The Treasure in the Wall

It had been there for the time the house had been standing, cutting off the kitchen from the living area and the dinette, creating a space for a nook. The design might have been practical and sensible at one point in history, but two-thousand twenty-one was not that time. She finally had some time, and the finances, available to deal with it.

“Right,” she said into the phone, “So you can start next week? Uh huh, on Monday? Okay, good. Thank you so much!”

She tapped the disconnect key on her phone and then pocketed it. The wall was coming down, she wondered about rearranging the kitchen to be better suited to the open space, to create a more fluid connection to the living area. It would be divine, she told herself.

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The following Monday saw a flurry of activity about the home as her children helped to clean the area before the contractors arrived. The work was quiet, mundane, the home had been mostly cleaned over the weekend but there was always the debris of constant meals in a kitchen. The dishes were done, put away, and the children sent out to play.

The contractors had earlier arrived, the measurements were taken and the determination about whether the wall was vital was made. It could be shored up as needed, even though it turned out to be load bearing. There was an answer for that, and she’d get to have her open floor plan after all. She found herself getting excited, the thought of the new look already solidifying in her mind’s eye.

A knock on the door and she found herself giddy as she jogged to answer it. The man standing there wore flannel, jeans, and two days’ worth of stubble but greeted her warmly. She invited him in, showed him the wall in question and he nodded. He left to retrieve his crew and his tools both, he would return within the hour at least.

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“Ma’am,” the gentleman in flannel said to the woman, presenting her with a tin box, “Found this in the wall.”

She took the box gingerly and stepped away, “Thank you,” she called back as she left him to return to his work. She made her way into her living area, which she now realized, much to her delight, was no longer a view cut off from the kitchen. She settled the box carefully onto the coffee table and gazed at it. It had a slight patina of rust around some corners but mostly it was whole.

A latch on the front would allow her easy access to the contents. There was no lock to it. She gazed at it a bit longer. How had this come to be here? In her wall? The previous owners must have left it in the wall, she supposed.

How old was this house? She hadn’t considered that question before and had little use for the answer now. It was enough that a treasure had been left behind to be discovered by whomever tore down that wall, or the house. The contractor turned it over to her, so she’d share a bit of what she found inside with him.

The latch, it seemed, had rusted some. It was not enough to resist her efforts, so she managed to pry it open. The lid came up with a little crack, a pop of the hinges and a tiny squeal. Inside she found herself faced with what appeared to be thousands of ten-dollar bills. Old ten-dollar bills. They were not printed in the new styles, but that of bills designed in the earlier part of the twentieth century. There was a slight musty smell of dust and age connected to them. She lifted one and found that it remained intact.

“What…?” she said to herself, confused about this find in her wall. Now, more than ever, she wanted to research the previous owners of her home. It would have to wait though, first she needed to count the money. It was a lot of bills, surely it would add up to a great deal.

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She was right. It added up to twenty-thousand dollars, this she concluded an hour later, but the money quickly became the second most interesting thing to come out of that box. Artfully arranged underneath all the bills, strapped down to the bottom of the box, was a book. It was a tiny black book, bound in leather and made durable. Age had hardly shown on it at all. The spine was mostly crisp, she found this as she opened it to the first page.

It had been dated March of 1949.

You’ve found the box then, in the wall. I’ve placed it there for anyone who brought it down for any reason. I felt that, someday, it would be of use. Perhaps a soul having a difficult time, in need of some help, will stumble about this and their life will be made richer for it.

Or maybe a kind soul will find it, who is not struggling, and will find a way to pass this kindness along to another. I built this home, and indeed it was a home, when I was a young man with a young wife and a child on the way. Love was poured into every nail, every plank of wood, used to build the walls, floors, ceilings and roof of the house in which this book was found.

I was never terribly wealthy, but I had enough. It is my hope that whoever finds this, they will be the sort that has enough. Enough love to pour into their own home, enough happiness to spread to others. Enough wisdom to raise fine children, enough good in their hearts to care. If you need this money, then take it with my blessings. If you do not, then please, pass it along to someone who does.

I lay these last words in this volume as I prepare to place it in the box, cover it with money, and leave both in the wall of this home. I do not know what my future brings for myself and my family, but I do know that I will love them as much as I possibly can, and I will give them all that I am able to. If you have not, you should do the same.

God bless you, whoever you are, whenever you find this.

- James

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She found herself clutching the book to her chest, weeping over the contents of the short letter. She already had a thought as to what to do with the money, and she was grateful she had it to offer. What a wonderful feeling, that two lives would be so blessed from a home renovation. Yes, she decided, she did have enough.