Finders and Keepers

I was loading ten sacks of groceries into the group home van, taking my sweet time despite the frigid wind. I liked getting out of the house, clearing my head, checking off lists. I shoved the receipt in my coat pocket, nestled three dozen eggs beside a bag of produce. The celery stalks’ light green leaves peeped out like a hint of spring.

I always parked the work van, a 1985 GMC 12-seater we called The Pickle, along the lot’s far perimeter (easier to back out). As I wheeled the cart around mountains of snow, something on the salt-flecked asphalt caught my eye—a glint. I picked up a ring, holding it to the sun. A flower-shaped prong held a small, clear stone that cast sparkles when I turned it. Yellow gold with a double beveled band. Not contemporary, nor vintage—a mall jewelry store aesthetic.

An engagement ring, I knew this much, even though at twenty-three, the idea of marriage still felt like a far-off continent, like college to a 7^th grader. I slipped it on my bare middle finger. Was it a diamond? In warmer months, when I wasn’t constantly putting on and removing my wool gloves, I wore silver rings on eight fingers—turquoise stones, Celtic knots, funky, hippie-girl bling I bought at music festivals. My broke-ass, wayfaring boyfriends never gifted me rings, only books, CDs, and (occasionally) flowers picked out of someone’s garden. Though there was that Dollar Store rhinestone with a flimsy adjustable band an ex had given me as a joke, which I’d recently seen somewhere, in my dresser, maybe.

I glanced at the distant strip of stores: Wegman’s, AutoZone, Panera, Discount Wine and Liquor. The ring’s owner—I pictured someone older, with frosted highlights—could be anywhere. It could’ve been on the ground for hours, or days. Paralyzed by this unexpected dilemma, I clutched at scraps of logic. If I left it there, it would either get covered by tomorrow’s snow or obliterated by truck tires. The only police station I knew of was the satellite station on Green Street, and I didn’t have time to waste half the day in its lobby. So, I zipped the ring into my wallet’s change compartment. I concentrated on getting the van to turn over without flooding it, easing through the first and second stall. It roared to life on the third try.

In 1998, it was inconceivable to hold a computer in your palm to ask things of. Curiosity pulled me like a magnet to King Pawn on the corner of Buffalo. I’d walked by dozens of times. In and out, I thought; I’d leave if they were busy. But the place was empty except for two dudes considering conga drums. The proprietor, an older gentleman with a full white beard, was tying a price tag around a guitar’s tuning peg.

“How can I help you?” he asked, voice booming.

“I’m wondering if you could tell me the value of this ring?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious of my old coat and ripped jeans, my clownish hat with a rainbow pompom that I bought at the Salvation Army on one of our group home outings. Though everyone, rich or poor, dressed like this in Ithaca, would he assume I was a junkie, that the ring was stolen property?

I handed it over. The man examined it with a magnifying monocle, using a pincher tool.

“Well, it’s 14-karat gold, solid not plated. An imperfect diamond, VS2, obvious inclusions, one-third carat.” He placed it on a velvet mat.

“It was my late aunt’s,” I lied, instantly regretting it while continuing, “We weren’t close, so I don’t know much about its provenance.” I cringed at “provenance”—from the Antiques Roadshow program we watched at the home—but the bearded man didn’t notice.

“Are you interested in selling or pawning?” he asked.

I shrugged, “Selling?”

“Well, the gold is worth more than the stone. I can offer two hundred and fifty dollars.”

That was my half of the rent on the apartment I shared with my best friend, a pastry chef. “Okay, sold,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush, a little thrill like I’d won on a Lotto scratch-off.

He pulled out his ledger. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Sharon Crane. Like the bird,” I said. My high school friend in Seattle, a spontaneous alias. If the ring was reported stolen, I didn’t want it linked back to me, no way.

He handed me a check, and as I left, I noticed it was made out to Sharon Crane.

As I unloaded the groceries onto the kitchen counter, I worried about what the hell I was going to do with the check—I could mail it to my friend to cash, but that seemed a big ask of someone I hadn’t spoken to in years.

From the group home’s kitchen, I saw fifty-six-year-old Kathy at the smoking-room table, dressed in a wool skirt and silk blouse, three open buttons exposing doughy cleavage. It was the first time in a week she’d changed out of her nightgown, a sign she might go out to buy a carton of cigarettes. I made a mental note to record this in the log.

“Did you get my Crystal Light, Mother?” she asked, her pet name for me—everyone else called me Kris or Krissy.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “And your favorite Fig Newtons. They were having a sale, two for one.”

She exhaled a small cloud. “That’s a good deal!” 

Kathy’s lipstick left crimson-kissed butts in the ashtray. Two porcelain dolls with flexible joints, matted curls, and velvet dresses lay next to her lighter. Kathy giggled as she paged through an old issue of People Magazine. Her demeanor flipped to morose concern as she said, “That poor princess! What they did to her!”

She’d been obsessed with Princess Diana’s death for months, as we staff had been charting in the daily notations. Kathy closed the magazine, mixed a fresh Crystal Light, then lit another Virginia Slim. As she took a drag, my eyes were drawn to the large oval gem, pinkish-red in color, on her right hand.

I lit one of my American Spirits. “I love your ring. Is that your birthstone?”

 “Yes, a ruby,” she said. “Oh, Jack has the most exquisite taste,” she added breezily, “this was an anniversary gift.” I could hear her slipping from the reality that she and Jack divorced when she was diagnosed with schizophrenia in her mid-twenties. After secretarial school in Manhattan, she’d moved upstate with him and worked as an assistant to a department Chair at the university I graduated from. I, too, had stayed in town for a guy I was no longer with, but by choice. I loved the artsy vibe, ambling through random jobs I could’ve never predicted I’d do as a Comm major.

“Are you heading to the store today?” I asked to break the silence. Twenty-three days since Kathy had left the house.

“Oh no, it’s too cold,” she said. Her dolls stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m happy to walk with you,” I said. I knew I could only offer her a safe space and cautious, empathetic advice. A few weeks earlier, she’d asked for her grandmother’s silver, locked in the staff office file cabinet, for a spoon to pawn—something she’d normally find indefensible. I’d asked her if she was sure, and she’d said “Of course, Mother.” As I smashed out my butt, it suddenly clicked that she frequented the same pawn shop I’d just been to.

My mind wandered back to the problematic check, the ring. What woman’s memories of her wedding, or a deceased husband, or a beloved grandmother, had I brazenly pawned for my friend in Seattle?

When my co-worker, Elsa, relieved me, I returned to King Pawn, found the same gentleman, and let it spill; the Wegman’s lot, my ludicrous pseudonym because I was freaked out, embarrassed, clueless. I wasn’t a thief, let alone a check forger. I placed the check on the glass case and asked him if I could have the ring back to take to the police.

He chuckled, saying, “Good luck, dear. If no one claims it, come back to see me.” But I knew I wouldn’t. I was into karma, astrology, the I Ching. The ring felt like a sleeping snake.

Ten minutes later, I marched into the station and explained to the desk officer where and at what time I found the ring. He took down my name and number. I felt lighter, and, back at my apartment, savored a long, hot shower, my guilt evaporating in the steam. I was going to the bar with a story to tell.

The cops called my apartment the very next day. The ring had been claimed.