From the Relief Society Magazine, April 1966 –

Look, Mom: One Hundred Dollars

By Helen H. Trutton

The screen door slammed shut with a loud bang, rapid little footsteps echoed down the hall, and Loren stood looking up at her, his brilliant dark eyes flashing with excitement.

“Mom, Mom, guess what?” he yelled. “See what I found. I think it’s a hundred dollar bill, and it’s all mine, ’cause I found it. It is, isn’t it?”

Faye stared down at him from her perch atop the ladder, and let the curtain she had been trying to hang float mutely to the floor. “You found a — hundred dollars?” she asked incredibly, reaching out her hand. “Here, let me see it.”

She took the crisp bill in her hands and turned it over several times. “It is, or looks genuine all right, but where did you get it?”

“By the Harris Grocery Store, lying by the curb. It is mine, isn’t it. Mom? Finders keepers! Richard kept my best marble once because he found it.”

She watched him disappear around the door, without waiting for her answer, and return a moment later carrying a catalogue. “I can buy a bicycle now.” He bubbled over with enthusiasm. “When I’m a little older, I can have a paper route. We could sure use the money. Mom.”

“Hold on a second, honey,” she said, hurrying down the ladder steps. “We have to find the owner. It isn’t yours you know. The person who lost it must feel dreadful.”

The stars left Loren’s eyes. “I — I guess that’s more money than we’ve ever had, except maybe when Daddy was alive.”

Faye squeezed him tightly against her. “We would be in rather serious circumstances if we lost that much. One hundred dollars is a lot of money. We might check with Mr. Harris. . . .”

“I already asked him if anybody in his store lost anything. It was almost on his property.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘No, not that I know of — so guess it’s finders keepers, losers weepers, son.’ He said that.”

“But we still have ”

“But anyone might say it belonged to them,” Loren protested. “How can we find the real owner? Oh, Mom,” he cried suddenly, letting his body sag against her, “I need a bicycle. I could . . . ”

“I know, my son,” she said, cradling him tenderly in her arms. Then she wiped the hot tears from his cheeks, and smiled down at him. “We’ll report it to the police. Whoever lost the money will naturally check with them first off.”

Loren blinked away one last stubborn teardrop, his eyes brightened. “And if the owner doesn’t show up?”

“Don’t build up your hopes, dear,” she said. “I’ll call Sergeant Thomas right now.” She moved away from him, and stepped into the living room. She stopped at the window, suddenly caught up in the enchantment of the lovely scene outside. The gnarled old elm tree was dressed in its new spring finery, such an impressive sight. Dennis always used to insist she had fallen in love with the place simply on the strength of the old elm tree. The day they had signed the contract to buy the house, they had engraved their names on the trunk of the tree like two young lovers. Oh, they were so gay and full of hopes and dreams then. Now it seemed a million years ago. Unconsciously, she ran her slim fingers through her attractively coiffured black hair.

Today was Saturday, the day she and Dennis always spent working in the yard. When they were finished with the day’s labor, they would sit under the big sprawling branches of the elm tree and talk over any problems that needed solving. Dennis used to say, “Then we can start Sunday out fresh.” If only the three of them could gather around the tree in their old familiar places now, Dennis could help Loren understand why he could not keep the money just because he had found it. He had such a way with him, like the letters he had left. . . .

“Mom!” Loren’s accusing voice startled her. “You haven’t even called the police yet.”

“Oh, dear.” She flushed. “I haven’t, have I?” She started to pick up the receiver, then let it fall back on the cradle. “Why not go down to the station?” she asked. “We could leave the money there.”

“I hope I get to keep the bill,
Mom,” he said solemnly. “Maybe a real rich man lost it, and he’ll never miss it. I’ve an idea, we could wait to see if someone misses it, and puts an ad in the paper. What do you think, Mom?”

Faye reached out, and took his hand firmly in hers. “Son, we have to exhaust every means of locating the rightful owner. You do understand that, don’t you? It would be terribly dishonest to just wait, hoping no one advertises.”

“It would?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That would be taking advantage of someone’s misfortune.” She hesitated a moment, then turned to him. “Do you mind if I read you the letter Daddy left for your eighth birthday again?” she asked. “It might. . . .”

Loren looked eagerly at her, his face flushing slightly as he moved to her side. “Dad’s sure smart isn’t he. Mom? I can hardly wait until my next birthday to get another one.”

“Yes, very. Now, would you like. . . .?”

“I’ll get the letter,” he said, disappearing around the hallway entrance. “I know exactly where I keep it.”

Faye sank down upon the davenport. She didn’t blame her son for being excited at finding a hundred dollars; any child just turned eight would be quite as thrilled. But still she couldn’t help from feeling a little disappointed, too. He had seemed content with the philosophy of “finders keepers,” with no concern for the loser. Or was she being too critical? Of course he would understand when they found the owner. Children usually had to see the evidence to identify their feelings, and the person who had lost the money was almost intangible in his mind. Loren was barely eight.

She looked up when he darted back into the room, and snuggled up against her on the davenport. “Here you are. Mom,” he said handing her the envelope. “I’m ready.”

She took the letter from his hands, and read in a low voice.

Dearest Son:

Today you are eight years old, a very important year in your life. You will have reached the age of accountability. We talked many times about what it means, and you’ve learned of it in Sunday School and Primary. It’s a great privilege to go into the waters of baptism, son, but it will also mean more responsibility for you. Be a good, honest boy, and you’ll grow up to be a real fine man. Watch over Mother, mind her, and others over you. Be happy the two of you, I love you both so much.

Love, Dad.

Loren took the letter from her trembling hands. “Every year I’ll get a letter from Daddy until I’m how old?” he asked.

“Twenty-one.”

“I don’t ever want to get past twenty-one,” he said, close to tears. “Never!”

Faye stood up and caught his hand in hers. “We’d better get down to the station. Maybe the person is there already. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, now would we?”

He looked at the opened catalogue. “No, Mom, I guess not.”

Poor child, she thought, with his vivid little imagination, he undoubtedly spent the hundred dollars five minutes after he found it. One of these days when she could see her way clear, Loren would have a bicycle of his own. Right now other things had to come first, like bills. Almost every other boy in the neighborhood owned a bicycle.

She draped a shawl over her shoulders and picked up her purse. “It’s such a delightfully warm spring day,” she said, “shall we walk to the station? It isn’t far, hardly worth getting the car out of the garage.”

“Sure, let’s do,” he answered. “I can hold the money longer.”

“I hope the owner hasn’t been too inconvenienced,” she said, hurrying down the steps. “I can imagine his concern.”

Loren did not answer, but amused himself by petting every friendly dog that bounced down the sidewalks from the houses they passed. Once he stopped and watched a robin tug with an uncooperative worm who apparently had no desire to be devoured, and he laughed gleefully. Then he sobered, and looked up at her thoughtfully. “Who said, ‘losers weepers, finders keepers,’ anyway, Mom?”

She stopped. “I don’t know, really.”

“Doesn’t it mean whoever finds something keeps it?”

“I suppose it means that if the finder can’t locate the owner, the loser would weep over it, depending on what was lost. But you have to try and find the loser — that’s important.”

“Not everyone tries, though, do they?”

“If he or she wants to do the right thing, they do.”

“Does it depend on what you find? If I found ten dollars instead of one hundred. . .?”

“The amount isn’t important. We’d still have to report the find.”

“Oh,” he said, and they walked the rest of the way to the station without speaking. Often she glanced down at him. He was such a precious miniature image of his father. He was too young to realize the effort that went into that letter and all the others Dennis had written in the final days of his illness. Nor could he begin to understand the love that was contained in each one of them, but someday he would.

Sergeant Thomas glanced up from his desk when they entered the room, and motioned them over to his side, with a quizzical smile. “Now what would be bringing my neighbors to the station?” lie asked, and then his smile turned to concern. “Is there anything wrong?”

Loren didn’t wait for her to speak, but swung up to the desk and laid the hundred dollar bill near Sergeant Thomas’ hand. “I found this,” he said, pointing to the money, “over by the Harris Grocery Store by the curb, and Mom says finders aren’t keepers until we see if we can find the real owner.”

“Have you had any inquiries?” Faye asked the startled policeman. “He just found it today.”

He gave a low whistle, and turned the bill over in his hands. “One hundred dollars’? That’s a lot of money to lose. No, not a soul has reported the loss yet.”

“How long?” Loren began ….

The Sergeant interrupted. “Probably just a few hours, maybe less before the owner misses it. Not too many folks around here are so wealthy they wouldn’t discover a shortage like that.”

“You do have a waiting period don’t you?” Faye asked. “The loss may not be noticed immediately.”

“Yes, a week, on some items, but on something this important, I expect we should hold it thirty days. You know, someone might have tucked the bill away in his billfold, and not look for it in days.”

“That long?” Loren exclaimed.

“I’m afraid so,” Sergeant Thomas replied. “We do want to give the loser every opportunity, don’t we?”

Loren ducked his head. “Yes, Sir.”

The kindly policeman walked to the door with them, holding Loren’s hand. “We appreciate people like you,” he said, smiling at Faye, and then bending down to Loren, he slipped his arm around his shoulder. “Thanks, son. You’re going to be a fine man just like your father.”

Loren tore his gaze away from a young boy riding by on a bicycle, and swallowed. “Every year I’ll get a letter from Dad until I’m twenty-one.”

“And each one you’ll appreciate more,” he answered. “Oh, Loren, I’ll let you know just as soon as we hear about the money.”

“Can — may I call you every day, too?”

Sergeant Thomas laughed. “Of course, as often as you like. Good-bye.”

They hurried home. It was all she could do to keep up with her young son. “I’ve got to be home to answer the telephone when Sergeant Thomas calls,” he explained his haste. “Oh, Mom, if he doesn’t call?”

“But surely he will. Don’t dream about spending the money, dear. One of these days, we’ll buy you a bicycle.”

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“I expect by the time you are ready for a paper route.”

Loren rushed ahead of her into the house, and darted over to the telephone. “I’ll call the station,” he said, “in case Sergeant Thomas has tried to get me.”

Faye laughed in spite of the serious little face before her. “No, no, not so soon. He’ll call. I doubt if you’ll have to wait long.”

But she was wrong. One day passed, followed by another, with no news. And now just one week of waiting was left. She leaned back in her chair at the breakfast table wondering about it. Maybe they weren’t doing all they could. It was possible he or she hadn’t thought of checking with the police. She touched Loren’s hand across the table. “Son,” she said, “we could advertise. We could say something like this : ‘Will person who lost money recently, contact police station, identifying same?’ What do you think?”

He didn’t answer for a long while. Finally he said, “O.K., Mom.”

The last few days were the worst it seemed to her. Sergeant Thomas agreed to the advertisement. Nothing new happened except Loren became more excited, his appetite waned, his sleep was restless.

It isn’t fair, she thought, to put a youngster through such suspension. That saying should be “finders weepers.” Her household had suffered more than the loser, or so it appeared.

At last, the time was up. Sergeant Thomas called early the next morning, after the final date, in a cheerful mood. “Tell Loren he has complied with the law; he’s the legal owner.”

She thanked him. “I do feel badly. Sergeant,” she said. “I was in hopes. …”

“We all were. Will you be down soon?”

“Yes,” she answered, “Loren will be anxious.”

Soon the two of them were walking down the familiar street to the station. Loren was unusually quiet. She couldn’t read his mind, of course, but she supposed he was overwhelmed at receiving so much money, and she hoped he was thinking of the unfortunate loser.

But, child that he was, his enthusiasm suddenly skyrocketed as they entered the station and he caught sight of Sergeant Thomas. He dashed unrestrained to his side, and exclaimed happily, “I can buy a new bicycle now. Sergeant, and Mom can have the rest of the money.”

The policeman frowned, looked from a man sitting at his left, to Loren, and then to her. “I . . . ,” he began, “last night ended the waiting period, but. . . .”

Faye looked at the other man. “The money belongs to him, is that it?” she asked.

Sergeant Thomas cleared his throat. “Yes, but I don’t know. He came by a little too late. Legally ”

Faye faced the man. “Why?” she pleaded, “why didn’t you come forward long ago? Why did you have to cause my boy all this anxiety?” She put her hand over her face a moment. Hadn’t she been praying the rightful owner would appear? “Forgive me, Sir,” she said calmly now. “It’s just that we’ve been under strain.”

“I’m sure you have, Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he said, standing up and indicating that she sit in the chair he had occupied. “I missed the money right off, but I thought my friend had taken it.” He sighed deeply. “I was too hurt to ask him, and then this morning, I noticed the ad.” He walked toward the door. “Thank you for putting that notice in the paper. I would never have known.”

“It’s yours,” Faye said quickly.

His eyes brightened for an instant, then he shrugged. “Legally, I think it belongs to your boy.”

Everyone looked at Loren. Faye put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. He was just a child, barely out of the stage of me being the only one who mattered. He couldn’t possibly make a right choice at his age — the temptation was too great. It wasn’t fair. . . . Quickly she arose to her feet in protest, but Sergeant Thomas motioned her to be quiet.

“What’s your opinion, Loren?” the officer asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. She wondered if he had heard him. Maybe he was in shock; she knew such things were possible. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to her, he took the money, and handed it to the man. “I’m sure glad your friend wasn’t a thief,” he said thoughtfully. “That would be terrible!”

“Thank you, boy, thank you,” the old fellow said over and over again. “But . . . I . . . I.”

“It belongs to you,” Loren said.

The man was at the door now. He turned back to Loren, and with a twinkle in his eyes, said. “Didn’t I hear you say you wanted a bicycle, young man?”

“Someday I’ll own one,” he said confidently. “Mom said so.”

The elderly gentleman leaned against the door casing, and chuckled to himself. “I bought one a few months back,” he said. “Figured I’d learn to ride it, but shucks, I’m too old; it’s dangerous. I was just wishing for a lad — I’ll bring it by the station, and you can have it,” he said, and he was gone, shuffling down the street, without waiting for an answer.

“Mom, Mom, did you hear?” Loren rushed to her side. “A real bicycle. Oh, Mom!”

“Yes,” she said, in a barely audible voice. “I heard.” Then smiling down at him, she said a little shakily. “Today, Son, you went a long way up that ladder — of becoming a real fine man. Shall we go home?”