Benefaction

Naumann slits an envelope to a blank both sides page of paper holding in its folds the surprise of a clean crisp one hundred dollar note.

An overlooked thin letter?

A tucked-away tiny card?

The empty envelope bears his name and address in computer-generated typeface on a stuck-on label, nothing more, nothing else.

Where posted?

When?

The stamp says local.

Posted yesterday.

A fan! says his wife.

Naumann is a non-best-selling writer.

This wife, his second, does kindergarten work.

Every bit helps.

Let’s go out! she says, as Naumann, who loves her dearly and all the rest of it, knew she would, and who could blame her?

O.K., he says, but an uneasiness surrounds.

The hundred he spends is his own hundred, not this one.

This one isn’t his yet.

Not properly.

A second shoe, Naumann feels, has still to drop.

Which it does.

Another envelope, as before.

The typeface.

The label.

The folded blank page.

Except it’s five notes this time.

Five hundred.

Cold cash.

Naumann doesn’t tell his wife.

Something says don’t.

Yes, of course he loves her dearly and all the rest of it, no secrets, life shared, a miracle when he found her, how his life was before, you have no idea.

How to explain it.

He can’t.

He doesn’t.

He just doesn’t.

Another envelope arrives.

A magazine editor phones.

Japan, he says. The kids. The way they dress up. The samurai spirit alive and well in the streets of Tokyo. Your cup of tea if ever. Five days.

I’m not sure, Naumann says.

Is it the money? the editor asks. I’m easy. We can discuss the money.

Naumann has a good relationship with this editor, has worked with him many times before.

It’s not the money, Naumann says.

This time it’s a Jiffy bag.

Fat.

The postman has to leave it on the mat.

Naumann arranges a lunch with his accountant, their usual cafe, outside, a table in the street.

Naumann arrives early.

Sits.

Stares.

The parade of people.

Challenges every passing face.

Someone is sending me money, he says.

A jolly fellow, this accountant, as he should be, his main business the fiscal management of millionaire sportspeople, that’s him on television you’ve seen championing his hot clients, Naumann with his scale of earnings privileged to be so represented.

Naumann now shakes his head.

No, no, he says. You don’t understand. Anonymous. No name. I don’t know who it is.

Cash money? his accountant asks, the card of his face flipping to earnest, questioning, shrewd.

Naumann nods.

So what are we talking here? his accountant asks, breaking out his television smile. Offshore? Family trust?

Naumann is not deaf to the mocking tone.

Five hundred and ninety thousand, he says flatly. I left home early this morning. Before the postman. There could be more.

They might or might not need her at the kindergarten after next week, depends, sorry, they’ll let her know.

She chews a corner of her top lip, a habit she has Naumann has always loved, his little rabbit, he calls her.

He tightens his mouth.

Looks down.

Feels irked, irritated.

Doesn’t say anything.

Four envelopes this time, held together, clumped, a strong red rubber band.

Naumann wakes in the night.

Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

What do you want from me?

The car is making a funny noise.

It’s the gearbox.

Big money.

Let’s leave it for the moment, Naumann says to the mechanic at his garage. I mean, it’s going to blow up? What’s the worst? It’ll kill me? I’ll die?

They’re eating dinner.

Are we all right? she says.

Out of nowhere.

Reaching across to cover his hand.

Naumann covers his confusion quickly with a smile.

What he hopes is a smile.

Sure, he says.

She squeezes his hand.

I’ve got some money put away, she says. Let’s go away.

Club Med.

New Caledonia.

An upstairs balcony.

The silver shine of the sea.

Naumann opens his eyes to a white envelope slipped under the door.

Hergesheimer Hangs In, a collection of Morris Lurie’s stories, some of which first appeared in Quadrant, has just been published by Arcadia/Press On.