Rightly Bound

“Are you really going to stick to this story?” The uniform pressed me for the umpteenth time.

“It isn’t a story! It’s the truth,” I retorted for the umpteenth time.

I have now been sitting in what feels like a broom closet for hours. I need to pee. I am petrified. I didn’t do anything wrong.

“Then tell us again exactly why you had Sir Henry Robert’s little black book and where all the money went?”

I told him all of this already, but now that you’re also here, I shall have to tell it once more, nevermind the Uniform’s demanding it of me.

I have been struggling lately. A bit of a rough patch; okay, I’m destitute. While I always strive to do what is right, there is still a risk that something will go wrong. This is absolutely one of those times.

Why is doing the right thing a tireless effort, you may ask? Well, it is simple. Rolling the stone up the hill takes tireless and consistent work; pushing it off is a doddle.

I was evicted from my apartment and living on the streets. I wasn’t an addict. I’m not crazy; you’ll have to judge me on that end later. Times are tough. I couldn’t pay the rent with no job. I found a place to set up camp a week ago. I pitched my tiny brown tarp behind a dumpster in an alley with a discarded wood pallet just long enough to lay on. It’s essential to get off the cold, wet ground. An exhaust fan even helps keep me warm at night. I could have done far worse. No one seemed even to know I lived there. I saw people going up and down the sidewalk by the alley. Thousands of them, and not hardly a single glance at my hovel, but one person saw me. Sir Henry Robert saw me.

On my third day, I was doing a little panhandling while the truck unloaded the dumpster. My worn-out cap and tattered jacket make me almost invisible and hardly dampen the cold winds that rush through the streets below the skyscrapers. It was not going well. I had gotten just eighty-seven cents in 30 minutes of spanging. My goal was $2.84, the price of a cup of coffee, tax included. I felt such shame in having to ask people for spare change. People avert their eyes or simply push me aside when the street gets crowded. It was lunchtime, and the sidewalk was remarkably crowded. The walk signal changed to green, as did all my plans.

I was calling out my plea of “spare some change, I just want to warm up. Change for a cup of coffee? Spare anything?” when I was jostled from behind.

I was pushed from side to side. Now I’m being swept up in the crowd to avoid falling. My arms are bumped and jostled. My side is pressed. The group continues to move on as I slow. I feel like I have just been through a stampede. I also feel something on my side, inside my jacket, and tucked up under my arm. Instinctively I press my arm tight on the object to not lose whatever it is. I walked quickly back to my hovel and reached under my jacket. I pulled out a little black notebook. Embossed in silver leaf was the name, Sir Henry Roberts. The middle bulged, held closed by a strained elastic strap, the edge of a beige envelope stuck out from one end. The questions raced through my head.

“Who gave this to me, and why? It must be a mistake.”

I put my thoughts in order and first figured I must find this Sir Roberts guy, whoever he was. Then I also remembered I had no phone, no money, and no way to find anyone, let alone a total stranger. With those thoughts in mind, I slowly pulled the elastic to the side, expecting it to break at any moment—but it held fast as I slid it aside and opened the notebook.

Folded into the middle was a beige envelope with First Savings & Trust in large print. Below the block lettering, on a pink sticky-note, scarlet letters boomed on the page.

OPEN ONLY AFTER READING BOOK

I stowed the envelope in my front pants pocket then turned to the first page of the notebook.

Aadila, I must make this short as my time is almost up. I know of your plight. I also know you to be honest. I knew it would be you when I saw what no one else did. I saw you pick up a fallen wallet and return it without them even noticing it was gone. You did not seek praise for doing the right thing. I now have a favor to ask.

I turned the page.

I was am used to be made some mistakes. I can only say that I have a debt to repay. Please take on this task for me. My time is short. There is much to do. Inside the envelope, you will find all you need. I know you will do the right thing. I pray you will. SHR

On the next page, I saw a name, address, and the dollar figure of $20,000.00. How was I supposed to find what amounted to over an entire year's rent… but wait, the envelope. I dug it out of my pocket and lifted the clasp. Inside were crisp, new bills. The man, balding in front, long hair in the back, with a slight smile staring up from the bill's center was an incredible sight. He looked at me as if he knew everything, now waiting to see how I would handle things. The amount totaled twenty thousand dollars. For a beautiful moment, I thought of how this money would change everything. It could dramatically change my life and splatter my soul with dark resin at the same time. It was not mine. I was asked to do the right thing, and as I turned the blank pages, my heart sank. I was almost in tears. There was nothing else. No prize, no help for me. I could take the money and not tell a soul. Who would know? Then my stomach growled. I hadn't eaten any food at all today. I tore the sticky note off, and there was a name underneath. I put the envelope with the cash in my pocket and headed to the corner diner.

I walked into the diner, sitting in the corner, hoping to be as invisible as I felt on the streets—no luck to be had. The waitress came over, noticed my grubby clothes, and snarked, “Do you have money?”.

“Of course I do,” I spat back. I did have money, just not mine. Blushing, she took my order and promptly scampered off. Her clothes were old and faded with a few tears newly resewn. Now alone, I could look over the notebook more closely. I was at the address the book directed, and this envelope of money was intended for this very waitress. Now I just had to make the delivery.

How was I supposed to do this? Just give all this money away when I desperately needed it also or take it and run?

I couldn’t do it. I darted out of the diner before she could see me, leaving the envelope on the table, name facing up. Two uniforms approached quickly as I rounded the corner. They asked me to come with them as if I had much choice in the matter. They put me in the cruiser, and we were off. The driver started asking me how I knew Sir. Henry Robert and for how long. I didn’t like where this was going at all. I stepped out, and we walked up the steps. At the top, I had to empty my pockets. The notebook came out, tension grew, like a heaving mountain wretches from the flat earth, as the ground shakes all around. Guns were drawn, but I was already down on the floor. With my fight or flight senses at their peak, I had chosen option Z. I fainted.

“I woke up, and now I’m here,” I told the uniform.

“That sure is a convenient story since we cannot find Sir. Robert anywhere, and you have his little black book.” The uniform drilled me again.

“He’s been reported missing for days now.”

I opened my mouth to tell him again that I didn’t know anything when a large man swung open the door.

“Officer, I’ll be taking over from here, thank you.” “Aadila, I am Captain Lucastar; please come with me.” He said, saving me from having to repeat myself.

We walk down a long corridor with persons of interest pinned up and down the walls. There is a frosted glass door shading two people’s bodies at the end of the hall. It opens. Standing inside are two men and a woman sitting in a simple chair off to the side. The Captain motioned for me to enter but did not make any move to follow. As I walk through I, notice that this is the chief of police’s office, and there he is on the right. On the left is the lady in the corner monitoring some equipment with a man I don’t recognize in a sharp suit and the silver initials SHR pressed on his cuffs. Many cables come from the tailored suit to the equipment. The door rattles closed.

The man removes any doubt with an extended hand, saying, “Hello Aadila, I am Sir. Henry Robert”. “I am sorry for any trouble I have caused. I came as soon as I could, and of course, as you know, my time is short. Thank you for helping me correct a mistake from my past.” In his hand is a folded piece of paper. He whispers, “all you need to know is right here. I thank you again, and now I must go.” I stammer, “b-bu-b wh-wh-a.” It is no use. The folded paper is in my hand; SHR is out the door, followed by the woman in the chair helping cart out all the medical equipment. Opening the creased sheet, I see a small silver key and penned in glossy blue ink:

Those who do right,

should have right done in turn.

Thank you for doing right.

You have the key, FS&T

I’m walking out of the police station in a daze, not knowing what is waiting for me. I just know that it will be unlocked by the silver key at FS&T.