text: Max Evans tugged on his blanket falling off his shoulder, and pulled it closer. He sat in front of his laptop like he did most Saturday mornings - writing and working on his book, trying like hell to get out of the funk he was in; grunting through trying to find the right words. He stopped, put his head in his hands and sighed. He turned around to look out the window of his sixth-floor apartment behind him, watching those in the courtyard: a couple walking hand in hand, an elderly man feeding pigeons, and kids playing in the park. People seemed happy even in the cold fall weather; anything that would jar a thought, image, and something to get him out of the writer’s cramp he had been feeling for two weeks. He turned to take a drink of his coffee when he looked across the room; an envelope slipped under the front door, followed by the shadow of feet left behind by the one who left the inquiry. He paused mid-sip and then eased his mug on the desk. He leaned forward so as to not make a sound. He got up and walked over carefully, wondering if the person who just slipped it under was still there. He gently pressed his ear to the door, only to hear the elevator bell ring, and the doors close. An uninvited guest was something Maxx wasn’t in the mood for, but figured if things were going to get weird, it would have happened by now. He reached down to pick it up. It was a perfectly square and rigid envelope, like an invitation or thank-you size. He walked it back to the desk and opened it up with his pocket knife; sliding out a card with the initials JH on the front, a medium thin black border all around the front of the card. Max opened it up and started reading the rough and jagged letters. My dearest Maxwell, It has been a long time since I last saw you, well, since you last saw me. I remembered you as a child, before you would even have any recollection of me. In fact, I am quite positive that your father has never mentioned me, and in many ways, I fear that you don’t even know I exist. I attended his viewing and funeral, but kept to the shadows, so as to not disturb your mother. Let’s just say your mother never really liked me; I don’t blame her, didn’t like me either. But I have been watching you from your window from time to time. Oh, no need to close those curtains now. For when you have received this, I have probably been deceased for several days. But I digress. I have noticed some things about you that frankly worry me. I know that I, though dead, can help you and enrich your life in some way. To show you things, magical things that may benefit you in your future. Why, you may ask? Because no matter how many times you get kicked down, you always get up. You try, despite all of your failures; and I admire that. You remind me of my younger self - not attempting to scare you the most, doesn’t it? I know that you are struggling with that book of yours. I have read much of it, and it has promise and I like the story; especially the line, “As for me, I am plagued with a great many distant things; to ride the hidden lands from coast to coast.” Which sounds eerily similar to Moby Dick, so you might consider revisions. I’m sure prison doesn’t suit you, and you’re too poor to survive the legalities. I possess a large inheritance that I have no one to give to. And it can all be yours. But there is one catch. You have to complete a task for me, after which you will be given a key, along with the address to my flat. Fail, and we both lose. But I am confident you will make the right choice. Sincerely, “Uncle Jim” He sat there, really not knowing what to say. Who is this guy, and why now after all these years? How did he read my book since it’s not even written yet with the exception of a few chapters? He picked up the phone and called his mom. No answer. Just her chipper voice on the other end, embedded in silicon. He called again; then a third time. No answer. Max slammed the phone down, grabbed the card and flipped it over. “Father knows best. And it’s best to bring lilies.” Joshua 6:4 Max read it over and over trying to make sense of this clue. After frantically searching for the bible his father gave him years ago, he dusted it off to find Joshua 6 verse 4, hoping that another clue would be in the pages. But, when he thumbed through it, it read: “And seven priests shall bear seven trumpets of rams’ horns before the ark. But the seventh day, you shall march around the city seven times, and the priests shall blow the trumpets.” He sat back at his desk and scratched his head, picking up pieces in this mysterious note. About a half hour went by, and realized that it was Saturday, which would be the seventh day. So, whatever he had to do was today. He could tell time was running short. Lilies were a popular funeral flower, and it was pointed out that father knows best, not the show in particular, but... then it hit him. He had to go see his father, visit his grave. ---- It’s been a long time since he visited his dad’s grave on the other side of town. But, if nothing came of it, it would not be a loss at all. On the way to the cemetery, he picked up some lilies at the local flower shop along the way, the whole time thinking about what type of things “Uncle Jim” had said he needed to learn. Max sighed and stepped out of his truck with flowers in hand; gritting his teeth as the wind and cold air whipped him in the face. The cemetery was empty and quiet except for the occasional crunch of the fallen leaves below his feet from the few trees still left on the property. His father’s grave was in the back away from others, just sitting there alone, and cold. The stone was covered in moss and dirt. He hung his head; sorry that he never came out to clean it. A flood of emotions ran through his mind, and even thinking that, as weird as this note was, that his dad would meet him there alive and well. But that wasn’t the case. He stood at the foot of the plot. A tear began to form, and then traveling halfway down, he brushed it aside. It made his heart glad to bring flowers; something he would have never thought to do on his own. Max stooped down and placed the flowers in the metal vase; the lilies tilted at all angles, one falling out. Annoyed, he took the flowers out and tried again. He removed the cylinder. What in the world must be stuck inside? He turned the vase over and smacked the bottom to jar whatever was in there, loose. Out came a roll of bills. He gasped and fell backwards; his widened eyes staring at it on the ground. Max got up slowly and looked around, to make sure no one was watching. He looked inside the vase and found a second, and third wad, just like the first; all one-hundred-dollar bills. He took the money in his hand and thumbed through it; which he could only guess was about $7,000. His heart beat heavy, and thought of the bills he could pay off, and get the bill collectors off his back, not to mention heat in the apartment would be nice too. He started to whisk back to the truck, then halted halfway. Something’s not right , he thought, and reached into his pocket to view the bible verse he jotted down on the card. He sat there, thinking for a minute. “Walk around seven times,” he said to himself. “Around the gravesite, or the cemetery?” Turning around he slowly walked back to his father and walked around his grave. There it was, taped to the back of the stone, was a note in a plastic Ziploc®. With hesitation, he removed it, and read the note. Dearest Max, I assume if you are reading this, you found the small fortune. If not, it’s obvious you didn’t buy flowers. It makes my heart glad to see that you received it. But, don’t thank me just yet, for you may hate me; but this money is not for you. I need you to do something for me. I need you to give this away. All of it. But my instruction is clear--give no less than $100 and no more than $1000 to a single individual. The choice is yours to whom you bless. But all I ask is that you pray, and use wisdom as to whom you should receive. Sincerely, “Uncle Jim” Max’ heart shrunk, and he felt deflated, and almost light-headed as he collapsed onto the ground beside his dad. He felt just as cold, but then hot as his blood boiled, face flushed. He turned the note over and over, with no other instructions, he crushed it in his fist and threw it at his father’s stone. “Screw that! I’ve had enough,” Max yelled. “No, not doing it. I’ve spent much of my life helping others and look where it got me. Nowhere!” He jammed the money in his coat, got up and started walking away. But he could feel the tug on his heart, and looking back at his dad, his head sunk. “What would you do, old man?!” he yelled at his father. “Think, think, think,” he said squinting his eyes and tapping his head with one of the wads. A few minutes later he grimaced, “You’re right. Go for it. You always said to go for broke.” Max walked back to his truck, got in and laid his head on the steering wheel and sighed. He looked down at his watch; 4:20 pm. Too late to do anything about it now. And so, he went home. ----- Over the next several days, Max gave away all the money. To some he only gave a hundred. To others he gave more, according to each his or her need. Many times, he found himself listening to people’s conversations so as to glean information to see if they would be a good match. Even that woman who was mean to the clerk of the grocery store when her card wouldn’t work and it changed her tone completely. But with each person he gave, he took the time to learn more about their story. He talked with them, and spent some time listening to their problems, their dreams, and how many of them really prayed for help. With each one he gave, his heart grew warmer and less heavy, not thinking about his own problems, but considering others for once. He never was a people person before; hiding in his loft looking down at the world. But now he sat in the park, watching people closer. He smiled listening to conversations, and prayed silently to himself that God would help them. ----- Several weeks had passed since he gave the last of his newfound treasure away. He had no regrets, and agreed with his soul that it was better to give than it was to receive. He walked to the park from his loft and sat down at the usual spot. Bethany, and her little girl, Ashley, walked over towards him, shortly after sitting down. “Hi, Max,” said Bethany. “An elderly man asked me to give this to you.” Little Ashley made eye contact with Max and reached out her hands and held an envelope - quite like the others. “Why, thank you. I had been expecting this for a few days now. I’m glad you found me,” as he smiled and accepted the envelope from the child. He stared at the envelope and a flood of emotions came to him. But it wasn’t the usual anger that he felt, but more relief. He smiled sheepishly, for part of him wanted to read it; the other wanted to burn it. “Everything ok?” Bethany tapped him on the leg to wake him from the trance. “Oh, sorry. Everything is good. If you will excuse me, I should probably read this in private. It could be bad news.” He got up and started to walk across the soccer field, the crunch of the frozen grass beneath his feet. Dear Mr. Evans, Mr. Hothorne regrets not being able to write this last note. He suffered much in his last days. But he wanted me to give you this among other things. I have been watching you closely, and I know Mr. Hothorne would have been proud of you. Please come to his flat as soon as possible, because I am in the middle of packing and will be moving soon. The address is easy. It’s directly above yours. See you shortly, Mr. Hawthorne’s Nurse, Robert. Max paused and stood in the middle of the playground, looked down, around, and down again, and smiled. Emotions came in like a flood. He didn’t know what to think, but no matter what crossed his mind, they all led him to go immediately to meet Robert. He turned around to walk towards the direction of his condo, when he saw a flash of him through the window, staring down at him, and walked away. He hurried up his pace, having so many questions, he wanted them all answered. Would he know the answers to the questions--especially the “Uncle” one. As the elevator went up, so did his excitement. The doors opened, and it was like being on his floor, without the Christmas decorations on the doors of Mrs. Beachwood and Mr. Hamm. He walked over to the door that he would normally go to one floor below, and by mistake, tried to turn the handle. “Ugh, not your apartment dummy.” He realized now that he was on the other side of the door, casting the shadow into their living room, with the one inside wondering who it could be. But he knows, for he summoned him, through letters left unfinished. The door opened. A slender older gentleman answered. “Robert, I presume?” Max asked. “Hello Max. I already know who you are,” Robert said with a smile. “I’m sure you have many questions; come inside,” and he motioned Max to do so. He walked through the entryway, and the inside was beautiful--nothing like his condo below. Every wall that would have been bare in the rooms below were taken up by bookshelves full of books. The entire place looked like a library on the inside. To the furthest part of the room, where his desk would be, was a desk much nicer than his. As cluttered as this dwelling was, it was tidy, and clean. “I have a few questions,” Max said. “For starters, who is Jim Maxwell?” “He was a good friend of your father’s from prep school,” Robert said with a smile on his face. “Your dad was a good man. I liked him.” “I was wondering. I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning him before.” “Well, they had a falling out several years prior to your dad’s passing,” Robert, folding his arms, rocking back and forth. “O.K., but how...” “Did he read your book?” Robert laughed with a huge smile. He pointed towards the desk near the window. Leaning against the corner looked like a long tube. “I almost don’t want to give that away. But it was easy. It's a periscope. He used it to observe you. But then when he wanted to read your writing; it's how he was able to get your passwords. I admit, it's as creepy as it sounds. But he really did like your writing. That's what drew him to you." Max folded his arms and stepped back, rolling his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He looked around and gave the room another once-over. In the center, on the dining room table, there was an open-faced note with a key on top; two chairs pulled out. “These are for you,” Robert said, as he slid the note and key to Max. He picked up the letter and read on: My Dearest Max, I wish I could be there to give this to you in person. But I’m sure Robert will tell you about all that you need to know. Since you received this, I am pleased to let you know that this entire place is yours, and will be transferred to your name shortly. Robert is a very good judge of character, and a good man himself. You did what you were supposed to do, giving all the money away, without leaving any for yourself. You make an old man very proud. How do you feel? I can imagine you quite elated. My fortune is not of monetary value, for that will be given to Robert. It’s not much, but he deserves it for taking such good care of me the last few years. The cancer treatments took most of my wealth away. But the fortune for you is: this flat, which is paid for; every book, furniture, and piece of clothing, and jewelry. It’s all yours. Now you are a complete man--for the reason was this: there are just some things you can’t learn from a book. Humility, integrity, and love for others. Those are the greatest treasures of all. Sincerely, Uncle Jim