Fortunes

By T.R. Healy


Olivia read her fortune then shoved the tiny slip of paper across the table. “Yours for mine.”

Heflin smiled, nibbling a corner of his fortune cookie. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like what it says?”

“Not particularly. It sounds like something you’d hear in church.”

He handed her his fortune. “Maybe this will be more to your liking.”

“Your fortune is as sweet as you,” it said, and after she read it, she tucked the paper into the pocket of her blouse. “That’s more like it,” she chuckled. “I don’t know how accurate it is, but at least it isn’t so damn judgmental.”

“Like the one you swapped with me?”

She smiled and set her chopsticks across the center of her lunch plate.

He did not look at the fortune but wadded it up and tossed it onto his plate.

“Don’t you want to know what it says?” she asked after sipping what was left of her green tea.

“I already read my fortune, remember?”

“But we traded.”

“You mean you traded.”

“It’s not so awful. It’s actually pretty good advice if you’re in the mood to listen to advice.”

He did not answer her but looked around the cluttered restaurant, a little surprised it was so busy this late in the afternoon.

From memory she then recited the fortune she had traded to him: “Concern yourself about others more than yourself.”

“You’re right,” he snorted as they got up to leave. “It sounds like something a pastor would say all right.”

“Just before the collection basket is passed.”

“Ain’t that the gospel truth.”

She chuckled. “Well, I better get back to work if I want my fortune to match my disposition.”

 

* * *

 

Both of them worked for Wilshire Properties, Olivia as an agent, Heflin as a photographer. She worked out of an office on the east side of town, selling houses primarily in the affluent Proudhorn District, while he worked wherever he was sent. He took pictures of commercial properties as well as private residences for the advertising materials that the brokers prepared for prospective buyers. Heflin had not crossed paths with Olivia in nearly a month, and after he took all the photographs she wanted of an English half-timber house, she invited him to lunch. It was her turn because he bought her breakfast the last time they were together.

From the restaurant he drove across the river to the northwest end of town where, according to his schedule, he was to photograph an apple green two-story house in the modest Cavanaugh neighborhood. A contract to sell the home was agreed to only the previous day so a For Sale sign had not yet been planted in the lawn. That was fine with Heflin, who would not have to shoot around it as he was often required to do. The broker handling the property had informed him that the owner had vacated the placed a few weeks ago and was given the key to the front door to let himself in so he could take pictures of the interior as well as the exterior. However, before he went inside, he decided to take advantage of the decent light and shoot all the pictures he needed outside first.

He parked down the street from the house, not wanting his car to be seen in any of the pictures he took, and as he walked toward it he tried to figure out the angles that would best enhance its sales potential. Some small children were in the front yard of the house next door but they didn’t pay any attention to him because they were busy playing catch with a midget-sized football. He stepped beside the lone birch tree and began to take pictures of the front porch then moved a few feet to his left and took a picture of the swing on the porch. He got down on one knee and shot the side of the chimney that appeared in the best condition, got up and snapped a picture of the copper weathervane. He photographed the bed of white pebbles under the bay windows, the large terracotta pot of geraniums in the driveway, the pink stone path that led to the garage.

In another moment, as he started to walk around to the back of the house, he heard a sharp squeal of brakes and turned around and saw a panel truck pull up in front of the house next door. Immediately a burly man in a denim jacket climbed out of the passenger’s seat and went over to one of the boys playing catch and put his arm around his shoulders and walked the boy back to the gray truck and opened the door for him to get into the backseat. Out of habit Heflin snapped a picture of the truck as it peeled down the street then continued along the stone path to take some pictures of the backyard.

 

* * *

 

That evening, back in his small lakeside apartment, Heflin heard a report on the radio that a boy was abducted in the afternoon from his front yard. He did not pay much attention to the report because he was busy preparing dinner. The news on the radio was scarcely more than background noise, as far as he was concerned, like the sound of traffic from the busy boulevard at the north end of the lake. He seldom listened to it closely, except when the baseball scores were announced.

After dinner, while watching a game on television, a bulletin appeared on the screen between innings showing a picture of the missing boy then a picture of his house. At once, he sat up in his easy chair, sure that was the house next to the one he had taken pictures of that afternoon. Quickly he switched the channel, hoping to find another report of the abduction, and finally found one in which a wider shot of the front yard was shown. And right there, in a corner of the picture, was the birch tree he had stood beside when he took pictures of the front porch. Excitedly he smacked his hands together, realizing that the boy he had seen climb into the panel truck must be the one who was missing. And he had he remembered taken a picture of the truck. He leaped out of his chair and hurried into his dark room where before dinner he had developed the roll of film he had shot of the house in the Cavanaugh neighborhood.

Sure enough, there it was, as clear as any of the other things he had taken, although only the first three letters of the license plate were visible. Still, there were better than none, he reckoned, as he peered at the photograph through a magnifying glass.

He was not one who liked to get involved with the police if he could help it, having had a few unpleasant experiences with officers when he was younger and used to hang out with a rough crowd of friends. So, at first, he considered mailing the photograph until he realized it might not arrive for a couple of days. And he assumed every moment delayed put the boy in greater jeopardy. He thought of calling someone to ask for advice, maybe even Olivia, then remembered the fortune she had traded to him, which had something to do with being concerned with others before yourself. He should abide by it, he thought, and decided to deliver the photograph in person to the local police station.

Twenty minutes later, he was in front of a desk sergeant whose leathery neck was nearly as wide as his shoulders and handed him the photograph.

“What’s this?” the sergeant growled.

He told him then started to turn around to leave.

“Wait a minutes, fella. We’ll need you to sign a statement.”

He was at the station for close to an hour, going over his statement with one of the detectives assigned to the case, then left without feeling any regret whatsoever. On the contrary, he had done what was called for, he told himself, and looked after someone else  for a change.

 

* * *

 

As a result of the partial license plate number in the photograph, it was determined that the panel truck belonged to the estranged boyfriend of the mother of the child. A highway patrolman spotted it early the next morning, some fifty miles from the state line, and pulled it over and arrested the two men inside and took custody of the boy who was hungry but otherwise in good shape.

Heflin first learned of the boy’s recovery on the radio then the detective who took his statement telephoned to let him know and to thank him again for his assistance. His name was even mentioned by the detective on the evening news and among the people who saw the newscast and called to congratulate him was Olivia.

“I didn’t know you were an amateur detective in your spare time,” she teased him.

“Neither did I.”

“Whatever made you take a picture of that truck?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” he admitted. “When I have a camera in my hands, I’m likely to take pictures of just about anything I see. It’s a habit, I guess.”

“Well, in this case, it was a good habit to have.”

She snickered. “You think that had something to do with what you did?"

“It’s possible."

“Well, it’s good to know I’ve done something right in the past few days. I sure haven’t been able to get anyone interested in buying any of the houses we have on the market."

"You will."

She was quiet for a moment then said, "Again, thanks for what you did, Karl. You’re my hero."

"Please."

"No, you are, and I’m sure you’re that boy’s as well."

 

* * *

 

Toward the end of the week Heflin received a sealed letter from the mayor’s office which included an elaborate certificate that proclaimed him an "Honored Citizen" for his significant role in helping to locate the abducted boy. He was also invited to attend a luncheon at city hall on Saturday in recognition of all the citizens who had been honored the past two months. He was surprised, not thinking what he did deserved any special merit, but he was eager to go to the luncheon and have someone take his picture for a change. He told several people in the agency about the invitation and they seemed as excited as he was, and a few, including Olivia, indicated they wished they could go with him even though they knew the event was restricted to family members.

The luncheon was to begin at one o’clock and he was told in the letter to arrive half an hour early. He go down to city hall a good fifteen minutes before than, drove around a few blocks until he found a parking space behind the archives building. Before he got out he checked the knot of his necktie in the rearview mirror, brushed some loose strands of hair off his forehead. He looked fine, he thought, and started to turn away when he noticed in the mirror a van from one of the local television stations coming down the street. And half a block behind it was a van from a rival station. A pulse of excitement raced through his veins when he realized he might appear on the news tonight then, almost as quickly, he felt a certain reluctance about participating in the event. He was not a hero, he knew that, what he did was what any responsible person would have done in his place. But deep down he suspected he didn’t do it only to help find the missing boy. It was the fortune that he had traded to Olivia that still guided him, he realized, so he could sweeten his own position among the people he knew. And indeed it had because he relished all the attention and praise he had received and was sure he would have the brightest smile, by far, at the luncheon.

So he remained in his car, knowing that he did not belong there however much he wanted to go.



Published April 2007