The Briefcase

            Bernard walked the same path, the same way, the same time, each day of the year. And when he’d arrive at his destination he’d sit on the bench and wait. 

In spring he wore his khakis and a pilled cardigan over a plain white t-shirt with a yellowing neckline. In summer he wore a faded pair of Bermuda shorts and he’d lose the sweater, revealing the t-shirt’s faint armpit stains. In the autumn months he’d return to the khakis and don an overcoat atop the t-shirt to ward off the chill and guard against light rain. And in winter, when temperatures dropped and snow threatened to dot the landscape, Bernard would switch to his wool trousers, zip the warm lining into the coat, layer on the pilled cardigan, wrap a muffler around his neck, and pull his fur hat tight down over his head. But his shoes were always the same, a well-worn but sturdy pair of brogans. And in his right hand he clutched a briefcase.

The bench Bernard sat upon was worn in the places his narrow buttocks and long backside had made contact with it, in much the same way countless hikers will expand a path and leave a trail. Except this shape was his very own. The briefcase, with its tattered corners, had also left a mark. The remaining brass foot on its underside, dented and tarnished, had formed a groove in the wood between Bernard’s thigh and the wrought iron armrest.

Passersby, most in a hurry, paid Bernard no mind. Those who did, regarded him with curiosity or suspicion. Who was this peculiar man? Or made a wide berth of the bench altogether, wondering about the last time the geezer had done his laundry. Or pitied him, thinking the poor guy looks lonely, yet never did anything about it like offering a friendly hello. Or had another question. Why is he always clutching that briefcase and what’s in it? But no one ever dared to ask.

Days turned to weeks and weeks became seasons. Passing. Then these grew to years and still Bernard sat, the briefcase beside him. Time thinned the brown strands of hair on his head and cracked the leather of the briefcase. But every day they arrived, having walked the same path, the same way, at the same time, to sit on the bench and wait. 

On one summer day when the sun was particularly hot Bernard released his grip on the briefcase handle then began drumming his fingers on one of the tab closures of the briefcase’s two outer pockets. He looked casually to his left then his right, fingers at rest now and began massaging the pocket with the palm of his hand. He paused and leaned his thin body forward off the bench to facilitate looking all the way over his right shoulder. He repeated this motion to his left. Finding no one, he relaxed his posture ever so slightly into a slouch, clamping his elbow tightly over the uppermost part of the briefcase. Then with fine and deft movements, he slid the tab of the pocket he’d been rubbing moments before from its looped enclosure. His eyes darting from side to side, he placed his entire hand into the pocket and held it there. After several moments had passed, Bernard pulled his hand from the pocket, bringing with it a worn and faded ball cap. Then he straightened up, placed the cap on his head, and quickly slipped the tab back to its original position. Finding relief from the sun and glad he’d not been discovered, Bernard let out an audible breath.

It was just like this one day in mid-November when he’d wanted to retrieve a sandwich from the second outer pocket. The fidgeting and nervous anticipation; the careful surveillance of the area around him; the slouching and reaching; the concern at being seen; the final retrieval of the prize and the subsequent relief that came with it.

Then on the coldest day in January when Bernard’s footsteps left icy prints in the light snow on the way to his seat on the bench, he paused. There was a different sort of stillness in the air. He’d need to be more observant and extra careful with the briefcase today. It was something he sensed. He sat still for nearly two hours, the patience of a monk, hardly daring to breathe, the briefcase secure between his upper right thigh and the armrest of the bench.

A crunching sound to his rear startled him. He lurched forward, nearly toppling from the bench, but he never lost his grip on the briefcase. Soon the mirthful sound of children’s laughter followed. A couple of kids decked out in a full kit of brightly colored winter gear, complete with hats topped with pom-poms and thick mittens on their hands emerged from behind the bench. 

“Missed me!” the first to appear called out to the one chasing her. When the second child stopped short and dropped the snowball he was clutching, the first one spun around quickly, two long braids whipping her in the face, and noticing Bernard in his usual spot on the bench, she froze. Could this withered, old man be the one the children had heard so much about? 

He’s weird. 

He always just sits there. 

Does he even have a home? 

He smells funny. 

He never changes his clothes. 

Why doesn’t he ever move? 

I heard he killed his dog. 

What do you think he keeps in that briefcase? 

As if he heard the unasked question, Bernard moved slowly and surely to unlatch the briefcase, never moving his gaze from the unblinking eyes of the children. The boy followed Bernard’s hands and watched with interest as the man lifted a long, cylindrical object from the briefcase’s interior. But his distrustful, older sister kept her stare trained on Bernard, pinning him to the bench. 

A bright red, plaid thermos adorned with nicks and scratches, and certainly from another era emerged from the briefcase, suspended by its metal handle. There was a white plastic cup on top of it which Bernard removed and gently set aside. Next, he twisted off the thick cap, sending sweet smelling ribbons of vapor into the air. The girl narrowed her eyes at Bernard as he poured the steaming cocoa, into the cup, but her brother took an eager step forward. He licked his lips as Bernard, arm outstretched, offered the cup. The boy began to reach for it, but his sister blocked his way. 

Bernard kept his arm extended and locked eyes with the girl. He reached back into the briefcase and felt around. When he pulled his hand out again he was holding a small bag of marshmallows which he showed the girl, a warm, smile on his face. Her body softened and the boy ran out from behind the protection of her orange, puffy, jumper. He took the cup from Bernard’s hand and grinned. Then sat down on the bench next to the old man. The girl moved in closer as Bernard inched down the bench to sprinkle marshmallows into the cup. But she did not sit down. Then he glanced back at the girl, indicated the briefcase with a slight nod of his neck and looked at her one more time his eyebrows raised in invitation. 

Her resolve broke and she sat down on the bench between Bernard and the briefcase which lay resting against the wrought iron armrest. She regarded the old man—from the bottom to the top. His worn boots; his trousers, frayed at the cuffs; the shabby coat; ragged muffler; scruffy hat, pieces of fur missing around the bottom edge. Then she met his eyes, plaintive and wanting. She stared into them one long, last time before timidly reaching into the briefcase. And in an instant Bernard vanished.

            Sadie walked the same path, the same way, the same time, each day of the year. And when she’d arrive at her destination she’d sit on the bench and wait.