Howard's Fortune:

“We’re finished here; the trailer factory is hiring,” the foreman said. He shook my hand and gave me my final check. Just like that, I was unemployed.

At home, I tossed the mail on the coffee table and called my girlfriend. “Jennifer. The building is finished and they don’t have any more work, so I just got laid off.”

Sarcastically, Jennifer said, “At least you have the summer off. Now you can do all those things you claim work gets in the way of.” Then she hung up on me.

With my uncertain financial future looming over me, I got out my Smith-Corona and started writing a resume. After listing my recent construction job, I wrote out a list of things I had done and places I had worked since I returned from Vietnam six years before.

Flashing back to my tour, I wondered how I managed to come home with all my appendages. The mortar round that landed near me planted shrapnel in my side. Friendly fire, so I didn’t get put in for a Purple Heart.

“Too much paperwork,” bitched the lieutenant. “Suck it up, you’re going back to the world.”

Flat on my back in the hospital, I managed a middle-finger salute.

Sometimes a fragment pinches me under my arm. I try and imagine the shape based on the pain it inflicts. The combat surgeon told me he didn’t get all the tiny bits, but from the way it has awakened me in the middle of many nights, my guess is a bigger hunk was overlooked amid the blood. I don’t stare at the scars, but I don’t take off my shirt often either.

After I wadded up my attempts at resume writing and tossed them in the trash, the mail caught my attention. A power bill, a rent due notice, plus an envelope I assumed to be an advertisement. I set them aside and browsed the cover of the July issue of Popular Science magazine. An article by Wernher von Braun: “Life on Mars? The Search Begins.” The cover also featured the new Kodak EK6 Instant Camera and an article about solar architecture.

Next, I wrote a hundred-seventy-five-dollar check for the rent. Since I had thirty days to pay the power bill, I put it aside. So, I picked up the shiny gold envelope with the handwritten blue text. Too fancy to be a bill, and my name, too formal: Mr. Lawrence Elliot Kensinger. I’ve always gone by Larry. I figured it must be just a stupid advertisement. The return address read, “McMillan, Prichard & Rutledge, Attorneys at Law, Houston, Texas.” I had the impression of someone trying to sell me a funeral plot. Then, I opened it. I’m not sure how many times I read the letter or how long I shook afterward. I suspect it was a long time.

Over the phone I read the letter to Jennifer, who rushed over. After nearly bowling me down and smearing lipstick on me, she trotted into the bathroom and put her toothbrush next to mine. She reached in her purse, shook out a pair of black crotchless panties she bought from Frederick’s of Hollywood, and waved them in my face—my lack of employment completely forgotten. Billionaire Howard Hughes had written me into his will.

All during sex, Jennifer, who insisted on being on top, uttered things she wanted to purchase with my future wealth. She must have thought of me as the sole beneficiary and herself as the holder of a no-limit credit card. Her shopping spree consisted of a Boeing 747, the contents of Tiffany’s jewelry shop, a hundred-foot yacht with a helicopter, a brand new 1977 Mercedes 450 SEL, a penthouse in New York City, a house on the beach in Malibu, Richard Simmons for a personal trainer, and a private concert by Queen. In less than a week, I would be broke.

That’s when I learned Jennifer lacked a sense of value. If we continued our relationship, I would need to keep my credit card away from her. Besides, if I was going to spend money on a private concert, it would be Fleetwood Mac.

The letter instructed me to call a number, but it was Friday evening, so I had to wait until Monday morning to find out how much of Howard Hughes’s riches would fit in my bank account.

The ever-hopeful Jennifer made two trips to her apartment so she would have enough clothes and supplies to be with me when I phoned the attorneys.

Monday, I called but never spoke to McMillan, Pritchard, or Rutledge; instead, I spoke to a secretary who needed to confirm my mailing address for a delivery I would receive within ten working days. Jennifer made another trip to her apartment. This time she returned with a pair of houseplants she named Fred and Ethel. Since the duo needed to share a shelf, Jennifer shoved some of my knick-knacks into a box and stuck them in the closet.

My bathroom took on a new look. A multitude of tubes, jars, and bottles of colorful lotions covered the counter. I corralled my few toiletries as best I could.

The following week, Tuesday, at eight thirty-five p.m., right after the Laverne and Shirley theme song and opening credits were showing on my nineteen-inch Sony’s screen, the doorbell rang. A man in a brown uniform thrust a clipboard at me when I opened the door. He told me to sign for the golden envelope he clutched in his other hand.

I’m not even sure if I signed my name or just scratched something on the line. As if I were in a trance, the clipboard went in his hand and the letter in mine. Before I realized it, he vanished down the stairs, and I found myself sitting in my chair holding the envelope with both hands, staring at my name.

About to have some kind of seizure or burst into flames, Jennifer barked, “Open it! Open it! Open it!”

The envelope proved extra tough, like cardboard, and whatever adhesive sealed it resisted my efforts. Once I worked a fingernail under the flap, the thing came apart. I unfolded the note and a three-page letter. As I read the note, a fog drifted over me, and I had to reread the single paragraph three times. Part of the problem was Jennifer prancing and screeching, “Hurry, Larry! Hurry!”

Once I grasped the gist of the document, I started laughing, and for the life of me, I couldn’t stop. Tears flowed from my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life.

Having a fit, Jennifer yelled, “How much? How much?”

Still chuckling, I handed the note to her. Through my watery eyes, I studied her face as she read. Never, even in combat, had I witnessed a transformation so absolutely radical. If she were armed, I think she would have shot me dead. Instead, she pranced around me and screamed, “You’re a loser! And worthless! I don’t know what I ever saw in you! You’re a terrible lover! I never want to see you again!”

As she stomped off, I didn’t move a muscle. While she blew through the apartment, glaring at me, I stared at my inheritance. It was taped inside the envelope: an 1889 Indian Head penny. Every so often, I glanced up as she stacked her belongings by the door. As soon as all of her things were congregated, she stood holding Fred and Ethel. Ignoring her, I read the date on the three-page handwritten letter: January 4, 1976. After a couple hums and ums, Jennifer realized I wasn’t about to help her, so she scooted everything into the hall herself. I glanced at her a couple times but focused on the letter from Howard Hughes. My door slammed. At the time, I didn’t realize I had experienced my first lucky penny moment.

From the time I received the letter informing me I was mentioned in Howard Hughes’s last will and testament, I asked myself, Why me? Now, I had an answer. In 1918, thirteen-year-old Howard Hughes was selling newspapers on the corner of Austin and Capitol Streets in downtown Houston, and my grandfather gave him the penny. That happened minutes before twenty-nine-year-old Elliot Alan Kensinger boarded a bus that led him to the war in France.

According to Mr. Hughes, my grandfather told him how his life had been a wonder. He had met and married the woman of his dreams and had earned a prosperous living in a respectable profession as a plumber. The penny of his birth year was gifted to him by his Aunt Shirley when he was a boy, and he kept it with him always; it had brought him nothing but luck. But with the war, my grandfather sensed his luck running out, so he passed the lucky penny to young Howard Hughes. A boy, scratching a living on the street. Later, as an adult, Howard Hughes spent thousands of dollars and years of searching to find a descendant to return the penny when his luck was running out. The only clue Howard had to go on was the name the sergeant at the bus called out that turned the soldier’s head—Kensinger—and Howard’s uncanny memory of his face.

Suddenly, I didn’t care that I was unemployed or that my girlfriend left me or that I only inherited a penny from billionaire Howard Hughes. I was proud of my grandfather. The one who died in a trench in France in 1918. My father’s father.

Back then, my grandmother didn’t know she was pregnant. My grandfather shipped out, and she never knew if he received the letter she wrote because she got a knock on the door from the parson, who had a telegram informing her that her husband had been killed. She ended up raising my dad by herself. I miss my grandma, who died when I was still in grammar school. Not many years after that, my mom died from breast cancer, and after I graduated high school, my dad died, too. From a broken heart is what I figured, but they said a stroke killed him. They’re all gone, and now I’m the last of the Marion County Oregon Kensingers—at least the ones in Mt. Angel. But who knows, maybe there are some that aren’t listed in the phone book.

Something Jennifer and I had agreed on—while we were still together—was keeping the news secret. The next day, I went out to make a few copies of my resume and get donuts and coffee at the IGA before heading to the trailer factory in Woodburn to fill out an application. I had to wait for another customer to use the copy machine, so I checked my spelling and afterward hoped that whoever read it couldn’t spell any better than me.

At the checkout, Margaret, one of the veteran checkers, chatted up a woman writing a check. She kept glancing over at me every so often. At my turn I set my coffee on the counter and I handed her the bag. Her square face got round and her eyes squinted when she said, “Mornin’ Larry.” She rang up two maple bars and a medium black coffee. “That will be a dollar twenty-five. Are you sure you can afford this? I heard you only inherited a penny.”

Jennifer must have stopped by the IGA before me.

Of all the things I could have said when I handed her the exact change, I simply said, “Margaret. The day before Howard Hughes died, he wrote me a three-page letter with his own hand. To me, that makes that penny worth a fortune.”

While her lips sucked in, mine split my face in an upward grin. I went out to my car to eat breakfast.

On the first bite of my second maple bar, a tap on the glass startled me. I spilled some coffee on my jeans. The produce manager, Bob Read, a friend from high school, grinned at me. I cranked down my window.

“Hey Larry, can you do me a favor?”

“What do you need?”

“Can you enter this contest for me?” Bob handed me a four-by-six form. “Apex Brewery is giving away two tickets to The Who. They’re going to be playing in Portland on October thirteenth at the Memorial Colosseum. Since I work here, I’m ineligible.”

“No problem,” I told him. Bob walked away whistling. After I finished my breakfast, I filled out the form. When I dumped my trash in the can in front of the store, I spotted the contest display inside and dropped the slip in the slot. As the entry fell in, I became aware of the warm wet spot on my jeans. I grabbed some napkins at the self-serve coffee station and blotted as much as I could.

Living in a town the size of Mt. Angel most of my twenty-nine years, it was hard to go through town without running into someone I knew or who recognized me. I pulled out of the parking lot and spotted Tanya Powell across the street. She lived next door to me before I went into the Army. In my sophomore year and her senior year, she gave me rides to school in her Datsun roadster convertible.

She recognized me and waved. One of those worry waves, so as soon as the pickup on the street passed, I pulled over to her.

“Larry,” sobbed Tanya. “Maggie ran off. She got scared by firecrackers. She’s been gone all night. Could you keep a lookout for her?”

I saw she had a handful of flyers. I said to her, “I’ll be happy to put up a few posters for you.”

“Thank you, Larry. Here.” She handed me two flyers and some thumb tacks. Before I pulled away, I said, “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

As soon as I spoke, a warm sensation spread over my pocket. The one where I stashed the penny, but also the spot I spilled coffee on, so at the time I didn’t think about it.

So I set off to pin the posters near my apartment complex a few blocks away. My gas gauge leaned past empty, so I stopped at the Terrible Herbst. Toby, the gas pump kid, came up to me sporting a grin. I rolled down my window.

“Hey Larry. Did you see my new rims?” He pointed to his ’66 Mustang. “They’re real mags.”

“Very cool,” I replied. “Go ahead and give me five bucks worth of regular.”

I handed him five ones.

The gas flowed, Hall & Oates’ song “She’s Gone” played on the radio, and Toby squeegeed my windshield. Daydreaming, movement caught my eye in the rearview mirror. A dark brown shadow trotted by on the opposite sidewalk. Maggie wandered near the dumpster beside the thrift store.

As soon as Toby replaced the gas cap, I drove over to her. When I stepped out of the car, the chocolate lab lowered her head and wagged her tail like a windmill in a gale. I held the passenger door of my ’68 Malibu open, and she climbed in. After I buckled up, Maggie gave me a few licks.

Driving back, I didn’t find Tanya where I had seen her last, so I drove slowly around several blocks. On Oak Street, I spotted her pinning a poster to a utility pole. I drove up; her eyes brightened when she spotted Maggie in the passenger seat. After she leashed Maggie, Tanya came around to me.

“I cannot thank you enough.”

“It was nothing. I saw Maggie when I was getting gas.”

“Well, just the same…. Say, have you found work yet?”

“No, I was just heading to the trailer factory.”

“I was thinking about you this morning and all the drawing you did in high school.”

“You were?”

“Yeah, because Benson Products is looking for a drafter.”

About to tell Tanya that I didn’t think they would hire someone without experience, something vibrated in my pocket. Automatically, I said, “Thanks, I’ll go there first. Silverton is closer than Woodburn.”

Over the years, I had known a few folks who worked at Benson Products. The parking lot had at least a hundred cars and pickups. I parked my Malibu in a visitor space. Before I got out, I checked the spot on my pants. Barely noticeable.

After I filled out a form, I handed over my resume. Even though the second hand on the clock moved, it didn’t feel like time was going anywhere. The manager’s face wrinkled and warped while he studied my resume. When he looked up from the paper, he fiddled with his horn-rimmed glasses. “Young man, you don’t have any drafting experience. From what I can see, except for your time in the Army, you haven’t held a job for more than nine months. And, you didn’t go to college.”

About to react, the spot on my pocket actually shocked me. Then, what I said to him just flowed out of my mouth.

“Well, Mr. Heathcliff, I like to think of my many jobs as learning experiences, the same as college classes. And any of those employers would give me an A for the work I did for them. The truth is, I applied for this drafting position because I have been drawing my whole life, and up until now, an opportunity to do so for a living has not presented itself.”

While I caught my breath, Mr. Heathcliff leaned back in his chair and relaxed his crinkled round face. He rose from his seat and said, “Come with me.”

He led me to an office with a drafting table. After setting up a sheet of paper on the board, he picked a metal part off of a shelf and handed it to me. “This is a bracket for a food processing machine. I’ll give you a half-hour to draw three views, half-scale, and give me an example of your hand lettering.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back to check your work.”

As I planted my butt in the drafting chair, I felt comfortable, like I belonged there. The tools were all familiar—I had used them in my mechanical drawing class in high school twelve years ago. With an engineering scale and a pair of calipers, I took measurements and in fifteen minutes finished the three drawings. For a sample of my hand lettering, I dimensioned the part and labeled the views. I also copied the Benson Products title block and signed and dated the drawing.

True to his word, Mr. Heathcliff came back to check my work. Though his face did scrunch while he studied the drawing, a smile punctuated his review.

“Larry, I am going to give you a try. The job pays based on experience, so I need to start you at eight dollars an hour.”

I think I smiled. That was already more than what the trailer factory paid.

“In six months, you’ll be eligible for a raise. How much will depend on your performance.” He looked me over and said, “We have a dress code. You’ll need to wear a collared shirt and tie. No jeans, sneakers, or sandals. Work starts at eight, but come in fifteen minutes early on Monday and fill out paperwork. Welcome to Benson Products.”

On the way home, I started wondering about the penny. Was it giving me signals? At a red light, two men crossed in front of me. Both of them were wearing suits and reminded me about the dress code. It dawned on me how sparse my wardrobe was—I didn’t even own a tie. The construction job’s final check paid the rent, the power bill, and my car insurance. The little I had left I hoped would feed me and the Malibu, but now I needed some clothes. The Fred Meyer in Woodburn would have something inexpensive.

With a half-dozen routes to Woodburn, at a four-way stop I had a sensation and I thought the penny told me to go left. A mile down the road, a jack-knifed semitruck blocked the highway. The only place to turn around was a truck farm holding a yard sale. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the racks of men’s clothes and colorful neckties waving in the breeze, so I parked next to the two other cars.

A short while later, the road cleared, but I headed home with two pairs of slacks, two long-sleeved shirts, one short-sleeved, and five nylon ties. All for nine dollars and fifty cents.

On Saturday, I drove to the laundromat with two pillowcases full. My apartment complex had a laundry room, but only two washers and dryers—and seldom did all of them work.

A while back, I started saving quarters in peanut butter jars. Without thinking, I dumped a handful in the pocket of my clean jeans. The same one with the penny.

There were two washers available, so I dumped my clothes in, added soap, and reached into my swollen pocket for some quarters. The pocket ripped open, and quarters ran down inside the leg of my pants, bounced off my shoe, and scattered on the checkerboard linoleum.

As I attempted to thwart the flow of coins by grasping the leg of my jeans, a cart squeaked behind me and a voice spoke. Sweet and sure, she asked, “Can I help?”

I don’t remember my answer because I think I stuttered when I faced her.

I squatted and started scooping up quarters. She placed several in the palm of my hand. I remember her golden bronze fingers like a hand model. Her nails were on the short side but painted a rosy pink. Her face had the same bronze tan with a sprinkle of freckles on her button nose and across her cheeks. Those big green eyes smiled along with her pink lips.

For a moment, I panicked. The penny had been in the pocket. Then the woman asked, “Did you lose a penny, too?”

Something profound occurred when she offered me my Indian Head good luck charm. Our eyes were locked on each other, and she held the one cent piece with a thumb and index finger; I retrieved it the same—the second my fingers touched the coin, time stood still. Considering she didn’t let go either, my guess was she felt something similar. Finally, she released the penny and stared at her fingers for a moment.

She asked me, “Are you Larry Kensinger?”

“Umm, yes, I am.”

“Do you recognize me?”

She seemed familiar; I stared at her praiseworthy face until it came to me: Linda McCune, my high school friend Dave McCune’s younger sister. When I went into the Army, Dave, who wanted to be a doctor, joined the Air Force. Three weeks into his tour in Vietnam, the Viet Cong shot down his medevac helicopter. No one survived. The news didn’t reach me until I was home with my medical discharge.

“Linda. Umm, you’ve grown up.”

“It just so happens I’ll be twenty-four in March. I’ve been grown for a while.”

“I guess that’s why it took me a bit to recognize you.”

“Seems we have some catching up to do. How about we talk over dinner this evening?”

About to stumble with my tongue, the penny still in my hand, I croaked out, “Sure. If you let me cook for you.”

I remember when I said that to her, Linda’s eyes bulged.

I asked her. “Why are you surprised?”

“For one, you’re a guy and you’re from Mt. Angel,” said Linda.

I said, “You probably don’t recall, but after my mom died, I took care of my dad.”

“Then you can cook for me at my house.”

The penny tickled my finger when I asked, “Do you like chicken enchiladas?”

“Only if they have green sauce,” said Linda. “Be at my place by five. Do you know where Hook Road intersects with 214?”

“Sure.”

“Take a left and another left on Humpert Lane. A mile up, on the right, you’ll see a green house in the middle of a flower field. Can’t miss it.”

I left at four-thirty and followed the directions she gave me toward Silverton. About a hundred yards from the road, I spotted the bright green single-story house in the middle of a field full of different patches of colorful flowers. I parked between the house and a metal barn. Through the open barn door, I glimpsed a tractor next to Linda’s Chevy Nova.

Everything for dinner fit in a canvas sack. I even brought my own enchilada pan, since I couldn’t be sure if she had one. She greeted me at the screen door wearing bib overalls and a turquoise T-shirt. Her wavy rust-colored hair was tied back and covered by a tan Sam’s Auto Glass ballcap. Linda gave me a quick hug. While I wanted to hold her forever, she let go, took my free hand, and led me to the kitchen.

The pale yellow kitchen could be described as country modern. Old cabinets framed frilly curtains above the double sink that pulled back to a view of flowers. Wood grain Formica countertops formed a horseshoe with the sink in the center, a Norge refrigerator on one side, and a Sears electric range and a pantry on the other.

I set the bag on the counter; Linda opened a couple drawers and cabinets to show me where the utensils were. Then she said, “I’ve got some work to do. I won’t be long.”

I watched her out the kitchen window as I washed my hands. She drove the tractor out of the barn and backed up to a stake bed trailer with bags of compost. After hitching it up, she drove into the field of flowers.

Everything I brought was already prepared, for the most part. The barbecued chicken thighs still needed to be cut, but the cheese was grated, and the onion, jalapeño peppers, and fresh spinach were ready to mix with the tomatillo sauce.

I cut up the chicken while the oven preheated. I mixed it all up, wrapped it in corn tortillas, smothered it with more cheese, and poured the rest of the sauce over the top. Once I finished making the enchiladas, I loaded the pan on the rack and closed the oven door. I set the timer for thirty minutes; fifteen minutes later, I heard the rumble of the tractor. I peeked out the window. Like an expert, she backed the trailer in on the far side of the shed.

As I mashed up an avocado, Linda poked her head in the kitchen.

She said, “Something smells yummy. I need a shower. Help yourself to a Heineken. They’re in the fridge. I thought we’d eat out on the back deck.”

The timer gave me ten more minutes, so I opened the fridge and picked out a bottle. I found the opener attached to a magnet on the fridge door. I took my beer out through the kitchen to the backyard and sat down. While sipping my beer, I kept checking the timer.

When the time was almost up, I headed back in the kitchen. The timer dinged, and I turned off the oven and found the oven mitts. I set the pan on the stovetop. Good thing I was wearing the mitts when Linda entered in the kitchen. With her hair down, in a cream-colored halter-top sundress, her smile left me speechless. As soon as I caught my mouth hanging open, I snapped my jaw shut.

We ate dinner outside and watched the sunset. After a dozen compliments about the meal and halfway through my second beer, Linda got up. She took my beer away.

“Larry. You need to leave.”

Unsure what I’d done, I stood and asked, “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Linda said. She took my arm and led me through the house to the front door. “Larry. You’re a perfect gentleman. But I’m fighting the urge to rip your clothes off, and I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Except she did. She rushed me out the door. I faced her from the porch and stared into her lovely green eyes. For the briefest moment, I thought she would kiss me, but she closed the screen. She said, “For your information, I don’t do temporary. So, on your way, you think about that. Now get, and call me as soon as you get home.”

Twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting with my head against the steering wheel in my parking spot with the engine off, wondering what happened. Eventually, I climbed out of the car and marched to my apartment. There was a note pinned on the door. I brought it inside. Jennifer apologized for all the terrible things she said and asked for me to call her so she could come straight over and make everything better. The word everything was underlined twice and her number circled three times.

I picked up my phone and dialed.

Linda answered on the first ring, the penny in my pocket hit ten on the Richter scale, and suddenly I was hopelessly in love.

By the time we said goodnight to each other and actually meant it, my ear was sore from the plastic receiver being pressed against it for so long. Before we hung up together, she asked me over in the morning to help thin tulip bulbs and to finish the leftover enchiladas for lunch.

I’m not sure if I slept that night, but I pulled up next to her barn at seven the next morning. Linda waited with coffee and homemade cinnamon rolls. After breakfast, she took me out into the tulip field, explained her system, and showed me how to separate the bulbs. While I separated them, she bagged and labeled each group of six. By lunch, we were done. The enchiladas were even better reheated.

After we ate, Linda and I walked the property. As we strolled, the penny sent a tickle from my pocket to my hand. I reached for Linda, and she took hold and squeezed. This seemed so natural, so normal. Caught up in her enthusiasm, I followed Linda as she pointed out the different varieties of flowers. Her green eyes twinkled as she talked.

Since she had more tractor work, I headed home with an ache in my chest that wasn’t indigestion. Separation anxiety on steroids. As soon as I got home, I broke out my sketch pad that I had neglected for a while, took out a pencil, and from memory did a life-sized rendering of Linda’s face, starting with her eyes.

Once I was satisfied, I tore it from the pad and used my Rainier beer magnet to pin it to the refrigerator door at a level equal to her height. Good thing I drew her in pencil and not pastels, or I might have been tempted to talk to the portrait.

The job started smoothly. The first week they started me revising red-line mark-ups of current drawings. The next week, they took me out to the machine shop and brought me up to speed on the new projects. The company had an air of family and they made me feel welcome.

On a Wednesday, I called Linda and asked if she wanted to go to the movies on Friday. There were two choices: a Clint Eastwood movie, The Enforcer, orSilver Streak, a comedy with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor. Being the gentleman my mother raised, I let her pick. I would’ve watched either, but she picked Silver Streak, the one I was leaning toward.

We agreed to meet Friday at six. Anxious, I came fifteen minutes early, but to my surprise, I only had to wait five minutes for her to sneak up behind me and poke me in the back with her finger. The penny tingled in my pocket. During the movie, I switched the coin to the opposite side so as not to wear a hole through the cotton.

After the movie let out, Linda took my arm and led me out to the parking lot. Once we were by her car, she asked, “Are you ready for phase two?”

“I don’t even know what phase one was,” I told her honestly.

“Phase one was us getting to know each other.”

I smiled and asked, “So, what’s phase two?”

“Getting to know each other better,” she said; then she pulled me to her and kissed me. I thought the penny was going to burn a hole in my pocket.

She asked, “You’ve seen my place. How would you like to show me your apartment? I’ll understand if it’s messy.”

About to burst, I felt the penny tingle, so I said, “It’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to follow me.”

The apartment complex sat on the backside of a knoll at the southeast edge of town. My one-bedroom unit was on the second floor. If it was daytime, I would show her my countryside view out the kitchen window. But Linda focused on my refrigerator door. She stared eye to eye with her pencil portrait.

“Davey said you could draw. He didn’t exaggerate.”

Slightly embarrassed, I asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Nothing caffeinated or alcoholic.”

I opened the fridge. She peered inside.

“What’s the brown stuff in the jug?”

“A & W root beer. I just filled it on Thursday.”

“Do you have any ice cream?” asked Linda. The hopefulness in her voice was unmistakable.

“Uh-huh, Dreyer’s vanilla.”

“I happen to make a pretty good root beer float,” said Linda.

“In that case, I’ll get a couple glasses.”

Almost everything in my kitchen once belonged to my parents. In the cupboard, I grabbed two soda fountain glasses and set them on the counter. I fished an ice cream scoop and a couple iced tea spoons from my utensil drawer.

Linda took out the root beer and a half-gallon tub of ice cream from the freezer.

“The proper construction process has been disputed as to whether the root beer or ice cream goes in first. If you add the soda before the ice cream, there is a risk of overflowing. And if you add the ice cream first and you pour the soda in too fast, it foams over. Allow me to demonstrate my personal technique.”

Linda scooped a hunk of ice cream into each glass. Tipping the glass, she deftly poured out a slow steady flow. The ice cream foamed a little, but the root beer filled the glass. Slowly she set the glass upright and topped it off. As she made a second one, I fished in another drawer for a couple straws from the Arctic Circle that were still wrapped.

We sat close on the couch and sipped our floats. Near the end, the slurping got noisy, and Linda sat her glass on the coffee table. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Sure, it’s at the end of the hall.”

My bedroom was on the left with the door open.

“Do you always make your bed?” asked Linda when she returned.

“Most always.”

“Did you learn that in the Army?”

“No, my grandma taught me. She said starting out the morning by completing a task sets the pace for the whole day.”

“I brush my teeth first,” said Linda. She spread her lips to show me her lovely white teeth. “Do you think that counts as finishing a task?”

“My grandma might not. But you can’t argue with results.”

Linda finished her float, kissed me on the cheek, and stood from the couch.

“Thank you, Larry. I like your apartment.”

“Do you have to go so soon?”

“I need to get up early, the Marion County Flower Festival starts tomorrow.”

“Let me walk you to your car.”

We held hands on the way.

By her Nova, she kissed me for real. After our lips parted, she asked, “Larry? Are you busy next weekend?”

The penny tickled me. “No, I’m not.”

“Friday, I’d like to fix you dinner at my place. Do you like Italian?”

“As long as the sauce is red.”

“Good. Be there at five.”

Until she drove out of sight, I remained standing in the parking lot, silently hoping she would turn around.

To be polite, and since Linda already had all the flowers in the world, I drove to Silverton and stopped by the A & W. Linda grinned when I handed her a gallon of root beer. Then, she gave me a heart-thumping hug and kiss.

After seating me at the table, Linda said, “I hope you like eggplant parmesan.”

“I do,” I said. An appealing aroma filled the kitchen. She served me and then herself.

“Everything but the eggs, flour, and cheeses, I grew here.”

“Really?” I said. “You’re going to need to show me your French bread tree.”

Linda laughed and tossed a cherry tomato at me. It bounced on the table, and I caught it and popped it into my mouth. I loved hearing her laugh, warm and joyful.

After dinner and our walk in the flowers, she put on a Kenny Loggins album on the stereo, and we sat on her couch.

“Larry, I work this flower farm seven days a week and have no social life. I’m not complaining. I love this. And truthfully, I never planned on having a boyfriend. Not once did I even think about having one. But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I feel the same,” I said.

She kissed me, and I kissed her. When the album ended, she pulled me off the couch and took me into her bedroom.

We took turns taking off our clothes. I’m sure she saw the scars on my back but didn’t say anything. Then, we showered together.

We made love twice, with a heavy make-out session in between. When we finally fell asleep, we were intertwined. I don’t think I had ever slept better in my life.

I woke to the sound of Linda’s tractor. I jumped out of bed and peeked out the window. Still dark. The headlights were on. She drove off, towing a tank trailer. I recalled her saying she needed to fertilize today.

In the Army, I learned to take quick showers, so in five minutes, I showered, dressed, and rummaged in her kitchen to see what I could make her for breakfast.

Without consciously thinking about it, ever since I met her I had been adding up all the reasons I was in love with her. From our very first meeting, when my pocket failed in the laundromat, to when I entered the kitchen this first morning. Her kindness and consideration warmed my heart. She had left out the makings for coffee, and I suspected that she expected me to sleep in, or I think she would have brewed it for me.

Exploring her pantry and refrigerator, I found an abundance of food. I considered her trim figure and deduced she must have an incredible metabolism. My choices were many, but since I was just learning her tastes, I chose a traditional country breakfast of grilled ham, scrambled eggs, and grated potatoes with biscuits and gravy. I held off on cooking the eggs. Everything else, I could keep warm.

At about five to seven, the tractor rumbled off and I checked the oven timer. In three minutes the biscuits would be done, so I set the table. I peered out the window and spotted her unhooking the tank trailer. In the early morning sun, in her gray coveralls and her ballcap with her hair tied back, she looked so beautiful.

Linda came in through the mudroom in back wearing only her bra and panties. The door slammed behind her.

“It stinks; don’t go in there,” she said as she rushed to the bathroom. Though I only caught a whiff of her hair, the scent reminded me of dead fish.

Ten minutes later Linda came into the kitchen and caught me scrambling eggs. From her bulging eyes and open mouth, I surprised her. I seated Linda at the kitchen table and served her. It pleased me how enthusiastically she ate. Afterward, she insisted on clearing the table.

“Larry? Sometime I would love to read the letter you got from Howard Hughes.”

Someone at the IGA must have told her about my inheritance, but I never asked.

I said, “The letter is in my glove compartment. I’ll get it for you.”

While she read the letter, I fixed us coffee.

“Larry, this is incredible. I can’t believe I’m holding this. It’s a historical document. You should put it in a safety deposit box.”

“I never thought of it like that. I suppose I can copy it at work.”

“Can I see the penny?”

I fished the coin out of my pocket and handed it to her. Not long after her fingers touched the one cent piece, her phone in the living room rang, and she left to answer.

At this point, I had not shared any of my lucky penny moments, but she came rushing back into the kitchen. “Larry? Are you free this weekend to help me cut flowers? One of my florists doubled her order.”

“You can have me the whole weekend,” I said. The phone rang again.

Again she ran off. Another order, this time from a florist in Salem who happened to drive by her field this morning; they wanted ten dozen of her tiger lilies and five dozen each of her yellow, red, and white roses. Before lunch, two more calls of orders had us working until sunset and most of Sunday. Somehow, we both managed to save up enough energy to make love several times before I needed to go home Sunday night. We repeated this for the next couple of weekends.

Something Howard Hughes didn’t mention in his letter was if anyone else shared in his luck. Considering how Linda’s business seemed to grow overnight, I thought that was when the penny encompassed her. Then, I recalled the laundromat incident. How trance-like we were when we held it together. Suddenly, it dawned on me how the pocket ripped from the inside. Sure, I packed my pocket with quarters, but the jeans were near new. Did the penny sense Linda ahead of time? Or was everything that happened nothing but a series of coincidences?

I held the penny heads-up and studied the face that chief engraver James B. Longacre designed. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for the Indian to speak or twist in the copper and face me. But he remained silent and stationary.

In August, my birthday came on a Thursday. After work, when I checked the mail, along with my Popular Science magazine was a bright blue envelope with nothing but “Larry” written on it. Inside was the best birthday present I had ever gotten. Linda taped a house key inside the homemade card. The key was only part of the present. The real gift, she wrote out in her exquisite handwriting inside an asymmetrical heart. “Larry. Time for phase three. I want you to move in with me. Tell your landlord, then call me. I Love You!”

Moving wasn’t all that difficult—most of the furniture came with the apartment. Mostly, I had boxes, and I only needed two trips in the Malibu and one in Linda’s Nova. To get my cleaning deposit back, Linda helped me clean.

I don’t know why I was surprised that she made room for me and much of my stuff. She thought the house should reflect us since we were partnered, and I agreed to pay half of the lease payment.

Most of the changes I affected were in the kitchen. Since I agreed to do most of the cooking, she gave no objection to replacing some of her kitchen tools, pots, and pans with mine.

Living with Linda, my commute time went from a half-hour to ten minutes. Days that I took an hour for lunch allowed me forty minutes at home with Linda. We decided that forty minutes was the minimum amount of time we needed to make love.

One morning, the penny stung me like a bee when I went to open the car door to go to work. Because of my aversion to being late, I tried again, and the penny turned into a wasp in my pocket, so I walked back to the house. I thought about calling my boss and telling him I might be late, but since I always came in early, I waited. A couple minutes later, I went back out to the car. This time when I opened the door, nothing happened. I drove to work without incident. A sense of relief came over me when I pulled into my parking spot. Somehow, I knew I had avoided some great unknown catastrophe.

Oktoberfest in Mt. Angel happens in September. For some reason, they can’t seem to wait another month. The population expands five or six times, and the four-day celebration provides local charities with donations and the town’s businesses a majority of the annual profits.

Linda and I went straight to the beer garden, since that was the most likely place to find Bob Read. Even though I received the tickets the previous week, I decided to wait till Oktoberfest to surprise Bob and his girlfriend Kim. It turned out, Linda and Kim were already acquainted. I thought it would be a good way to introduce Linda to Bob if she handed him the tickets she carried in her purse.

On the far side, I spotted Bob and Kim. They were seated next to each other, sharing a plate of schnitzel. The seats were vacant across from them. I had barely introduced Linda to Bob when Kim threw the back of her hand in front of our faces. She showed us the diamond engagement ring Bob bought her.

“We’re getting married!” shouted Kim.

“Congratulations,” said Linda. She took the envelope from her purse and handed it to me. I handed it back and told her, “Go ahead, you give it to them.”

Bob looked confused until he saw the name of the brewery on the return address.

Their harmonic scream turned the security guard’s head, but they settled down and thanked me.

Then Linda asked, “When are you planning the ceremony?”

Kim said, “September thirtieth at the Pine Street Lutheran Church.”

Linda squeezed my hand. The penny heated up. With a heart-melting grin, Linda took both my hands and looked me square in the eyes. She asked Bob and Kim, “How would you two feel about a double wedding?”

Kim’s eyes widened and Bob’s chin dropped. “Really?” asked Bob.

I was left speechless until Linda nudged me. “Well, Larry?”

“Are you asking if I want to marry you?”

“Well, do you?” asked Linda.

“Is this phase four?”

“We’ll skip phase four until the honeymoon. This isn’t a phase, this is forever.”

“Then the answer is yes. I do want to marry you.”

Her kiss made me glad I’d agreed.

The ring I planned to give Linda came from my mother. The same gold band my father placed on her finger. A sign—the ring fit Linda’s finger perfectly. And she made it clear that besides a wedding band, all she wanted was me.

The double wedding happened on the last day of September. The four of us said our vows, and Linda became my wife. Linda’s mom flew in from Spokane alone, not wanting Linda to be uncomfortable with her boyfriend. But Linda wouldn’t have cared. At first, I was nervous. Janet McCune had known me since I was twelve and Dave and I were Boy Scouts. To my relief, she gave me a big hug and told me she could not have picked a better husband for her daughter. Later, after a few glasses of champagne, Janet whispered to me that I better take care of her little girl, or else. Of course, that was the plan—we were in love, and I had found the woman of my dreams.

We opted for the standard vows, except the “shall obey” clause. I thought the minister’s lip quivered when I told him we didn’t want that because we were partners. When he performed the ceremony, I thought there was a bit of a pause between “cherish” and “till death do us part.”

The IGA provided the food, Kim’s folks paid for the three-tier cake, Bob’s dad provided the two kegs, and Linda provided the flowers. Me, I hired the band: Tough Stuff. The three guys and two gals covered Heart, Fleetwood Mac, and Jefferson Starship songs. On the dance floor, Linda and I learned something else about each other—neither one of us could dance for shit. But we had a heck of a time anyway.

The house and ten acres Linda leased belonged to Uncle Chester. At the reception, he wanted to talk to me. He knew me back when Dave and I had been friends as kids. But I think he was just sizing me up because after we talked, he herded Linda outside. They were out there through two Heart songs.

When Linda came back in, she rushed up to me and wanted to dance. Tough Stuff played the Starship song, “Miracles,” and Linda clutched me tightly. I stepped on her feet twice, but she only laughed and whispered, “Uncle Chester likes you.”

“He does? Once, he caught Dave and I smoking a cigarette. I think we were in seventh grade.”

“Well he must have forgiven you, because at the end of the year, me and you are going to be landowners.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“As a wedding present,” said Linda. “He’s going to sign the farm over to us.”

I almost tripped. Linda caught me, and we kissed through the remainder of the song and well into the next one.

Honeymooning for us was a cottage rental on the beach near Yachats, but because of work and the flower farm, we only stayed three days and nights. We spent the time wisely with long walks, campfires, and continual lovemaking. According to Linda, she gained two pounds during the three days and nights because of my cooking, but she had a plan on how to burn up calories, and when we got home, we went back to bed.

Routine caught us, but our life was a pleasure, no matter what befell us or what task confronted us. At work, I received a promotion and was assigned to the new product team. At home, the flower farm flourished. For a long while, Linda photographed her flowers for catalogues. Later, she picked up her camera and started taking pictures of birds. After a while, her hobby became something more, and she started winning awards. I was proud of her.

When I stopped carrying the penny, probably when I changed clothes, I forgot about it. One day when I went looking, I couldn’t recall where I left it. For fifteen years, the coin went missing. For one thing, and this was from Linda, nothing is ever lost—it is always someplace, and considering our everyday lovemaking, we figured the penny was hiding somewhere in the bedroom.

Life continued, and Linda and I experienced the ups and downs life brings everyone. During that spell, Linda’s mom died, I battled PTSD, the fields flooded, there was a recession, and 9/11 happened.

In 2002, our dishwasher broke. While Linda rummaged in a desk drawer, hunting for the fix-it guy’s business card, she found the penny. Our luck in the bedroom wasn’t luck after all. That was all us. The penny was in the office the whole time. Funny—it didn’t make paying bills any easier.

Whatever magic might exist in the penny, I think it sensed our contentment. Every now and then, a lost pet would cross our path, and without fail, the owner would materialize. We didn’t play the lottery or enter contests. At least not for ourselves.

The life Linda and I shared seemed plenty lucky: we had each other and everything either of us desired inside those ten acres of colors. I think if we wanted more, we could have had it, but what would be the point? We were happy. From what Howard Hughes said, he believed his luck was based on his nothing-can-be-enough attitude. Early on, he came to the conclusion that his true satisfaction came from the pursuit, not the fulfillment, of his visions. In the letter, he also speculated that my grandfather had the simple life he claimed he enjoyed because that is all he could accept he deserved. In my mind, I pictured my grandfather more like me. Happy with simple things because he didn’t want the complications of wealth or fame.

In 2006, I retired and helped Linda full-time. We opened a roadside flower stand and changed to U-pick. We dug up the three-acre tulip bed and planted corn and pumpkins for a maze and pumpkin patch. In 2014, Linda and I grew a 737-pound pumpkin and won honorable mention, and afterward donated it to a culinary school. They brought us back a pumpkin pie.

If Howard Hughes had perceived how I spent the penny’s luck, maybe he would have thought I squandered the potential. But I hoped my grandfather would have been proud of Linda and me and how, anything over what we needed, we donated. Not that we didn’t live comfortably—we had everything we wanted. It’s just that we wanted simple pleasures. And when I reflect on my life and our experiences together, I admit sometimes questioning whether those seemingly small miracles had anything to do with the penny after all. However, I could not deny the physical effects the 1889 Indian Head penny gave me except to believe in its magic.

When it happened, I felt it in my core. My luck had run out. Like when my grandfather was called to war, and when Howard Hughes found himself on his deathbed.

My moment came in 2022, when my cardiologist informed me that if I didn’t get a new heart in the next couple months, I would be dead. Considering my rare blood type and the lack of a match in the database, my luck diminished. The time had come to pass the penny, but for the life of me, I didn’t know who to pass the penny to. Because Linda lived under the penny’s luck for so long, she figured that if my luck was running out, then so was hers.

According to Mr. Hughes, I should let the penny tell me. I recalled that when I read the letter the first time, I wondered if Mr. Hughes had lost all his marbles. However, after more than thirty years of lucky moments, when the penny either shocked, tingled, tickled, pricked, stung, or just warmed my pocket, I listened to the Indian Head council.

One day, an attendant wheeled me back to my room after a sonogram. A delivery man carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers walked beside me, and my penny gave me a twinge. The man appeared to be in his early twenties, and, from his focused facial expression and his strut, he reminded me of myself at that age.

Once I grabbed his attention, I thrust the penny in the palm of his hand.

“Young man, I want you to take this lucky penny. Trust it. I owe it a life of happiness.” While he seemed receptive, just before the aide pushed me into my room, I witnessed him toss the coin into the artificial Ficus tree planter down the hall. That is when I blacked out.

This time when I woke up, my chest felt as if a cow was standing on me. The tubes and wires connected me to a bank of beeping and flashing electronics and a pole covered in IV bags.

I opened my eyes and Linda smiled at me.

“Honey! You’re awake. You have a new heart. A nice, strong, young heart.”

“How?” I croaked to her. A scoop of sharp rocks scratched the inside of my throat. “I thought there wasn’t a match.”

“Oh honey, the strangest thing happened. After you collapsed and they rushed you into the ICU, a flower delivery man walked out the front door of the hospital and he stepped right in front of a police car on the way to the ER. They found out he was an organ donor, and he matched you perfectly.”

A tap on the door ended the conversation. The cardiac surgeon came in to check his work. Apparently, I passed inspection. After he left, Linda helped me into the wheelchair. Before she took me out to the atrium for some fresh air, I asked her to stop at the Ficus tree. On the way I wondered whether the young man died because he disrespected the penny but then I realized. The penny picked him for me. I reached in the ceramic pot, into the dry moss, and I fished out my lucky penny. Howard’s fortune.

By: Mohana

“I will kill myself soon. With all the calamitous memories of him dead and buried. His smile perished. The sound of his heart abandoning my love. There’s no purpose for me to live. Faith doesn’t bring memories. Faith kills another. Faith is not real.”

As I read that line over and over again. I felt a harboring grudge clinging on to me.

“Why did I let him go?”

The trees around me whispered. Hiding secrets that is one of permanence. Giving resentful looks. Children's laughter filled the sorrowful playground where I sat on the swing. All alone. Thinking about the book I just read. Memories.

“Are they even real?”

As I continued reading, the wind caressed my cheeks, reminding me that no matter what, memories will haunt you but will also make you feel loved. Before my thoughts could drown me further into the ocean of emptiness, someone sat on the swing next to me.

“Memories? Personally, I think they’ll ruin your inner aura. And don’t get me started on faith. Faith is just the broken door that many would want to open. But why?”

His voice reminded me of my comfort character casually walking in the rain, benevolently holding my hand. His familiar nostalgic voice lifted my chin up. I fell into an abyss of memories when our eyes met.

“Ezra?” I whispered with a single tear clinging on to me. We both stood up and Ezra took a step closer to me. I caught myself sinking deep into his enchanting dark amber eyes. He grabbed me into a protective hug. Stroking my hair, whispering into my ear. I felt so safe back in his compassionate arms.

“I thought you were dead!” I mumbled with my tears screaming with agony.

“I’d see you first before I die. You know that. All I have are tragic memories with you. Trauma had manipulated me into thinking memories are all miserable. I learned that they do destroy one, but they could make another live.”

The way he spoke passionately about what he had learned when I wasn't with him made regret umbrage over my happiness. He has been trying to make happy memories despite his past exposing him to dreadful ones. I then realized how much I missed his voice, his eyes, the smell of his favorite jacket. How much I missed him.

Though I despise those tragic memories that deserve to be forgotten, those memories will always have a place in my heart. Always.

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