Ptolemy dumped the keys out on the table that once stood at the south wall, the table that he’d slept under for more than twenty years.
The small brass key was for his locker at the Y that they tore down in 1962, or maybe 1963. The big skeleton key that Robyn found under Sensia’s mattress was to the lost treasure. The three master keys on one ring were to various padlocks that he kept in the bottom drawer in the kitchen. The tin key was the one he wanted. He set it aside and placed all the rest, one by one, back in the old mustard jar.
“You could put these back,” he said, pushing the jar toward Robyn.
“Ain’t you gonna want to put that key back after you unlock the bag?” she asked.
Questions like that gave Ptolemy the most problems. When he was alone with his TV and radio, nobody asked him anything and he didn’t have to put together any responses. People talked in his head, and on the TV, but there were no questions that he had to answer.
He blinked and tried to understand all the various things she meant.
“Why don’t I just put it in my pocket and hold it for you, Uncle?”
“I can put it in my own pocket,” he said.
“Should we open it now?” she asked.
“Let’s get it up here on the table,” he said.
Together they lifted the heavy bag until they got one corner of it on the battered ash top. Then Robyn pushed until it was fully on.
Ptolemy had to study the lock. He tried different ways to put the key in. It had been a few months since he’d opened the case but finally he got it right.
“Goddamn, Uncle,” Robyn said, standing up from the aluminum and nylon chair and putting her hands to her face. “Shit!”
“You mad, baby girl?” Ptolemy said, leaning away from her, remembering the way she had looked when she beat Melinda Hogarth until blood flowed from the addict’s forehead.
Robyn was staring at the suitcase filled with ones, fives, tens, and twenties. The money was stacked in some places. In others it was piled, just thrown in, and all mixed around. Robyn dug both hands in, lifting a shovelful of cash, and coins rained down from the jumble of bills.
“Uncle,” Robyn said.
“I been savin’ that for years,” he said. “It’s almost ninety-four thousand dollars. Ninety-four thousand . . . almost.”
Robyn sat down again. Her face was indecipherable to her adopted uncle.
“Did Reggie know you had all this?” she asked.
“He knew I didn’t cash but two checks every three weeks. He’d put one in a account that paid my bills and I’d put my leftovers in the trunk. When I wanted to tell him where I put it he said that he didn’t wanna know. He said that he might start borrowin’ and not know when to quit.”
Tears were coming down Robyn’s left cheek. She had dropped the cash and now her hands were picking at each other.
“We could use this money to buy you a bed and a dresser,” Ptolemy said. “An’, an’, an’ if there’s enough, maybe a nice dress.”
Robyn stared at the suitcase full of money and shook her head.
“Is this the treasure you always be talkin’ ’bout?” she asked at last.
“Naw,” he said. “That ain’t treasure. That’s just Social Security an’ retirement money. Nobody died for that. You know a pirate’s treasure have to be cursed with blood.”
Robyn moved as far away from the table as she could get. Ptolemy got to his feet and went over to her. He put his hands on her strong shoulders.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked.
“Why you wanna show me that?”
“You my girl. You my blood.”
“No I’m not. You don’t even know me. You don’t know what I did ’fore I got here. I could steal this money from you.”
“You want it?” he asked.
“What?”
“You want it? I could give it to you, baby. You know, I only need ev’ry fourth check an’, an’ once a mont’ or so I get a li’l bit from Social Security. That’s all I need. You could have this. You could, you could take it and buy you a bed.”
Robyn jumped away from her benefactor and ran to the door.
“No!” she yelled as she rushed into the hallway and out to the front door of the building.
By the time Ptolemy got to the threshold she was gone. He stayed there for a while but she didn’t return and so he went back to the ash table. He considered separating out the various denominations. There were a few hundred-dollar bills in there, he remembered. He wanted to stack all the like notes, but there was too much cash and so he closed the suitcase and locked it. Then he went to the TV to turn it on but he couldn’t remember which button did the job.
Finally Ptolemy Grey went to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, trying to remember.
