Journal of Generosity

Rachel Straus stood on the well-traveled concrete sidewalk just outside the glass doors of the small café where she had just finished lunch. She watched as the middle-aged waitress perused the little black book that she had purposefully left behind.

Rachel had been frequenting the café for years and knew that the overworked waitress would put the book to good use just as she had. A knowing smile curled the corners of her lips as she watched the waitress fumble through the first couple of pages. Rachel knew that the waitress was already entranced by its contents.

For Rachel, it had all started with an innocent purchase at the local bookstore. She had ordered the book by R. H. White, ‘Miro’s Knot’ but when she stopped by to pick it up, the elderly gentleman had handed her two books. She recalled their conversation on that winter’s day from almost a year ago.

“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake. I didn’t order two books, and this little black one seems quite worn.”

She had held it out in an attempt to give it back to him.

“There’s been no mistake, Ma’am. You need that book, just as the several who have come before you. It is magical.”

The man’s face crumpled into a series of wrinkles as he winked his steel blue eye. He looked oddly familiar, but Rachel could not place him, and she knew that she hadn’t the time to reflect nor the time to argue. She had to get back to the office as her supervisor always noticed if she was even a minute late. She didn’t want his wrath to fall upon her for the third time that week. There were stacks of long overdue reports to be filed with the district attorney’s office. She thanked the old man and hurried out of the store just as quickly as she had entered, stuffing both books into her handbag.

Her friend and coworker Carla had caught her by the sleeve of her jacket as Rachel tried to whiz past her in a flurry of sheer panic.

“Rachel. Slow down. Breathe,” her friend’s unwelcomed advice didn’t normally sting.

“Let go of me, Carla. I’ve got a million things to accomplish. I don’t have time for your incessant chatter.”

The hurt look on Carla’s face immediately registered Rachel’s empathetic response.

“I’m so sorry, Carla. I know I have been less than jovial lately, and I can’t apologize enough, but this job is killing me: its deadlines, its demands, our supervisor.”

“Rachel. You’re stressed out. You need a vacation. You have a week available. It would give us all a break.”

Some coworkers poked their head out from behind office partitions and nodded.

Rachel plunked herself down in her office chair and stared at the stacks of reports on her desk. Her hands flew to her face, covering it as the tears welled. A mascara-stained tear splashed onto the cover sheet of one of her reports.

Rachel dabbed at the grey ink droplet but only managed to make things worse.

“You are right, Carla. I am a jittery mess. I can’t continue at this pace.”

“Go home, Rachel. I’ll cover for you with the boss.”

“I’m out of here Carla,” she managed a few words through her sniffles.

Rachel slung her handbag back over her shoulder and hurried out of the office, stopping briefly at Carla’s desk to give her a quick but sincere hug.

She kicked a few stones that skittered across the sidewalk as she passed by the homeless man who lay huddled under a wool blanket full of moth holes. Where she had once cared, she no longer noticed anymore. She hurried past without so much as a sideways glance. She pulled the fur lined hood of her jacket up and strode past.

Upon reaching the door of her apartment building in the nicest part of the neighborhood, Rachel’s foot tapped the hind end of a hungry feline that was always trying to enter the building. It scampered away retreating to a nearby snow covered holly bush.

She unlocked the door and pushed. She groaned on seeing the mess in the sitting room. She had let her life become overrun with undone tasks, a sure sign of depression. This week would be different. She would focus on herself and getting her life back in order.

She shook off her winter parka and hung it on the hook by the door then plopped herself onto her sagging leather sofa.

She logged into her savings account. A couple thousand dollars would afford her a mini vacation. Interrupting her daydream, her mind wandered to her earlier book purchase. She would relax and start reading ‘Miro’s Knot.’

Then, remembering the mysterious little black book, she pulled it from her handbag. The lamp on her end table lit the journal’s ivory-colored pages. Gently she turned the first page. It was simply a list of handwritten names. Some had been written in fancy calligraphy. There were countless pages that had been torn from the book.

The first full page held a two lined poem.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,

homeless on sidewalks could use knitted mittens.”

The underlined words made her pause, and her mind went to the homeless man. She knew now she had time to do something for him.

The new comforter she had bought was taking up space on her closet shelf. She had to constantly move it aside to make room for her laundered bedsheets.

Dusk was settling and Michigan’s winter had brought about a new chill, but not near as cold as her heart had grown. Neither her heart nor the night, like the cover of the book she held, had been totally blackened. She would be able to find the homeless man.

She pulled the comforter off the shelf, hurried to her car, and folded the blanket onto the back seat. The snow had turned to rain and the windshield wipers tapped the beat to the song on the radio.

It only took a minute to find the alley where he lay huddled asleep. So as not to startle him, she gently unraveled the comforter and covered him. Startled, she backed away as his bare craggy hand reached out from under the blanket. It held a package wrapped in wet tissue. He thrust it gently in her direction until she took it. He then muttered something inaudible and pulled the comforter over his head, but not before she noticed his steel blue eyes as they were caught in the light of a passing car.

Once back in the warmth of her car, Rachel switched on the dome light and slowly unwrapped the tissue; inside, a lovely bouquet of red roses. Raindrops made the perfect petals glisten. She thought of the poem in the black book. She was bewildered but eager to get home and read the next page.

She vowed that she would share half of her vacation money with the nearby homeless shelter so they could distribute mittens and gloves. Her vacation would simply be closer to home, and she, a bit more frugal.

Again, at the door of her apartment, the tabby with the wet matted fur rubbed against the pantleg of her black dress slacks. She scooted it away with the tap of her foot. It looked up at her pleading for safety from the cold. She ignored its raspy meow.

Cats were not allowed in her building and the pesky things were her least favorite animal. They stalked the bird feeder that she had installed outside of her kitchen window.

Inside her apartment she deposited her coat by the door and again opened the black book, this time to the third page. Staring up at her were the same words from the previous page; only the underlined words were different.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,

homeless on sidewalks could use knitted mittens.”

The underlined words reminded her that she had left the gift of roses in her car, but eager to read more, she flipped to the fourth page. Again, the same poem.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,

homeless on sidewalks could use knitted mittens.”

Kittens? She didn’t understand. Was she supposed to help the feline outside her apartment? The mere thought of holding the ghastly critter made her woozy. Wanting to skip the page and forget about it, she flipped the page to the fifth.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,

homeless on sidewalks could use knitted mittens.”

The mittens that Carla had given her as a Christmas gift! She hadn’t worn them as she preferred her driving gloves, but she could certainly wear the mittens to pick up the awful creature, but where would she go with it? Perhaps she could put it in her car until the animal shelter opened in the morning.

She dropped the black book back onto the sofa and stood with newfound determination and bravery. Grabbing the mittens and then the box that they had been wrapped in, she headed for the door.

As soon as she pulled the door open, the malnourished cat stood ready to squeeze its skinny body through the opening. Rachel bent down, and with her new mittens, clutched the scruff of its neck and tried to shove it into the box. It quickly escaped and scampered to the holly bushes. Shrill meows pierced the night air.

With the streetlight struggling to shed enough light, Rachel fumbled around in the bushes. Her mitten touched something that wiggled, and a soft mewing sound rose to meet her ears. She took off her mitten and grappled with a pile of kittens nursing from their mother, their cold and drenched fur, as if by miracle, warmed something inside of Rachel.

She felt around until she had scooped up six tiny kittens and deposited them into the box. She couldn’t leave them in her car. It was supposed to get below freezing.

The tabby followed her up the steps and into the apartment. Rachel deposited the box of kittens on her bed where she would be able to keep an eye on them overnight.

Searching through her refrigerator, Rachel found a variety of deli meats and set them on the floor for the ravenous cat. When it had finished, it rubbed against Rachel’s legs and purred. This time, Rachel bent down to stroke her fur. It arched its back, taking in the attention, then trotted into the bedroom, and curled inside the box to feed her babies.

Rachel watched the little family. Now that they had a warm and dry place to live, they quieted down and settled into peaceful contentment. It was quite possibly Rachel’s most important lesson of the day. She switched off the bedroom light and left the family to rest quietly.

She would send the rest of her vacation money to the local animal shelter. There were enough things that needed attention and that would keep her busy for a week.

Remembering her roses, Rachel donned her parka and trudged back outside to the street, unaware of the old man who stood in the shadows of the holly tree, a comforter wrapped around his shoulders. When he saw her open the passenger side of her car, he quickly retreated, heading back from where he had come. His steel blue eyes had misted like the soft rain that fell.

On the seat next to the roses lay a check, made out to Rachel Straus in the amount of twenty thousand dollars. The signature, in shaky lettering, was unreadable, but the note accompanying the check was not:

“In tenfold, good deeds are always returned. Grateful are we for lessons we’ve learned.

Leave no traces of the poem that you’ve read, and for a weary soul, write a new one instead.”

Rachel would be creative, and the money … she would forward it to the next reader.