Sanderson

“Why is there a duck swimming in the bathtub?” My husband stood in the doorway to our bedroom, loosening his tie and tilting his head to the side.

I squinted at him from my reading chair, enjoying my day off from work. “Uh, where else would I put him? Ducks like water, honey.”

I went back to my new ebook: Ducks for Dummies.

My husband cleared his throat. I looked up again. His face was an interesting shade of red.

“May I help you?” I asked.

“Okay, yeah. Let me try this again. Why did you bring a duck home?”

“Oh. He was sliding around on the edge of the pond ice and did the full splits! I went to check on him, you know, to see if he pulled a muscle or anything. Anyway, his legs were okay, but he seemed cold. I thought I’d let him come inside for a bit.”

Silence.

“Don’t worry, I’ll put him back out in a couple days when it warms up.”

My husband groaned in disapproval of the duck situation, but what else was I to do? Our elderly next-door neighbor, Eleanor, loved this duck. No one knows where it came from, but she named it Sanderson and fed it peas. Her husband had just passed away. She’d been heartbroken and dealing with funeral arrangements. I figured it was the least I could do to take care of her little friend.

After dinner, I removed Sanderson from his bathtub, drained the water, and made him a nest out of towels on the bathroom floor. My husband watched in horror.

“Are those our nice towels?” he squawked.

“Of course. They’re super soft.”

“Why don’t we just put down some newspaper…”

“I can’t imagine newspaper would make an adequate nest.”

This time I heard a grunt. When I looked up, he was gone.

I tucked the duck in and turned off the light. “See you in the morning,” I whispered.

As the light of dawn began to creep through the bedroom window, I heard rustling in the living room. I turned over in bed, expecting my husband to be gone. He was fast asleep.

More noises.

“Honey, wake up.” I prodded him.

“Mmmm.”

“There’s someone in the house.”

His eyes popped open, and he sat up.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He grabbed the baseball bat out of the closet and tip-toed to the bedroom door, peeking down the hallway. “No! No! Bad duck!”

I scrambled out of bed and ran into the hall. The duck was in the living room, rummaging through my husband’s work bag. Important papers had been strewn about the floor. A package of trail mix was torn open and spread all over. Sanderson seemed to be enjoying the breakfast he’d served himself.

“Didn’t you lock him in the bathroom last night?” My husband glared at me.

“Well, no… I left the door cracked and the hall light on. I didn’t want him to be scared of the dark.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” My husband went on to say a few unsavory things about our house guest. Then, upon assessing the mess, he yelled, “look what that guy did to my Moleskine Little Black Notebook of Inspired Ideas!”

A splatter of duck doo adorned the front.

“Wait,” I said. “The company’s name is Moleskine? I thought it was Moleskin.”

My husband gave me a look.

“You know, soft covers. Like mole skin…”

He threw his hands up in the air. “Just get that duck out of the house.”

After bundling up in my parka, I scooped the trail mix remnants back into the package. I tucked Sanderson under one arm, carried him outside, and redistributing his breakfast in the grass near the pond.

“Sorry things didn’t work out,” I said. “I’m sure Eleanor will come to see you soon.”

I turned to walk back to the house when I saw Eleanor peering out her sliding patio door. I waved to her. She waved back and put her hands over her heart. I nodded, blew her a kiss, and went inside.

For the next week, I went outside every day to take care of the duck. I made sure to wave at Eleanor whenever she was at the window. When I didn’t see her for a few days, I got worried. I went around to the front door and knocked. An unfamiliar man answered. His eyes were puffy and rimmed with red.

“Hi. I’m Julie. I live next door. I just came by to check in on Eleanor.”

“I’m Robert. Her son. Uh, unfortunately, she passed away a couple days ago.”

My hands flew to my mouth. I didn’t know what to say.

“She had a heart attack,” he continued. “They were treating her at the hospital. She seemed to be getting better, but then she had a pulmonary embolism. I think the stress of losing my dad just did her in.”

I nodded, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re here, actually.” He sniffled and cleared his throat, struggling to pull himself together. “In the hospital, Mom kept saying, ‘If anything happens to me, give Julie the money under the bed so she can take care of Sanderson.’”

“Oh, I don’t need anything. It’s fine,” I muttered.

“I’d really like to honor her final wishes. The only time I saw her smile after my dad died was when she saw you out back talking to that silly duck.”

“Oh, okay… Sure.”

I followed Robert into the master bedroom, where he proceeded to pull several items out from under the bed. A couple of shoeboxes. No money, just shoes. A clear storage tub with a quilt, still no money. A memory foam mattress pad, a folded-up walker. Then, a cherry red, hard-cover suitcase. He unzipped it.

“Whoa. This is crazy,” he murmured.

It was full of cash. Hundreds, fifties, twenties.

“Holy cow,” I said. We sat on the floor in silence for a few minutes.

“Well, it’s yours,” Robert said.

“Oh, no, I can’t. I don’t want to take your money.”

He let out a short laugh. “Julie, first of all, it’s not mine. Secondly, my parents left everything else to me. I’ll be fine. Take it. In fact, if you don’t, Mom will probably haunt me for the rest of my life.”

I took a minute to roll the idea around in my head. I had no idea how much was in the suitcase, but it was obviously much more than a lifetime supply of duck peas would cost.

“Only if you’re sure,” I said.

“I’m sure.”

The next thing I knew, I was lugging the red suitcase home.

When my husband got home that evening, I told him Eleanor died.

“Oh, no.” He sat down on the couch, rubbing his forehead, considering the news. “She was such a sweet lady.”

“She left us something,” I told him. “Well, technically, it’s for the duck.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”