Scuffling around the kitchen in her slippers, nursing a cold, Ada Simkin was making yet another cup of tea with lemon. A gray flannel robe, from another era, hung unevenly around her ankles. She sighed as she reached for a tissue.
“What’s he doing so long at the market?” she asked herself.
“Probably smiling at the ladies, especially the young ones.”
At that moment her husband, Sam, struggled through the doorway, laden with groceries.
“Where were you so long?” she asked.
“I had to go back,” Sam told her. “I forgot the vitamin C candies you like.”
Mollified, Ada peered into the grocery bags.
“What’s this? Korn Flakes? I never put it on the list. I haven’t eaten Korn Flakes in years. Did you ever see me buy them?”
“I thought I might try it for breakfast for a change,” Sam said. “Something different.”
“I would take them back. You’ll never finish such a big box by yourself.”
“Well, I’m not you and your not me, so forget it. Maybe you might change your mind. Who knows?”
After Sam had put away the groceries, Ada began to open the Korn Flakes box.
“I’ll try some. See if I like it,” she thought.
As soon as she opened it, she let out a loud scream and dropped the box to the floor. Sam hurried into the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Unable to speak, Ada pointed to the spilled contents.
“It looks like money,” Sam said, in disbelief. “It must be fake.”
He bent down for a closer look. There were one hundred dollar bills, all loosely crumbled, and no Korn Flakes in sight.
“Are they fake?” Ada asked, beginning to recover.
“They feel okay. Maybe it’s drug money,” he surmised.
“Why couldn’t we get rich like normal people? What will we do with it?” asked Ada.
“What do you want to do? I should return it and get our money back? Or, maybe call the police?”
“No…no. We could…Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just call it a miracle and keep it,” she suggested.
“What if it’s counterfeit?” he asked.
“Why do you have to spoil everything?” Ada replied.
“I know. I’ll go to the bank right now and deposit one of those bills in our checking account. That way we’ll know,” Sam told her.
“In our old age, this has to happen, when cruises make me dizzy and you don’t drive at night anymore,” Ada complained.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find ways to spend it,” he said slipping a hundred dollar bill into his wallet and hurrying out the door.
After the bill cleared, spend it they did, but with admirable restraint. Because how can you dangle one hundred dollar bills at K-mart, or the barbershop? They increased their checking account gradually and kept the rest in the Korn Flakes box in a kitchen cabinet. Who would look there?
Sam and Ada wondered if the should tell their children. But knowing them, they would probably say, “Give yourselves up!” So they sent them a nice check, telling them the dogs had been good to them, although it had been years since Sam gave up that hobby.
From the very beginning they were transformed. They smiled more, dressed better and hugged a lot, both day and night. Like two conspirators, they told no one of the good fortune. And they rarely argued any more. No, “I never said that!” “You did! I heard you!” “You heard wrong!” “Are you calling me a liar?” No, none of that.
Now, if she wished, Ada could afford a face-lift or a tummy tuck. And Sam? He could speak, maybe, to those women he admired at the market, bolstered up as he was, by his fat wallet. But those were not the paths they chose.
The biggest change in their lives was in the tingle of excitement, the joy, the guilt. It wasn’t that they didn’t know right from wrong. In Ada’s case it was even more complicated. Mostly, what she feared was to become a celebrity. She would hate that. Having always felt comfortable in her life, she would not enjoy suddenly being the focus of curiosity.
One night she dreamed she was on the Oprah Winfrey show, which was followed by a book deal, then a movie about their life, before and after. TV cameras surrounded their condo, lights flashed, crowds gathered.
“Here, take it back! We didn’t mean no harm. Please…let us alone!” she cried out in her sleep. Upon waking, she knew that this would be her punishment.
As for Sam, what he fretted over was the possibility of an unexpected visit from a drug lord, knocking on their door late at night with a semi-automatic.
Yet, most of the time they were happy, enjoying the luxury of carefree spending. True, nagging thoughts would sometimes intrude like, “How could life be this good? Something bad was bound to happen.” They didn’t have long to wait.
It was after the evening news. There was a loud knock on the door. Ada came into the living room. She looked at Sam.
“You go,” she said.
Sam got up from his chair, tightened his belt and started for the door, then suddenly stopped.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
Ada had heard that before.
“Who is it?” she shouted.
“It’s me. Yetta. Your door is locked?”
When Ada opened the door to her neighbor, it was with a warm and friendly greeting, mixed with relief.
“How are you, Yetta?” she asked.
“I’m all right. You? I felt a little lonesome. Do you mind if a sit a while, I know you two are always going places. I won’t stay long.”
“Come in. We were just going to have our dessert. Come join us. A little cheesecake with cherries? Or would you like some chocolate mousse? We found a wonderful new bakery at the Mall.
“No cheese cake. No mousse. Thank you.” Yeta said, following Ada into the kitchen. “My stomach hasn’t been behaving lately.”
“Nothing? How about a cup of tea?” Ada asked.
“No, but maybe some Korn Flakes. I haven’t had them in years. With a little skim milk. I see you go a big box up there. Don’t bother. I can reach it.”
Florence Liberfarb writes poetry, short stories and plays. You may freely republish this story for non-commercial use provided you follow the Publisher Guidelines and provide a hyperlink (electronic media) to the Wordly Web Site. You may not alter the copyright notice or edit the content of this story. Please notify the author of your intent to republish. Commercial use of this story requires written permission and payment of a royalty.
Korn Flakes by Florence Liberfarb
Copyright © 2005-2007 All Rights reserved
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Poems, Stories, and Plays byFlorence Liberfarb
