Dictum

Peter was sure he’d cleaned out the secondhand desk quite thoroughly when he’d brought it home a week ago, but there was definitely something foreign at the bottom of the drawer. He’d been rifling through to grab one of the new pens he’d bought along with pencils, printer paper, paper clips, highlighters, and even a new pair of scissors. He’d carefully wiped out the drawer before placing each neatly inside, awash in the secret unspoken pleasure that springs from the promise of a newly organized desk, almost as if it were a fresh start at life.

Now from the drawer he pulled a small, black, smart-looking journal with a band that neatly secured it along its right edge. He turned it in his hand. Where did you come from? he wondered aloud. The perfect leather felt like an invitation. Peter opened the cover; there was an inscription penned in small, meticulous writing. It was clear that at least the first few pages had been torn out. The rest of the pages were blank.

“Jane!” Peter suddenly called out, standing up and making his way toward the door. He found her folding towels in the laundry room. She smiled up at him good-naturedly. “Is this yours?” Peter held out the book. Jane cocked her head to one side, shaking it slowly. “No, not mine. Let me see that.” She took it gingerly into her long, lean hands. “Oh, it’s nice. Where’d you find this?” Jane cracked open the cover as carefully and expectantly as one uncorks a bottle of champagne. It folded open smoothly in her hands. She flipped through the pages delicately, then closed it again and smiled up at him, saying, “If you don’t want it, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.” Peter’s face was serious. “I want it.” Jane laughed back, “All right, then.”

Peter walked back to his office with his new boon. He sat at the desk, placing the journal down in front of him. He adjusted the desk light and selected a pen, then exchanged it for a fresh, sharp pencil. Feeling a sudden need for privacy, he stood up and quietly closed the door.

What to write first?

After some fifteen minutes’ deliberation, Peter decided he’d begin with a short list of things he wanted to accomplish. It was already the 3rd of January and he hadn’t yet laid out his goals for the year. He picked up the pencil and rolled it between his fingers, nearly ready.

After some fifteen minutes more, he put the pencil down with a sigh, closed the journal, and went to the kitchen for a cup of tea. No sugar. The cannister was empty. “Jane, I’m going to the store for sugar,” he called out. “Wait, we need a few more things, my love,” Jane answered. “Better make a list.” Peter returned to his office for a pen. Seeing the notebook on the desk, he hesitated momentarily, then grabbed it with a sigh and wrote:

9 lemons

Butter

Jar of spaghetti sauce

Matches

Peanut butter

Turnips – 2 or 3

Sugar

He was putting on his coat when a loud knock on the door surprised him. It was Brenda from next door, looking slightly embarrassed. “Hi, Peter,” she said. “Sorry to bother you, but I’ve just got a little bag of some odds and ends from the kitchen here that I need to get rid of before we move tomorrow, and I thought I’d ask if you folks could use ‘em. I just hate to waste food and things, ya know?” Peter looked down at the paper sack in her hand. “Sure, that was kind of you. I’ll take it off your hands.” Brenda’s face eased into relief as she handed over the bag. “That’s great! Thanks, Peter! Enjoy.” Peter closed the door and looked into the sack. He nearly dropped it in astonishment. He carried it into the kitchen and from it pulled, one by one, the following: 3 sticks of butter, a jar of tomato basil spaghetti sauce, two boxes of matches, a jar of peanut butter, a bag of sugar, exactly 9 lemons, and 2 1/2 turnips. Jane found him staring at the items on the counter several minutes later. “That was fast!” she exclaimed. He didn’t tell her what had happened.

Lying awake that night, Peter had a curious thought. He got up quietly and went to his desk, pulling open the drawer silently to retrieve the journal. Turning past the grocery list to a blank page, he simply wrote: $100, then went back to bed. Soon morning came. Over coffee at the kitchen table, Jane was yawning. “Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you that this came for you in the mail yesterday.” She handed him a battered-looking envelope. Inside was a birthday card, several months late, from aunt Teresa. Happy birthday, Pete! Buy yourself something nice. Love, Auntie T. Two crisp $50 bills were taped to the inside of the card. “Wasn’t that sweet?” cooed Jane. “You should call her and thank her.” Peter’s mind was racing, but he nodded sensibly. On the phone, his aunt said she’d mailed it in plenty of time to make it there by his birthday. “Must’ve gotten lost in the mail,” she mused.

Peter forced himself to wait until that evening to even take the journal out of the drawer. He could almost feel its presence in the drawer as he worked at his desk. As soon as the workday was done, he opened his journal again - this time as neither a list maker or experimenter, but as a supplicant. This is crazy. Underneath where he’d written the $100 sum, Peter wrote: $20,000. He shut the journal, touched it to his lips for luck, then stashed it back inside the desk and determined to forget about it.

That very moment, the phone rang.

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest as he answered it. “Heyyy, Pete, it’s Aaron.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded a bit drunk. “Hey man, where you at? Me and the boys are waitin’ on ya.” Peter looked at the time. “It’s pretty early for boys’ night, isn’t it?” Aaron snorted. “Got an early start today. You comin’ over?”

The “boys” were five university friends who’d weathered into middle age together. Bobby met Peter at the door. “Hey, good to see you, man. Come in, come in.” Aaron, James, and Geoff greeted him loudly from a table strewn with beer cans. “Blackjack tonight!” James informed, shuffling the deck. After several games and multiple rounds of beers and whiskeys, the jovial group decided to move the party a short walk to the local casino. Peter, ever the wet blanket of the group, voiced his dissent, but was shouted down and gave in in the end. He’d always regarded gambling as wildly irresponsible. The crew’s loud singing along the way embarrassed him, but he loved them for it just the same. When they reached the casino door, the boys made a beeline for the blackjack tables. They didn’t notice Peter divert to take a seat at the crowded bar. An hour and three drinks later, Peter was bored enough to inspect the small slot machine sat atop the bar just in front of him. Its incessant flashing made it hard to ignore. He fumbled in his pocket for a coin, dropped it into the slot and pressed the flashing red button. In seconds it was all sirens and lights and bells. He’d won. At the top of the screen, Peter read the number: $20,000. He dropped his whiskey on the floor.

Suddenly sober, Peter cashed out as quietly as possible and left without alerting his friends. “How was boys’ night?” Jane asked sleepily from the armchair. He told her nothing of the casino. Once she was asleep in bed, he got back up and closed himself in his office. He sat staring at the notebook on the desk.

Peter’s heart pounded. He picked up the pen. What should the amount be? A million? Ten million? He paused. He’d have no way to explain the $20,000, let alone a million or more. Jane couldn’t know about the book. What if she had other ideas? He imagined her writing in a new, younger husband, closer to her own age. Or the baby she’d always wanted. They’d argue about it, he reasoned. It would be the end of them. Better to keep it to himself. He could provide for her everything she could want and never have to father a child. Peter realized he was pacing the floor. He decided to go for a walk. He put the notebook in his coat pocket and silently closed the front door behind him.

The neighborhood was quiet, the air cold on his face. Any other night, it would feel the most pleasant walk, but Peter’s mind was too busy racing to notice. No destination in mind, he let his feet lead him anywhere. Soon he was passing through the park that separated his neighborhood from the next.

What to write in the journal? The real question was, what did he want? He asked himself this question and tried to let his mind off leash. It took it a while to really let go and explore beyond the things he knew he should want: happy wife, happy life; good health and stability and some kind of purpose. After a long time, the shadow things that usually only came to him in dreams began to reveal themselves. Peter took a seat on a park bench, but couldn’t sit still. He was back on his feet again and down the road. Secret things, dark things enticed him. Delicious sins. Jane need never know. No one ever need know. The very thought of the things he craved shamed him, thrilled him. He determined to write some of them in the book. But though he had the journal and a pen in his pocket, he was afraid. He kept walking. His shoulders began to hurt as he crossed into a shabby part of town. Spotting the light on the 24-hour liquor store, he made a quick stop for a bottle. As if guided by some unseen force, he soon found himself near the river. He stopped halfway over a rusty little footbridge and leaned on the railing, sipping from the brown-paper-wrapped bottle.

He decided nothing good could come from it. After a good many swigs of drink and quite a bit of hesitation, Peter took the book from his pocket and threw it into the murky water below.

The next morning, Peter woke with a start. His body ached and there was a pounding in between his ears. Jane was up and he could smell coffee. A feeling of optimism crept in despite his throbbing head. He surveyed the room, felt the softness of his bed. He was $20,100 and a few groceries richer. His good wife loved him. He loved this house, this castle he’d built. He had no need of it. He sat up slowly and felt the cool clean floor beneath his feet. Shuffling to the kitchen he embraced Jane, kissing her deeply despite the pain the morning sunlight inflicted on his eyes.

After breakfast, he went to his study ready for an honest day’s work. Pulling open the drawer, the light in the room suddenly seemed to go out. He sat silently in shock. There in the drawer was the journal.

Peter’s hands trembled violently as he picked it up. It was clean and dry and banded neatly closed. The inscription was seemed to shout up at him this time. “To whom much is given, much is required.”