One winter afternoon, Nick Miracle walked out of Perk Up Coffee with a caramel ribbon crunch latte, his drink of choice on special occasions. For the past five years, he had been a junior loan officer at Wabash River Bank. Beginning tomorrow, he would manage its Honey Creek branch. Next stop, home, where he’d break the news to Emmy. Maybe now she’ll agree to join Golfmere, thought Nick. Everyone who’s anyone belongs there.

Emmy, who taught piano, was eight months pregnant with their first child, Melody. The previous November, Nick had been elected to city council. Word had it that his campaign slogan, We Believe in Miracle, had been misinterpreted by the evangelicals, propelling Nick to victory. But a win is a win, Nick had thought. All this, and only thirty-five years old. If life were a yo-yo, he was rocking in the cradle.

Latte in hand, Nick passed New Deli, where he sometimes stopped for a Reuben Deluxe. He was a few steps away from his cherry red Tesla when a bearded man approached. He was wearing faded camo pants, a food-stained Colts hoodie, and a stuffed backpack. “Hey, man,” the man said, “I have a deal for you.”

“I’m not interested,” said Nick, opening his door and settling into his black faux leather, left hand on the open door’s handle.

“I asked a woman for some money, and she gave me this,” the man said, showing Nick a gift card. “It’s good for fifty dollars at Grocery Barn.”

“I said I’m not interested.”

“You don’t know what I’m about to say,” said the man, stepping inside the open sweep of Nick’s door and bending forward.

His breath smells like corned beef, thought Nick. “You’re asking me for fifty dollars.”

“Forty. It will get me a warm place to stay tonight and give you ten dollars’ worth of free groceries.”

“There’s a shelter on Locust Street. You can get yourself a free meal and a warm bed for nothing.”

“One night to myself, that’s all I’m asking,” said the man. “Call the number on the back of the card if you don’t believe me.”

Nick had eased his car door closer, forcing the man to step back. “Life might have dealt you a bum deal,” said Nick, “but you’re going to have to figure your own way up. Like I did.”

“Are you calling me a bum?” the man asked, stepping forward.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Nick. Then, with a latte in his right hand and a handle in his left, Nick gave the door a yank. It hit the man’s knee before slamming. Nick put the coffee in a holder and started his car.

Driving through the parking lot, Nick looked into his rearview mirror and saw the man doubled over, first holding his knee, then rummaging through his backpack. Couldn’t have hurt him too bad, thought Nick, turning from the lot onto Maple.

As the Black Eyed Peas played from his radio, Nick paddle-shifted into second. As the early years he’d been dealt played in his mind, he shifted into third, fourth.

When Nick was ten, his dad, a long-haul truck driver, left Nick’s mom for a woman he’d met in a Duluth Circle K. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” said Vigo County small farmer Grandpa Miracle upon hearing his son had skipped out. Nick’s mom sold baby clothes at The Stork Shop. When it went out of business, Grandpa Miracle invited twelve-year-old Nick and his mom to live on the farm.

Nick saved money for college by selling eggs and detasseling corn. By his sophomore year in high school, Nick’s mom had remarried and moved to Indianapolis. When Grandpa Miracle got sick, Nick put his business degree on hold to help out. When Grandpa Miracle died in 2008, Nick learned the farm was worth less than the mortgage. Graduating in 2010, he was lucky to get a job as a Wabash River Bank teller.

Free groceries my ass, thought Nick, taking a sip of cooled latte. But there’s no need to tell Emmy any of this.

In 2009, Nick met Emmy in Music Appreciation 101, where they discovered a mutual appreciation of the Lydian mode. “It’s happier,” Emmy had said. “Peppier,” said Nick. The following summer, at an Elton John concert in Indianapolis, midway through “Your Song,” Nick proposed.

Slowly, Emmy turned from Nick to Sir Elton. She said nothing as the song went on and on. Wasn’t the recorded version shorter? Nick thought.

Earlier that summer, Nick had fixed a picnic lunch. He packed it in a basket and took Emmy to his favorite spot on the Wabash. There, as she finished her apple, a carp swam by the riverbank. “You mean as much to me as water does to him,” Nick had told Emmy. A week before the concert, in hope of impressing her, he’d stopped his car and helped a turtle cross the road.

“Yes,” said Emmy as Elton stood from his piano and bowed.

They married in spring, 2011, the year the thirteen-year cicada—and Nick—emerged. “You’re as free with our money as they are with chirps. How had I not known this about you?” said Emmy that summer.

Bi-weekly, sixty-dollar haircuts at Clip Joint. Five-minute tans at Glory Rays. “It’s all in the image,” he’d said that fall, in hopes of buying a new BMW.

“Then try imaging yourself without me,” said Emmy.

Abandoned first by his father and then his mother, Nick had never thought of himself as someone deserving anything or anyone. But with Emmy at his side, he had become someone. Someone he liked. Someone who deserved razor cuts and deep tans.

At risk of losing Emmy, Nick agreed on monthly haircuts, five-minute tans, and a used Volvo. He had wanted to buy a Labradoodle pup from a breeder but had settled on a three-year-old pitbull-mix at a shelter. They named her Lydia.

House-wise, Nick had hoped to buy a large colonial but had agreed on a modest brick ranch (they could add on in the event of a second Miracle). He’d bought a fire-damaged, cherry red Tesla. In this way, their marriage continued, until the Tesla’s door slammed shut.

Walking into his house, Nick heard a shaky Für Elise playing on their Baldwin. Nick wished he had a dollar for every time he’d heard one of Emmy’s students playing Für Elise. He’d once told Emmy that Elise would be rolling over in her grave if she’d heard it as many times as he had.

“There was no Elise,” said Emmy.

“Lucky her,” said Nick.

At the time of Nick’s promotion, Emmy had twenty-nine students. Or as Nick thought of them: 29 x $40 x 52. That afternoon, as Nick passed through the living room, it was twelve-year-old Rory Kildare hunched over the keys. Nick and Rory’s dad Donny were fellow Optimists. It would take an Optimist to think Rory had talent, thought Nick as he went into the kitchen to heat up his latte. Moments later, the music was replaced by light footsteps. “Sounding good, bro,” shouted Nick.

“Thank you, Mr. Miracle,” said Rory as the front door closed.

As Emmy and Lydia entered the kitchen, Lydia sniffed the air. “Caramel?” said Emmy. “What’s the occasion?”

Hoisting his latte in the air, Nick said, “Hal Lowhorn retired from Honey Creek. You’re looking at its new manager.”

“Oh, Nick,” said Emmy. “That’s wonderful news!”

“Surely, we can afford to join Golfmere now.”

“Or begin our college fund,” said Emmy, rubbing circles on Melody. “When do you start your job?”

“Tomorrow.”

***

The Honey Creek Branch consisted of three tellers—Florence, Ayesha, and Bob—an assistant manager—Pamela—and, as of three days ago, Nick. Pamela had assisted Hal Lowhorn the past four years. Nick had feared she might resent him for stepping into Honey Creek. And from the moment he called Pamela “Pam,” he knew he had been right.

“My name is Pamela,” said Pamela. As for Florence, Ayesha, and Bob, they were Pamela loyalists all, as evidenced by the large spray of chrysanthemums with a card that read, You’ll always be Honey Creek’s queen bee. F, A & B on Pamela’s small desk.

On Nick’s first day, he brought Americanos from Perk Up to his staff. On his second day, assorted donuts from The Hole. But it wasn’t until he walked in the door at 8:00 the third morning, empty-handed, that he was greeted with unmistakable glee.

“How are you on this beautiful day!” behind her mums, said Pamela.

From behind the counter, Florence, Ayesha, and Bob (as if Sirens, plus Bob) sang out, “Good morn-ing, Mr. Mir-acle!”

“How is everybody?” asked Nick, warily.

“Super,” said Pamela, beaming.

Nick had never seen Pamela smile. Her teeth reminded him of feed corn.

“So, I got a text from HQ last night,” said Nick. “We have a new two-year CD. The branch that sells the most by the end of the month gets a thousand dollar bonus. Split equally.”

“Four ways?” asked Ayesha with a smirk.

“Five,” said Nick.

“Are you sure, boss?” asked Pamela.

Nick had never heard his employees laugh. Florence snorted, like.

“Good one, Pam,” said Bob.

“I don’t get it,” said Nick.

“Don’t worry,” said Pamela. “You will.”

More laughter. Plus snorts.

“Anyway, I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

Entering his office, the first thing Nick saw was an IndyStar on his desk. A rumpled IndyStar opened to an inside page that faced his desk chair. Pamela usually left the Star in the lobby for customers to read. Why would she put it here today? thought Nick as he rounded his desk. Maybe it’s announcing my promotion!

Man Assaults Reporter

Injuries Suffered

When young Nick Miracle was summoned to, ironically, Wabash River Bank in 2008, only to be told the value of Grandpa Miracle’s farm had dropped fifty thousand dollars below the mortgage balance, Nick’s stomach dropped to his Air Force Lows. When Nick saw a picture of the license plate, BANKER1 beneath the headline, his stomach hit his Florsheims.

by Kip Short

Posing as a homeless man, Kip Short had planned to go to four mid-sized Hoosier towns. By approaching twenty random people in each one, he hoped to gain a perspective on that town’s attitude toward the homeless. The intended article, documented by only fifty-two people (thanks to Nick), was forthcoming. Meanwhile, here was today’s article.

Due to injuries suffered at the hand of Nicolas Miracle, an employee of Wabash River Bank, this reporter was unable to complete his assignment.

He must have had a phone in his pack, thought Nick. That explains the picture. Then the BMV gave me up.

The article went on to say that city councilman Miracle had ruptured Kip Short’s patellar tendon with a red Tesla, driver-side door. He was wearing a knee brace for now, but surgery was likely. Neither Kip Short nor the IndyStar planned to press charges. But it is this reporter’s belief, nay, hope, that Mr. Miracle will be served his just des(s)erts. With topping.

Nick had no sooner read the article than laughter ensued from the lobby—as if Pamela et al. had sensed the moment he had finished reading. One summer, corn tassels in hand, Nick had watched firefighters battling a brush fire across the road. The fire would die out in one spot before breaking out in another. Much like laughter ebbed then flowed through the Honey Creek lobby.

At nine o’clock, Nick looked up from his desk to see Pamela open the bank to business. Over the course of the next hour, she cheerfully greeted each customer. Then, shortly before ten o’clock, Pamela’s voice issued forth from Nick’s desk phone. “Sam Schmitz on line 2, Mr. Miracle.”

Nick was home by noon. No caramel ribbon crunch to heat up this time. No Golfmere in his future. No college fund in Melody’s. “What are you doing home so early?” asked Emmy, cheerfully.

Ever frugal, Emmy had cancelled their paper subscription to the Star. She usually read the digital version over lunch. Clearly, on this fateful, otherwise sunny day, Emmy remained in the dark. But before Nick could explain his presence, her phone rang.

“Hi, Nancy. How’s Mia? . . . Another teacher? . . . What do you mean, you can’t have her around Nick? . . . What article? . . . The IndyStar? . . . A homeless man!”

“Give me the phone,” said Nick. “Goodbye, Nancy.” Then, turning to Emmy, “We need to talk.”

They talked. Or rather Nick talked, describing the incident and the resulting summons to bank president, Sam Schmitz’s office. “He said my contract has a morals clause,” said Nick. “He said I injured the bank’s reputation by my scandalous behavior. He fired me before I even sat down.”

“How could you do this to us?” asked Emmy, again with the circles on Melody.

“How was I to know he wasn’t homeless?”

“So, if you’d known he had a home, you would have treated him differently? What happened to the Nick Miracle who gave up school for his grandpa, the Nick who helped turtles cross roads?”

Nick shrugged.

In the following two days, Emmy lost nine more students. In three more days, an additional five. $14 x $40 x 52, thought unemployed former third ward city councilman Nick Miracle. The city had a morals clause too. One morning, with a final paycheck coming in two weeks and Melody arriving any day, Nick said, “Our insurance ends with my paycheck. Do you think Doc Hanson would agree to induce labor?”

“Or maybe you’d like for me to go horseback riding,” said Emmy. “Unbelievable.”

“Believe it,” said Nick.

For days, Nick had done little more than play Jumbles and stream Suits. “At least you’d be doing something,” said Emmy before answering her phone.

It was Marla Stewart saying Carla would no longer be coming for lessons (13 x $40). The following day, Nick’s ringtone—the opening bars of “Your Song”—rang out. It was Donny Kildare calling to say his wife insisted Rory switch teachers (12 x $40). But not only that, the Optimists had suspended Nick’s membership. They must have thought I failed to wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature a smile, thought Nick.

“Tough luck, dude,” said Donny.

***

A week later, Emmy walked into the living room, muted Suits, and said, “I can’t bear to watch you sit around all day and do nothing. We have a house payment, you know. Your car payment balloons next month. And in case you forgot, you’re going to be a father. I’ll call when you are.” Suitcase in hand, Emmy left for her parents’ house. She could teach on their Gulbransen.

“Emmy, please!”

He quit shaving. Showered infrequently. For days he lived on Pop Tarts, Jiffy, and mixed nuts. He was watching a Suits episode where Louis Litt is taking a mud bath when it occurred to Nick that he was in mud too. But no sooner had it occurred to him than Louis stood and shook off the mud. If Louis can, I can, thought Nick.

He contacted banks as far away as South Bend. With Lydia accompanying him, he drove to Vincennes and Evansville. But thanks to Kip Short, word had gotten round Indiana. Nick drove to Illinois. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miracle,” said the HR guy at First Peoria, “you wouldn’t play well here.”

Grandpa Miracle had once told Nick that all of life is sales. “But you’re a farmer, Gramps,” Nick had oppugned.

“A farmer who sells soybeans and corn,” said Grandpa.

Nick had sold loans, hadn’t he? Just because no bank would have him didn’t mean he couldn’t sell something else. Houses? Furniture? Cars? He’d made a loan to a man who sold used cars. “Sorry, Nick,” Wild Bill Peacock had said in response to Nick’s query. “Not with your car door history.”

Two days later, as Nick unjumbled bcajte, Lydia walked to the front door and barked. Possibly the last person Nick expected to see was clean-shaven, khaki-slacked Kip Short (with cane) on the other side of the storm door. While on Nick’s side—as though their previous encounter were reversed—stood stubble-faced, Jiffy-stained he. Fully aware of his appearance, Nick said, “Enough toppings for you?”

“That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. Is your dog friendly?” asked Kip with a nod to Lydia, drooling at Nick’s side.

“That depends,” said Nick. “Come in.”

***

“Nick boy, just remember, life’s got its ups. Life’s got its down. It’s what you do at the tops and bottoms that makes the middles,” Grandpa Miracle once said. Nick had blown a top, for sure. Now here he was at a bottom. Jobless. Emmy-less. Hopeless.

With his gimp leg stretched out on Nick’s recliner, Kip Short said he’d regretted outing Nick’s actions at Perk Up. “I should have come to you first.”

Kip lived in Indianapolis. But his uncle, who owned Grocery Barn, lived nearby. Word had gotten round to Uncle Pete that Nick had been fired from his job, let go from city council, and ousted by the Optimists. Both Uncle Pete and Kip had reasoned that Nick might be hard-pressed to find a job, “considering what you did to me,” said Kip.

Stroking Lydia, on the couch beside him, Nick said, “I’m guessing that fifty-dollar card was for real.”

“Sixty dollars,” said Kip. “Call it a bonus for kindness.”

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” said Nick.

“What?” said Kip. “Anyway, like I said, I feel bad for you. Uncle Pete does too. For you and your wife. She shops at Grocery Barn, you know.” (Nick didn’t know.) “And Uncle Pete’s willing to give you a stockroom job if you keep it to yourself. You could be bad for business if people found out you worked there.”

Scourge, thought Nick. That’s what I’ve become.

Grandpa Miracle had gone on to say that you don’t give a middle much thought when you’re in one. “But trust me, boy,” he’d said, “you’ll spend most of your life there. Next time you are, look around and count your chickens.” (Grandpa Miracle knew his chickens: leghorns.) “Chances are they’ve hatched.”

At the time, Nick hadn’t given much thought to his grandpa’s advice. But now, looking up from the bottom, what he wouldn’t give for a middle. There with Lydia and Kip, Nick imagined Emmy across the room on their Baldwin. Beautiful, kind Emmy. She would have bought the card from Kip and tipped him. Looking up from the bottom, Nick saw Melody: taking her first steps, playing Für Elise, accepting a corsage from a pimpled prom date.

Yes, he’d once hoped to impress Emmy by helping a turtle cross the road. Stopping the car, what he didn’t know was it was no ordinary turtle. But with Emmy watching from the car, what was he to do but pick it up? When he returned to the car, Emmy said, “Not many men would stop for a snapper.” That’s what it had taken then. Stopping for a snapper. If being an undercover grocer was what it took now, Nick guessed he’d better take it.

Another part of the Optimist’s creed says, To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true. “Will we get a discount on groceries?” Nick asked Kip.

Kip stood up from Nick’s chair.

Lydia drooled on Nick’s couch.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t push it,” said Kip.

A melody played on Nick’s phone.