The Canvas Bag....part seven

“ Yes, I have.” Bernie had gotten his voice back. He backed away from the table and stood erect. “ How could I not ? Look at yourself. You hardly work anymore, you’re putting on weight, your eyes look like you haven’t had a nights’ sleep in months. You’ve treated yourself like a murderer for nearly five years now Davey, and it’s starting to show. I’ve been waiting for the day that you would finally forgive yourself for all of it, but you’re getting worse, not better. So, lately I’ve resorted to the word of God. So yes…I’m the one responsible for the notes!”

“ You really think that guy was with the mob? This isn’t New York or Chicago Bernie. Why would the mob bother showing up in Fresno? “

“ You always change the subject when we actually talk about something that matters! You always want to talk about the little things, not the thing that is killing you.”

“ I think the mob is pretty big.”

Bernie dropped the subject and sat back down. A long moment of chilly silence passed between them. The longer it went on the heavier the air became. David knew that Bernie was right. He had never allowed himself an ounce of grace, not a single moment of forgiveness since the fire. Now, the money had only made it worse. Why had he of all people stumbled upon such a fortune? It was unfair beyond description, so unfair it bordered on the comical.

“Listen Bernie, I don’t know anything about any money in the park, so you can stop worrying. “

“ Who said it was money? “

David looked away and said nothing. Bernie asked no more questions. When he reached the door on his way out, Dave put his hand on Bernie’s shoulder and said, “ Leave it be Bernie. “ Three weeks passed. The man in the black suit never came back, and David had seemingly vanished. Bernie began to ask around and discovered that David hadn’t been on the corner in over two weeks. He worked up the nerve to pay him a visit at the boarding house. No one answered the door. Bernie reached for the knob and despite the clammy heat in the hallway, it was ice cold to the touch. He turned it and heard a click. David had left his door unlocked.
David’s room seemed to have its own atmosphere, everything seemed heavier inside than it had out in the hall. Bernie’s coat pressed down harder against his shoulders, his clothes seemed suddenly made of iron. The room seemed oppressive and sinister, like something not altogether of this world. The walls and ceiling were oddly pale blue and shimmering with streaks of silver that diminished as they got closer to the kitchen and fireplace. Bernie was shocked to find David in bed, shivering under icy covers, his face hot and streaked with sweat, and his eyes red-rimmed and vacant. He tried to revive him, calling out his name, but David was silent and burning with a fever. Bernie ran to the sink to run water on a rag. When he looked back at David he noticed what seemed to be an ice-encrusted box, blue and glowing , under the bed. Bernie had to wrap the dish towels around his hands to get a grip. It finally broke free and slid out from under the bed. Bernie could make out only books through the clear ice. But whatever on earth was wrong with this room was coming from this glowing blue box. He began to search the kitchen for something that he could use to break the ice. He needed a hammer and a screw driver but could find nothing, except a hard edged metal dust pan in the closet. Bernie knelt down beside the box and began to chisel through the ice. It was a slow and painful progress. David lay as still as the dead, making no sound and responding to none of the flying ice chips and scraping noises. Bernie’s hands had begun to bleed, dripping down onto the icy surfice and blurring it red. Suddenly the ice let out a loud crack and cleft into two big blocks, crashing to the floor and sliding away leaving a trail of blood and water. Bernie saw only books, amazingly dry books.

The Canvas Bag.....part six

Bernie’s was closed. A sign hung crooked on the door. Bernie’s was never closed at eight o’clock at night. David took the bus to Bernie’s neighborhood. He had eaten dinner there many nights after the fire. He would have to choose his words carefully. Bernie was a good man, but enough was enough. The door opened only a few inches and Bernie’s face looked past David as he let him in. Something was wrong. Bernie looked scared.

“Hey Davey. What brings you all the way out here?”

“Why is your place closed? I dropped in to have dinner and there was a closed sign on the door. You never close. And while I’m at it, I’ve about had it with these bible notes you keep leaving at my room.”


David felt ashamed as soon as he had said it. They might not even be Bernie’s notes and even if they were, Bernie was probably his only friend in the world. Bernie made no defense. He motioned for David to follow him into the kitchen. He turned off the light in the foyer and briefly walked down a short hall in total darkness, then flipped on a light switch as they entered the kitchen. David noticed that every window shade was drawn.

“I think I might be in trouble Davey.” Bernie’s voice was timid and shaky, hushed in an exaggerated way. “ I received a visit a few days ago at the diner from a large man in a black suit who spoke with some kind of accent. I had never seen him around before. Anyway, he was asking questions about the park, that since I was the guy who knew everything about the neighborhood, I should know everything about everyone who used the park. He said that he worked for a man who had lost something very valuable in the park. He wanted to know who I knew that used the park. Of course you immediately came to mind, you’re practically the only one I know who uses that park what with all of your reading and such. Of course I didn’t tell HIM that. But he was very insistent, said that it was very important to his boss that this thing was returned to him. I think he’s with the mob Davey. Before he left he said that if I helped him I would be handsomely rewarded.” Bernie was breathing heavier now, his eyes wider, fear palpable on his face. Then he got up and walked over to the pantry door, walked in and then returned with the cardboard box that David had miled to him.
“ I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when I got this in the mail yesterday…ten thousand dollars Davey! There was no note, no nothing. Just ten thousand dollars!! It had to be from the mob man. Who else do I know who would send me ten thousand bucks, even if they could?”

“ First of all, you need to calm down. Maybe it’s just a debt of gratitude from an old customer who you gave free meals to years ago who went on to strike it rich someplace and didn’t forget about you. There are probably fifty people or so who might fit that description. Maybe it’s Flannigan, overcome with guilt for not tipping you for twenty years. Who knows?”

“ Davey, tell me the truth. You’re in that park all the time. Do you know anything about this?”

David looked into Bernie’s eyes and wavered. Why did he have to be so earnest, so decent? All we like sheep have gone astray? Not Bernie. If he was ever going to unburden himself about the money it would have to be here and now. “You tell ME the truth…Have you been leaving bible verses in my mail slot?”

The Canvas Bag...part five

A week passed, then another. David managed to spend enough time in the fields so as not to arouse any suspicion, but he noticed that he wasn’t getting picked as often. The effort wasn’t there, and stronger, more desperate backs were always available. David was starting to feel more comfortable. He had been very careful. He had gone out one rainy day to Sunnyside and bought a radio. He placed it on his kitchen table and listened to baseball games from the Midwest. The Cardinals would come in on clear nights. Bernie had surprised him one night. It had rained three days straight and there was no work. Bernie stopped by to check on him. He had seen the radio but hadn’t said anything. He had been sure that it had been Bernie who had left the bible verse, but he had never mentioned it. Bernie was religious, but in a good way, out of some soft spot in his heart, not out of judgment. The day after his visit, there was an envelope in his mail slot with four dollars. David made the decision there and then to make a gift to Bernie. He took the bus across town to a post office in Clovis where he bought a small carboard box and a book of stamps. It had probably been dangerous to carry a ten thousand dollar bundle of cash in his jacket pocket on a public bus, but precautions had to be taken. He couldn’t allow the package to be traced back to him. The money fit perfectly snug in the box. He thought about writing a note but decided against it. David would be sure to be in Bernie’s for breakfast every morning for a while. But if Bernie was ten thousand dollars richer, nobody would ever have known by any change in his demeanor. Same old Bernie. Still, it had given David a feeling, something approaching joy, when he imagined Bernie’s face opening the box.

As the days passed, David began to notice the changes. He had put on a few pounds. He had become lethargic. Although the level of physical exertion in his life had been greatly reduced, he lacked energy and late in the day had to fight to stay awake. But no matter how tired he was, peaceful sleep was illusive. He longed for one good night of sleep, just one night without the dreams. No matter how many adjustments he made in his nightly routine, the dreams would roar to life as soon as he drifted off. They weren’t nightmares, just unsettling little scenes and always in color. Anna was in most of them. David had thought it would be different after the money, thought his spirit would begin to heal. It was better. There was better food, just no healing. The note in his mail slot this night said, “ Proverbs 16:25”….”There is a way that seemeth right to a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” David threw on his coat and headed to Bernie’s.

Canvas Bag...part four

The looming figure of Porfiry hovered in the sky like a Macy’s parade balloon looking down at Raskolnikov with knowing judgment in his eyes. There was no escape. The giant Porfiry moved overhead like a storm cloud blocking out the sun, shadowing Raskolnikovs’ every movement. His presence became leaden, suffocating. Finally he spoke…”All we like sheep, my dear Raskolnikov. All we like sheep.”

David awoke with a start, covered in sweat. His first thought was of the money. Was it still there or had it too been a dream? He jumped to his feet and dragged the heavy box from under the bed, madly digging through the titles until he glimpsed the neat rows of cash at the bottom. What time was it? He grabbed his watch from the nightstand. 5:20. Plenty of time to be on the corner in time. He got to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, breathing easier now. Would he really work today? It would be terribly hot, maybe the hottest day of the year he had heard someone say. There was a new reality, new facts on the ground, a swift reversal of the story of his life. There was no driving hunger. There was no force compelling him to fight for his survival. He had money now. He didn’t have to go without a decent meal, no more days of bread and water. He could now direct the course of his day from the commanding heights of plenty. It felt very good. But he couldn’t go crazy, mustn’t attract too much attention. He must be careful, never stop thinking.

It occurred to David that he could now pay bus fare. There was no need to walk clear across town. He would spend the morning in Sunnyside on the other side of town where he could eat wherever he chose and maybe buy some new clothes. He sure could use a decent pair of shoes. He grabbed a couple of fresh bills and folded them tightly. It was Christmas morning.

He ate pancakes and sausage at a place called the Sunnyside Café. Delicious. He bought two pairs of work pants, a new pair of boots and wool socks from department store. Then he saw the YMCA. He took the longest, hottest shower in history. Fresh and clean, he put on his new clothes and gathered up the old ones and stuffed them in the hamper with the dirty towels. Across from the YMCA was a movie theatre playing the new Hitchcock picture. He settled in the blood red chair with his buttered popcorn and delighted in Kim Novak. She was beautiful, alluring, although her character proved to be tragically devious. Nothing was ever as it seemed with her. Scotty never had a chance. For dinner, David found a steak place called Sherman’s. His porterhouse was cooked to perfection. He was careful not to take the bus back until it had gotten dark. It had been a wonderful day and when he arrived back at the boarding house, he removed a couple of letters from his mail slot and walked up the stairs to his room. He would sleep with a full stomach, and clean clothes to wear in the morning. He switched on the light on the nightstand and glanced at the letters. One was an advertisement and the other had no address of any kind, just his name...David in all capitol letters. Inside was a single slip of yellow paper. In ornate calligraphy were the words, “Isaiah 53:6”. Puzzled, David pulled one of the boxes from under his bed and found his old bible, the one his mother had given him when he was baptized. He found Isaiah in the table of contents. “ All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.”

The Canvas Bag.....part three

Low profile or not , he was terribly hungry. Now he had enough money to buy a porterhouse steak but all he really wanted was a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs and maybe some biscuits. But how was he going to pay for it with a one hundred dollar bill without attracting attention? He once again scurried through the box of books, jammed his hand down to the packs and slid out one bill. Once outside, the sun had finally burned through the low clouds and the fog was long gone. It was dripping wet hot, and David began to sweat through his t-shirt. He decided that he would walk across town and buy a bag of groceries at a store where nobody knew him. Then he would take the change back to Bernie’s and buy breakfast. It was a good plan. It was sensible. But it was awfully hot, and even though he had worked for ten hours in fields a lot hotter than this, for some reason, the bag of groceries got too heavy halfway back. Now that he had change, he could always buy groceries right down the street like he always did once he got back to his side of town. Besides, if he left this bag in an alley somewhere some hungry guy might stumble upon it and make a meal. It was another one of those mysterious ways that God was famous for. David smiled for the first time in months.

Bernie worked behind the counter of his own place and made it his business to give every regular a nickname. If a William came in he would become Billy, a Robert would be Bobby and David would always be Davey. This day Davey had Bernie’s complete attention.

“What..wait, you ordering eggs AND biscuits? You win the Lottery Davey? Hey everybody!! Davey won the lottery!”

David felt blood rushing to his face and hoped desperately that no one would notice. Luckily there were only a few customers in the place and he gathered his composure up tight within him and offered a reply.

“No, I most certainly did not win the lottery. You know me Bernie, I don’t even have enough money to play the numbers. Just spending my last dime on a good meal, that’s all.”

“Didn’t get picked today I suppose.”

“Actually I overslept”, David replied. For some reason Bernie always brought the truth out of him.

“Overslept? That’s not like you Davey. You feeling alright?”

I’m fine. Just slept right through, that’s all. It happens to everyone at some point.”


David hurried through the rest of his meal, anxious to leave Bernie before he blurted out the days’ events in complete detail. Bernie had missed his calling, should have been a detective. He had the kind of face that people didn’t want to disappoint. It didn’t seem right to lie to a man like Bernie Mann. After all, in David’s darkest hours after the fire, it was Bernie who came around to listen. It was Bernie who offered no advice but brought stew and bread and looked in on him every night. It was Bernie who had found him the room at the boarding house. Whenever it rained all week and there wasn’t any work, mysterious envelopes of small bills would turn up in David’s mail slot. Often it was only two or three dollars. David had no proof and needed none. It was Bernie, couldn’t have been anyone else.

That night David lay in the darkness listening for sounds in the street, sounds of squealing tires and violence but heard only the buzz of the street lamps. Maybe he should make a secret gift of ten thousand to Bernie. He surely was the only person he knew who deserved a windfall. He could think it through, make a plan of just how to get the money to him without giving himself away. David had started to feel the weight of the treasure at the bottom of his box of books after only one day. Maybe the money was meant to have been stumbled upon by someone else, someone more deserving, someone who hadn’t killed their family by being too lazy and too broke to spend twenty five dollars at the hardware store to repair a few faulty wires. David stared at the ceiling for hours until sleep finally came. He dreamt about Raskolnikov.

The Canvas Bag......part two

He looked up from the bag and down the street in both directions and saw nothing. The street lights had turned off and the mist had gotten lighter. In another couple of hours the sky would be pale blue and the heat would come. Glancing back down at the bag he noticed that the top was held together by a thin rope pulled tight through two black grommets and tied in a knot. He reached down to pick it up and the thing was lighter than he had expected and dry to the touch, so It hadn’t been laying there in the high grass for long. Maybe it flew out from one of the cars involved in the accident. Before opening it, David stepped back from the street into the protection of the trees. The knot was stiff and unforgiving . As he pulled and tugged at the rope he noticed how scratched and dirty his hands had become. They looked like they belonged to a much older man. Finally the knot began to loosen. He pulled back on the fabric and saw the soft green rectangles of money held together in one inch stacks by thin bands the color of grocery bags. There must have been 20 or so packets of money all with the portrait of Benjamin Franklin. David suddenly became aware of the beating of his heart. He quickly stuffed the bag inside of his sweatshirt along with Crime and Punishment and began to walk back to his room trying hard not to rush.

Back in his room, David locked the door with the dead bolt, the chain lock and then wedged his kitchen table chair under the knob. Then he tore off his sweatshirt, suddenly feeling hot and sweaty. His book tumbled onto the floor and as he stepped towards the bed he kicked it underneath without noticing. He turned the bag upside down and watched the money pour out and clump together on his unmade bed. For a minute or two he could only stare in amazement. He had never seen this much money in one place at one time in his entire life. He probably wouldn’t earn this much money for the remainder of his life if he lived to be a hundred. Before daring to touch it he closed the window and pulled down the yellow and cracked shade, cutting off his room from the outside world. He hovered over the money once again for a moment, then walked over to the sink ran himself a glass of water. Although it was warm, he drank it dry and was immediately thirsty again. Back at his bedside he picked up one of the packs of money, peeled back the edges and began to count. One hundred, one hundred dollar bills in each tight pack, ten thousand dollars. A years’ wages. He would have to spend day after day for an entire year bent over in the hot sun yanking cantaloupe off their vines to make this much money. Each pack was the same. Ten thousand dollar bundles of joy spread out all over his bed. Twenty five packs. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and not one nickel of it was his. This money belonged to someone. His gut told him that it was connected to the squealing tires and angry voices, and if it was, they would come for it. David raked it all back up into a pile and then shoved it back into the bag. He reached under his bed and slid one of the heavy boxes of books out and emptied them onto the floor. Fighting off a rising tide of panic, David then grabbed each pack of bills back out of the bag and began lining the bottom of the box with ten thousand dollar rectangles. Then he stacked the books back in the box on top of this, his long awaited miracle. He then balled up the canvas bag and placed it on the grate of his small fireplace. He then stuffed an old newspaper underneath it and set the bag on fire. As the flames began to rise the heat in the little room became intolerable. But David just watched the flames. Sweat began to drip off the end of his nose. He thought to himself that the money most likely was ill-gotten, probably belonged to some mafia types who had no business with it in the first place. Maybe this was God’s way of balancing the scales, taking from thieves and giving to a guy who desperately needed a break. After all, he had always heard that God worked in mysterious ways. As long as he was smart about it and didn’t draw any attention to himself by going out and buying fancy clothes and buying everyone drinks, he would be ok. He needed to keep a low profile.

The Canvas Bag.......a short story part one.

The day began in a milky shroud of fog. The humid air was heavy with mist and the street lights looked like distant moons. David sat on the edge of his bed feeling as thick and still as the elements. It was 6 o’clock and past time for him to be up if he had any hope of being chosen from among the pack for a day of labor. His life had become a daily test of fate, hanging on the delicate whim of the fat man with the clipboard. Some days he was chosen and would spend 10 hours picking watermelons or cantaloupe. Other days he would be passed over and spend his time trying to become invisible. He would wander around the city, keeping to back streets, waiting for a break, some sort of miracle that would deliver him. 6 o’clock. He wouldn’t make it in time, so today he would wander.

The only thing that had survived the fire was his car and the collection of books that he had strewn all over the back seat. A few years ago he had sold the car to a junkyard. Now all he had were the books. They were stored in boxes under his bed, all that remained of his old life. On the days that he didn’t get picked he would grab one and take it with him as he walked the streets. After getting dressed and eating the last bagel in the pantry, he picked up Crime and Punishment and left the boarding house, turning right at the intersection directly beneath his second story window. It was miserably humid and by the time he reached the park the mist had soaked him through. Dostoyevsky was safe inside his sweatshirt. David always guarded this last vestige of his old life with great care. At the park he found a bench sheltered from the mist by a thick Ficus tree. He sat down and opened the book. He needed a cup of coffee and something to eat more substantial than a bagel, but he had only 38 cents in his pocket. One bagel would have to do.

David read of poor Raskolnikov for perhaps the fifth time. It was one of his favorites. The guilt spoke to him. As he read, he fought with his memories, the only clear one that remained from before the fire. His wife and young boy were sitting at the kitchen table while David tended to dinner on the stove. Anna had never liked the old house. The plumbing was faulty, the roof leaked, and the wiring was a mess. If she plugged in any three things at once the breaker would trip, and they would be plunged into darkness. On this night in the kitchen David had promised to have an electrician come by and look into the wiring. He had gotten busy and forgotten. Eight days later the house had burnt to the ground while he was working the night shift. Four and a half years had passed and the only mental image that remained of his wife and child was their faces at the kitchen table while he prepared jambalaya in a heavy iron skillet

David heard what sounded like a backfire from a truck and then the angry screech of tires on the slick street behind the park. Another backfire. He turned toward the noise and could see nothing through the trees. Now several loud voices and the breaking of glass and the mangling of metal. David stood and walked briskly through the dense stand of trees that formed the southern boundary of the park. As he got close he heard an even harsher screech of tires and then silence. When he reached the street he saw broken glass, and the swirling skid marks on the wet street. Hidden in some high grass three feet from where he stood, he found the canvas bag.