THE WALLET
Françoise discovered the wallet as he was unpacking his sleeping bag in Beacon Hill Park. Sandwiched between its rolls, the owner’s initials stared back from their snakeskin background like a pair of owl’s eyes.
He recognized it at once. It belonged, or rather had belonged, to the man who along with his wife had given him a lift earlier that day. The couple were on their way back to the airport and thence on to Houston and had picked him up a few miles south of Nanaimo.
"Hey, hon," the man had said as he pulled into a gas station just south of Ladysmith. “Hand me my wallet please. It’s in my jacket . . . inside pocket.”
Obediently, his wife, who had been sipping martinis from a vacuum flask in the back seat since long before they’d picked up Françoise, rummaged amongst the travelling paraphernalia that surrounded her, and passed it forward.
A few minutes later as he pulled away from the gas station, Oliver Ostlewhite tossed his wallet unceremoniously in the general direction of his wife.
“Hey kid, what the hell’s a ‘Quick-pick’ and the, ‘six forty-nine’?” he asked Françoise.
Françoise did his best to explain the twice weekly, Canadian national lottery, but the intricacies of statistics and the odds of accurately selecting six out of forty nine numbers, were seemingly beyond the friendly American’s comprehension.
“So how much would I win?”
“Nothing unless your numbers come up,” Françoise shrugged.
“But supposing they did?” he persisted.
“I think it’s $5 million tonight,” said Françoise recalling the ad he’d noticed on the back of a bus they’d followed earlier.
“And what’re my chances?”
“About one in 14 million.”
“Ha!” the American laughed, slapping his thigh loudly. “Goddam it! No wonder they gave me one free with the fill-up. How much d’they cost, these tickets?”
“A buck each.”
“Not much of a sales promo. is it?”
* * * * *
Cross-legged, Françoise sifted through the wallet’s contents. There were several credit cards, two wedding photographs, the gas receipt, lottery ticket and $493 American.
He tucked the wallet into the top of his pants and settled down to sleep. Tomorrow he would use the cash, check into a hotel and have his first shower and decent food in a month. From somewhere inside him, a voice named ‘honesty’ he’d all but forgotten demanded to be heard. “Or maybe I’ll just send it back” he said out loud . . . and the voice fell silent.
* * * * *
Oliver Ostlewhite didn’t discover his wallet was missing until he went to place his weekly $20 bill in the collection plate at the local Baptist church some 18 hours later. At first he figured he’d simply left it at home, where they’d arrived well after midnight. But, as the sermon droned on and his attention waned, so his mind went back to the scruffy hitchhiker. By the time the service was over his initial embarrassment had turned into sheer panic that was rapidly becoming rage. With a complete lack of reverence, he fled the church, his bleary-eyed wife in tow, oblivious to the congregation’s puzzled expressions that followed them.
“Goddam Canadian punk!” Ostlewhite cursed, as his 4 x 4, its horn blaring, screeched away from the church. “Goddam country! We should nuke ‘em off the face of the earth . . . or make ‘em our 51st state . . . or both!”
* * * * *
The message on his answer machine was very clear, very polite and softly spoken with the faint hint of a French Canadian accent.
“Mr. Ostlewhite,” it began. “This is Françoise Belanger, the Canadian you and your wife so kindly gave a lift to. Somehow or other I seem to have your wallet. I guess Mrs. Ostlewhite mistakenly put it in my backpack after you’d bought the gas yesterday. She was . . . very tired you remember?
“Anyway, no harm done. I’ve couriered it back to you, and Fed. Ex. assures me it will arrive tomorrow morning before ten, your time. I did have to use one of the 20’s to pay them and for this phone call. I hope that was okay. Thanks again for the ride. Bye.”
“Well I’ll be a Goddam son-of-a-bitch!” Said Oliver Ostlewhite to no one in particular. “Now If that don’t restore my faith in humanity. Hey Hon? Honey, where are you? That Canadian kid found my wallet. I tell you what, him and his buddies could sure teach ours a thing or two when it comes to honesty. Hell, I think I might just write to his President and tell him he deserves a knighthood.”
* * * * *
They hadn’t believed him at first when he showed them the lottery ticket early that Monday morning, and when they finally did; they questioned him about where he’d got it.
“It was a gas station promotion,” he said, showing them the cash receipt. “One free ticket per fill-up.”
“You own a car?” they asked suspiciously.
“No,” he replied truthfully. “But it’s the person that buys the gas that gets the ticket.”
Fifteen minutes later, having promised to return for the mandatory publicity all major lottery winners must endure, Françoise pushed the cheque they’d given him face up towards the young female bank teller. “I’d like to open an account please,” he smiled sweetly. “With this.”
The teller’s indifferent glance slowly transformed into an incredulous stare when she saw the amount. “$5 million!” she said, then, “The 6-49, right?”
“Right,” agreed Françoise.
“You’re one very lucky guy,” she sighed enviously.
“Not really,” said Françoise. “Just . . . reasonably honest, that’s all.”
