The Gift

Peter Marlow/ Magnum

On her 12^th birthday her mother gave her a red envelope from the mail. The family was poor. The father a drunk. The kids beat her up at school. The envelope had no return address. The upper left hand corner just said:

A GIFT

Well open it, said her mother. And she did.

It was a check for one million dollars.

In the memo section it said “You’ll Never Want Again.”

The address section had no name. It just said TREEHOUSE CORPORATION.

It’s a prank, said the mother. Throw it away.

Yes, the girl agreed. A prank. But it’s funny. I like it. I’ll put it in a frame.

That’s ridiculous, the mother said. Why torture yourself like that.

It’s fine, said the girl. It’s funny.

The next day she skipped school and rode her bike to the bank. Presented the check. I think this is a joke, she said. But can you check to be sure. The teller gave a half smile and went to get the manager. She took the check with her. The girl’s heart picked up. There was a long moment at the window. The radio was playing Fleetwood Mac. Well there you go again– you say you want your freedom. The manager came to the window. He wore a light purple shirt and a dark purple tie. He was holding the check. Are your parents outside, he asked.

No, she said. I rode my bike.

I’m going to need a parent or guardian for this situation, he said.

It was real.

**

Her parents didn’t steal the money. They bought a modest house. She went to a new school. They didn’t beat her up there. She read French. She played viola. Before the school she didn’t know what a viola was. She loved it.

She looked for TREEHOUSE CORPORATION every day at first. Then every week. Every month, every year. But she never forgot. She went to college. Majored in journalism. Asked her professors: how could you find someone from their bank account. Treehouse Corporation was an LLC owned by an S Corp owned by another LLC in Bermuda, and so on. They didn’t want to be found.

She placed little classified ads. Places where someone who owned a corporation would read it. The Financial Times. The Economist. I’m the girl from Oak Grove. You gave me a gift. It changed my life. I’d like to talk to you. Please write to me.

No one did.

She got a job at a newspaper. The Paris bureau. A girl from her town, her home. She met a man, a painter. They married in June. A boy. She would speak at night about the gift. Treehouse. Let it go, he told her. His palm on the back of her neck, kissing her hair. Let it go. It gave you a life that brought us together. It did its work. It doesn’t matter anymore.

And one day there it was. In her very own paper.

A billionaire was dying. He’d built half the homes in America. He never gave interviews but now just once. He grew up poor. The father a drunk, he beat the boy. One day a kindly neighbor gave him a gift. His first ten dollars. He bought lumber. Taught himself to build. Made a place he could be safe. A treehouse.

He had no office anymore. His mysterious foundations didn’t return her calls. Marcel took the baby while she flew 20 hours. Back roads to the mansion outside Omaha. She came to the gate with the high beams from the rental car cutting into cold pouring rain just as night fell. Big black button on the old intercom. Hello, she said. Hello—do you remember me. You gave me a gift.

No one answered.

Please, she said. Please—I’ve looked for you all my life. The cold rain fell and fell. She was crying.

And a voice came.

I can’t believe you’ve found me, a man said. Raspy and tired like waking up from a long sleep. Is there anything you’d like to tell me. And she said: can I have some more money.