by David Smith
“I wonder what’s in this little envelope.” Blain said, turning the envelope over.
“What is written there?” Malaysia asked, pointing to very faint ink across the center of the envelope.
“Looks like a name,” Blain said, holding it closer to the glass-encased oil-fed candle in the middle of their table. “Looks like ‘Lynie’ to me.”
“Look,” Malaysia said, pointing to the bottom of the pale yellow envelope below the hand-written name. “There’s the pressed outline of something inside the envelope. It looks like a key.”
“I think you’re right,” Blain said. He started to open the folded lip of the envelope, expecting it to be glued shut. But whatever glue had been used to seal the envelope closed must have lost its effectiveness. The flap easily parted; a small amount of dried glue fell off the edge of the flap.
“Hold your hand out, Missy,” Blain said. Malaysia held open her right hand. Blain tilted the envelope and shook it softly. Out slid a small brass key which landed squarely in the center of Malaysia’s palm.
“What kind of key is this?” She asked, holding the key up under the dancing flame of the table’s candle.
“Don’t know. Looks old but in good shape. The wallet, envelope and bills must have kept it from oxidizing too much,” Blain said. He set the envelope down.
“What is ‘oxidizing?’ Malaysia asked, unfamiliar with the English term.
“It is what happens to metal when it chemically reacts with air. With steel, we simply say rusting,” Blain said.
“Ah, that term I am familiar with,” Malaysia said.
He took the key from Missy’s palm and turned it over. At the top of the key, near a small hole, used presumably to hang the key on a hook, was a stamped number: 18
“What do you think that number refers to?” Malaysia asked.
“Well, it looks to me like a small pad lock or locker key. It’s too small to be a typical house key for a door,” Blain said turning the key over and over under the light.
Suddenly, their waitress came over holding several plates in her hand.
“Oh, we’re sorry,” Malaysia said, seeing Kelly having to wait a moment.
Blain slipped the key back in the envelope and then gathered up the bills and put them in the wallet with the small envelope. The waitress put down Malaysia’s dinner salad front of her and by the time she had done that, Blain had put the wallet on his lap.
“Your entrees will be out in a bit. Is there anything else I can get you?” Kelly asked as she set down Blain’s salad in front of him.
“No. This looks great. Thank you, Kelly,” he said. “Oh, could I get a clean knife?” Blain asked, holding up the knife he had used to open the slit in the wallet. “This one fell on the floor,” he felt like he needed to explain. “I’m a little clumsy,” Blain said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Sure, no problem,” Kelly said, taking the knife from Blain. She turned and went over to a serving station and quickly came back with a clean knife. “Here you go, butterfingers,” Kelly said smiling as she handed Blain the knife.
“Let’s eat our salads,” Blain said after Kelly left their table. Blain slid the wallet into his front pocket of his shorts. “For dessert, let’s see what else is in the wallet!”
Through their meal, Malaysia and Blain learned more about each other. Although, becoming more tempted to explain who she really was, Malaysia kept her identity a secret. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep up the charade; it was that she felt so comfortable with Blain that it never dawned on her that he still didn’t know. They did find they had several common interests, of which one was almost a passion for both: tennis. They talked about the sport, their favorite players, their own games, and how they picked up the sport.
“My uncle Mike taught me how to play,” Blain said.
Malaysia laughed, saying, “It was my uncle who taught me how to play too! His name is Scott Adamson and he teaches at a tennis club in Bern,” Malaysia said.
They talked about tour pros they liked, what Grand Slams they would love to see.
“Well, I think you can guess who my favorite tennis player is, Blain,” Malaysia said, taking a bite of her house salad.
“Hmm. Male or female?” Blain asked.
“Male, of course.”
“Easy, Fed,” Blain said, referring to Roger Federer, the current number one player in the world who was also from Switzerland.
Malaysia nodded, smiling.
“Ever get to see him play, live?” Blain asked as he took a bite of a slice of French bread that was served in a cloth-lined basket.
“Once. We…I mean, he was doing an exhibition in Bern,” Malaysia said, suddenly looking down at her salad, moving some lettuce pieces around the bleu cheese dressing.
“That would be fun to see. I was hoping to go to Indian Wells next year, which is in Palm Springs here in California, to catch the big tournament there. I hear you can get pretty close to the players, even get their autographs while they are heading out to the practice courts or when they get done hitting,” Blain said.
Malaysia was quiet for a moment, thinking about the conversation. How I wish I could tell Blain that not only have I met Roger Federer, but that I’ve even been on a court hitting with him and once had dinner with him and with Martina Hingis among others.
“Missy, you okay?” Blain said, watching Malaysia absently playing with her salad with her fork.
Malaysia looked up. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I was just thinking how much fun it is to play tennis. Maybe someday you and I could play?”
Blain smiled. “That would be a blast. We’ll have to see how much time you have free while you are here. Maybe some doubles action. I’ve got lots of friends whom I’ve played with for years, lot of solid players.” Blain was hopeful but knowing that the chance of them having a second “date” after this one was unlikely…considering the commitments to her parents, sister and whatever other plans they may have while visiting California.
Kelly appeared at their table with plates of hot food. After Blain and Malaysia pushed their nearly empty salad plates aside, Kelly placed a large bowl-shaped plate in front of Malaysia, steam rising up from the surface of the delicious-looking mix of shellfish, peppers, Mahi-Mahi, ham and sausage prepared Cajun-style.
“This looks so good,” Malaysia said, thanking Kelly.
“Smells good too,” Blain said as Kelly placed his plate in front of him, one that had a filet centered on the plate and topped with béarnaise sauce, a baked potato and steamed vegetables on the side.
“Hope that is prepared to your liking,” Kelly said, and then offered fresh ground pepper which Malaysia took advantage of. “If there is anything you need, please let me know,” Kelly said before turning and heading over to a nearby table of guests who had just sat down.
Blain shared bites of his filet mignon, Malaysia enjoying, even savoring, the medium-rare morsels. She shared bites of shrimp, crab and sausage from her Royal Street Seafood Jambalaya.
As they waited for a dessert of Crème Brule that they agreed to share, Malaysia held her hand up to the candle flickering in the center of the table. She held her hand out, looking like she was admiring her two-dollar emerald ring as if it were a priceless diamond setting.
“You know, this really is a stunning piece of jewelry, Blain. I can’t wait to show it to my friends in Switzerland,” Malaysia said, turning her hand slightly as if the ring would somehow catch the dim candlelight.
“I detect a bit of sarcasm in my choice of jewelry,” Blain said, feigning hurt feelings.
“Nooo, Mr. Walters. On the contrary. I plan to wear this for the rest of my life,” Malaysia said, with dripping sincerity.
“Okay, and I will do the same,” Blain replied, holding his hand up under the light next to hers. “Of course, they will probably fall apart before the day is done,” Blain said with a laugh. “Oh look, here is our dessert!”
“This is my treat,” Blain said, taking the leather billin
g folder when Kelly, the waitress, laid it on the table near him.
“Absolutely not, Blain,” Malaysia said, taking hold of his wrist. “You have done everything for me today, including buying me expensive jewelry!”
“Yeah. And don’t forget making you fall down in the Forbidden Jungle!” Blain said with a laugh. “I’m surprised you haven’t thought about suing me!”
“Well, unless you put that rock there on purpose, I can’t hold you responsible.” Malaysia paused, still holding his wrist. “No Blain. I can afford my own meal. In fact I want to treat you to this dinner.”
Blain kept smiling but didn’t say anything.
“Okay? Why are you just sitting there?
“Because, I like that you are holding my wrist, Missy.”
Malaysia looked at her hand on his arm. “If you let me pay for this dinner, I’ll hold both your wrists,” Malaysia said.
“As tempting as that is, I insist. End of discussion.”
“I owe you,” Malaysia said.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Blain said, standing up. He held out the chair for Malaysia as she stood.
“Thank you, Blain,” she said. She leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“My pleasure.”
When Malaysia and Blain went outside, they were surprised that it was almost dark out, nearly as dark as the simulated night sky that was in the Blue Bayou restaurant. It was almost eight-thirty when they finally left the restaurant. The lights in the trees around New Orleans Square twinkled in the twilight, accenting the lighted buildings of the Square. The sky was a blend of dark blue and purple, a single bright star, most likely not a star, but the planet Venus, punctuated the night sky towards the west.
The two walked along Royal Street, the short lane that wound through the shops in New Orleans Square. They stopped inside the ‘L’Ornement Magique’ shop where collectible ornaments were displayed and sold. As the two looked over the beautiful hand-made ornaments on the counter, they heard a boy and girl talking by the entrance. Blain listened in for a moment as he heard the little boy of about ten say, ‘But Mom would love it!’ The young girl, maybe a year older said, ‘But, Keaton, we don’t have enough money!’
Blain casually looked over at the ornament and saw one just like it on the counter where he and Malaysia were looking. He quietly turned the ornament over and saw that the price was nine dollars.
“Wait a second, Missy,” he said as he walked over to the cash register. He was talking to the cast member for a moment, taking out his wallet. Malaysia watched as Blain showed the worker his Disneyland I.D. card and then Blain gave him a ten dollar bill. Blain then inconspicuously pointed to the two children still talking about the ornament.
“What was that about?” Malaysia asked, when Blain came back to where she was standing.
Blain spoke softly so the two children standing by them couldn’t hear. “These two kids wanted to buy that ornament for their mother but didn’t have enough money,” Blain whispered pointing inconspicuously to his right at the children. “So, I used my employee discount, and purchased it for them. It wasn’t that much money.”
Malaysia was taken a little by surprise by what Blain just did. She looked at him with an impressed smile on her lips just as the cast member who Blain had talked to behind the counter called the two kids over to the register.
“Let’s go so that they don’t know who paid for it. I think it will be more magical for them if they don’t know,” Blain said, taking Malaysia by the hand and quickly leading them out of the store.
“Don’t you want to see their reaction?” Malaysia asked, walking outside and turning to the right around the corner with Blain leading.
“Nah, I already know what it will be,” Blain said, understanding that the kids will think it some sort of miracle. “More importantly, think how happy their mother will be!”
Malaysia felt a lump in her throat, witnessing the gracious thing that Blain had just done. “Do they teach that at Disneyland Finishing School?” Malaysia asked, squeezing his hand.
“Kinda,” Blain said with a laugh.
As they walked into a quaint little courtyard between a hat shop and the French Market, they asked a man standing nearby to take a picture of them with Missy’s camera. They stood on the curving stairs that led up to a second floor; dozens of potted plants were hanging along the steps and placed around the courtyard giving the small patio color even within the veil of twilight. Blain stood a step above Malaysia, his hand on her shoulder, Malaysia resting her hand on the rail; both had broad smiles on their faces as the flash went off on the camera.
After looking at the picture on the viewer on Malaysia’s camera, the guy who took the picture was looking at them for a moment still.
“You two make a very cute couple. Been together for a long time?” the stranger asked.
Blain and Malaysia looked at each other, each with a knowing grin.
“Oh, yeah,” Blain said nonchalantly. “We’ve known each other for…” Blain looked at his watch then said, “just about thirty-one hours, I figure.”
The man who took their picture laughed. “Well, you look like you’ve been together for a while. To be honest, you look like a pair of movie stars.”
Malaysia turned a bit away, acting embarrassed. “Well, no such luck here. Maybe someday,” Blain said. “Thanks for taking the picture for us!”
When Blain and Malaysia walked out of the courtyard, Blain looked at Malaysia. “You sure you’re not some movie star, Missy? A lot of people have certainly made a reference to that.”
Malaysia laughed and honestly answered, “Blain, I would be the first person to tell you if I were a movie star.” Then, not so honestly, she added, “I’ve never been on television in my life.”
“Well, let’s pretend we are movie stars,” Blain said with a laugh. “Enough people seem to think we are.”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about being famous,” Malaysia said, putting her arm around Blain as they walked.
“Me neither,” Blain said, his arm around her shoulder. “But I’m sure we’re doing a good job.”
Malaysia smiled. She reached up with her fingers and traced her own lips. With her fingertips, she consciously felt for her smile that had been there most all day. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled or laughed so much.
“I’ve got an idea,” Blain said, looking at his watch as they went back out to the main Square in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean.
“It isn’t time to go yet, is it?” Malaysia said, thinking he was ready to leave. She wouldn’t blame him; after all, he spent probably forty hours a week here while working.
“No, no…unless you want to go home, well, back to your hotel, now?”
“Blain, no. I’m having a great time! In fact, I can’t remember having this much fun ever!”
“Really? Well I’m glad to hear that!” Blain said. He looked out across New Orleans Square, looking at the river where the Mark Twain Steamship was just coming into its dock. “I have a special place to take you that I think you will really enjoy.”
Malaysia loved the sound of that. Yet, so far, every minute she had spent with Blain had been beyond enjoyable.
“Every Summer evening at 9pm, Fireworks cascade a shower of color over Disneyland. At that hour, Tinker Bell ‘flies’ across the Magic Kingdom—down from the Matterhorn and high over Fantasyland—drawing the end on daytime fun…and shining the footlights on nighttime magic.”
The 1965 Disneyland Souvenir Book
CHAPTER 22
Boat of Emotion
Sunday, June 25th 2010
9:00pm
Blain escorted Malaysia over the gangplank that led onto the Mark Twain paddle-wheeler, the Disneyland iconic steamship that plied the Rivers of America, the five-eighths of a mile waterway that circled Tom Sawyer Island. The eye-catching white-washed ship was three decks tall with each deck lined with small, clear, old-fashioned decorative lights, giving the sh
ip a festive, lively look at night.
“So, this is your big surprise?” Malaysia asked, looking around after coming aboard. She observed the intricate and detailed steam engine that was housed on the bottom deck to the right and a stairway that was in the middle of the floor, leading up to the two decks above. Malaysia didn’t know what to expect when Blain offered, his, ‘I’ve got an idea’ earlier. Certainly she didn’t expect going on a sedate boat ride to be part of the plan, for some reason. It just didn’t seem like Blain.
“Patience, my dear Missy,” Blain said. “Just go up to the top deck.” Blain turned her away from him and guided Malaysia by holding her hips and gently pushing her to go up the center stairwell. At the top deck there were only a few other guests, most of whom were either standing on the deck or sitting on benches near the bow of the ship. Most all were looking out in the direction that the ship would be moving.
Blain padded the cargo pocket of his shorts with his hand as he moved across the top deck, conscious of where he had put the discovered wallet after dinner. While he was anxious to see what else they could find out about the wallet and its owner, Blain was having such fun being with Missy that he hardly had given it much thought since dinner. While neither he nor Malaysia thought the wallet was of any real monetary value other than the small number of old bills inside, the age and mysterious nature of the contents, namely the small key, made them both look forward to the time they could examine the wallet again and see what else was inside. Both thought of how cool it would be to return the wallet to its rightful owner…some forty-plus years after being lost. They could imagine the bewildered look on its owner’s face, then recognition of the lost—but probably not completely forgotten wallet.