A Fountain Pen and A Little Black Book

A death deserves a wake. People dressed in black, the color of the little notebook in which her name was written in blue ink. Fountain pens were such an old thing. It was strange that her husband used them. They always seemed so messy to her. There would be a spot on his desk for them, however, in a house they planned to buy. A house that would be their own when they had the money. No more shoddy heating, no more pot smokers in the dirty hallways that smelled of urine. New York City apartments were tough. Especially the pre-war ones in Washington Heights. They lived in an apartment building right off the 1 train station on Dyckman. It was a stone’s throw from the Bronx. There was no land, she could not grow her own vegetables. There was no room for a writing desk for him. It was such a shame, because he started college again two years ago, after having dropped out ten years before that. He wanted to be a fiction writer. Fantasy fiction, to be exact. He loved the world of magic and dragons, of elves and mages. And his writing had gotten exponentially better in the last two years. She was never sure that they would have the money to buy that house, though. Not on the combined pay of a security guard and a nurse. Both overworked and underpaid.

A death deserves a wake. A wake brings people together – friends and family – and they mourn the loss of a person who was part of their lives in some way, small or big. But what if you have no friends, no family? In a world so far away from their own, disowned by family for “poor life choices” and estranged from friends because of life’s everyday struggles, there was no one to attend a wake, no one to dress in black. In any case, New York was an expensive place to die in. She never realized funerals cost so much. The various funeral homes would give you a detailed list of expenses (it was required by the Federal Trade Commission’s ‘Funeral Rule’, she learned), but it was still too much. To just cremate the body in an unfinished wood or plywood casket, it cost about $500. If you were poor enough, you could petition the state to help. Was she poor enough? She did not know.

His death deserved a wake. But what is deserved is often left unattained. She went to the morgue, identified the body, allowed the funeral director to make all the arrangements, signed the papers. She imagined him disappearing into flames in some crematory where she would not be present. He’s gone; it’s just an empty shell. She hoped this thought would provide her comfort. Her eyes still filled with tears. She still choked when she thought of the smoke – in her imagination, it was so black.

Days passed. She woke up tired, ate cereal, and went to work. She often skipped lunch, but when she did not, she ate cereal from one of those little single-serve bowls. She always got off work late, got home, ate cereal, and tossed and turned in her bed until she fell asleep. On her days off, she stayed in bed till hours past noon, woke up, ate cereal, went back to bed. Weeks passed. She ate cereal. Things needed to be done. Bills were not going to pay themselves. He had taken care of all of that until the accident. She did not know where to start. There was no desk she could look in. Perhaps the little black book with the blue writing might help. He always carried it with him. She had left it on his bookshelf and had not looked at it since the day he… Since the day of the accident.

It was early in the morning and he had left for school. She had pushed him into going back, although he preferred ‘inspired’ instead of ‘pushed’. She got the call later in the afternoon. Was that often the timeline for such things? You get run over in the morning and your spouse gets a call in the afternoon? She was not sure. Maybe his wallet was not found until later? Or maybe she was called earlier than other people whose spouses were run over?

She walked over to the bookshelf. She knew that she was walking slowly. Cautiously. Perhaps she thought she would disturb a ghost. She picked up the notebook carefully. She had never noticed how black it was. Well, now it was black, and the pages were splattered with red. Red, black and blue. Fountain pens always seemed messy. She sat down on the floor with a pen and paper. And the little black book. Before she started, she wrote down on her blank paper in black ink (with a ballpoint pen), “rent” and “electricity”. She would find out more as she went along. Perhaps she should have checked his computer or their bank records first. Well, she was already here.

First page. It carried a date. Just a date. It was smudged, reinforcing what she thought about fountain pens. She could not tell what the day was, but the month was March and the year was 2018. That was the month they got married. She stroked the ring finger on her left hand. She could not take the ring off yet. It was too soon. Second page. More smudges. Smudges involving the words happiness and love. And on and on and on. No rent, no electricity. But she could not put it down. There was happiness and love. Remnants of a past that was taken from her. Stolen too soon by someone running a red light to save a couple of seconds of his life. His seconds for her husband’s years. And then there were drawings. Drawings of a dream. A house with a yard. Of a living room, a library with a writing desk, a kitchen, a bedroom. A nursery. Then there was the outline of a story. But there was no magic, no dragons, no elves or mages. Just an ordinary man who created fantastic stories and won money to buy his wife a house. A house with a yard, a living room, a library with an ebony writing desk, kitchen, and bedroom. And a nursery. It was late. She held back her tears and ate cereal before going to bed. Tomorrow she would look in his laptop. Start with emails and scour for notifications.

She did not expect the laptop to start up as quickly as it did, or start up at all, given that it had not been charged in weeks. A window was open with his email. This was convenient. She poured herself a cup of black coffee. This was going to take some patience. There were so many emails that he should have just unsubscribed from. She wondered why he kept the subscriptions. It had been an hour and nothing useful stood out. Then came ConEd. He had defaulted on the last bill. She wondered if there were bills, wherever they went after they… left. “$ 81.95,” she wrote beside “Electric” with black ink (a ball-point pen) on white paper. They lived frugally. They opened a window instead of turning on the air conditioning. It paid off, time and time again.

She scrolled down. Notifications of assignments due. “Application for Graduation: Approved,” said another. Then, there was something that was read, but starred. She ignored the sender and the subject. The email said,

“Dear Mr. Carter,

Congratulations again upon receiving the “Leatherbound” award for the year 2021.

Your certificate and check were mailed yesterday; please let me know if you have not received them in 10 business days by replying to this email.

You will be notified with a link when your work becomes published.

We wish you the very best in your creative endeavors.

Best – “

Was she numb? Was she evil? Was she just selfish? Why was she relieved about the money? Their bank account was almost empty. Her bank account. She needed money to tide her over until she could arrange to live without his pay. Was she wrong to want to look at the check? She had not opened any mail. That is another place she should look for the bills, she made a mental note. Regardless of her feelings, her doubts, she had to open the mail. She had to see that check. Was it too early after the incident to look for his money? Nobody would know except for her. She would know.

She walked over to the lobby and opened their – no, her – mailbox. There was so much mail stuffed in there. Laws of physics dictate: “Matter occupies space and has mass.” Well, the mail was defying the “occupies space” part of the rule. She pulled all her mail out and walked back to her apartment. After weeding out the credit card offers and Spectrum internet package deals, she was left with bills, a few insurance notifications, and something else. No condolence letters, no cards. There was no wake, nobody to call. Nobody to dress in black.

She sat down on the floor and picked up the unassuming envelope. The sender was “Leatherbound”. This was it. Her hand shook as she tried to tear the side without damaging the contents. Guilt flooded her, choked her, and poured out of her eyes, and down her cheeks. She would know. She did not know why the image of a child picking his nose appeared in her head. The kid would know that he picked his nose, even if nobody else did. She was already here. She needed to open it. Would he be disappointed in her? Would he have been disappointed? Her grammar failed her for a minute. Perhaps acceptance was better than this purgatory. Hands still shaking, she managed to tear open the envelope. Was it just her, or did that sound seem a bit too loud? Was the envelope screaming at her? Was it telling the world what she was doing? She pulled out the letter and the enclosed check. More congratulations on the letter. She looked at the check. She had to blink the tears out of her eyes to see the number. She gingerly placed the check on the floor and walked to the bookshelf, picked up the little black book, and turned to the story. The pages were lined with red. How much money did those fantastic stories give the protagonist? Was it a first-time homeowner’s down payment? Was it a smudged blue $ 20,000?

She opened her eyes. Light streamed in through her window into the bedroom. The air smelled of roses that she grew next to the windows. Her dog was sleeping next to her feet, on her bed. He was an old mutt she had rescued from the local pound. He liked to sleep for the most part, but he could, on occasion, muster up the energy to run around her yard like a maniac. She got up, got dressed, and walked towards her kitchen to make herself some black coffee. On the way, she passed her living room, and on the side was a library with an ebony desk with a place for a fountain pen and a little black book.