Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box

by Mystery Writers Of America Inc.

  Up ahead, among the trunks of the trees he knew so well, he saw another shape also familiar to him, a human shadow—he’d seen so many bodies in these woods he felt no curiosity, only mild disdain for this senseless act, and he was about to turn away when the shadow moved. This person was not yet dead.

  Moving with some speed, he walked toward the figure, moving quietly, not wishing to necessarily interrupt, closer and closer until he saw a beautiful young woman not much older than twenty, tying a noose. He’d never seen such beauty and sadness. The woman’s skin was perfect and pale. She was tying the noose with great inefficiency, bursting into tears every few seconds, her hands trembling. On the ground there was a pile of crumpled letters—love letters, he guessed. Yes, she looked as if she was suffering from a broken heart, not that he had any experience in such matters. From his position, hidden among the trees, he watched the young woman as she neared the end of her preparations. He felt the edge of the box in his pocket and imagined saving this woman, how grateful she would be; she was young, with no perspective on the world; he’d help her recover from this broken heart and she would love him unconditionally. She would be blind to whatever element of his character made other women turn away. The forests had rewarded their devoted child once again.

  Taro Oshiro stepped forward, declaring:

  “Please reconsider.”

  The woman was so startled she let go of the rope, lost her footing on the trunk of the tree, and fell to the ground. Taro Oshiro ran forward, scooping her up in his arms. Her eyes were fragile glass. Instead of speaking, she burst into tears, resting her head on his shoulder. It took her several minutes to calm down, and finally, looking at him, she said:

  “I am too foolish.”

  He thought it an odd remark—too foolish for what? Not for death, which would accept fools and the wise alike—but her humility made him feel comfortable enough to stroke her hair.

  Her name was Aya Tanaka; she was a university graduate who’d fallen in love with her professor, a wise and brilliant man who’d seen their love affair as no more than a fling—he’d discarded her, as he’d discarded many others. She’d never loved anyone else. She believed that her death would cause a scandal and the professor would never be able to break anyone else’s heart. Taro Oshiro threw his jacket over her shoulders and she rested against his chest, coiled up in his arms; in truth, he felt sorry for the professor, about to have his career ruined, and was pleased, if nothing else came of this incident, that his career would survive. However, her story proved she was principled, idealistic—hopelessly naïve—a woman whose love for him would not be scorned; no one could doubt her integrity. Now there was a simple test. He was waiting for the moment when she would start to recoil, when she would pull away, but it never came, despite their talking for many hours; on the contrary, she became more tactile, she would stare into his eyes, she would call him the kindest man she’d ever met.

  “I never thought I’d experience kindness again.”

  She was perfect. She was blind. She was smitten, and she would associate the thought of leaving him with death—she would be forever loyal. She didn’t even know he was rich. By the end of their conversation he was ready to give her the ring and make her his wife. Fearing that she might be scared by such speed, he made a supreme effort to control his urge to propose. Instead, he said:

  “Are you strong enough to walk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s leave this place, leave it forever; you must have dinner with me, you must stay with me in my home in Tokyo until you remember how wonderful life can be.”

  She smiled:

  “I remember already.”

  She touched his arm.

  As he walked through the forests, with Aya Tanaka leaning on his arm, the trees brushed against him and the vines caught his feet; he found walking difficult and tripped several times, something that never happened when he walked alone. He paused, looking around at the strange shapes of the trees, and slowly his tremendous feeling of happiness began to ebb away. Happiness was replaced with another feeling, one he was more familiar with—suspicion.

  It was odd that this young woman hadn’t asked anything about him; she hadn’t asked if he was married, she hadn’t asked why he was in the forests; Aokigahara was too notorious for a pleasure stroll, no ramblers came here, yet she had made no attempt to gather his story. She was self-centered, that was true—even so, it was odd. She smiled at him—she smiled a lot for a woman who’d just tried to end her life:

  “What’s wrong?”

  She was quick to notice his change in temperament; not so blind after all.

  “Nothing,” he lied, and began to walk again. This was wrong. What were the chances that he’d arrive at such an opportune time? In fact, had he even seen the woman try to kill herself? All he’d witnessed was the crude paraphernalia of suicide, and there had been very little of that; normally a suicide victim took an overdose of sleeping pills to make sure, very few came into the forests with merely a rope and not even a bag to conceal the rope. What was more, she’d readily accepted his affection, considering her heart had just been broken.

  Taro Oshiro’s heart began to darken like storm clouds at sea, obliterating the horizon, with lightning flashes of rage. He was being tricked. Why hadn’t he checked those love letters on the ground? They could’ve been faked, written by her, but now they were left behind, vital evidence he could have used to see if this professor was even real. How could he have been so quick to believe? Pretty Aya Tanaka had done her research—he was a famous businessman, after all, an eligible bachelor; maybe she’d noticed that he took long walks in these forests. Several people knew about the rings he’d purchased—hadn’t his assistant shown him the article on mokume gane? Yes, she had, she’d arranged the appointment with the jeweler. Now that he thought about the matter, at least ten, perhaps twenty people knew he’d made the rings; it could easily be deduced that he was looking for a wife; a plan had been hatched; this woman in the forest was part of a trap, she’d followed him, running ahead and setting up her position; it would’ve been a simple task, and here she was, hanging off his arm as if they were already married.

  No, it was far worse, this girl knew the secret of the gold watch—the secret of his origins. Perhaps her mother had been on the bus; she’d seen the watch and had recognized his photograph in a recent business magazine. He’d been a young fool for taking the watch out so many times and admiring it so carelessly. With such information this woman would have an unbreakable grip over him. She’d be able to shame him at any moment. He stopped walking, short of breath:

  “Sometimes I get lost in these woods. Let me climb this tree and check that we’re going in the right direction.”

  Aya Tanaka ran forward, hugging him tight:

  “Please be careful. I don’t know what would happen to me if you fell.”

  He felt sick at this grotesque piece of playacting.

  You’d be fine, he thought, just fine; you’d take my wallet and my watch and make off with your modest gains, except that would be disappointing since you have a bigger target in sight, marriage; you want to take everything I have. You want it all.

  He climbed the tree, looking at Mount Fuji. They’d been heading in the correct direction. They’d be out of the forests in less than thirty minutes. He climbed down. And smiled; she wasn’t the only person who could act:

  “These forests are quite extraordinary. We’re heading the wrong way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  There was the proof he needed! The conclusive proof! She knew her way around these woods, unlikely for someone who was supposed to be befuddled by a broken heart. But he would not let her go. He took her by the arm.

  “Trust me.”

  And he changed direction, turning back into the woods.

  ANGELINA

  BY MARY ANNE KELLY

  You never saw Angelina unless she was watering her lawn. She would come out early, do the front and then the back. Sh
e never missed unless it was raining, so she had the best lawn in the neighborhood, where the lawns are stamp-small but neat and lush.

  It’s dead quiet over here in South Ozone Park except for the intermittent scream of planes in and out of Kennedy airport. But after you’ve been here a couple of years you don’t hear them anymore. My Molly wakes up when she hears the cat coming home next door and that means I’m up. We go around the block, left, in case that loose male dog is hanging around the boulevard. We pass Angelina as she’s lugging her hose down her driveway. I think when she sees us turning the corner she knows it’s time to do the yard. Then we come home, the News is on the stoop, and we have our breakfast.

  I was concerned when I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days. I knew she had a daughter, so I wasn’t too worried. But then Angelina’s lawn started to parch and I really thought something might have happened so I went up past the statue of Saint Anthony and I rang the bell. Angelina’s got the air-conditioner cranking from June to September and the brick house has that fortress feel to it. It took her long enough. I was just about to walk away when she opened the door a crack. “Hey,” I said, “I didn’t see you for a while. How you doin?”

  She looked at me with uninterested eyes.

  “You okay?” I said. “I mean, if you want me to carry the hose out for you, I can.”

  Angelina shrugged. “Na,” she said. She made a mouth like when you get a piece of bad calamari. Her housedress was as usual black. I remembered her husband was dead three years, a mere flash in a Sicilian pan. And she looked like she hadn’t been sleeping.

  “You want me to call your daughter?”

  Suddenly there was life under those heavy lids. “No!” she said. Behind her the television droned.

  I thought of my son, still in bed. “I gotta go. Listen, you want my number? Just in case you need someone to call in an emergency?”

  For a second I thought I saw a spark of interest. But “No.” She tipped her head in polite dismissal. “So long.” She shut the door.

  I had my crossword-puzzle ballpoint in my pocket and left my number on a coupon and stuck it in her mailbox anyhow.

  Then I didn’t see her for a while. I’d never had more to do with her than a careful nod; now there I was thinking about her every day. It was one of those real hot summers. One evening it was so hot we overloaded the electric, and the air-conditioner broke down before supper. All the windows were thrown open and a squirrel came right up on a branch bold as you please and looked at us. “Close the window, Anthony,” I worried, “or he’ll come in and we’ll never get him out.” But Molly jumped up barking and that took care of him. “Westies are ratters at heart,” my husband informed us, his voice tight with respect. He was in a good mood because he’d just finished paying the bills. He suddenly recalled when he was a kid and Angelina’s husband used to string the clothesline over a vat of boiling water on the barbecue and smear the line with peanut butter. Then he’d shoot the squirrel and it would drop into the boiling water. Anthony stopped eating. I must have turned pale. “Whatsa matter?” Tony laughed. “You don’t eat meat? Whaddya think, it comes like that all nice and ready in a package?”

  I stood up and scraped the rest of my rigatonis into the trash.

  “And,” he remembered with a jolt of sudden interest, “he had the best grapevine in the neighborhood. He gave Nonno his shoot.” He chewed a wad of mozzarella and washed it down with our homemade. “Come to think of it, the vine we have in our yard came from Nonno so it must have come from that one. A man like that”—he shook his head sympathetically—“would be sorely missed.”

  I stood at the window looking out at the backyard. The vine above the picnic table was heavy with grapes and bees.

  The next day I went up and rang the bell again and this time she answered right away. “Whatsa matter now?” she said.

  “Look, Angelina, you want me to water your lawn?”

  “No. Good-bye.”

  “Listen.” I put my hand on the door. “I don’t mean to be pushy or anything. Don’t misunderstand me, I just—What is that, anyway? That aroma? What is that?” I peeked in past the yellow velvet living room enshrined in fitted vinyl. The kitchen was pink and gray, like fifties poodle skirts.

  “I gotta sauce onna stove.” She pursed her lips and flapped her two arms folded on her stomach. “Braciole.”

  “Wow.”

  “Anh. You gotta nose. So what?” The door shuts, caboom, in my face.

  Nice. No good deed goes unpunished, I’m thinking. Huh. Well, that’s the end of that. Her daughter must be coming for her to be cooking. Whenever she comes she’s loaded down with shopping bags of broccoli rabe and like that. At least I know the old girl won’t starve. And I go home.

  Ten days pass. Now Angelina’s got no more front lawn. It’s brown and it’s all over. My mother-in-law tells my husband her neighbor told her that Angelina’s daughter got a firm offer on the house from a Pakistani family and she’s pushing Angelina to move to a “maturity” condo in Jersey. Personally, I’ve never cared much for the daughter. She wears those slithery leisure suits and drives a Mary Kay executive convertible. I know because she parks this on my corner, worried that the drug dealers who live next door to her mother will steal it. I hate to tell her, but they probably wouldn’t be caught dead.

  And where is Angelina going to find Locatelli cheese in the wilds of New Jersey? Where is she going to find veal like at Suino d’Oro? Over here she can take the Q10 up to Liberty Avenue and she’s got everything right there. Or she can take her shopping cart and walk. It’s not that far. There’s a kind of intimacy strangers share when they see each other every day. Now I’m not one of these do-gooders my husband accuses me of being. It’s just I get a feeling Angelina’s maybe fading away because she has nothing left to live for. It makes me think of that dog we avoid. He’s old and he’s mean and he lives over in the airport parking lots, existing on scraps of who knows what from the Domino’s Pizza garbage disposal. Once in a while he comes around the boulevard and my softhearted neighbor, who is Dutch, puts out rice in a plastic bag folded over like a dish. He hangs around a day or two, suspicious and hungry, then slinks back across the parkway. Every time I see him he looks baggier. I avoid him because my Molly isn’t fixed and that’s all I need. Sometimes, late at night, teenagers from Lefferts Boulevard throw stones at him and I can hear him barking back, outraged but weary.

  Sunday night Molly gets a full walk before bed. Monday morning is recycle day and all the cans are out, plus, you get a lot of really old stuff thrown away and you wouldn’t believe some of the great things people throw away: old books and perfectly good iron frying pans! I noticed Angelina’s recycle garbage was just a lot of empty tomato soup cans. But hey, none of this concerns me. My husband wants me to mind my own business and I do. I hurry Molly past the drug dealers’ house, whose recycle bins are loaded with broken Bombay Gin and Johnnie Walker Black bottles.

  A smeary, rotten stench is oozing from their garbage bags and I yank Molly—who yearns for just that sort of thing—briskly away.

  Monday rolls around and who do I see on the street meandering behind the garbage truck but this dog. I mean, doesn’t anybody do anything around here about stray dogs? They must, I figure, but everyone knows what happens if you call. They come and get it and the next thing you know they put it to sleep. I’m standing on my porch and I’m thinking what is he? Shepherd? Rottweiler? And a side order of Husky, the tail, despite everything, still more up than down. That has to tell you something. A big old guy, big feet, big head, big balls hanging down. Everything loose like he was once good and stocky. What this guy needs is someone who loves to cook.

  So I already know what you’re thinking but I’m way ahead of you. Anthony is watching a SpongeBob video and eating his favorite: buttery Eggos. Tony is sound asleep on the couch and the truck is tucked in on Rockaway Boulevard so he’s not going anywhere. I lock the door. It cost me all the doggy biscuits I keep in my pocket for Molly t
o lure him around the block. I spot a jump rope on fat Anita’s front lawn and I slip it around the damn dog’s neck. Now I’m dirty and already I’m annoyed. And maybe I’m dead if he decides to go for me. But I’ve been attending Anu Butani’s yoga class on Thursdays and I’m starting to get it so I ease myself into well intention.

  I go and I ring Angelina’s bell. No answer. But meanwhile I know she’s home because she’s got an opera on, Puccini, which is good because we want her in that kind of mood. The only trouble is Angelina won’t answer. And next door, the venetian blinds upstairs crack a little bit open and I can almost feel myself being observed. I’m not giving up yet, though. I take the pig’s ear I was saving for Molly’s big-job reward. I rub it all over Angelina’s front doorstep, then push it halfway in the ledge of her mail slot. I look in that old dog’s big brown anticipating eyes. “You’re going to have to take it from here,” I tell him, and I pull the jump rope off his head.

  I walk away and the stupid dog comes gangling after me. “Look,” I say, walking him back to the stoop, “you come with me, I’m going to chase you away and you’ll wind up back by the garbage container. Stay here, play your cards right, and you can be eating cavatelli every Tuesday. Make a decision.”

  I walk away holding my breath. He doesn’t come after me but now I’m afraid to turn around and see if he’s staying there. I just keep going, then I go home and take my Molly around the other block, by Lefferts Boulevard. There’s only so much you can do.

  Well, a couple of weeks go by. I’m still walking Molly around by Lefferts Boulevard by Don Peppe’s restaurant and the supermarket there. She loved it while it was new and fresh, but after a while she’s not interested, she just won’t go. She wants to go back her old way. If you’ve ever known a West Highland terrier you know they can be very stubborn. So this day I take her back our regular old way. The smell of garlic mingles with olive oil and thick tomatoes from the yard—and basilico. Basil grows like a weed from the gray cement under the brick from every house around here. What a smell! It’s got to be Angelina frying sausages and what do I see? Angelina’s backyard chain-link fence is locked with one of those school locker combination locks and who’s in there? Angelina’s back door slams and I hear, “Bruno! Bruno, venga a chi!” There’s that big old dog lying down on an apricot chenille rug on the dirt. He does not move but his tail thumps encouragingly, swatting the dust. Good thing there’s no grass to ruin. I pat myself on the back and walk home slow. Bruno, eh? Bene.