He stopped short. The broad smile vanished. He reached deeper into his pocket but the
bill was not there.
bill was not there.
"Check
your other pocket," my grandmother suggested, and he did. But he knew
where
he'd placed the $20 bill. He went back to the pocket and probed every inch of it. And he
felt along the seam where the threads had worn out and separated and created a ragged
hole just large enough for a piece of paper money to silently slip through and fall to the
ground.
he'd placed the $20 bill. He went back to the pocket and probed every inch of it. And he
felt along the seam where the threads had worn out and separated and created a ragged
hole just large enough for a piece of paper money to silently slip through and fall to the
ground.
"It's gone," my grandfather said. "It's gone." His lips formed the words again, but he
Winter in Louisville, Kentucky
made
no sound. He sank down in the couch and buried his face in his hands.
For a mo-
ment, no one said anything. No one moved. But my grandmother, an eternal optimist,
broke the silence.
ment, no one said anything. No one moved. But my grandmother, an eternal optimist,
broke the silence.
"Maybe you can find it," she said. "Maybe it's still lying on the sidewalk."
Frank
looked scornfully at his wife and shook his head. She had to be
kidding, he
thought. That money probably never had a chance to reach the sidewalk before someone
else grabbed it. Not in these times. But Susan insisted that he at least try, and for lack of
a better idea, Frank agreed.
thought. That money probably never had a chance to reach the sidewalk before someone
else grabbed it. Not in these times. But Susan insisted that he at least try, and for lack of
a better idea, Frank agreed.
My
grandfather scoured the sidewalk and gutter as he dashed up Birchwood.
He walked
in a sort of crouch, his eyes glued to the ground, and he must have looked very strange to
the pedestrians he passed. When he reached Frankfort Avenue, he knew it was hopeless.
Before, the sidewalks were relatively empty, but here the foot traffic was heavy. There
were people everywhere. But for form's sake, if nothing else, he continued onward toward
the theatre.
in a sort of crouch, his eyes glued to the ground, and he must have looked very strange to
the pedestrians he passed. When he reached Frankfort Avenue, he knew it was hopeless.
Before, the sidewalks were relatively empty, but here the foot traffic was heavy. There
were people everywhere. But for form's sake, if nothing else, he continued onward toward
the theatre.
He moved slowly along the sidewalk's edge, hoping the bill had fallen over the curb
As he prepared to cross the street to Birchwood Avenue,
Frank passed a man standing alone by a lamppost.
His face was dirty and unshaven, his clothes were in tatters.
His hands were wrapped in rags. Clutched in his fingers was
a pint of Kentucky bourbon, a cheap brand, and as my
grandfather walked in front of him,
the man tried to hide the bottle
Frank knew that had the breaks gone differently,
the man could just as easily have been him...
where
it might not be noticed. He was still in that crouch staring intently
at the concrete,
when a voice spoke to him from over his shoulder. Frank spun around.
when a voice spoke to him from over his shoulder. Frank spun around.
"Lookin' for something?"
It was the man with the cheap bourbon.....
He
was still leaning against the lamp post. My grandfather shifted his
weight uneasily
and tried to explain, but he was embarrassed and disheartened and tired and he could
not speak.
and tried to explain, but he was embarrassed and disheartened and tired and he could
not speak.
"Forget it," said the man with the bottle. He took a swig, winced and wiped his mouth
with his sleeve.
with his sleeve.
"Anyway," he went on, "I figured you'd be back."
He lifted one worn out leather shoe with a flapping sole from the sidewalk. There was
something beneath it.
something beneath it.
"Merry Christmas," said the man.
It was the twenty-dollar bill.
Darkness
had chased away the last light of day, my grandmother peered through
the
frosted windowpanes into the blackness, but it was her daughter who first saw the two fig
ures, dimly fit by the streetlights, trudging through the snow and slush. Out of the silence
of a snowfall, came the sounds. It was the sound of two grown men singing Jingle Bells,
at the very top of their lungs.
frosted windowpanes into the blackness, but it was her daughter who first saw the two fig
ures, dimly fit by the streetlights, trudging through the snow and slush. Out of the silence
of a snowfall, came the sounds. It was the sound of two grown men singing Jingle Bells,
at the very top of their lungs.
On Christmas Day, the Montforts had a guest for dinner.
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