Trusting people is not always easy to do. Sometimes a stranger, whose dress and behavior makes you uncomfortable, enters your life.
Then a TV news report causes you to wonder about this person and the effect he might have on your . . .
Weekend Plans
“Ain’t got no weekend plans,” he squealed. The high pitch of his voice rattled me. His name was Tommy True and he’d been doing odd jobs for my wife and me for over three years. Can’t remember how our working relationship began. Somehow, he fell into our lives.
Tommy stood five feet six inches tall and weighed no more than one hundred and ten pounds. He looked anorexic, but had been known to down two to three Big Macs in one sitting. It would appear his metabolism worked in his favor.
“Want me to do any more stuff, boss?”
“Don’t think so, Tommy.” I thought hard to come up with something. I felt bad for the guy and wanted to make him feel worthwhile. In my eyes, he was a lost soul and I tried to help give his life some meaning.
In the absence of a quick reply from me, he chanted, “Guess I’ll be goin’ then. Tell the wife, hi. Check in with you next week.”
“Okay,” I muttered. “Have a nice weekend. Talk to you Monday or Tuesday.”
I watched as this stringy-haired, little man of about sixty-five sauntered off down the driveway. I turned and went into the house.
Melissa sat at the kitchen table reading her latest Stephanie Gaither novel. She heard the door slam behind me and looked up.
“You send Tommy on his way?” she murmured.
“Yeah. I feel for the guy. It hurts me when I can’t find something else for him to do.”
“He scares me, Jeremy. He’s been working for us a long time, but I really know nothing about him. I’ve never been able to get him to talk about himself. I want to trust him. And I support your trying to help him, but . . .”
“I know. He’s a loner. He doesn’t say much to me either. I don’t want you to feel afraid. That’s why I don’t have him come over unless I’m here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. You know, every time I read about something bad or weird happening in the neighborhood, I think maybe Tommy had something to do with it. I know that may not be fair to him, but he frightens the hell out of me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me how uncomfortable he makes you?”
“When he started working for us, I thought you’d give him a job or two and he’d disappear. Then you seemed so pleased with your ability to help someone who was down and out, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you I’d rather not have him at our house. And as long as you were home when he worked here, I convinced myself I’d be safe.”
“If having Tommy help us out makes you feel that bad, Melissa, I’ll ask him not to come around anymore.”
“Jeremy, I do think it would be for the best if he didn’t.”
“Then it’s settled. When he comes by next week, I’ll let him know the work has dried up and he’ll have to look elsewhere. I think that will do it.”
Monday arrived, but there was no sign of Tommy. None on Tuesday, either. The week passed and then the next and still no Tommy. I was tempted to seek him out to see if he was all right, but thought it would be better to leave well enough alone.
At the end of the second week since Tommy and I parted company, a letter arrived from the president of our community association’s governing board. Because these letters more often than not say nothing of consequence, I placed it on my desk in the den and went about my business.
That evening, after dinner, I excused myself from the table and went into the den. As I sat down at my desk, I noticed the letter at the corner where I put it. I picked it up, opened it, and began to read, “Dear Hillcrest Homeowners Association Members: It is with deep sadness, I must share some very disturbing news with you.”
Before I could read any further, Melissa called to me from the kitchen. “Jeremy, can you take the dog for a walk? He seems anxious. When not begging for the food on the kitchen counter, he’s been pawing the sliding glass door. Guess he wants to go out. But I’m in the middle of making the hors d’oeuvres for the party tomorrow evening.”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I grunted, not happy I’d been interrupted. I made my way to the kitchen, where Jethro Dog lusted after anything that might drop from the counter. I managed to direct his attention toward me, put a leash on him, and led him out the front door for what I hoped would be a quick evening walk.
When I returned to the house, I unleashed Jethro, went back into the den, and again picked up the association letter. However, before I could continue reading, the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello.”
The voice on the other end exclaimed, “Jeremy, have you heard the news about the break-ins?”
“What break-ins, Norm?” Norm lives around the corner on Ravens Loop. He and his wife, Helene, have become our good friends.
He responded with some hesitation, “Uh, there have been four in the last two weeks. In each, someone has forced open the side garage door and entered the house.”
“That’s pretty scary. What did they take?”
“Gold and silver pieces of jewelry and some cash. Nothing else. The thief seems to know when the owners are gone. All the thefts occurred during the day. Police are advising us to install a security door or a bar across the side garage door so crooks can’t get in.”
“Well, thanks for the good news, Norm,” I moaned. “What are you guys going to do?”
“I think Helene and I will have a security door installed. What about you?”
“I’ll talk to Melissa and see what she thinks. Thanks again for the heads up.”
“You’re welcome, Jeremy. This whole thing really frightens Helene and me. We thought we lived in a safe community.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too. Bye Norm.” I hung up the phone and muttered to myself, “Can it be a coincidence Tommy hasn’t shown up at our house the last couple of weeks, the same weeks the four break-ins took place?” Although I didn’t believe Tommy could be capable of doing this, as he always had been so nice to me, maybe Melissa’s fears were justified.
I left the den and joined Melissa in the living room to watch the local seven o’clock news on TV.
“Jeremy, you’re just in time.”
“In time for what?”
“The feature news story is about to come on. It’s going to focus on the break-ins in our community,” she explained with concern in her voice. “By the way, who was on the phone?”
“Norm. He called about the break-ins. I’m anxious to find out more about them.”
As I watched the report, it became clear that, although police had few leads, they believed someone working for community residents and who knew their habits had committed the crimes. The story focused on local area handymen and, while no names were mentioned, Tommy was one of them.
Melissa looked at me and, with some authority in her voice, said, “See, I was right to be worried about Tommy working for us.”
I shook my head and murmured, “I hope not.”
After the news, Melissa and I watched the movie of the week, “Desperate Measures,” on our local cable network. When it ended, Melissa shut off the TV, got up off the couch, and stretched.
“You coming to bed?” she sighed.
“Yeah, I’ll be up in a minute. I want to check on something in the den.”
“What’s so important, you have to do it at ten o’clock at night, Jeremy?”
“There’s a letter from the association I’ve been trying to read. But each time I start, something interrupts me.”
“Oh, all right. See you in a few. I’ll be waiting.”
I walked into the den, sat down at my desk, and reached for the letter and began to read it again, “Dear Hillcrest Homeowners Association Members: It is with deep sadness, I must share some very disturbing news with you. Nathan Thomas Truman, an eccentric millionaire and philanthropist, died in his sleep on December 6.”
That afternoon was the last time I saw Tommy, I thought. “Wow! What a coincidence,” I blurted.
“Jeremy, what are you yelling about? Are you all right? Come to bed.”
“No need to worry. I’m fine. After I finish reading the letter from the association, I’ll be there.”
The letter centered on Nathan Truman’s humanitarian efforts. It indicated he would take jobs as a handyman in many of the housing developments in our city, including ours. He would get to know the property owners and, in so doing, learned about how they served their community. If he believed what they were accomplishing was helping those in need, he would make an anonymous donation, which he sent to the homeowner to give to the organization that provided the service. No return address appeared on the plain white envelope and the enclosed check had an unreadable signature followed by the words, “The True Believer’s Foundation.” Once he did this, he quit working for the homeowner and never made contact again.
It further stated that at least six checks, in varying amounts, had been received by members of our community. It also indicated that Truman had been a very private person. To the knowledge of our association’s governing board president, no pictures of this wonderful gentleman, who didn’t live or dress as if he had money, existed.
My eyes started to close. I placed the letter on the desk and made my way upstairs to the bedroom to get ready for bed.
When I entered the room, Melissa asked, “Did you learn anymore about our suspected criminal, Tommy, from the letter?”
“No. The letter wasn’t about the break-ins.”
I was surprised she didn’t press the issue. So I crawled into bed, kissed her, and hoped for a good night’s sleep.
However, I tossed and turned all night, awakening many times. Thoughts kept running through my mind—Tommy True, Nathan Thomas Truman and “The True Believers Foundation.” No, they don’t go together. It had to be one big coincidence.
I awoke Saturday morning to bright sunshine peeking through the partially open bedroom blinds. After dressing, I went down to the den and began to work on my favorite weekend project—The West Valley Youth Center—before breakfast.
This endeavor has been my baby since I retired a little over five years ago. I work on it every weekend, preparing to meet and talk with people during the week about the center and its value to the community, to enlist volunteers, and to secure funding. As chair of next year’s fundraising committee, I determined we needed a little over $250,000 for our programs and to refurbish the center.
One morning, Tommy overheard me talking to a neighbor about it. To my surprise, he asked me all kinds of questions, especially about the costs to run the center and achieve our goals. I told him $250,000 was what we needed. He didn’t flinch. His reaction, or lack thereof, coming from a man who seemed to need handouts to survive, intrigued me.
The ringing of the doorbell broke my concentration. I went down the hall and opened the door. Our mailman, Dexter, dressed in his summer, khaki shorts, in December, smiled at me and drawled, “Morning, Mr. Conners.”
“Morning, Dext.”
“Got a letter for you, sir. Sorry it’s a little late. Got lost at the post office. It appears the stamp fell off, so you got some postage due. Five-five cents, to be exact.”
I handed him a dollar and received my change. “Thanks, Dexter. Have a good day.”
“You, too, sir.”
I closed the door and ambled back toward the den, holding a nondescript, plain white envelope addressed to me. I sat down on the couch across from my desk and tore open the flap uncovering the top of a check. I removed it from the envelope and . . .
“Oh, my God!” I shouted, as I stared in amazement at the figure scrawled in the amount box . . . $250,000.
I tried hard to contain the emotions rumbling within me. My hands trembled. I lost control of the envelope. As it floated to the ground, something fell from it. I leaned down and picked up what appeared to be a photograph.
To my surprise, it was the photo of Tommy I’d taken almost three years ago. I remember when I showed it to him. He pleaded with me, “I need to have it. I look a sight and nobody should ever see it. Make sure you erase the picture from your camera.”
On the back of the photo there was a handwritten note, dated December 6. It read, “Now you can make your ‘Weekend Plans’ a reality. In the past, I have not been inclined to share my identity, but you always have treated me with respect. You have been my friend.” It was signed, “Tommy True, aka Nathan Thomas Truman.”
Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
