The Shoebox

"Honey, will you please clean the garage this weekend? You've been promising me for months," Patty reminded her husband Cecil.

Cecil hung his head. He wanted to watch that ballgame today, but he had to admit that he had been promising and had not yet done it.  He looked up at her and replied, "Yes, honey, I'll do it today." He smiled as he thought about the fastest way to do it. Do I really go through things, or just toss it all and play dumb? "Well, you wanted it cleaned out," he'd tell her.

Box of heavy duty garbage bags in hand he began stuffing in small boxes randomly. He jumped a foot when Patty tapped him on the shoulder. 

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

 "You wanted it cleaned out; I'm cleaning it out."

"Those are the few things left of my mother's after the sale when she went into the nursing home. There are supposed to be family pictures in there somewhere."

"So, you're saying don't just toss it; look at it first." She nodded vigorously. He groaned. His recliner and the ballgame were getting further away by the minute. He looked up at her and saw her arms crossed over her chest as she stared at him. "All right!"

Cecil spent an hour giving cursory glances inside the boxes before he tossed them searching for important papers and photographs. He couldn't imagine what else she might want to keep. He finally came across one with a lock of hair tied up in a tiny pink ribbon and a tag that read Patty's first hair cut. "I can't believe she kept that in a shoebox," he muttered. There were other treasures from his wife's childhood in the box so he set it aside, thinking he'd surprise her and get her a proper container for the keepsakes. Then he found the photographs she wanted to keep and another box of papers he thought should have been in a safe deposit box. He shook his head at the thought that they had been sitting in his garage for two years. Finally he found several that actually contained shoes and tossed them. Hopeful that he had at last run out of 'keepers', he quickened his pace.

He was happily tossing the boxes into the large black bags when one fell and hit him on the foot. He swore as he hopped around on one foot. "I didn't know I'd need steel-toed shoes for this job." He picked the box up and realized it had been heavily taped shut. "Well, I guess the old girl didn't want that pair getting away," he commented, but then realized it weighed more than the other ones. He peeled off the tape and carefully opened it and then whistled loudly when he saw what was in it. 'Patty!" he called, "You have got to see this."

Cecil and Patty sat at the kitchen table and stared at the neatly banded stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills. First Patty started giggling and then Cecil smiled and then they started laughing.

"Where in the world did my mom get forty grand?" Patty asked.

"You'd have to ask her," he replied between chuckles.

"I doubt she remembers; she's got dementia," she pointed out. She picked up a stack and studied it. "Look at the date on here," she said fanning the bills, studying each one, a stack at a time. "1960. They were brand new. These are original bands."

"What were you? Five? Do you remember anything happening back then?" Cecil asked her.

"I was staying with my grandparents for a few years. They said she kept poor company and she let me stay with them rather than drag me around. She straightened up when I was probably nine and I went back to live with her and my step-dad. So, I don't know what happened with her in 1960."

"Sounds like we need to pay mom a visit," Cecil said.

"It's too late today. We'll go tomorrow. First, get back to cleaning out the garage, and check those boxes you were just randomly tossing!" Patty told him, getting up to start dinner.

"No kidding," Cecil said gleefully, as he stood and headed back to the garage, his ballgame forgotten.

"Hi mom!" Patty said, placing a vase of flowers next to her mother's bed. "How are you today?"

Her mother looked at her and nodded. "I'm good," she said. "Who are you again?"

"It's Patty, your daughter," she replied, closing her eyes.

"My daughter is little. She lives with her grandparents in Memphis," her mom said.

Patty squeezed back a tear. "Okay, so how old is she?"

"Six," was the reply. "I got a picture of her the other day. She is as cute as she can be, and into everything."

"Yes ma'am, six-year-olds usually are." Patty did a mental count in her head, 1962. I wonder if she can tell me about the money, she thought.

"What brings you here today?" her mother asked.

Patty thought fast. "Oh, my husband and I were going through some boxes and found one of yours. It has a lot of money in it."

Her mother closed her eyes a minute and when she opened them again she looked at her daughter. "Patty?"

"Yes, mom, it's me. I was asking about the box of money. Where did it come from?"

"You found my shoe box?" her mother asked.

"Yes, where did all that money come from? I can put it in an account for your care."

"Oh, no. You can't do that. As it is I have no assets so my care is low. If you come up with money for me, it will go up. That money is yours."

Patty's shoulder's sagged. "Mom, thank you, but I still need to know where it came from."

"I believe it was from a bank robbery," she said matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"I had a boyfriend. Statute of limitations is up; no one was hurt. It should be free and clear." She yawned and went to sleep as though sedated.

"Mom?" Patty sighed. Her mother would be 'gone' again when she woke up, so Patty went home.

A telephone call started Patty and Cecil out of their sleep. The nursing home called to tell her mother had passed away.

"We'll never know who they robbed. Now what?" Cecil asked.

Patty gave him and exasperated look through her tears. "Ask the bank," she said at last. "I have to bury my mother. It's not hers. She gave it all to us two years ago."

"I don't know what to tell you," the bank manager told Cecil. "It's been fifty-three years. I'll contact the FBI and see if they have anything on it. They probably have the serial numbers somewhere. Meanwhile, I wouldn't spend it."

Cecil pulled out his safety deposit box key. "Just get my box and it will sit there until this is straightened out."

A week later, an FBI agent knocked on their door. He introduced himself.

"How are you? Won't you sit down?" Patty offered.

"First, let me express my condolences," the agent said.

"Thank you. What can you tell us about this robbery my mother mentioned?"

Patty and Cecil stared at him expectantly as he sat.

"Well, your mother was correct; the statute of limitations is up. It was from a bank in Nashville, Tennessee that got robbed in June 1960. There insurance paid them for the loss."

"Are they going to want paid back?" Cecil asked which earned him a swat from Patty.

"No," the agent told them. "The company went out of business. As soon as they paid the bank there wasn't anything to recoup for them so they were out of it other than wanting to see the guilty parties go to jail."

"There was more than one person involved?" Patty asked.

"Yes, he had a female driver. They never identified either of them. It might have been your mother."

Patty sat back on the sofa and turned pale. "Oh heavens!"

"Do you know who she might have been with back then?" he asked.

"No, I have no idea," Patty answered. "I lived with my grandparents and I never knew any of her friends. If they did know; they're gone and won't be any help now."

"That's too bad. We would like to know what happened to the other forty thousand," he told her. He stood up and shook their hands. "It was a pleasure meeting you. The money is yours," he added.

Cecil and Patty looked at each other and back to the agent. "Thanks?" Cecil said, and walked him to the door.

"I'll bet those pictures of your mom's has the guy," Cecil told Patty over dinner. He retrieved the box and scattered the black and white photographs on the table, flipping them over to check for a date.

Patty spotted one and turned it over. "It was my father." She said, sighing. "Some family tree I have."