The bus floor had that old familiar smell of diesel fuel and damp carpet that had not changed since I was riding back and forth to vocational school in nineteen-ninety. My knees were jammed against the seat in front of me because Greyhound never did figure out that men over six feet tall might want to stretch their legs once in a while. I had my canvas duffel between my boots and my black nylon umbrella tucked right beside my left thigh where I could keep an eye on it. The rain was coming down sideways over Effingham, turning the cornfields into a gray blur through the scratched glass. When the driver hollered thirty minutes for lunch, I stood up too fast and grabbed my jacket. I left the umbrella right there under the heater vent without even thinking twice about it.
“Watch your step,” the driver said, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.
I got off to stretch my legs and buy a stale cheese sandwich from the vending machine that took three tries to accept my dollar bill. By the time I climbed back on board, another driver was behind the wheel and my seat had been taken by a young fellow wearing a Purdue sweatshirt. I had to move three rows further back into a seat that smelled faintly of peppermint and wet wool. It was only when I was hauling my duffel out through the side doors in Metropolis that I realized my mistake. The black nylon umbrella was gone and my left shoulder was getting soaked by the afternoon drizzle. I stood there on the curb for a good thirty seconds kicking myself for being careless. It was just a twenty-eight-dollar umbrella I picked up at the hardware store on sale, but it was sturdy enough to keep the wind off during my shifts down at the lock and dam.
“Stupid,” I muttered out loud, kicking a loose pebble into the gutter.
I walked three blocks down to the True Value hardware on Front Street just to replace it before the evening bus came around. Old Arnie was behind the counter sweeping up sawdust with an ash broom that had more wire than bristles. He didn’t have the exact same brand I lost, so I settled for one with a green tartan pattern and a curved wooden handle wrapped in black electrician tape because the finish was chipped. It cost me thirty-two dollars and fifty cents including tax, which felt like highway robbery for something made in some factory overseas. I tucked it under my arm and walked the rest of the way home to the little white-frame house on Fourth Street. The place was empty and smelled of stale coffee because my wife had gone down to Cairo to help her sister sort through some old boxes.
The next morning was clear and crisp with that sharp autumn bite that lets you know the frost is coming early this year. I had my lunch pail packed and was walking down toward the river gate when the wind picked up off the Ohio. A woman was coming toward me from the direction of the post office, struggling with a large cardboard box under one arm. She was holding an umbrella over her head to fend off the loose drops falling off the oak trees, and the green tartan pattern caught my eye instantly. The handle had that exact same piece of black electrical tape right where the wood met the brass collar. I stopped right in my tracks on the sidewalk. My brain didn’t want to process the coincidence, so it just jumped straight to anger.
“Hey,” I called out, taking two fast steps toward her. “That’s mine.”
She stopped and pulled the umbrella down just enough to look over the top of her box with tired eyes. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice raspy like she had been breathing sawdust all morning.
“That umbrella,” I said, pointing right at the wooden handle with my thermos. “I left it on the Indianapolis bus yesterday afternoon. You must have picked it up from my seat.”
She didn’t look scared or guilty. She just looked tired, the way people look when they have been carrying a heavy load for too long without any help. “Mister,” she said softly, “you’re out of your mind.”
“I am not out of my mind,” I said, my voice rising a little bit because I hate being taken for a fool. “I bought that exact pattern yesterday morning at the True Value after I lost my old one. Look at the tape on the handle. I put that there myself yesterday because the varnish was peeling off.”
She let out a short, dry breath that looked like a little puff of steam in the morning air. “Mister, my daddy gave me this umbrella twelve years ago before his lungs gave out down at the flour mill. He wrapped that tape on there himself when our dog chewed the end off. If you bought one yesterday, you’re looking at a different piece of cloth.”
“Every umbrella looks like every other umbrella until you look close,” I insisted, stepping closer and reaching out a hand toward the ribbing.
She didn’t pull away, but she tilted the canopy down so the gray light hit the brass ring right above the handle. “Go ahead,” she whispered. “Look at it.”
I leaned in close, smelling the damp wool of her coat and the faint scent of peppermint oil. Right there on the brass collar, scratched into the metal with an awl in clumsy, uneven block letters, were the initials W. J. H. I stared at them for five whole seconds. My own umbrella had been a plain black nylon thing with a plastic grip that said Ace Hardware in faded silver paint. I had been so mad about losing my cheap black one that I didn’t even look at what I grabbed out of the bin at True Value when Arnie handed it to me. Arnie’s nephew had been clearing out an old estate sale down in Cairo the week before and dropped off a dozen boxes of odd merchandise in the back room. This wasn’t my umbrella at all. It had belonged to her father, and she had lost it somewhere out in the world three years ago when her purse was stolen off her porch.
“Well?” she asked, her chin trembling just a little bit. “Still yours?”
I stood there on that sidewalk with my lunch pail in one hand and my mouth kind of half open, feeling like a complete jackass. The wind rustled through the dry oak leaves overhead, making a dry scraping sound against the gutters. I looked from the initials on the brass up to her face, which had lines around the eyes that looked just like mine when I stare too long into the sun. I let go of the handle like it had suddenly gotten hot.
“No,” I said, and my voice sounded smaller than I meant it to. “It was never mine.”
She adjusted the cardboard box in her arms and pulled the tartan canopy back up over her head as a fresh sprinkle started to drift down from the gray clouds. “Then I guess you better go find the one you actually lost,” she said quietly.
“I guess I better,” I told her.
She turned and kept walking down toward the brick storefronts on Main Street, her boots making a steady crunching sound against the wet gravel. I watched her go all the way to the corner until the green tartan melted into the gray background of the morning. I didn’t pick up my lunch pail right away. I just stood there on the empty sidewalk with my hands in my pockets, listening to the river tugboats blowing their horns down in the channel, realizing that some things don’t get lost so much as they just wait around for the person who actually needs to find them.
