The Debts That Bind

Charlotte found the diary inside a dryer, one Tuesday when she’d gone to the Laundromat to do her day-off washing.

Extracting the small, black, leather-bound book, she’d had no premonitions, simply puzzled why someone would leave a journal inside a dryer — especially such a nice one! As the cover warmed in her hand, she smelled hide tamed by tannins. So odd.

Flipping open the sleek black cover, Charlotte found the contact lines still blank. Strange. Had it been used?

After the briefest hesitation, she turned the page. And, there, written in the sort of copperplate hand one rarely saw anymore, she found the short entry that started the whole mess:

“Congratulations. By opening this journal, you have just received $20,000, to be paid out in four daily installments of $5,000. To collect your funds, report to the Atlas Bank at [an address followed] at your earliest convenience. Ask for the manager to receive your first installment and further details.”

Charlotte stared at the words in shock. Surely this must be a joke of some kind. But when she flipped through the pages, she found no other entries. A quick search of the map on her phone confirmed an Atlas Bank at the address listed.

Stranger and stranger.

Habits tested

After hastily shoving her wet clothes into another dryer (just in case the journal was part of some elaborate hoax that also involved tampering with the machine), Charlotte thrust the requisite quarters into the slot and made for the door, the journal tucked inside her purse.

Probably a scam, she reasoned, as she tightened her scarf against the early March chill and set a brisk pace toward the bank. But what better way to spend her drying hour than testing the journal’s wild claim? At the worst, she’d acquire an odd story. At the best ...

Twenty minutes later, Charlotte sat in front of Melvin Ackhorn’s desk, fixated on his nameplate.

Forty minutes later, she left the bank, $5,000 richer, her head still spinning. With a quick glance at her watch, Charlotte sped-walk to her own bank, deposited the cash, withdrew fifty dollars spending money — oh, the luxury! — and then wandered back to the Laundromat, her mind far away.

One block before her destination, the sign of a diner-cum-bar caught her eye and Charlotte impulsively stepped toward the door. This situation called for a drink both spiked and caffeinated.

Not until she’d drunk half of a middling Irish coffee could Charlotte bring herself to extract the slim black notebook, in which it had seemed apropos to jot down her notes. Its pages held great possibility. But also pain.

As she’d learned from Mr. Ackhorn (who pronounced his name like a nut), her windfall presented some rather unexpected choices. The money was hers free and clear — Mr. Ackhorn had stressed this no fewer than seven times. But with each day’s installment came a chance to help her mysterious benefactor assist other people, too. All she had to do was identify a business or organization meeting that day’s criteria.

Ordinarily, she’d have until 5 p.m. to give him her choice, but since she’d gotten Tuesday’s money late in the day, Mr. Ackhorn said she had until the following morning, when she came to collect her second $5,000.

Charlotte huffed a deep sigh. Day one had the easiest choice: find an arts organization deserving of a cash influx, amount unspecified. She didn’t think much of art.

But the real choice was not which impractical group to help; it was whether to help such a group or hold a rich man to account … at least today. For if Charlotte chose to do nothing each day beside pick up her five grand, then her benefactor would commence collection on an unpaid debt: a different one each day, for four in all.

Mr. Ackhorn had said he could not share the total amount of the debts, but each day she faced the same choice: help her benefactor increase his largesse (potentially up to another $20,000 in total), or let him exercise his legal right to reclaim funds owed.

Tomorrow she could choose to help a restaurant or send a non-profit’s debt to … was a loan shark what you called such a person? Having spent her life avoiding all such obligations, Charlotte wasn’t sure. She took a long, slow sip and decided to request a peaty Scotch in drink two, name be damned.

She should have felt excited. Why did this have to stir up the old memory, so long suppressed?

“Charlotte?”

“Why, Madge!” Charlotte looked up to see a woman from their library book club approaching.

“You look rather unhappy with your drink,” Madge observed.

Charlotte laughed. “No, it’s this dilemma of mine.” She held up the notebook.

Madge read down the first column: “Arts organization, restaurant, cause with which you disagree, leader or politician you despise. Huh. What are those?”

“Enterprises I have the chance to help. Want a seat?” Charlotte gestured to an empty stool.

“Well! That’s an interesting list of causes.” Madge sat, then read the second column. “Rich man, non-profit, mortgage, payday loan. I take it those are all debts?”

“Precisely.”

“And you choose those, too?”

Charlotte explained the dilemma.

“Wow. So it’s like you’re choosing between help and harm each day.”

Charlotte stiffened. “Or generosity and justice. I haven’t even told you the weirdest part: for each grantee I choose, the guy not only leaves off collecting; he’ll forgive the debt.”

Madge reviewed the list again. “So to help a worthy cause, you also must show mercy to an unworthy debtor.”

“Worthy?” Charlotte scoffed. “Look at some of these choices.”

Madge read the lists again. “Support a cause you dislike … or possibly let him evict someone.”

Charlotte shuddered. How could the one word still affect her so?

One sandwich and two drinks later (a diet Coke for Madge, a second Irish coffee for Charlotte), they were still at it, now with the occasional help of the bartender.

“You could try game theory,” he suggested, while unloading the dishwasher.

If it banished her nagging demons, she’d try anything. Following his directions, Charlotte scratched out several charts, during which an evident regular came down from the bar’s other end to observe.

“Do you know anything about the debtors?” he asked.

“No, just that the first one’s rich, and the last could only get a payday loan.”

He scanned the lists and charts. “Couldn’t you just forgo that day’s cash if you don’t want to choose?”

Her sudden anger surprised Charlotte. Give it up! Didn’t he realize what five grand could mean? Ever since that horrible day, she’d devoted herself to financial prudence, no matter the cost. She always paid her bills in cash, and had worked three jobs in college just to get through without taking loans. Sometimes it seemed she’d been punished for rejecting this country’s addiction to debt. Getting such a windfall felt like the universe had finally acknowledged all her sacrifice. She could dream again. Was a condo within reach? But any cut she took from the total $20,000 meant time: months or possibly years by which she’d forestall the hope of security.

“Maybe you could lie,” Madge suggested. “You said you only had to show the man your driver’s license. How would he know what causes you dislike or what leaders you truly despise?”

“Did you have to sign anything?” the regular asked. “Now that you mention it, no. But Mr. Ackhorn did say that, while my benefactor won’t publicize my decisions, they’re not protected information either. So I suppose someone could dig them up.”

“If you lie about your views, you could become known for believing what you oppose,” the bartender said.

Charlotte nibbled her pencil. If only they knew.

“It doesn’t say on what scale you have to disagree,” Madge pointed out. “Maybe you dislike Brussels sprouts, but decide to support a farm that grows them.”

“That’s not exactly a cause, though.”

“I think you should focus on what you want to do with your funds,” a waitress said, while refilling ketchup bottles. “It’s not like you should feel bad about those debtors. They made their choices. Why is it your problem if they broke their promises?”

Exactly, Charlotte thought. Just like her mother. She winced.

“Yeah, but payday loans are terrible,” Madge said. “The payment terms and interest rates are so predatory, you wind up with a never-ending debt.”

Back and forth it went, until Charlotte suddenly remembered her forgotten laundry. With a sigh, she laid down her tip and turned toward the chores ahead of her.

Habits tried

Wednesday, she gave Mr. Ackhorn her first two answers.

Thursday she asked his advice: “Could you find a cause you disagreed with that still merited support?”

“That depends if I think the world needs more copies of me,” Mr. Ackhorn replied. “Both democracy and those who seek diversity must inherently value disagreement.”

Charlotte gasped. “That sounds so contentious!”

He spread his hands. “Did you want my opinion?” At her look, he continued. “It’s not always negative. Sometimes differing views reveal new ways to solve a problem.”

Or confuse you, she thought, recalling Tuesday’s extended discussion. “Thank you,” she said.

Charlotte turned to go, then hesitated. “Mr. Ackhorn, I know I only have until tonight to give you today’s decision, but if I happened to need more time, is there any way I could let you know tomorrow?”

He gave her a long look, then nodded. “That would be fine. I don’t actually have to give him your answers until Monday morning.”

Friday Charlotte had an early meeting at work, and then ran so late that she couldn’t collect her final share until minutes before the bank closed. By the time she finally reached the street the bank was on, she had just a couple minutes to spare, and one final street to cross.

Catching sight of the crosswalk countdown, Charlotte started to run. She’d come within one stride of the curb when her foot caught on something, and she fell heavily on one knee, scattering the coins of a homeless person she’d seen too late to avoid. Swearing, Charlotte looked up in just in time to feel the draft as a town car cornered inches away from her, screeching into the crosswalk she’d been headed for.

With a shuddering gasp, Charlotte pushed herself up on her knees, wincing at the sting of her injury. She should have been in that crosswalk. She could have been.

Feeling gravel beneath her palm, she looked down, saw a quarter, and then turned to return it to the homeless woman, now holding her knees to her chest.

“You OK?” the woman asked. Her eyes held an expression Charlotte couldn’t read.

She stood and gave a shaky nod.

“I didn’t like to hurt you, but I know how late in the light cars like to turn here this time of night. They’re all hurrying down to the freeway entrance.”

Charlotte nodded again, still in shock, then turned back to the crosswalk as the crowd behind her surged ahead. Not until she was halfway across did the woman’s words sink in.

With a shudder somewhere between gasp and sob, Charlotte limped as fast as she dared up to the bank entrance. When she got there, Mr. Ackhorn stood on the top step, key in hand.

Charlotte looked at her watch, then back at him. “You waited!” This second unexpected kindness brought the sudden burn of tears.

“Are you all right? You’ve got blood on your knee.” He unlocked and opened the door for her. “You’d better come inside so you can wash up. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

While he was gone, Charlotte collected her thoughts, still roiled by her near-accident and how close she’d come to losing so much. Once the manager returned, she’d made a decision.

“Mr. Ackhorn, sir? I have a proposition.”