We pass through things temporal, that we finally lose
not the things eternal.
–– Prayer Book,
1662
Most of the sadness Leman Cummings
felt about the recent passing of his parents had to do with how little they had
to show for their existence on the planet. They left nothing of material value
despite their years of hard toiling in the textile mills of Lawrence,
Massachusetts. The elderly Cummingses had finally been forced to sell their
modest house in order to pay for their care in a local nursing home.
Leman had been able to contribute very
little to their upkeep, due to the low salary he was paid as a hand truck
operator on the shipping and receiving platform at a large appliance store. The
small amount he had managed to give them had all but emptied his savings
account, and his efforts to seek a better paying job were thwarted by his lack
of higher education. Although he had accumulated a significant number of
credits, he remained three courses shy of receiving his associates degree in
business from Northern Essex Community College.
What he possessed of his deceased
parents estate consisted of one small file container, a faded photo album, a few
dishes and pots that had seen better days, and two sets of worn sheets and
blankets that had been in the family since he was a child. With the exception
of a tired Naugahyde recliner and wobbly end table that Leman had added to his
collection, all of the Cummings’ old furniture had been either discarded or
taken by the Salvation Army. Afraid they
don’t do much to improve on this crummy apartment, thought Leman, surveying
his stark surroundings.
He had moved from his parents’
house three years earlier in an attempt to finally declare his independence and
begin his own life as an adult. However, for a number of reasons, he had continued
to spend at least as much time with his mother and father as he did in his drab
accommodations. For one thing, his mother was a good cook, and he didn’t like
making his own meals. Secondly, he could keep a watch on their declining health,
which, in the case of his father, was serious. And, as he had no real social
life, being with his parents helped mitigate his loneliness.
Leman’s relationship with a fellow
worker, Cary Boswell, had gone sour after a year and a half, and since then
he’d been in such a deepening funk about his life that he had actually
contemplated suicide. The needs of his ailing parents had kept him from doing
so, but in their absence the notion of ending his barren existence had
reasserted itself. Now, as he sat in the gloom of his cheap apartment, he
considered ways of taking his life.
Got
no gun, so that’s off the list. Death by
asphyxiation? But how do you do that without a gas stove? Jump out the window.
Only on the second floor though, so the best I’d do is break some bones and
hurt like hell. Pills . . . yeah, pills are good. Just go to sleep, and it’s
over. Could take mom’s old meds. Enough there to take down a wooly mammoth.
As Leman considered his options, he
opened the metal file container that he had removed from his parents’ house. He
had quickly scanned its contents before and been both touched and depressed by
a note addressed to him by his father:
Dear Son, I’m afraid our lives haven’t
amounted to much, but we’ve always
tried our best to give you what we could.
When you look at this ring, let it
remind you that we loved you with all of our
hearts. Dad (and Mom)
Ring?
What ring? Leman had wondered, digging through the box. Finally, he had dumped
everything it contained onto the floor. Amid the pile of papers, he spotted
what he hoped was the ring. There it is,
he mumbled, reaching for it and lifting it toward his eyes. The silver band contained
a black stone with what looked like a tiny diamond at its center. Was it Dad’s? Never saw it before. Why didn’t he ever wear it?
Leman attempted to put it on his
ring finger, but no matter how hard he pushed, he couldn’t get it past his thick
knuckle. Dad had such small hands, he
recalled. The ring failed to fit his pinky as well, being too lose to wear
without it slipping off. Maybe I can get
it sized to fit me, thought Leman, placing it in his pants pocket. Later in
the morning, he decided to take it to a jeweler to see if it could be adjusted
to his finger’s dimension. However, on his way to the mall, another idea
occurred to him. Maybe I could sell it.
Could be worth something. Sure could use the money. As soon as the thought
entered his head, he chided himself for considering it. It’s your father’s ring, Leman. His legacy to you. For God’s sake, that
wouldn’t be right.
Yet, the idea stuck and soon Leman found
himself at a local pawnshop. Let me just
see what it brings, he reasoned, entering the store.
“You wanna sell or pawn it?” asked
the middle age man behind a display case filled with all manner of objects,
including watches, bracelets, and rings.
“I don’t know. What will you give
me if I sell it?”
“It ain’t very valuable. Onyx with a
little diamond chip. Give you a hundred bucks, and that’s more than I should.
It’s old, so that might make it worth a little more.”
Leman thought about it for a
moment. “Okay,” he answered, surprised at himself for so readily opting for the
money.
On his way home, he tried to fight
off the rising guilt he felt for peddling what clearly had been a treasure to
his father. By the time he reached his apartment, he felt sick about it. I can’t believe I did that. Sorry, Dad. Your
son is such a loser.
Leman sat in his apartment with the
lights out, considering his shameless act and thinking about his parents and
their many kindnesses to him. After less than an hour, he decided to return to
the pawnshop and buy back the ring. Whatever
he wants, I’ll give him, resolved Leman, turning the lamp on. As he rose
from his father’s tattered recliner, his eyes fell on a shiny object on the end
table. What the . . .! Can’t be . . .
There before him was his father’s ring. How
. . .? He picked it up, and
carefully inspected it. It’s his ring,
but that’s impossible . . .
After his initial shock, Leman put
the ring in his pocket and returned to the pawnshop.
“I found this in my apartment. I
have no idea how it got there. I’m thinking I might have accidentally put it
back into my pocket and took it,” explained Leman, holding the ring before the
pawnbroker.
“Huh? What are you talking about? I
sold it right after you left. Some old guy came in and bought it. Paid two
hundred bucks for it. How’d you get it?”
“What was his name?”
“Don’t take no names.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He was old, like I
said. Had a mole on his chin and no uppers. You know, no teeth on top.”
Leman shuddered at the description.
His father had lost his upper plate a year before he died and had refused to
replace it because of the cost. And the mole the pawnbroker spoke of had always
bothered Leman, who had long suggested his father get it removed in case it
proved malignant.
“Where did he go?”
“Through that door,” replied the
pawnbroker, looking at Leman with growing irritation.
“So you don’t know anything else
about the person who bought this ring?”
“I told you everything I know,
buddy.”
Leman left the pawnshop and
returned to his apartment, all the while clutching the ring in his pocket. How could this happen? Was it my father’s
ghost? Incredible. That just can’t be. I’m losing it. Dad, what’s going on?
Once again, Leman sat in the
darkness of his apartment and pondered the day’s unsettling events. Eventually,
he drifted off to sleep. In his dreams, his parents stood over his crib smiling
at him lovingly, encouraged him as he attempted to ride his first two-wheeler,
watched with pride as he performed in a school choir, cheered him on at a little
league game . . .
When he awoke, he was filled with deep
gratitude for everything they had given him.
“I’m so grateful, Mom and Dad, for
all that you gave me and what you left me, too. Really sorry for selling your
ring, Dad,” said Leman, reaching into his pocket for it, but coming up empty
handed. Where the . . .? Don’t tell me I
lost it! He quickly reached for the
light switch. When the room brightened, he noticed that his father’s heirloom
was now on his ring finger . . . and it fit perfectly.
___
Michael C. Keith teaches college and writes fiction. You can find his website at www.michaelckeith.com
