Lost and Found

The neighborhood was not what I imagined as the location of my first home. Modest ranch houses, all variations of the same layout. Mirror images of each other.

I was walking down to the mailbox, when I saw something laying in the sidewalk. Someone must have dropped a wallet. I crossed the street to get a closer look, and discovered that it was a small black notebook. I flipped it open and saw that it contained a list of names, dates and brief notations: “Michael Simon, 1955-1992. Tahoe ski trip ’89.” Aside from those, there was no clue as to whom the book belonged.

I had only met the neighbors who lived adjacent to me, so I walked up to the nearest house and pressed the doorbell. I heard some movement inside, then the door was opened by a man who looked to be in his early ’70's. “Good morning! Can I help you?” he asked.

“Sorry for the intrusion. I was walking down the street and found this notebook on the sidewalk in front of your house. Does it belong to you?”

He looked surprised and relieved. “Wow, I had no idea that I’d dropped that. Lucky for me you came along before it got rained on or carried off by a dog.”

I handed him the notebook, happy that the mystery was so easily solved. “Glad to help. I’m Sara, by the way. I just moved in down the street”.

He extended his hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Sara. I’m Bert. Would you like to join me for a glass of iced tea in the garden? It's the least I can do.”

He seemed harmless enough. “Sure,” I said and crossed the threshold. The house was the same layout as mine, with subtle variations, and situated perpendicular to the street. It was tidy and decorated with what appeared to be the original mid-century modern furnishings enhanced with some thrift shop finds, including a wall of shelves adorned with colorful antique toasters and other quirky retro appliances. We crossed through to the kitchen, where Bert pulled out two amber cut-glass tumblers, filled them with tea from a frosty pitcher and continued out the screen door as I followed.

We sat at a patio table shaded by a bright red umbrella. Bert asked me how I was settling in. When I told him that I had moved here from San Francisco, his face lit up, “What a small world! I lived there for decades before returning here to look after my mother in the last years of her life. This was her house.” Bert told me that he trekked to San Francisco in his 20’s and ran a vintage housewares store. He reminisced about the city, and was eager to hear about the changes brought on by the encroaching tech community.

I thanked him and promised to stop by again, which I did with regularity. Bert loaned me his wheelbarrow so I could remove a large mound of dirt left behind my garage - the remnants of a back porch remodel done by the previous owners.

As time went on, Bert disclosed more about his notebook.“I lost a lot of friends to HIV in the 80’s and 90’s. It was a hard time,” he said. “The notebook you found, that’s where I keep a few memories of them. That’s really all that's left now. I wanted to record the moments we shared before they were lost to time. When I open this book, I find the seed of a recollection, like this one,” he read: “Terry McNeil, 1950-1994. New Orleans, Labor Day 1986. That was the year I took a trip there with Terry, Todd and Greg. That city is a world of its own. Bursting with music and joie de vivre. 'Laissez les bon temps rouler!' I'll never forget it," he sighed.

I told Bert that I was working on my first novel, and that I dreamed of a book tour, provided I could find the funds, if and when my book was published. “Don’t compromise your dreams in life,” he said. “In the end, it’s too short. Make it count while you can.”

The following year Bert had a stroke and was hospitalized with pneumonia. When I visited him, he looked frail and tired. “Can I ask you a favor, Sara?”, he said. “Will you hold onto my notebook for safe keeping? That way I know it will be in good hands.” At first I didn’t want to take the book. It was too important to him. But it seemed to give him comfort, so in the end I agreed. After he left the hospital, I visited him at home and returned the notebook. The illness had taken a toll on him, and he never quite regained his energy. Later that summer, Bert died of a heart attack. His sister who lived nearby wrapped up his affairs and put the house on the market. She held an estate sale and his vintage appliance collection was sold at auction.

Some weeks later I received a letter from a law firm informing me that Bert had recognized me in his will. When I visited their office, the estate lawyer handed me a check for $20,000. I was completely dumbstruck. I had no idea that Bert would leave me anything, much less something so significant. “There was one more bequest,” the lawyer said. “Bert also left you this,” and she handed me the notebook.

One year later

I just made it to the St. Charles Avenue streetcar before it clattered off. The bookstore wasn't far from my Garden District B&B, and I was hurrying to make a dinner reservation before the book signing. New Orleans was sultry warm during these last days of summer. On Sunday I will make a pilgrimage to the pride parade. I fell into a seat and pulled out the notebook, contemplating the final entry: “Robert Wessler, 1944-2018. Iced tea on the patio, July 2017.”

THE END