Toybox

by Al Sarrantonio

  And there—Mother and Father just glimpsed, beyond the family room piled with snow, heads lowered to the kitchen table, unmoving.

  “Dig!” Eva ordered, and Charles turned away, taking Eva’s handfuls of snow, packing them tight into the walls and ceiling and floor as they inched forward, onward.

  ~ * ~

  Darkness deepened in their tunnel. Eva, panting in her snowsuit, stopped to hand Charles the big flashlight. Charles clicked it on. The walls gleamed blue-white. But already Eva was digging again, throwing snow back at Charles to pack away.

  He lay the flashlight on the tunnel floor and went to work, inching the light forward.

  Forward.

  ~ * ~

  In the snow, on the floor under Eva's hand, something solid struck her fingers.

  She brushed away snow, pushed away snow, packed away snow—and there beneath her lay a line of chicken wire across their path. “Wha—?” Charles began.

  “The fence!” Eva shouted. “It's the top of our backyard fence!” And now Charles could imagine it, there beneath them in the far reaches of their yard, the line of wire tacked to posts.

  Charles began, “That means—”

  “We're four feet up!” Eva said.

  They sat still, hushing their breathing.

  Above them, far above, they heard the swishing of snow, the falling of snow.

  “Keep digging!” Eva said.

  “I'm tired!” Charles said. He lifted the flashlight, heavy in his hands, and shined it back behind them, where the light was lost in the far reaches of blue-white tunnel.

  “We'll rest later!” Eva said, her own breath panting steam in the air. Charles put the flashlight back down, pointed it at the wall of snow in front of them.

  They dug.

  And dug.

  ~ * ~

  “Stop!” Eva said, breathing hard.

  Charles dropped to the floor, leaned his back against the wall, let his arms drop like weights to his side.

  “Tired....” he said.

  Eva, still panting, brushed her heavy gloves one against the other, clearing them of snow. She reached into her pack and brought out candy bars and juice packs, potato chips and cookies.

  Charles, gaining strength, began to eat, then drank. He ate everything she gave him.

  “We don't have much more,” Eva said, frowning.

  Charles took the pack from her and dug in, finding more cookies. “I'm hungry!” he said, ripping them open, letting Lorna Doones drop to the floor before he scooped them up.

  Above them, snow swished and fell, brushed and fell, piled and fell. After they began to dig again, the flashlight began to dim. Almost at once, Eva's hand found something else solid in the floor. She and Charles brushed and pushed snow away.

  The edge of something square revealed itself.

  “What—” Charles said.

  Eva pushed more snow away, dug down and around, threw snow away with her fingers.

  The corner of a box, steel with glass underneath.

  “A phone booth!” Eva said.

  She brushed more snow away, uncovered a sign with a bell on it, more glass below.

  Charles shined the light down, saw the curve of a man's hat, the man slumped down, hand frozen to the dangling receiver, the man's face turned up toward him, frozen—

  “Yahhhhh!” Charles said, scrambling back.

  Eva took the flashlight, looked down into the booth herself.

  “He's dead. Nothing we can do,” she said, and immediately put the flashlight down again, aiming it ahead. “We're getting close to town.” She began to dig again, in the dimming light.

  ~ * ~

  They left the phone booth behind. Soon they uncovered a telephone pole. They dug around it, leaving it standing straight and brown through the middle of their tunnel, creosote-smelling, with one steel footrest angled up like a pointing finger. They dug, and Eva's arms ached. Her fingers were numb with cold and work—but still she pushed and brushed and pulled at snow, raked it back at Charles who packed and pounded and beat and smoothed it into the walls and ceiling and floor. They felt the afternoon wear on, could feel the cold night coming, feel the snow falling, and sighing, and drifting, and soughing above them.

  They dug.

  And dug, and then Eva's nearly frozen fingers touched something solid beneath her, and she excavated around it.

  She gasped, pulled her hand back.

  The top of a head.

  Black hair.

  The flashlight was nearly out, a barely glowing bulb. She pulled it close, and Charles crawled up next to her.

  Pushing more snow away, she uncovered a curve of feathers surrounding the head, rising in front to a war bonnet.

  “Mr. Gray's wooden Indian!” she exclaimed.

  Charles said, “We're in town! Next to the drugstore!”

  Shaking the flashlight to make it brighten, they pushed the wall farther on. They dug and scraped and packed and bored, and soon the front of a store window, a wide plate of glass etched with Mr. Gray’s name in large, arching letters.

  Pressing their cold faces to the glass, they looked down into store.

  There was blackness within.

  “Darn!” Eva said, shaking the flashlight viciously, startled to find it go bright for her.

  “Shine it inside!” Charles urged.

  She directed the beam inside the drugstore. She played it over the soda fountain, over the glass cases, the prescription counter, the floor.

  The beam fell on the dead figures of Mr. Gray, Mrs. Gray.

  Eva turned the flashlight off. She and Charles lay in the dark, in the cold, listening to their own deep breaths and their own caught sobs.

  Charles began to cry outright.

  Eva smacked him with her gloved hand.

  “Quiet!” she said.

  “But I saw Mom, and Dad—”

  “Yes!” Eva said.

  “We might as well stay right here,” Charles sniffled. “We might well let it happen here....”

  Eva said nothing, listened to the snow above them, the snow falling. Drifting.

  Murmuring....

  “No!” she said. “I won't give up!”

  “We have no food, no light—nothing!”

  “Dig!” Eva ordered, shaking the flashlight again and turning it on. This time it only fluttered, a weak orange glow, making the tunnel around them look like Halloween.

  Charles sobbed, “I...can't....”

  “Well I can!”

  Eva began to bore up, angling away from the side of the drugstore.

  She dropped handfuls of snow on Charles in the pumpkin light until he stopped crying and once more began to push and pack and pound.

  They dug up.

  Up.

  Eva sensed the snow waiting for them. As she climbed she felt and heard it: the wash of snow, the gentle fall, the dusting and breathy blowing of snow. It reached out to her ears and heart, pulled her up toward its inevitable self. Behind her Charles sniffled and worked, inching the dying flashlight up with one hand while he pounded and smoothed with the other.

  The flashlight went out; Halloween went away, leaving them with night.

  Charles dropped the flashlight, listened to it slide down the steep tunnel like a sled until it was gone.

  In the dark, they dug.

  And dug.

  And dug.

  And then: the wall of snow in front of Eva suddenly went away: fell down around her in a shower leaving a hole.

  The tunnel opened into dim light.

  Eva and Charles climbed out onto the world.

  It was snowing.

  The planet was white. Snow drifted, twirled, and fell.

  And fell; dropped in whispering breaths from the gray-white sky; shimmered pure and crystalline; fell fluffy and piled and moved like dust over the surface of the earth. From north to south, east to west, the world was white.

  It snowed.

  And snowed.

  “Oh, Eva, what are we going to do
!” said Charles, his eyes once more welling to tears.

  Above them, the gray-white clouds darkened to gray.

  Darkened still more.

  Night was coming.

  And it snowed.

  “What—” Charles began, sobbing, but his sister took his arm and pointed.

  “Look!”

  There, through the drifting, swirling, gently lashing snow, was a dim point of light in the near distance.

  “A star!” Charles said.

  Eva took Charles' arm.

  They tramped through the snow.

  But now, the light began to stutter and die. Snow occluded it, and suddenly it was gone.

  “No!” Charles cried.

  The star blinked back on.

  They hurried, and then they reached it: a star on the ground, a five-'pointed lamp dimming, half buried by snow.

  “Is it—” Charles said, but he knew what it was even as Eva began to brush snow away from it. She uncovered the top of the town Christmas tree, taller than any building.

  Down there, under all the packed and piled and layered snow, was a huge branching evergreen tree with red bulbs and strings of fat lights and thick silver strands of tinsel.

  The star flickered.

  Went out.

  Eva stood, and she and Charles watched as the snow drifted and accumulated and covered the top of the last point of the star.

  To every horizon was snow; mountains and hills and valleys of snow. Only snow.

  “Oh, Eva! What are we going to do?” Charles said.

  Eva looked at Charles and said, “I don't know.”

  Darkness fell.

  It snowed.

  ~ * ~

  And snowed.

  Snow covered their tracks, drifting and sighing, swirling and filling. Eva and Charles wandered, flashlightless, freezing. Snow drifted and moved and mounted and fell in the dark blue-white, the air was a curtain of dark white.

  It snowed.

  On hands and knees, exhausted, they crawled until they could crawl no more.

  “I...can't,” Charles whispered, and stopped, turning over to sit in the snow.

  Eva sat down beside him.

  “Neither,” she whispered, “can I.”

  She looked up, felt soft snow caress her cheeks, dance across her eyebrows, melt on her warm-cold nose.

  “I wish it would stop snowing,” Charles said.

  Eva closed her eyes, felt snow tap on her face like fingers, slide down her cheeks, mingling with tears, which crystallized into snow. “Me, too,” she said. “I wish it would stop snowing.”

  There came a hush in the air.

  Above, in the sky, Charles saw something that was not snow. A tiny light appeared in a tiny split of clouds. A swirl of falling snow blew aside and more tiny lights appeared.

  “Stars!” Charles cried. “Real stars!”

  Beside Charles and Eva there was a sound in the snow. A sudden tunnel appeared. A bright stab of light shot out, followed by a mufflered boy bearing a flashlight.

  Behind him came a snow-suited girl and another boy, all hat and scarf and ski jacket.

  Other tunnels opened—a thousand tunnels, with other stabbing beams of light followed by other boys and girls.

  “Look!” Charles shouted, pointing at the sky.

  All over, flashlights were turned off and eyes were turned upward. The night was full of stars and vanishing clouds.

  It had stopped snowing.

  ~ * ~

  In the night, by the light of the friendly moon, they brought up the world from below.

  Through the tunnels, they carried up food and light and shelter. They brought up candy and juice packs and cookies and cake. They tunneled into empty K-Marts, carried up batteries by the boxful, chairs and tents and sleds and blankets. They brought up propane stoves and heaters, they brought up comic books and tape players and toys. They brought up more toys.

  The starry night drained into rose dawn, and gave them day. They stood staring open-mouthed at the stranger sun. They cheered as it climbed high into a cloudless firmament, cheered as it warmed their faces, made them throw off watch caps and ski masks and ear muffs and scarves. They cheered and sang and continued their work, toting up an entire new world from below.

  In the golden afternoon Charles stood smiling, Eva beside him. He laughed at the sight of a forming puddle of melted snow.

  “Maybe it'll all melt, right back down to the earth!”

  “I hope,” Eva shouted loud, “it never snows again!”

  A cheer went up, everywhere.

  In the sky, behind the sun, like a shy and peeking visitor, a thin cloud appeared, joined soon by others.

  The skies darkened.

  It began to snow.

  GARDEN OF EDEN

  “Come on, Chump!” Griffey called.

  Griffey was ready and so were the others. Mug and Brudder and Chaz were all out there in the alley, decked out in backward baseball caps and old sweatshirts and dirty jeans and sneakers that used to be white.

  Chump, sweatshirt caught halfway over his head, ambled to the window and shouted, “I'll be right down, fatheads!”

  “Fathead yourself!” Mug shouted up angrily. “Move it, you dope!”

  “Yeah!” Brudder shouted, extending his vocabulary with the utterance. “Yeah, move it, you...dope!”

  “Ahhhhh, shaddup!” Chump shouted back down at them, sweatshirt now in place as he searched his dresser frantically not for his comb but for his cap, which he finally found in the most unlikely place—on his bedpost, where it belonged.

  “Dat muddah of mine,” he said, shaking his head even as his mother's voice rose up from the depths of the house below.

  “Chauncey, are you up there? I think some boys are here for you—but remember, you're being punished!”

  Quickly, Chump turned to the window.

  “Cheese it, youse guys!”

  The gang below scattered.

  “Chauncey, do you hear me?”

  “Sure I do!” he shouted down.

  There was a pause and then his mother said, “All right, just remember you can't come out of there till dinner! It was very careless of you to break Mr. Carlson's window with that baseball.”

  “Sure, Ma! Sure! Very careless!” he shouted, even as he was climbing out the window, taking hold of the rain spout to lower himself to the ground two stories below.

  As he reached the lower window he paused, holding his breath. There inside sat his mother with her bridge cronies, playing cards. “Chauncey is really such a good boy at heart....” his mother was saying.

  Chump shook his head as he slid the rest of the way down, into the alley.

  “Muddahs,” he said.

  “Hey Chauncey!” a voice whispered fiercely from behind a nearby garbage bin.

  A moment later Griffey stepped out, grinning, followed by the others. Chump stood tall, marched up to Griffey and took him by the collar. “I told you not to call me dat, you mug,” Chump said. “Call me dat again and I'll wipe the alley wit ya.”

  The color drained from Griffey's face.

  “Sorry, Chump,” he said.

  Chump let him go.

  “All right, boys,” Chump said, hitching up his pants, giving a big smile to his gang. “Let's go.”

  They strutted out into the afternoon like they owned it. With Chump at the lead, the others ranging out behind him, they made a quick left at the corner, passing a close line of houses, all identical.

  A little kid riding his bike in front of one of the houses looked up as they passed.

  “Hey, Chump!” he grinned. “How ya doin'?”

  “Just fine, Bertie,” Chump grinned back.

  “Hey!” Bertie said. “Ain't you bein' punished?”

  Without breaking stride, shoulders thrown back proudly, Chump nodded.

  “Yep.”

  “I'm gonna tell!” Bertie said, jumping off his bike to run back toward Chump's house.

  “Hey!” Chump shouted, and when
he snapped his finger Mug ran after Bertie, catching him in mid stride and dragging him complaining to stand in front of Chump.

  “You was saying, Bertie?” Chump said.

  “Lemme go! Lemme go, Mug!”

  Chump said, “Still gonna rat on me, Bertie?”

  Bertie shook his head emphatically.

  “Course not, Chump! I was just kiddin' is all! Lemme go!” Chump made a motion with his hand, and Mug dropped Bertie to the ground.

  “Sure I'm gonna tell!” Bertie said, backing away from the gang. “Unless you takes me with ya!”

  Chump looked at Mug, who made a motion to grab Bertie again. “Go ahead!” Bertie said. “Do whatcha want! Beat me up if ya like! But as soon as you leave I'll still rat on ya!”

  Defiantly, Bertie clenched his little fists and added, “Unless you takes me with ya!”

  “Know where we're going, Bertie?” Chump said mildly.

  “Where?” Bertie said.

  “We're going to see the bodies, Bertie,” Chump said in a low voice. “The dancing dead bodies.”

  The color dropped out of Bertie's face.

  “Hey, you ain't supposed to go there! Nobody's supposed to go there! It's da rules!”

  Chump laughed. “And I bet you believes all that other bunk they feeds you in school and church, about dis town bein’ the Garden of Eden, and dat anyone who messes wit da rules gets taken care of, right?”

  “Well....”

  “Still wanna come, Bertie?” Griffey said, grinning.

  “Uhhh...yeah!” Bertie said, suddenly defiant again. “Yeah, sure I wants to come!”

  Chump turned and said, “Then come on, ya punk,” and walked on, the others following.

  Bertie stayed behind for a few seconds, then, screwing up his courage, he quickly wheeled his bike onto his front lawn, dropped it, and ran after.

  At the end of the row of houses they made a left, crossed over two blocks of houses, then crossed the street until they suddenly found themselves at the wooded lot that led to their destination.

  On either side of the lot the houses looked like they had pulled themselves back, avoiding the site. There were high weeds at the borders, as if the owners had hoped to forget the place was even there. At one time a house just like all the others in the neighborhood had stood here, but it had burned to the ground. Only the weed-choked and blackened foundation remained.

  “The bad lot....” Bertie whispered, mouth open.