The Wallet - by Arnold Fine

THE WALLET

Arnold Fine

It was a year ago today when I came across a wallet in the street. Inside was a letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years, dated 1924. The envelope was worn and all I could make out was the return address. I opened the letter carefully, hoping for some clue to the identity of the owner of the wallet.

It was signed Hannah and written to someone called Michael. She wrote that she could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. She would always love him, but felt it would be best if they never met again.

It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, other than the name Michael, that the owner could be identified.

The return address was nearby, so I called in. I asked if anyone there knew of a Hannah, and was told, "Oh, of course! We bought this house from her some time ago. She's in a nursing home now."

They gave me the name of the home and I called the director. I explained the situation and was invited over, arriving to find him chatting to the door guard. We exchanged greetings and the director took me up to Hannah's room on the third floor of the large building.

She was a sweet, silver-haired old lady with a warm smile, full of life. I told her about finding the wallet and took out the letter. The moment she saw it she recognized it. "Young man," she said, "this letter was the last contact I had with Michael. I never heard from him again." She looked away for a moment in deep thought and continued, "I loved him very much. I was 16 at the time and my mother felt I was much too young to even be seeing Michael. He was so handsome."

Just then the director was called away and we were left alone. "Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name," she began once more. "If you do find him, give him my regards and tell him I still think of him often. That …" She hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and added, "I still love him. You know …" she said, smiling through her tears, "I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to
Michael."

At that moment the director returned. I thanked her and said goodbye. Downstairs the guard at the front door looked at me and asked, "Any luck? Was the old lady able to help you?"

I told him she had given me a lead. "But I think I'll let this go for a while. I spent almost a whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."

I took it out and showed it to the guard.

The guard took one look and said, "Hey, wait a minute. That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know that anywhere. He's always losing it."

"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I pressed him as my hand started to shake.

"He's one of the old guys on the eighth floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure. I'll take you up to him, if you like."

We found Mr. Goldstein in his room and the security man asked if he had lost his wallet.

Mr. Goldstein put his hand to his back pocket and, realizing it was empty, said, "Oh, my goodness. It is missing."

"Could this be yours?" I asked, handing him the wallet.

The second he saw it he smiled with relief and said, "Yes … yes … that's it. Thank you so much."

"Not at all," I replied. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter."

The smile on his face disappeared. "You read that letter?"

"Not only did I read it, I know where Hannah is."

The blood left his face as he suddenly grew pale.

"Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?"

The security man looked at me suggesting that I not say any more.

I hesitated.

"Please! Please tell me!" he begged.

"She's fine … just as pretty as when you knew her," I said softly.

"Could you tell me where she is?" He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something … I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life seemed to come to an end. I never married. I guess I'll always love her. Oh, she was beautiful … and so sweet." He smiled to himself.

"Michael," I said. "Come with me."

The three of us took the elevator down to the third floor. Hannah was sitting alone watching television.

"Hannah," the guard said softly. "Do you know this man?" She adjusted her glasses. She looked for a moment but didn't say a word.

"Hannah, it's Michael. Do you remember me?"

"Michael? I don't believe it! Michael? It's you! Michael!"

He walked slowly to her side. Michael took her around the waist and she held him tight, whispering, "Michael … my darling Michael …"

The two of them sat down on a sofa, holding hands, and started to talk. They had some sixty years" worth to catch up on. The guard and I walked out, both of us crying.

Three weeks later I got a call from the director: "You're invited to a wedding. Michael and Hannah are finally going to tie the knot! You know, the two of them were in this building for years and they never met, or if they did they didn't recognize each other."

Hannah wore a light brown dress for the wedding and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood erect, like a soldier. The hospital gave them a special room together, and if you ever wanted to see a 79-year-old bride and an 81-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.