Little Black Book

The keys to the small, boarded up house hung limply in Diane’s hand. This stale cabin, long-ago forgotten by family members, looked sad, alone on the edge of town. “Well, come on, Diane, might as well get this over with.” The keys turned and the door hinges let out a tired groan as the daylight pierced the dusty living room of the cabin. Sheets covered simple furniture, hand-me-downs of hand-me-downs. This cabin had become the family’s dumping ground for unwanted furniture that never made it to the Goodwill. And now this was the only furniture Diane owned.

In the last six months, life had taken a swan dive for Diane. At forty-five, her dreams were supposed to have all come true by now. Instead, every aspect of her life had come unraveled. And now her beautiful home by the sea was gone, along with most of her most precious belongings, Ric had left her, and John was gone. Dead. And no one was left to buoy her up21 this time.

After cleaning, it all became cozy. A tiny fire now warmed the living room, dishes had been washed and put away, and a simple TV dinner was turning in the microwave. While rummaging through drawers and cupboards, exploring unknown crevices to see what was left behind, Diane saw discarded pieces and trinkets, shed like skins of lives that had once been; old grocery lists, electricity bills, and take-out menus; discarded jewelry, toys, and puzzle pieces from children who had grown up playing here during summer vacation.

Something new caught Diane’s attention that she hadn’t noticed before. A black book, small, with a simple leather cover. But most puzzling was contained within: a name. One name of a stranger. The last time Diane had been to this area of town had been ages ago. She didn’t know anyone. Most concerning was the money. At the bottom of the page was written in red ink, $20,000, and nothing more. What did it mean? It was getting late and TV dinners don’t stay warm forever. Diane set the book on the small wooden coffee table. The mystery could wait until tomorrow.

Sunlight blasted through torn curtains and Diane got herself dressed and ready. She had nowhere to go. No job, no friends, no plans. But she had the book! Yes, the mysterious book. “Well, what the hell? Not gonna sit here moping all day.”

Besides two suitcases and a few boxes of personal items, the only other possession listed among Diane’s assets was her 17-year-old Dodge Grand Caravan. Ric had purchased it new off the lot the day after John was born. “It’s your ‘Happy Pushing Out the Baby’ gift!” She thought it was ridiculous to be driving this huge thing with only one tiny human to haul around, but Ric was certain that it would bring them luck. They were going to have a whole baseball team, or family orchestra, depending on their interests.

“You don’t play a single instrument, you dope!”

“I’ll learn when they learn.” Ric, always the optimist.

After John, nothing happened. The doctor explained that secondary infertility was kind of an unexplained beast. After thousands of dollars’ worth of unsuccessful treatments, the stress was too much for Diane, and Ric agreed to discontinue. John would be their one-man show and star-athlete. The white minivan had carried balls and bats, surfboards, and a cello. Ric had been right all along: they did need that giant van for one tiny human.

Diane read the lone name in the book. Maybe this book was hers. After some simple detective work on her phone, Diane followed directions to the residence of Carrie Moffatt. Now this area of town she was familiar with, but only by reputation. The houses were three-times the size of the home she had lived in. She would’ve given anything just to live in one of their closets! These people were…untouchable. Diane was certain that they were all celebrities or high-profile lawyers who represented celebrities. She never dreamed of actually talking to them, let alone showing up in their driveway.

To her surprise, Carrie greeted Diane at the front door wearing yoga pants and drinking something green. Diane was caught off guard, having just realized she had no idea how to explain why she was even standing there.

“Yes, hi, are you Carrie Moffatt? My name is Diane Maddox. I just moved near here and I found this little black book in my house with your name in it and I was wondering…”

“Did you say, Maddox?”

Over the next few hours, Diane learned that Carrie’s oldest daughter had been the driver of the car who had hit her and John six months ago. The two women cried and talked about their children. Three hours later, amid hugs and promises to keep in touch, Carrie waved goodbye and Diane returned home, feeling both emotionally exhausted and exhilarated.

Before bed, Diane picked up the black book, grateful that she had solved the mystery of the woman. But her name wasn’t there anymore. Without explanation, a new name presented itself on the page. In delicate, cursive letters: Curtis Jackson, this time accompanied by an address. “How bizarre,” Diane thought. “Well, Curtis, I guess we’ll be meeting tomorrow.”

Curtis Jackson was a 56-year-old construction worker who lived just a few miles out of town. Diane was caught off guard by his presence at first. He was a large, black man with at least a week’s worth of beard growing. But his big, dark eyes were friendly and his smile inviting. Diane liked him immediately. Curtis had received a new liver transplant from an anonymous donor six months ago. Now Diane knew why she was there.

The next two nights echoed the same phenomenon of the arrival of a new name in the book. On Wednesday, Diane visited a local YMCA director who put together a children’s orchestra with donated instruments. One was a beautiful cello. On Thursday, Diane met an energetic 12-year-old boy who John had taken under his wing while surfing at the beach. John had spent every Saturday teaching him how to surf. The boy had no idea where John had gone and why he hadn’t been back.

Four names, so much healing. John had managed to touch several lives, and with this knowledge, something began to rise within Diane. Warmth, purpose, and healing. Before she retired for bed, Diane checked the black book once more. A familiar name blazed the page this time. Ric Maddox. “No. Please, God, no. Don’t make me do this.” Diane dragged her feet to bed, knowing that all of her praying wouldn’t get her out of this one.

Friday morning came with a start. Diane’s eyelids bolted open to the thumping of her heart, already anticipating the errand of the day. “It’s Friday,” Diane rehearsed to herself, “he works from home on Friday.”

Ric and Diane had spent every dime toward John’s hopeful recovery, and eventually, the house went under. It hadn’t been beautiful or fancy, but it had been home for almost two decades. The furniture was sold next, and what couldn’t be sold was sent with Ric to the tiny apartment he rented close to work so he could walk there. John never recovered, and neither did Ric and Diane. Roots of guilt and pain dig deep, and after the dust settled, neither one of them carried the burden of words that couldn’t be spoken that hung between them like a swarm of flies that refused to be swatted away. They avoided one another. They avoided the words.

Diane knocked quietly on the apartment door, hoping that if Ric didn’t hear, he wouldn’t answer. He answered and stared at her with confusion written across his face. His eyebrows dropped; he was angry.

“Where have you been, Diane?” He was matter-of-fact in his tone, but she could tell that he wasn’t pleased.

“Ric,” Diane gulped, “forgive me. I’m so sorry.” Tears were already welling up in her eyes, but she didn’t dare move to wipe them in fear that Ric would bolt like a deer if she did. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. That’s alright. I’d prefer you just listen while I do the talking. I need to tell you about that night, and if I don’t do it now…” she trailed off for a moment, not really sure what the rest of the sentence was exactly. She didn’t know; she hadn’t yet tried it.

“It was my fault. The accident was my fault. I wasn’t looking when we turned into our neighborhood. I looked down at the radio to turn up the volume. It was my favorite song. I didn’t even look. It wasn’t that I didn’t see the other car coming from the other direction like I had said before. It was that I hadn’t even bothered to look. I hadn’t paid attention. It’s my fault. John’s gone and it’s my fault!”

By this time, Diane could no longer hold back the pain that had been shoved down for the last six months. The flood of guilt and regret that had burrowed deep within her like a quiet lake had been agitated over the last week until the once settled sediment fogged up the water again.

“Forgive me, Ric!” she pleaded. “Forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I killed our baby boy. I’m so sorry, Ric!” At last, Diane was overcome and fell to the ‘Welcome’ mat in front of his door. He stood still, digesting her words. After the accident, everyone had just assumed they were caught off guard and the driver of the other vehicle had been speeding. The impact had been a direct hit to John’s side of the car, killing the other driver instantly and critically wounding John.

Ric never said a word to Diane and she knelt there with her head in her hands. She only felt his hand gently brush over her hair and then she heard the door close quietly behind him. And she was alone. After a minute, Diane fumbled in her purse for a paper and left her address written on the back of a grocery store receipt. Maybe he’d want to contact her with other questions once he was able to absorb this new information.

It had been two months since Diane had seen Ric. It had also been two months since the last entry in her mysterious black book. Ric’s name had been the last to appear, but the dollar amount, $20,000, still blared in red ink at the bottom of the page. As Diane sorted her mail for the day, a name jumped out at her. Ric Maddox shown up in the left-hand corner of an envelope. “What in the world could he possibly be sending me?” Diane thought out loud. But that would have to wait. She was late for work.

By the time she returned, the sun was already setting. After dinner and a little light reading, Diane remembered the envelope. She rushed into the kitchen to retrieve it and brought it back to open at her bed. Under the soft lamp-light, she saw the check, nestled in the folds of a typed letter.

Dear Diane,

If punishment were appropriate for the role you played in John’s accident, I’m sure you’ve beaten yourself up enough for the both of us. I offer nothing more. I have enclosed a cashier’s check with the remaining $20,000 from John’s life insurance policy. I used some of it toward his funeral expenses, and a new car, but otherwise, I’m trying to get myself back up on my feet. I hope you can do the same. I forgive you.

Ric

Diane sat and stared at the check in her hands. Twenty thousand dollars!

She could’ve sworn she had placed the little black book on the small wooden coffee table, but in the morning, it was gone. Diane didn’t even look for it.