The Wallet
For Jeremy it was another boring small-town summer-holidays day. He certainly would be glad when school started when he'd have a new teacher for his Grade 5-6 class.
His Mom was watching her programs, so he grabbed a banana and headed outside.
Up town he strolled along the main street where the bank, hotel and general store faced the town hall, police station, and post office.
At the park's fountain, he passed the old man who was always sitting there. Jeremy's Mom told him never to bother the sad elderly man from Mrs. Olson's rooming house.
Jeremy stopped at the burned house overgrown with small trees and bushes. A section of a white picket fence poked through the tall grass.
Someone said a mother and her two children had died there while the father was away at a war.
Jeremy rolled his favourite marble -- the clear green one - between his fingers. As he held it up to his e, he tripped and watched the glass ball disappear into a pile of blackened boards.
He scowled as he searched, because every time he moved something, the marble rolled deeper.
Jeremy persisted until he found it resting beside something wrapped up in oilcloth. It was a wallet! Somehow the checked fabric had preserved it.
A quick search yielded a few coins in the pouch, some photos, and a strange key stuck in the back corner.
He flipped through the black and white photos: A lady in 'good' clothes was standing in front of a small house with a white fence; the same lady holding a baby; the same woman standing with a girl and a boy; a horse and milk wagon; a soldier at the train station; and an old driver's licence where the smeared name looked like Jenson or Jemson.
'I'll show Mom; maybe she can tell me about the pictures. '
After using some sand and rainwater to clean his hands, he headed home.
As he passed the old man, Jeremy blurted, "Wanna see what I found?"
Tired sad eyes looked up.
"Sure," the man answered in a distinctly disinterested tone.
"See? It's a wallet. I found it in that old burned house over there. There are some neat pictures in it."
The man straightened and extended a weathered hand. "May I please look at it?"
Jeremy handed over the wallet and then sat on the bench.
The gentleman turned to the pictures. Old fingers caressed each photo.
"Do you know any of those people?"
"Yes," the man nodded. "This was a billfold I had long time ago. This is - was - my family."
"Was?" Jeremy blurted, and then instinctively put his hand on his mouth. "You mean...?"
The old man nodded and continued to flick through the images.
Unsure of what to do Jeremy looked at his hands. "That burned house was yours, wasn't it?"
"Yes," acknowledged a soft whisper.
"Mom told me something about the fire; that somebody had died there a long time ago."
Jeremy heard a whimper and a moan, and then the man buried his face in his hands.
The billfold dangled from his fingers.
Jeremy glanced at the shaking shoulders. Should he leave? Something told him to stay put, so he fiddled with his marble.
After a few minutes the man sat back and sighed.
"Sorry, mister," muttered Jeremy, "I didn't mean to upset you."
"No need to be, son." A smile fluttered as the man dabbed his eyes with a ratty tissue. "It's a deep hurt that goes away back, long before your time. A cry is always good for the soul."
He looked at Jeremy. "What's your name, young man?"
"Jeremy Hansen."
"I'm Bill Jensen."
They shook hands.
"Would you like me to tell you about the pictures?"
"Yes, please."
Wrinkled fingers lovingly stroked the first picture. "This is - was - my Jenny. She worked in the malt shop at the milk company I worked for." The man leaned towards Jeremy. "She made the best chocolate milk shakes. After my deliveries, I would buy one and take my time drinking it."
"'Cause you wanted to be close to her, right?"
"That's right." Bright eyes shone with memories. "Eventually I asked her out. We went for walks and picnics and the Saturday night dances."
"And watched TV," anticipated Jeremy.
The old gentleman laughed. "There was no television back then. You made your own entertainment."
"That must have been a long time ago."
"It must seem like that to you." The man relaxed. "Well, when the owner became ill, he asked if I would like to buy the company. So I did."
"Then Jenny worked for you."
"Yes, but I soon hired someone do the malt shop. She looked after the account books. She always found ways to tighten loose ends and do things better. She was really great."
The man smiled with recollections.
"Did you quit the deliveries?" asked Jeremy.
"Not right away. I liked the outdoors, so I stayed with it for a while."
The man flipped a few photos. "This is my horse and wagon. That horse knew the route better than I did. I could jump off with my rack of bottles and he would keep going and stop at the place where I needed a refill."
"Smart horse."
"Yup, he sure was." He leaned towards Jeremy. "Well, you know, since I had a bit more money, I asked Jenny to marry me."
"I'm glad."
"Me too. We got married and moved into a little house with a white picket fence."
The man flipped to the beginning of the pictures. "You can see it behind her in this picture. It was a good place for raising a family. There was lots of room and a garden out the back. We had many happy years there; raised two kids: a girl first and then a boy."
The man flipped the photos. "This is Gloria and Ryan standing with Jenny."
"Ryan looks about my age."
"He is about nine years old in that photo. But then the war started. I, and a lot of friends, joined up and went over seas. That's me, Private Jenson, at the train station."
The man paused and stroked the photo. "I was away for about two years when the fire...."
The man covered his mouth with the back of his hand.
After a few moments he continued. "The army sent me home, but by the time I got here, everything had been done. The town had had a funeral with three closed caskets. The markers were donated." The voice struggled. "Apparently there wasn't much to...to bury."
The man buried his face in his hands.
Jeremy patted the shaking shoulders. It seemed the right thing to do.
Finally the man sat back, wiped his eyes and stared at the wallet. "I apologize for acting like this. I did not mean to bother you with my troubles."
"I don't mind."
The old gentleman made a little chuckle. He took in a deep breath, held it and slowly exhaled. "What strange twist of fate. You have helped me deal with a nagging piece of my life.
"Thank you, Jeremy."
The boy shrugged. "I just found your wallet. Did you see the key in there?"
The man found and fingered key. "This looks like a safety-deposit box key. I remember having one long time ago." He looked at Jeremy. "You don't suppose there is something still in there? That's still the same bank. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask, eh?"
The man stood up. "Here is your wallet."
"Oh no, it's your wallet. You keep it. I'm glad I found it."
Jeremy relaxed on the bench and watched the man enter the bank.
Jeremy polished his marble on his shirt and tried to peer through it. When he looked up, he saw Mr. Jensen beckoning him.
Jeremy ran over. "Did you find some money?"
Mr. Jensen clutched some papers against his chest. There were tears in his eyes, and yet he seemed happy.
He held out the packet of papers. "These are far more valuable than money. These are our wedding pictures, our marriage licence, and photos of when the kids were first born. Even their baptism certificates are here! Thanks to you, I have a piece of my life -- my past -- to hold onto."
They stood looking at the papers.
Jeremy broke the silence. "Well, sir, I'd better be going. Mom will have supper ready. Goodbye Mr. Jensen."
"Goodbye Jeremy. I'm glad we met."
"Me too."
They shook hands.
Jeremy ran home where, as he burst into the kitchen, he called out, "Hey Mom, I was over at that burned-down house, and I found a wallet and guess what?"