I Am (Not) the Walrus by Ed Briant Page B

day’s accumulated crap. As I do, I find the note. I stare at it for a moment, take it out, smooth it on my knee, and read it again. Am I such a bad person? Michelle obviously thinks I am, otherwise why would she have been so rude to me?
    Zack is wrong. This isn’t a prank or a scam. Not only was Zack wrong, but Frosty was right. I should have shown the note to Zack at some quiet moment. How could anyone look at this note and not hear a genuine pleading voice? So what if the note was written years ago. Julie McGuire, whoever she is, still deserves to get her bass back. I should call her, and I should call her right now, before I have second thoughts.
    I’m not even doing this for the reward. Two hundred pounds isn’t going to get me another bass as good as this one. On the other hand, maybe I could negotiate for a bigger reward. One that’s adjusted for inflation.
    One thing is for sure. If I don’t ring I will spend the rest of my life wondering what I should have done.
    I reread the number as I head downstairs with the note, but Mom is on the phone.
    â€œSadly, I heard it was going to cloud over for the next few days.” Mom’s voice drifts out of the kitchen door.
    She is sitting at the table with a big smile and the phone glued to the side of her head. She glances briefly at me as I walk in, then turns her attention back to the pile of envelopes scattered in front of her.
    â€œIt’s such a shame,” she says into the phone. “I really thought we might get summer early this year.”
    An open can of coffee, a scoop, and a pack of filters surround the coffee machine. She must have been interrupted in the middle of making coffee. I’ll be the good son. I take the glass container over to the tap and fill it.
    â€œNo.” Mom taps a pen on the table. “I know you can’t do anything right now, but I really do appreciate your help.”
    I take the container back to the machine and put the filter in. It doesn’t fit.
    â€œThank you, Shirley.” Mom doodles a skull and crossbones on one of the envelopes. “You too. Bye, bye.” She hits end, drops the phone onto the table, and blows out a long, ragged breath. “Bloody imbecile.”
    â€œFriend of yours?” I hold up one of the filters. “I think these are the wrong size.”
    She turns toward me as if I’ve just woken her up. “It’s an experiment. I’m using the wrong size filters.” She resumes studying the pile of envelopes.
    â€œDoes it work?” I say. “I mean, do you get better coffee?”
    â€œSorry, darling,” she says without looking at me. “It’s a joke. They sold me the wrong size yesterday at Preston’s.” She pushes the chair back. “Here. I’ll do it. They work. They just need to be squashed down.”
    â€œIt’s okay. I’ve got it.” I stuff the filter into its holder. “A perfect fit.” I point to the envelopes. “Anything from Shawn?”
    She shakes her head. “Nope.” She picks up the envelope with the skull doodle. “I had a nice note from my credit card company, though.”
    â€œReally? I thought they just sent you bills,” I say.
    â€œNot at all. Listen.” She pulls a page out of the envelope and unfolds it. “Dear Emily Holland.” She grins at me. “That’s nice isn’t it?”
    â€œI suppose,” I say.
    â€œDear Emily Holland, it has come to our attention that your account is now a thousand pounds over your credit limit. Please rectify this matter within five days, otherwise we may be forced to initiate a recovery action.” She studies the top of the letter. “Arrived today, dated ten days ago.”
    â€œCan’t you call them?” I switch on the coffee machine.
    She presses her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, now why didn’t I think of that?”
    The coffee machine gurgles.
    â€œSorry.” I