Winners

Monday

The air at the station blows like a convection oven, passing over and under her dress. No amount of hair wax will tame the errant, bean sprout curls along her neck and forehead. Beads of nervous perspiration dot her body in anticipation of the forthcoming interview questions. Rachel Herrera wants, no, needs this job.

Metal on metal screeching announces the 7 Train arrival. Dubbed the “International Express” it brings together the most diverse assembly of passengers as it cuts through neighborhoods from Queens to Manhattan. A brutal commute with nary a seat available, Rachel spies the coveted single corner throne. Legs pumping in a fifty-yard dash, she swivels her hindquarters and plops down. Eyes closed, she lets loose an audible sigh, smiling to the seat gods for their generosity.

When she opens her eyes, her heart drops. A wizened woman’s question mark spine makes Rachel flinch. Stark white hair contrasts her walnut shaded skin. Gnarled fingers grip the pole like talons clinging for dear life. Rachel clears her throat, catching the woman’s attention. Their eyes meet, linger, and exchange a smile of understanding. As Rachel stands to relinquish the seat, her peripheral vision catches a teenager waiting to pounce. “Don’t even think about it,” she threatens as she grips the elderly woman’s hand and pulls her in.

“Thank you,” the woman’s voice is surprisingly strong.

Rachel nods, smiling through her eyes. She inventories the woman who is impeccably dressed yet donning a sweater in the sweltering heat. A large bag rests between her feet and Rachel spies something black peeking out from under her arm. She thinks of her own abuela as the woman’s intelligent eyes take in the train stops. At 33rd Street, the elderly woman rocks hip to hip, building momentum to stand. She clutches her bag, squeezes through the passengers, and exits.

Primed, the teenage boy is moving. Rachel sees the woman’s notebook and grabs it just as the boy dives. The bells chime, the train jolts, and the book’s owner has vanished. Glancing at her watch, she will barely make the interview on time. Opening her handbag, she places the book inside. “Later,” she thinks.

“Thank you so much. A pleasure meeting you,” Rachel shakes the beefy hand of her potential employer. Hopping foot to foot, she rides the elevator giddy to share the news. She jiggles her cell hoping it will surrender a bar. The voice answers on the first ring, “Hey, how’d the interview go?” Ally, her friend since first grade asks.

Great!” Rachel giggles. “I’m heading home. Let’s meet at O’Reilly’s – drinks are on me.” A long-forgotten confidence stirs. “Yes!” She pumps her fist.

“Well?” Josephine Herrera calls hearing her daughter’s footsteps. At thirty, Rachel lives in the apartment above her parents’ home. Hesitant when Frank and Josephine offered it, she’s now grateful without a paycheck.

“A good interview,” Rachel says dipping a piece of bread into the pot of soup her mother’s preparing. Josephine playfully taps her daughter’s hand. The interview has lifted a weight. She can emerge from the chrysalis of a very dark cloud.

Tuesday

“Staring won’t make it ring,” Frank Herrera admonishes. He butters a third piece of toast, folds his paper, and sips his coffee.

“I’m waiting for a callback,” her voice wistful. “It went so well.” She reassures herself. By noon, she’s thrumming her kitchen table wondering if she should call. She reaches into her purse, reminded of the little black book. Rachel runs her hand over the buttery, black leather. The pages are bound by an elastic strap. Sliding her index finger, she unleashes it. Her hand touches the rounded edges of the pages as she starts to fan the book open. Heat crawls up her neck in a flush of embarrassment. “Maybe there’s a name in it,” Rachel justifies. She carefully opens the cover and reads, “In case of loss, please return to:” but only, “For Samuel” is written on the page. She runs her finger along the lettering. It feels like Braille with tiny bumps of ink under her finger. The paper is rich, holding each stroke in its place.

The buzzing staccato of the phone jolts her. Grabbing it, she sends the notebook flying. A piece of paper flutters to the floor. “Hello,” her voice too breathless.

“Ms. Herrera?” The man’s voice questions.

Her heart is beating in her throat. “This is it.” Her smile anticipates. “Yes.” She responds using her professional tone.

“Mr. Jones asked me to call you. We’re sorry but the position has been filled.”

Her stomach lurches.

“Ms. Herrera?”

“Yes, sorry.” The bruising of her voice starts to bloom. She swallows. “Thanks for the call.”

Leaning over the sink, Rachel watches her newfound confidence swirl down the drain. No amount of eyedrops will remove the red. In the mirror, an accusatory older woman returns the stare. “I am a loser.” She searches the face. Cold eyes convey a contemptuous nod.

She rubs her hands over her face removing tears and snot. Scrolling through her phone Rachel restarts the job search. As she pads her way into the kitchen, she sees the little black book and steps on a piece of paper. It’s a lottery ticket from Saturday. Placing it on the table, she grabs a cup of tea and returns to the hunt. After an hour of mind-numbing applications, she notices the book. Curiosity and guilt twist in a dance as she opens it.

Each letter stands like a soldier as she studies the neat cursive. “I’ll drop it off at the lost and found tomorrow,” she vows thumbing through the pages. Studying the lottery ticket, she smiles thinking about the older woman. “You’re about as lucky as me,” she muses considering the lost book. There are dozens and dozens of two-line entries. Curious, she leans closer to read one.

“A doctor to be. A doctor is me.”

“Long before the time. Oh, the hills I climbed.”

She leans back in the chair and takes a sip of the cool tea. “Was the old woman a doctor?” Her brows furrow. “I’m sure you’re retired by now.” She realizes she is building a narrative about this woman. Refilling her mug, the seduction of this black book is too much. Resting it on her lap, she flips to the bookmarked page and runs her hand over it.

“The doctor is my son. With work never done.”

“Now is his season. Finally, an age of reason.”

Rachel wonders about this woman and her simple ditties in this book. She holds the lottery ticket again. She’s never played, knowing the impossible odds of winning. Nor has she ever owned a Moleskine book and now wonders why. It made a wonderful journal where thoughts would be memorialized. “Like this,” she said rubbing her finger over the letters.

Wednesday

Embarrassment and worthlessness weigh down her shoulders when Rachel announces the failure.

“Don’t worry, honey.” Josephine pats her daughter’s back. “The right opportunity is coming.”

Rachel hopes her mother’s fortune telling is accurate. She stops by the train station. “Do you handle lost and found?” She asks the booth agent.

Without looking up, the man sighs, “I hold it for a couple of days. No one comes, goes to lost and found.”

The impatient eyes of the man behind her bore into her head. “Has anyone come by looking for a book?” Rachel continues.

“Not on my shift.” Still no eye contact.

She tucks the Moleskine under her arm and heads home. “Hi Mom,” Rachel calls out walking into the house. Josephine is watching the news.

“Today’s Powerball resets to $20 million with Saturday’s lucky winner,” the announcer gushes.

“Anything interesting.” Josephine says cautiously placing a sandwich before her daughter.

“Bleh,” Rachel says taking a bite. “I stopped by the train station to return this,” she holds up the little black book.

“What is it?” Josephine looks.

“It’s a journal. Belongs to an older woman. She left it on the 7.” She takes another bite and reaches into her pocket. “And a lottery ticket.”

Josephine’s eyebrows rise. “Really? From when?”

“Saturday.”

“Checked the numbers?” Josephine chuckles wiping the counters.

“No.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “I have this thing called job hunting.” The twisting of her mouth conveys her displeasure.

“You should,” Josephine offers. “You never know.” She shrugs her shoulders.

“Even if it was a winner, it belongs to that old lady.” Rachel finishes the sandwich, dabs the corners of her mouth, and gives her mother a peck.

The job hunt is tedious. Rachel does everything but search. She picks up the lottery ticket and types in the URL. Saturday’s winning numbers: 1,4,5,10,16…13. Her finger traces each number. “Oh my God.” Blood is pounding in her ears. Five matching numbers pays $20 thousand. She’s shaking. “Oh my God,” her voice more audible. “Mom! Mom!” She screeches running down the steps. “I won $20 thousand!” Rachel is jumping up and down pulling her mother in the motion, waving the ticket.

“Mija,” Josephine stops the bouncing. “Remember it’s that old lady’s $20 thousand.” Her soft brown eyes search her daughter’s face.

Her mother is right, but $20 thousand. “Mom. I went to the station. There’s no name in the book. I have no way of finding that lady.” Stubbornness snakes its way into her voice. “Let’s ask Dad.”

They march into the garage where Frank is leaning into his car. “Dad.” She says without waiting for him to stand up. “I found a lottery ticket on the train. I have no way of finding the owner.”

“Well,” Frank emerges wiping his hands. “I’d say finders’ keepers.” No further encouragement is required. She’ll call the lottery office in the morning.

Her imagination is at full gallop thinking about the money. Her phone comes alive, buzzing with text messages. She scrolls through the senders. Cousins. Friends who lost touch. Clicking open a message, she reads, “Congratulations. Heard about the money. Would love to catch up. XXOO.”

She slams the phone down as it continues its vibrational dance. “Mom!” She shouts. “I have a hundred new best friends asking for money. How’d they know?”

“Your father told his brother, who told his wife.” Josephine continues to fold laundry. “You’re surprised?”

Sitting in her apartment, Rachel turns off the phone’s incessant requests. “Yes, $20 thousand is a lot of money, but I didn’t win $20 million.” Her throat constricts around “I.” She studies her palms searching for a moral roadmap. Her identity within the creases. As she lifts the black book by its binding, a photo falls out. It’s a young boy whose angelic face beams at the camera. His café au lait skin is complimented by amber eyes. There’s a pocket in the back of the book. Another photo. Same person, but in a cap and gown, still beaming that angelic smile. The reverse reads, “Sam, 2010.” She dips back into the pocket and retrieves a black and white photo. Rachel recognizes the face. Though a younger version, the woman is wearing a doctor’s white coat. Flipping the photo, “Dr. Samantha Dubbins, 1956.”

Replacing the photos in the Moleskine pocket, Rachel turns on the phone. It shudders with unretrieved messages. The winning lottery numbers pop up. One final look. She now realizes she missed the Powerball “13.” The ticket is worth $210 million.

Thursday

Rachel glances at the address not far from the 33rd Street station. Dr. S. Dubbins wasn’t difficult to find. She rings the bell. A tall, handsome, thirtyish man answers. His face still angelic, smiles through his amber eyes. “Hello?”

She extends her hand. “I found something your grandmother left on the train.” She smiles.

“Oh, I’m sorry. She just passed.” His eyes mist.

Rachel hands him the Moleskine book. The lottery ticket peeking out. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she says quietly. She shakes his hand, turns, and stops. “Sam, the lottery ticket is a winner.”