Coin Box

1950s in a small Midwestern town

It was with the expected degree of sadness he received the news of his mother’s passing. The expected degree, not more, not less. His father had passed years previously, much to the same effect. He loved his people, respected them and did his best to abide by them. He never wanted for anything and was well provided for. A deep emotional connection, though, had been absent as far back as he could remember.

The funeral proceedings had been well conducted. The well wishings and expressions of sorrow endured and reciprocated. As an only child it was now time for the overpowering chore of preparing his parents’ home for sale, the home in which he grew up.

The task of sifting through possessions and deciding their fate had taken nearly a month. The kitchen counter was the final quadrant. And there it was, the coin box. All these decades it sat there arm’s distance of the kitchen sink. Before a shopping venture you’d grab a few coins to have on hand to make clean change instead of breaking a dollar bill, if possible. After shopping you’d empty your pockets back into it. But, finally, the coin box had served its purpose and was being extinguished. He emptied the coins into his now bulging pocket and, for the first time in his life, saw the bottom of the box. Well, almost the bottom. Instead, he found a folded yellowed newspaper clipping. He unfolded it and found inside, a birth certificate. This part, then, caught his full attention. It reflected his first name, middle name, the wrong surname of Sipe, but his birth date. Something did not add up. What are the odds of a birth certificate, not yours, matching those three out of four? He started to think, he’d never actually seen his birth certificate. Was this his? Was he not who he thought he was? Were these somehow not really his parents? Questions rushed into his head, totally bereft of answers, filled only with doubt.

These were good people, his parents, or, his assumed parents at this point. He’d always thought he’d wanted more affection, more hugs, from them, more of a, how can he explain, a more spiritual connection with them. But no, it had never been.

The newspaper clipping, he’d forgotten it in this discombobulating moment. He read it now. The unexpected death of a young couple, their last name matching that on the birth certificate. The article was dated 1927, a year after the child’s birth. According to the article the child survived his parents. The confusion mounted.

It was Thursday evening, grocery night. He liked to do his shopping before the weekend to ‘gear up’ he liked to say, without ever clarifying what exactly it was he was gearing up for. He was perusing the produce bin when he spied Doctor Brown from across the bin. Dr. Brown was an old man, he’d been the town doctor for longer than the young man could remember. In fact, Dr. Brown had been an old man for as long as he could remember.

“Good evening, Dr. Brown. How goes it,” asked the young man.

“It goes well enough, thank you. I know you’ve had a trying few weeks. How are you doing,” asked the doctor kindly referring to his mother’ passing.

“It hasn’t been an easy time, but it’s almost complete, except for a few details,” then pausing while handling a pair of cucumbers.

“Doctor,” he asked, still across the produce bin, ”may I ask you a personal question? Personal, it’s about me.”

“You may ask away,” said the old man smiling at the exchange.

“I found a newspaper clipping while clearing out my parents’ home, and a birth certificate . . . ,” before stopping, seemingly unable to continue.

The old man, sensing what was coming, came from around the bin and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Well, man now, he was 28 years old. He looked in his eyes and there was nearly an uncomfortable silence before the old man spoke. But when he did, it was powerful.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they did good with you. They cared for you,” said the old man.

“They weren’t my parents, were they,” he said.

“They were your parents in every way but birth.” There was a long pause, his hand stayed on the young man’s shoulder. He looked down as if gathering his words, and then resumed.

“They were sometimes awkward with you, they spoke to me freely when you were a baby. They never expected to be parents . . . medical reasons. They wanted desperately to be parents, but I’d told them, as their doctor, five years before you were born that it wasn’t possible. But then the Sipes moved in next door. They were a young couple, became very good friends with your parents, sincerely so. The four would regularly visit with each other and dine, or so I had heard. You already know this by now, but they were your parents, the Sipes. They had several pregnancies before you were born, you were their first one to live, and their last. They’d wanted babies since before they moved to town. Then you were born. You should have seen them, so happy. This is a small town, I’d been the only doctor here for decades. I’d facilitated births many times, but it seemed different, more special to your parents. They loved you, they really loved you. Then they were gone too soon. Both of them dead before you were even a year old. Mr. and Mrs. Stiglitz, they were good friends with the Sipes. Very good friends. Then your parents died.”

“The 1920s, it was a different time than it is now. In many ways it was different. The Sipes had no people, their parents were gone, both sides, nor were there siblings on either side. I’m sure the local agencies could have dug around deep enough and found a family member once or twice removed, but it wasn’t like that back then. The Stiglitz’ did what they thought was the best thing. A home and people who would love you.” 

“I was your doctor when you were a baby. They didn’t have time to plan to be parents, they just got the news one day and decided in the moment to take you in. The mayor was agreeable and it was done. Quite frankly I don’t even know if there was a legal adoption, but that wasn’t my role. They brought you into my office annually for a check up, and if you were sick here they’d come with you. They weren’t the most natural parents, not the most affectionate, but don’t let that deter you from the truth, they loved you more than I’ve seen many parents love their children.”

“I know it’s been a shock these last few weeks with the passing of your mom, but don’t let this discovery undo those decades. They never told you about the Sipes, did they? Maybe they should have, they probably should have, they did the best they could.”

Silence. The young man certainly wasn’t going to break it, he wanted the doctor to say more. Finally, the doctor’s hand released his shoulder and he cleared his throat.

“I know this is a lot, I hope I didn’t say too much or speak out of place. But if you’ll please pardon me, I’m going to pay for my groceries and go home. It’s late and I have a cat at home waiting for dinner,” then he ambled to the check out counter. “Good evening, Doctor Brown,” he overheard the counter clerk address the old man.

The young man went home, put his groceries in the refrigerator and dropped his change into his mother’s coin box.

[Inspired by a recent family outing perusing used books, I came across a book entitled The Coin Box. ‘What could possibly be interesting enough about a coin box to write a whole novel about it,’ I thought. I don’t know what the book was about, but the above narrative is what came to mind for me. -klem]