FULFILLED

It’s a gray morning. My husband, Nates, left for work an hour ago. I have washed, or rather my new machine has washed, two weekly loads of too many soiled items. The dryer did its job and I have ironed all the shirts, blouses and pillow cases that I had any intention of doing. My mother taught me there is a place for everything so put everything in its place. Done, Mom.

Ellen DeGeneris and Barbara battle for guests, for more viewers, expecting to have their contracts renewed shortly. They both bore me. I start to read a new book by one of the ever-growing Kellerman family and poof, I nod off, wake to find it is only 20 minutes since I started to read. Frou Frou, our gorgeous white Persian cat, sits near my feet, her tail rhythmically tapping Jonathan Kellerman’s book.

Strong coffee is needed to get my juices flowing. The last piece of strawberry shortcake will allow a bit more fridge shelf room. Good excuse, Fran. I take it out and devour it with no guilt.

Rain has started. I love the sound as it makes rivers down my windowsand am delighted that my car is still in the driveway, getting a good wash. This week I won’t have to pay $8 for a no-hands wash. It’s a freebie.

The few cars that pass my house have their headlights on. Yellow coronas look like sunshine, offer no rainbow. I watch for the mailman. He’s a little late today and I tell myself I don’t care–but I do. With the end of the month looking me in the face, I expect my bank statement, bills, ads, requests for donations, maybe a Thanksgiving invitation. The mail truck is coming down the street. From our hall closet I take an old, beat up sweater that I know I should toss, but like today, it comes in handy some time. It happens to be red, matches my red and white polka dot umbrella. It’s cheery. I try to whistle a happy tune but not even spit comes out. The mailman has left the flag up and the box only partly closed. Stuff, stuff, sticks out. Goody, I will be busy. Nates will be pleased when I balance my check book with the bank–if I do.

Ads, coupons, junk mail go directly into the trash. The load is much smaller. My check book and bank statement go to one end of the dining room table. The other end receives my charge account statements and all the items I’ve charged. The job doesn’t look so overwhelming when everything is in its place, Mom. Except for two stragglers. Jan’s is one. A smiling turkey invites us to dinner.

One curious item is left. It is from Faye’s Boutique in Ill., a name that sounds slightly familiar. Inside is a check for $150.00. It’s written on a Wachovia bank in Oregon. Then I remember the letter I received six months ago that I have a credit due from their store in Atlanta. It’s been there for one year, asking if I want a check or continue the credit. At that time I called Atlanta, explained I have no record of a purchase or credit, but if they say I have it, ‘Please send me a check.’ It came two weeks later and I deposited it. What I know is I had never been to Oregon or Atlanta, never heard of Faye’s but accepted the gift. And here I sit trying to get my records in order, faced with a dilemma, do I return the second check, spend it on myself, deposit it? Can I be selfish, be a thief, maybe go to jail?

The rain has stopped, the sun is shining, my face is smiling. I am holding the check, thinking evil thoughts. Faye has made a second error. A clerk may lose her job. The entire ½ mile trip to my bank, I still debate the issue of honesty and selfishness. The devil clarifies it and the teller hands me the 150 one dollar bills I ask for in 10 plain white envelopes.

I dust off the top of an old hat box on the top of the bedroom closet, open it and see a black felt memory of the hat I was wearing when I met Nates. Nine envelopes go under the hat, one in my purse. I feel the pressure of being a thief and add being a sneak, hiding something from my husband, from everyone. My bank statement gives me 50 cents more than my own record so I add the 50cents to my balance rather than look for the problem. All charged items are correct so I write the check. I call Jan, and with excitement in my voice, tell her how happy we will be to come to Thanksgiving dinner. ‘Great,’ she replies, ‘Will you make your cranberry-orange dish for us? We’ll be 14.’

The day is done and a new one dawns. My first stop is a privately owned french bakery where I get fresh croissants on Thursdays. As I leave, I purposely drop a dollar bill near the door. The next customer picks it up, Abracadabra, it disappears into her purse. I sense her saying ‘this will be my lucky day.’ A bill goes in my next door neighbor’s mailbox. She shrugs, looks around, folds it and comes running to me to tell me Santa Claus must be here early and asks if I received a buck.

The children’s book department at Barnes & Nobel is delightful. Many times I’ve bought books for my kids, birthday gifts for their friends there. The low center reading table is filled with the newest stories, ‘Bad Dog, Marley,’ ‘Good Night, Moon’, ‘The Pig Who Loves Cheese.’ I put a bill in each of the ten books, stand near the cash register and watch the children find them. I am having so much fun. An adorable little black girl, in a pretty pink dress, finds two bills and hurries to tell her mom. The mother tells her she can use the money towards buying another book. ‘Yahoo’.

I still have money and drop bills in Santa’s kettles, go ‘Ho Ho Ho, back to the bewhiskered bell ringers. I feel like Mrs. Claus might feel. My walk is springier. I don’t argue so much with Nates. My funds are shrinking too fast. I take the last of them to the super market where I buy almost ripe nectarines, delicious green California grapes, peaches bursting with sweetness, want the bing cherries but think better of that. I also buy a roll of red satin ribbon, sit in my car and tie each bag of fruit with a bow. My last stop is a nearby retirement home, one I have never visited until today. I locate the manager and ask if I can give the fruit to a few residents. ‘You don’t have cherries, do you? They can swallow the pits and we would be sued.’ ‘No, Ma am.’I give them out to an idle group silently sitting in a circle in the lobby.’Wrinkles, drooping eyes, smile to me and that makes me smile back. One lady stands, gives me a hug and a thank you, then walks away, down the long hall.

Until now I have never told a soul about my small gesture and still feel a bit of guilt giving away money that wasn’t mine, console myself that I deed a good deed.

Faye’s no poorer. I am much richer. Another Christmas will come with Easter well before it. Next time, when I do this again, using my money, Nates won’t even ask me what I want it for.