two problems with owning your own business. One, you can’t quit. And two, you can’t get fired.”

“Well Dad, maybe you were right all along!” Peter yelled to the trees.

Often, he could feel his father’s spirit with him on these walks in the woods.

He thought of his wife, Abigail. She was pregnant and home with their two little ones, Sammy and Tony. It was kind of Abigail to let him have his Sunday walks. He needed the nature and solitude to clear his head, but he knew Abigail was making a sacrifice for him. Just three weeks ago they had learned that their baby daughter would be born with Downs Syndrome. She would need more care and Abigail would have to stay home from now on. Without her income, how would they survive?

The leaves crunched under Peter’s feet. It was autumn, his favorite time of year. “Autumn” he said aloud, “what a beautiful name for our little girl.” A special girl deserves a special name and he could think of none better than the season that gave him the most joy. He hoped Abigail would agree.

As Peter walked deeper into the forest his thoughts drifted further away and he started to take in the beauty that surrounded him. His mood became lighter and his body began to pulse with a sense of adventure. Never one to follow the beaten path, he veered off the trail at the next turn.

Peter liked to explore. Sometimes he would find an old cellar hole or a crumbling stone wall. Once he happened upon a small cemetery, its stones nearly 300 years old. But today was different. Today seemed fateful. Peter felt as if he was being led, though he didn’t know where or toward what.

Deeper and deeper into the forest he walked, until he saw something up ahead. A large dark figure appeared in the trees. As Peter got closer he could see that it was an old building of some sort, a cabin perhaps. Peter made his way to the front door. It was warped and did not shut properly. He pushed it open with a jerk and stepped inside.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark room. Spider webs stretched from floor to ceiling. An old snake skin hung over a beam. Mice and squirrels had laid waste to the furniture, their droppings littered the floor and every flat surface. The wall boards had been chewed by termites. An old pair of overalls hung on a nail. It was obvious that no one had been in this cabin for a long, long time.

Peter grabbed a branch from outside and used it to clear away the spider webs. They rolled onto the branch like cotton candy. He went back outside and found some ferns, which he used to sweep mouse droppings from the table and chair. Then he started looking through the cabinets and drawers. There were dishes, spices and lard in the cabinet by the wood cooking stove. The old ice box was empty. Razor blades, soap and a toothbrush sat untouched in the medicine cabinet above the wash basin. He found a few old books in the dresser beside the bed, but the mice had chewed them to bits.

Then something caught his eye. It was a little black book that appeared to have fallen behind the dresser. It was barely noticeable on the floor against the wall. Peter reached down and picked it up. It had a black papery-leather cover, now caked with dust and grime. Peter sat down at the little table and opened the book.

Inside he found ledger paper, yellowed with age. The pages were mostly empty, except for the first page. In cursive writing Peter read, “Feb. 11, 1946. Deposits. $400.00”. Peter flipped to the inside front cover. Again in neat cursive he read, “Mr. J.L. Watkins”. Peter closed the book and gently wiped the front cover. Gold letters appeared, “Pottersville State Bank.”

Pottersville was the next town over. Peter wondered if it was still in business, if Mr. J.L. Watkins was still alive, and why there was only one entry in his bank book. It was Sunday, so Peter would have to wait until tomorrow to visit the bank. He tucked the little black book in his coat pocket and headed home. By now it was late in the afternoon and Abigail would be ready for him to relieve her of the kids so that she could take a nap.

Peter was eager to show Abigail the little black book when he got home, but Abigail wasn’t too interested. She did not share his penchant for adventure or treasure hunting, and she was tired. Once Abigail was resting comfortably and the kids were coloring at the dining room table, Peter opened his laptop and searched for “Pottersville State Bank”. Sure enough, it was still in business. Peter was excited. Tomorrow he would drive to the bank and see what they could tell him about Mr. J.L. Watkins.

The reception area was nearly empty when Peter walked in. He approached the teller and showed her the little black book. The teller asked him to wait in the lobby while she took the book to the back of the bank. A short time later, a sharp-looking gray-haired man appeared in the doorway. The teller pointed to Peter and the man approached. He reached out his hand toward Peter and introduced himself as “Mr. Thatcher, president of the bank”. Peter shook the man’s hand.

“I’m Peter, Sir, Peter James.”

Mr. Thatcher invited Peter to follow him to his office in the back of the bank.

In the office, Mr. Thatcher sat down behind a big desk and Peter sat in front. The little black book sat on the desk between them.

“Well Mr. James,” Mr. Thatcher said, “might I ask where you found this bank book?”

Peter described the cabin in the woods and its whereabouts.

“And why have you brought it here?”

“I was hoping you might tell me something of Mr. J.L. Watkins. Is he still alive?” Peter asked.

Mr. Thatcher sat back in his chair and pressed his hands together. “Mr. J.L. Watkins was a businessman in Pottersville. He owned a lumber mill back in the day. The mill is closed now, but in its time it was the largest lumber mill in the state. He passed away about ten years after opening his account. I did not know the man personally, but my father did. He would often mention Mr. Watkins and muse about what would happen to his inheritance.”

“His inheritance?”

“Yes, you see Mr. James, Mr. Watkins had no next of kin. His wife died at a young age and he never remarried. He had no children and no other family. He was a solitary man, very frugal, very particular. When he opened his account with our bank all those years ago, it was to save for his retirement. He lost his bank book after making the first deposit. Being particular, it bothered him to no end that he had lost something so important. He was embarrassed.”

“When Mr. Watkins put his affairs in order, he instructed our bank that should someone ever find his bank book and be kind enough to return it to the bank, they were to inherit whatever money was left in the account. If not, once 100 years had passed, the money was to be donated to charity.”

Peter felt the blood drain from his head and his hands go cold. He very nearly fainted and fell out of his chair. He sat blinking absently at Mr. Thatcher. Mr. Thatcher stared back at him, a broad smile on his face. He was obviously enjoying this moment very much. “The money is all yours, Mr. James.”

“How much money?” Peter stammered.

Mr. Thatcher glanced at his computer screen for a moment, then turned back to Peter.

“Nearly $20,000” he said.

What followed was a blur to Peter. He found himself sitting in his truck in the parking lot, a heavy check tucked in his coat pocket which he would deposit at his bank on the way home. The little black book sat on the passenger’s seat next to him. Peter took a moment to collect himself. He took a few deep breaths, then thanked Mr. Watkins for his generosity. He felt close to this man whom he never knew. This money would help his family survive. It would help little Autumn get the special care she would need. It would help Abigail rest without worry. Peter felt grateful beyond words as a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He looked up at a tree towering over the parking lot and said, “Well Dad, maybe we will make it after all!”