Secrets of the Red Box

by Vickie Hall

  The following day was Sunday, a family day they spent together laughing and playing, then going to Irene’s for dinner. Glen wanted to do none of that. He wanted to curl into a ball, hide in a corner, and wish the pain away. He stayed in bed longer than usual, didn’t want to look at Bonnie. All night he’d felt her beside him, listened to her soft, even breathing and prayed he could die. There was no life for him without her and no life for him with her.

  When he finally dragged himself from the bed, it was because his children kept peeking in at him. He heard Bonnie hush them and usher them away, but after repeated attempts to see “What’s wrong with Daddy?” Glen couldn’t take it anymore. He dressed, avoided looking in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, and went into the kitchen.

  ///////

  “Daddy’s up!” exclaimed Jeannie, hopping up and down in her footed pajamas. She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his thigh. “Hi, Daddy, we wondered when you were going to get up. Mommy said we were supposed to be quiet so you could sleep. We tried real hard.”

  Glen touched the top of Jeannie’s head. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  Bonnie turned from the stove with the coffee pot in her hand. “Coffee?” she asked him. She was unprepared for the look on his face. He appeared drawn and pained, with dark circles beneath his eyes. She returned the coffee pot to the stove. “Glen? You don’t look well. What’s wrong?”

  She came toward him, raising a hand to his forehead. He ducked and moved aside. “I’m all right,” he said brusquely.

  Bonnie could see he was not all right. There was something wrong. “I’m calling Dr. Manning,” she said. “We’ll let him decide.” She started toward the phone, but Glen grabbed her by the wrist.

  “No! Don’t call,” he insisted. He looked down at his hand and let go of her, recoiling his fingers into a fist.

  Bonnie studied her husband. Everything about him seemed different—his posture, his eyes, the tone in his voice, the way he’d forgotten to kiss her good morning. She’d never seen him act this way and it frightened her. “Glen, what’s the matter?” She asked it softly, with no implication of worry for the sake of the children.

  Jeannie tugged on her father’s hand. “Daddy, come play with us,” she urged.

  “Maybe later, Jeannie-beanie,” he said with a fleeting smile. “Daddy’s going to read the newspaper.”

  Bonnie extended her hand toward her daughter. “Come on, Jeannie, finish your breakfast. We’ll eat and then play, okay?”

  She watched as Glen poured a cup of coffee and disappeared into the living room. She felt lost, as if her ship was suddenly rudderless and could no longer stay on course. Glen had always been there beside her, giving direction to her life. Now it was as if a gulf had separated them and she couldn’t comprehend why. He hadn’t looked at her, hadn’t touched her, not even when she snuggled up next to him in bed last night. A sick feeling crept into her stomach.

  Bonnie pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and helped Jeannie take her seat. Charlie was already in his high chair, happily drooling onto his bib. She scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate and placed it before Charlie, then kissed him on top of the head. The stack of pancakes she’d already made sat warming inside the oven. Bonnie turned off the burner beneath the bacon and drained it before plating it up for the family.

  “Glen, honey, breakfast is ready,” she called to him.

  Bonnie fixed a plate for Jeannie and cut her pancakes into bite-size pieces. After she’d poured warmed syrup over the golden cakes she smiled at her daughter. “There you go, sweetheart.”

  “Mmmm, I love pancakes,” Jeannie said, stabbing her fork into the pile.

  Bonnie glanced over her shoulder to see if Glen was coming. There was no sign of him. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. She walked around the table and went to the living room. He sat in his chair, the newspaper open in front of him shielding his face from her. “Glen? Didn’t you hear me call? Breakfast is ready.”

  He didn’t lower the paper when he spoke. “Just coffee today,” he said.

  His voice sounded tight, as if he could barely get the words out. Bonnie’s concern grew into fear. She moved toward him and sat on the sofa across from him. “Honey? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Is it work? The kids? What?”

  Glen rustled the paper between his fingers, but didn’t look at her. “Go eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “But—”

  He started to lower the paper. “Would you just go?” he barked. “Leave me alone.”

  A sinking feeling engulfed her. She’d never seen him this way and knew it was something more serious than he would admit. She pursed her lips and pushed up from the sofa. Clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking, she returned to the kitchen with a dull ache in her throat. ///////

  Glen couldn’t pretend everything was normal. Nothing would ever be normal again. He couldn’t eat, or play with his children, or look at Bonnie. He sat behind the newspaper, using it as protection against his life before the red box and the life he lived now. It took every ounce of strength he had to remain seated in his chair, to keep from screaming at Bonnie in his wounded rage, to keep from running out the door.

  He felt relieved when Bonnie finally went back to the kitchen. The thought of facing the Ortons this afternoon, as if nothing had changed, turned his stomach sour again. He couldn’t go and pretend to be what he wasn’t any longer. He couldn’t pretend that Bonnie hadn’t lied to him, hadn’t planned a deception so devious that he would never have known about her past had it not been for the evidence he’d found. How cold must she be, he wondered, to live with herself and all her lies? How could she have ever looked at him and not remembered what she’d done? How he wished he’d never rescued the red box, had left it in the trash where it belonged. He could have lived out the rest of his life in complete ignorance of her past and been happy.

  He couldn’t listen to the joyful sounds of his children as they ate their breakfast, or hear Bonnie’s gentle encouragement for them to drink their milk. Normally these simple testaments of life brought him a sense of comfort, of a good life. Now they were reminders of what he’d lost because of Bonnie.

  Glen threw the newspaper aside and stood up. He went to the big picture window and looked out at the overcast sky. The walks needed shoveling after the fresh snowfall from the night before. He could do that, could put his thoughts on something else for a while as he performed a mindless task.

  Shrugging into his coat, he went out the front door, walked around to the back of the house where the snow shovel rested against the bricks, then returned to the front. Glen pulled the gloves from his pockets, slipped them on, then started to shovel.

  The cold air stung his face. He could see his breath with every exhalation. The blade of the shovel bit into the snow and spit it out over his shoulder. Glen liked the feel of cold, the movement of his limbs, the exertion on his heart. It seemed to drive away some of the pain, if only for a moment. He had to think, he had to decide what to do, and he had to do so quickly.

  Chapter 26

  A sharp knock sounded at the front door. Glen tensed and he felt the color drain from his face. He stood motionless in the kitchen as a sudden flash of regret stabbed his heart. His eyes swept across the room from his little daughter sitting at the gray Formica kitchen table, to his son in the high chair, and then to his wife.

  He felt the blood in his veins seize as though he was paralyzed, standing numb and frozen. The knock came again, more loudly than before, more commanding.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Bonnie asked, turning from the stove with a large wooden spoon in her hand.

  Glen stared at her, unable to move. Faint strains from the radio filtered through the kitchen. Charlie sat in his high chair and began to whimper, his hands pounding on the tray. His mother turned and touched his head with a soothing caress. “I know, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  The
knocking became a pounding. “Glen?” Bonnie urged with an edge to her voice, turning away from her child.

  He made no attempt to move, his eyes darting to the pink electric kitchen clock. Funny how he’d never noticed the white cord hanging down the wall, a gentle S-curve against the pink-andwhite plaid wallpaper.

  Bonnie dropped her spoon on the counter and pursed her full lips. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered beneath her breath as she headed for the living room.

  Glen forced himself to move his stiff limbs, willing himself to follow her. She walked past the new sofa they’d just purchased, soft rose accented with yellow flowers, skimmed by the ottoman, and glanced in the mirror that hung in the entryway.

  Bonnie reached for the doorknob and turned it, swinging the door open wide.

  “Bonnie Taggart?” a man in a dark suit asked perfunctorily.

  Glen’s heart pounded like a jackhammer, ringing in his ears so loudly that he could scarcely hear the voice on the other side of the open door.

  Bonnie cocked her head to one side and peered at the two strangers before her. “Yes?”

  The man reached into his inside pocket and flashed a shiny gold badge at her face. “You’re under arrest for bigamy…”

  Glen stood beside the ottoman, conscious only of his thrashing heart and his immovable limbs. He heard nothing of what the detective said, as if his ears were deafened by the violent pul sing of the blood in his head.

  Bonnie spun toward Glen, her arms held out to him, her expression a mix of terror and pleading. A glistening sweat lit her pale skin as her eyes stared at him in disbelief. Glen stood mute, unable to offer her the salvation she sought from him. His gut twisted and wrenched until he thought he might vomit. The look on her face tore at his heart, but was no more devastating than the betrayal he felt inside.

  “No!” Bonnie cried, yanking her arm from the detective. She pivoted to her husband, her eyes imploring him for help. “Glen! Don’t let them do this!”

  Jeannie ran toward her mother, her tiny hands reaching, grasping thin air. “Mommy, Mommy…”

  Glen reached down and lifted his daughter with a mechanical motion. He watched as Bonnie’s shoulders fell with resignation, her face darkening. His senses drained away from him. He could no longer hear his wife’s pleading as the detective took hold of her elbow. His voice lay stilted in his tightened throat, strangling his cries into silence.

  The detective escorted Bonnie from the front step as Jeannie began to cry. Bonnie craned her head over her shoulder, her vivid blue eyes filled with watery tears, beseeching Glen for some sort of understanding. “Don’t cry, baby,” she called to her daughter. “It’ll be all right. Mommy loves you…”

  Glen saw his future vanish as the bulky black sedan drove away with his wife. Guilt had no role in his decision now. It had been banished with her betrayal, her lies, her deceit. But he still loved her. God help him, he still loved her.

  ///////

  Bonnie’s eyes stung and felt swollen from crying so long. She couldn’t forget the look on Glen’s face as she’d been arrested. There was no trial—she’d pled guilty. At the sentencing, Glen was there, stone-faced and immovable. She’d wanted to call to him, to beg for his forgiveness, but she could do nothing. He hadn’t spoken to her since the night of her arrest. She couldn’t blame him. What could she possibly say to erase her guilt?

  Bonnie ached for him, his absence more profound than any previous loss she’d ever experienced. How she wished she could feel his strong arms around her now, hear his voice and draw on his strength. But she had ruined all that, had shattered their lives. She had destroyed his trust, deceived him, betrayed his love, and pained him to the depths of his soul. Nothing she could ever say or do could repair such irreversible damage. She knew that, and the knowledge of it rang hollow in her aching heart.

  She curled herself into a ball on the thin prison cell mattress. It reeked of urine and time, adding to her misery. But she deserved it—she deserved every vile thing that came to her now. The lenient thirty-month sentence would never be enough punishment. In those ensuing months, her children would forget her. Bonnie clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs. Oh, God…my children…my babies…I miss them so much…how will I live without them? I won’t…I don’t want to live…

  More tears erupted to scald her cheeks as she buried her face against the stained pillow. The bitter ache in Bonnie’s throat staunched her voice, silencing her pain-filled cries. She’d lost everything—everything that had ever mattered to her. It was a sacrifice she’d never expected to make. But that wasn’t really true, was it? She’d lied to herself and believed she could live in two worlds, keeping them estranged from one another. But now, exposed for who she really was, who she had pretended to be, she was helpless to make things right.

  In her foolishness, she’d believed she’d only withheld some details about her past from Glen. She’d told him the truth about her parents, her early years in the fields, her life in Long Beach. She’d been truthful about her feelings for him, her love. That was real. It had always been real, not like with the others. Before everything came crashing down on her, she’d believed the only actual lie she’d ever told him was that day in the hospital—the day she’d miscarried. She couldn’t admit to him that there had been men she’d married for easy money, couldn’t reveal that the abortion was so she could keep doing what she’d been doing. It had pained her to lie to him then. She’d nearly choked on the words. How could she have believed she’d only omitted a four-year span of her life from him, and not considered it lying?

  It was so blatant, so ugly now—it all lay bare and exposed. Her secrets, her precious secrets had cost her everything. And what of the men she’d married? It wasn’t as if they were untouched. How many had tried to look for her when they came home? How many hearts had she broken, some soldier or sailor believing his wife had simply vanished? Except for Arthur Jackson—he’d died in the Pacific just four weeks after they’d married. He would never know her secrets now. The payout on his ten-thousand-dollar life insurance policy had been a financial bonus. But it was Luther Shold, the boy from Iowa, who’d had her scared. He’d been severely wounded, had spent months in a hospital overseas, having lost both legs in a Kamikaze attack to his ship. He was coming home—coming home to Bonnie. Through all his letters, he’d told her over and over that she was the only reason he’d survived at all.

  But the most compelling reason to leave San Diego was the arrest of a woman who had married four soldiers, just as Bonnie had. She’d obviously not been as careful as Bonnie in hiding her secrets. She’d given each man copies of the same picture of her. Two of the men were stationed in England, and one evening they happened to frequent the same pub. They fell into conversation, started talking about home. When each of the men went to show the other a picture of his wife, they discovered it was the same woman. They’d notified the authorities and the woman was arrested.

  For the first time, she’d truly considered the consequences of her actions. For the first time, she’d realized the gravity of what she’d done. With the payout from Arthur’s death, she had enough money to leave and start over. She had to go before it was too late—before she got caught.

  She thought about all the times she’d tried to drown her guilt with liquor, had tried to rid herself of the memories. Yet each time, they came back with full force. Only after she’d met Glen had she been able to push them aside—willed them aside to allow his love for her to fill the emptiness in her soul. When she’d finally been able to throw away the red box, convinced her past was buried for good, she’d believed she was free. How could she have known that Glen would rescue the thing— see it in the trash the day they’d moved into their new home—and had hastily thrown it into a moving box destined for the attic? How could she have known that five years later, Glen would discover the red box when he went looking for his high school yearbook—that the hinge had somehow broken, spilling out all her horrible secrets?


  Bonnie felt her stomach churn and she thought she might be sick. What kind of person was she? How callous and calculating had she been to so discount the lives of others—to deceive Glen, the only man she’d ever loved? And then a revolting thought occurred to her—she was no better than her father. No, she’d never physically assaulted anyone, hadn’t blackened an eye or beat someone unconscious using knotted fists as a weapon. She’d wielded a far more painful and powerful weapon—she used love. Perhaps if she’d known what love was, had ever once felt it in her life, the events in San Diego would never have happened. But she hadn’t learned about love, about real love, until she met Glen Taggart.

  Her head began to reel. She leaned over the side of the bed and retched, her empty stomach producing nothing but a mix of bile and saliva. Her body contorted with dry heaves, twisting her gut relentlessly. When the vomiting subsided, Bonnie rolled back on the mattress and wiped her clammy face with the sleeve of her prison dress.

  I don’t deserve to live…I’m a monster…how could I have done this…hurt so many people…destroyed my precious family. Bonnie squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip as visions of her children and Glen clouded her mind—every memory a torturous image of all she had ransomed. ///////

  Irene came into the kitchen where Glen was washing the dinner dishes. She touched his shoulder. “The kids are down,” she said wearily. “Ithink they’ll sleep through the night.”

  Glen nodded and rinsed another glass. “Thank you, Aunt Irene. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She picked up the dish towel and began to dry. He stretched out his arm. “I’ll get this. You’ve done enough today.” His tone indicated he would take no argument from her. “Why don’t you go on home? I’ll be all right.”

  Irene gave him a doubtful look. She sighed and nodded. “Are you sure?”

  Glen wiped off his hands and faced his aunt. He took hold of her arms and kissed her on the cheek. “These last few weeks have been hell…for all of us. And you’ve been there for me and the kids…stepping in…”