Christmas01 - The Christmas Box

by Richard Paul Evans

  "Maybe she's storing it for someone," I suggested.

  I lifted a small stack of boxes and s et them aside. "I haven't seen one o f t hese for a while," I said, displaying my own discovery.

  "What is it?"

  "A tie press. It must have been her husband's."

  Barry hoisted a large portrait of a man with a handlebar mustache posing stoically for the picture. The portrait was set in an elaborate gold-leafed frame.

  "Look," he said, "their banker." We laughed.

  "Hello, look at this," I said, as I gently lifted what looked to be an heirloom. It was an ornate wooden box of burled walnut, intricately carved and highly polished. It was about ten inches wide, fourteen inches long, and a half foot deep, large enough for a sheet of stationery to lie flat inside. It had two large brass hinges crafted in the form of holly leaves. Two leather straps ran horizontally acros s t he lid and buckled securely into silver clasps on each side. The lid had a s killed and detailed etching of the Nativity. Barry walked over for a c loser look.

  "I've never seen anything like it," I said.

  "What is it?" Barry asked.

  "A Christmas Box. For storing Christmas things in. Cards, baubles , things like that." I shook it gently.

  There was no rattle.

  "How old do you think it is?" Barry a sked.

  "Turn-of-the-century," I speculated.

  "See the craftsmanship?"

  While he took a closer look, I cast m y eyes around the room at the wor k r emaining to be done.

  "We better get on with this," I lamented. "I have a lot of work t o c atch up on tonight."

  I set the box aside and we went back to organizing space for our things. It was dark outside by the time we finished unloading the truck. Keri had long finished unpacking the kitchen boxes and dinner was waiting for us on the table when we came down.

  "Well, Sister, what do you think of your new home?" Barry asked.

  "I could get used to all this room," Keri said "and the furniture."

  "You should see some of the things up in the attic," I said.

  "Mom, how will Santa find our new house?" Jenna asked anxiously.

  "Oh, Santa's elves keep track of these things," she assured her.

  "The trick will be how Santa's reindeer will land on the roof without impaling themselves," I joked.

  Keri cast a sideways glance toward me.

  "What's impaling?" asked Jenna.

  "Never mind your dad, he's just t easing."

  Barry laughed. "Aren't you supposed to be making dinner for th e l ady?" he asked.

  "We officially begin our arrangement on Monday. In fact, she is making dinner for us tomorrow. At leas t s he invited us to dine with her."

  "Is that right?" I asked.

  "She was up here just before the t wo of you came down."

  "This should be interesting," I decided.

  We finished the meal and, after t hanking Barry profusely for his help , we cleared away the dishes. Then I dove into a pile of receipts an d l edgers, while Keri put Jenna to bed.

  "Can Daddy read me a story?" she a sked.

  "Not tonight, honey. Daddy has a l ot of work to do."

  "It doesn't have to be a long one,"

  she pleaded.

  "Not tonight, honey. Some other t ime."

  A disappointed child was tucked u nder the covers and went to slee p y earning for "some other time."

  Chapter III THE BIBLE BOX

  Sunday was not p roclaimed the "day of rest" by a mother with a family to ready for church, but such is the irony of piousness. Upon our return home at the conclusion of the day's "churching," we reveled in the discovery of a glorious new lifestyle. In our last apartment we had had such little space we found ourselves looking for ways to spend our Sunday afternoons outside the home. Now we defiantly spread our things, and ourselves, throughout our quarters. I napped in front of the drawing room fireplace while Keri read in the bedroom and Jenna played quietly in the nursery. What we may have los t i n family togetherness we more tha n m ade up for in sanity.

  At quarter to six Keri woke me, and a fter washing up, we descended th e s tairs to Mary's dining room. I t s melled wonderfully of roast bee f a nd gravy and freshly baked rolls.

  The dining room was spacious and, in typical Victorian style, the floo r w as covered with a colorful Persia n r ug that stopped short of the walls , leaving a border of the polishe d h ardwood floor exposed. The roo m w as built around a large, rectangular , white-laced dining table. A Straus s c rystal chandelier hung from the ceiling directly above the center of th e t able, suspended above a vase o f f reshly cut flowers. The east wall ha d a n elaborate built-in china closet displaying the home's exquisite porcelain dinnerware. On the opposite wal l w as a fireplace, as ornately carved as the parlor fireplace, but of lighter wood. The mantel extended to the ceiling, and the firebox and hearth were tiled in marbled blue-and-white patterns. To either side of the fireplace were walnut side chairs with Gothic carved backs and tucked hair-cloth upholstery.

  Mary met us at the doorway and thanked us graciously for joining her.

  "I'm so glad that you could come!" she said.

  "The pleasure is ours," I assured her. "You really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," said Keri.

  Mary was a hostess of the highest order and would not feel the affair worthwhile had she not gone to a lot of trouble.

  "It was no trouble at all," she said instinctively.

  The place settings were immaculate and beautiful, and the chin a p lates were trimmed in 24 karat gold.

  "Please sit down," she urged, motioning us to some chairs. We too k o ur seats and waited for her to join us.

  "I always pray before I eat," she s aid. "Would you please join me?"

  We bowed our heads.

  "Dear Lord, thank you for this b ounty which we have during thi s b lessed Christmas season. Than k y ou for these new friends. Pleas e b less them in their needs and thei r d esires. Amen."

  We lifted our heads.

  "Thank you," I said.

  Mary uncovered a woven basket of s teaming rolls, broke them apart, an d p laced one on each of our plates. Sh e t hen filled our goblets with water an d t he food-laden platters were passe d a round the table.

  "So how are your quarters?" Mary asked. "Have you moved in all your things?"

  "We have," Keri replied.

  "There was enough room in the attic? I was afraid it might be a little cramped."

  "Plenty," I assured her. "We don't own much furniture." I lifted another spoonful from my plate then added, "You really have some beautiful things up there."

  She smiled. "Yes. That's mostly my David's doing. David loved to collect things. As a businessman, he traveled all around the world. He always brought something back from each journey. In his spare time he became very knowledgeable about furniture and antiques. A few years before he died he had started collecting Bibles."

  I bobbed my head in interest.

  "See this Bible over here?" she s aid. She motioned to a large, leather-

  bound book sitting alone on a black l acquer papier-mache table inlaid wit h m other-of-pearl. "That Bible is ove r t wo hundred and fifty years old. It wa s o ne of David's favorite finds," sh e s hared joyously. "He brought it bac k f rom Britain. Collectors call it the 'wicked' Bible. In the first printing th e p rinter made an error, and in Exodu s t hey omitted the word `not' from th e s eventh commandment. It reads `Thou shalt commit adultery.'

  "That's deplorable," Keri chuckled.

  Mary laughed out loud. "It's true," she said. "After supper you're welcome to look it up. The British crow n f ined the printer three hundre d p ounds for the mistake."

  "That was a costly mistake," I said.

  "It was a very popular version," she s aid, smiling mischievously. "In the front parlor is a French Bible with what they call fore-edge painting. If you fan the pages back there is a watercolor of the Nativity. It was a unique art form of the period. Upstairs in th
e attic is a Bible box that David bought for it, but I think the book is so beautiful that I leave it out."

  "The Christmas Box," I said.

  She looked surprised at my familiarity with the box.

  "Yes, there is a Nativity scene etched in the wood--of the Madonna and the Baby Jesus."

  "I saw it up there. It's very beautiful."

  "It's not from France, though," she e xplained. "I believe it was from Sweden. Fine box-making was an art i n t he Scandinavian countries. When David passed away I received no t a few requests to purchase the Bibles. Except for the Bible I donate d t o the church, and the three that I stil l h ave, I sold the rest. I just couldn't p art with these three. David took suc h j oy in them. They were his favorit e t reasures."

  "Where is the third Bible?" I asked.

  "I keep it in the den, for my personal reading. I'm sure there ar e s ome collectors that would have m y h ead for doing so, but it has specia l s ignificance to me." She looked dow n a t Jenna.

  "But enough of these old things, tell m e about your sweet little three-year-

  old," she said kindly.

  Jenna had been sitting quietly, cautiously sampling her food, largel y i gnored by all of us. She looked u p s hyly.

  "Jenna is going to be four in January," Keri said.

  "I'm going to be this many," Jenna said proudly, extending a hand with one digit inverted.

  "That is a wonderful age!" Mary exclaimed. "Do you like your new home?"

  "I like my bed," she said matter-of-factly.

  "She's glad to get out of her crib," Keri explained. "We didn't have room in our last apartment for a bed. She was devastated when she found out that she was the only one in her dance class who slept in a crib."

  Mary smiled sympathetically.

  "Oh, speaking of dance," Keri remembered, turning to me, "Jenna's Christmas dance recital is this Saturday. Can you make it?"

  I frowned. "I'm afraid not. Saturday is going to be a busy day at the shop with all the December weddings and Christmas formals."

  It must be a very busy time of the y ear for your type of business," Mar y o ffered.

  It is.' I replied, "but it drops off in January."

  She nodded politely then tuned to Kati. Well, I, for one, am glad that Jenna likes it here. And, if you're wanting for company, I would love to take Richards place at that dance recital'

  'You are more than welcome to join u s," Kari said. Jenne smiled.

  'Then its a date. And," she said, looking at Jenna, "for the little dancer , I made some chocolate Christma s p udding. Would you like some?"

  Jenna smiled hungrily.

  I hope you don't mind: Mary said, turning to us. She hasn't finished he r s upper.

  Of course not: Keri said. That w as very thoughtful of you"

  Mary excused herself from the table a nd returned carrying a tray of crysta l b owls filled with steaming pudding.

  She served Jenna first.

  "This is very good: I said, plunging a spoonful into my mouth.

  Everything is delicious: Kari said.

  'Thank you?

  The conversation lulled while we e njoyed the dessert. Jenna was th e f irst to break the silence.

  "I know why flies come in the house s he announced unexpectedly.

  We looked at her curiously.

  "You do?" Mary asked.

  Jenna looked at us seriously. 'They c ome in to find their friends .

  We all stifled a laugh, as the little g irl was in earnest.

  .... and then we kill them'

  Keri and I looked at each other and b urst out laughing.

  "My, you are a little thinker," Mary s aid. She chuckled, then leaned ove r a nd gave Jenna a hug.

  "I'd like to propose a toast," Mary s aid. She raised a crystal glass o f w ine. Following Mary's lead we poure d o ur glasses half full of the rose liqui d a nd held them in the air.

  "To a new friendship and a wonderful Christmas."

  "Hear, hear," I said emphatically.

  "A wonderful Christmas," Keri repeated.

  The rest of the evening was spent i n pleasant conversation, punctuate d w ith laughter. When we had finishe d e ating, we lavishly praised Mary for a w onderful meal and transported th e d ishes to the kitchen. Mary firml y i nsisted on cleaning up the dishe s h erself, so reluctantly we left her t o t he chore and returned upstairs t o o ur wing.

  "I feel like I've known her all my life,"

  Keri said.

  "Like a grandmother," I observed.

  Jenna smiled and raced up the s tairs ahead of us.

  The ritual of cohabitation took on a n atural and casual openness welcomed by all. It soon became clear to Keri and me that Mary had solicited a f amily to move in with her more for th e s ake of "family" than real physica l n eed. She could easily have hire d s ervants, as there obviously ha d b een in the past, and she seemed t o t rouble herself immensely to mak e o ur stay amiable, to the extent of hiring out any chore that Keri or I migh t f ind overly tedious or time-consuming, except when said chore woul d i nvoke a vicarious act of a familia l n ature. Bringing home the Christma s t ree was such an occasion. Mary , upon finding the largest, most perfectly shaped tree in the lot, offered t o p urchase a second pine for our quarters. She was absolutely delighte d w hen Keri suggested that we migh t a ll enjoy sharing the same tre e t ogether. We brought the tree hom e a nd after much fussing, the fres h s cent of evergreen permeated th e d en. Not surprisingly, the room became a favorite place for us to congregate after supper. We enjoye d Mary's company as much as sh e d esired ours, and Jenna accepte d h er readily as a surrogate grandmother.

  Some people were born to work for o thers. Not in a mindless, servil e w ay--rather, they simply work bette r i n a set regimen of daily tasks an d f unctions. Others were born of th e e ntrepreneurial spirit and enjoy th e d emands of self-determination an d t he roll of the dice. Much to my detriment, I was born of the latter spirit.

  Frankly, that spirit was just as potent a d raw to return to my hometown as th e q uaint streets and white-cappe d m ountains I had grown up loving. As I said before, Keri and I had left Southern California for the opportunit y t o operate a formal-wear business.

  Though formal-wear rental is quite c ommon now, at the time it was ne w a nd untested and therefore exciting.

  The opportunity came by way of a f riend who found himself in a smal l t own just north of Salt Lake City , called Bountiful, for a wedding. That i s w hen he met my future partner, a n e nterprising tailor who had begu n l easing elaborate bridal gowns, an d s oon discovered a greater need fo r s uitable accoutrements for the bride's a nd bridesmaids' counterparts.

  As necessity is the mother of profit, he began renting a line of men's dinner jackets with great success. It wa s a t this time that my friend, whil e d ressed in one of those suits, had , unbeknownst to me, engaged th e p roprietor in a lengthy discussion o n t he state and future of his business.

  Having been impressed with expectations of my marketing prowess, th e o wner called me directly and afte r m any long-distance phone conversations offered to sell me a portion o f t he new company in exchange for m y e xpertise and a small cash outlay , which Keri and I managed to scrap e t ogether. The opportunity was all w e c ould have hoped for, and the business showed signs of great promise.

  Under my direction, we increased o ur market by producing picture catalogs of our suits and sending them t o d ressmakers and wedding halls outside of the metropolitan area. The y b ecame the retailers of our suits , which they rented to their clientele , and received no small commission i n t he transaction. The paperwork of thi s n ew venture was enormous and complex, but the success of my idea s c onsumed me and I found mysel f g radually drawn away from the comparatively relaxed environment o f h ome. In modern business vernacular, there is a popular term: "opportunity costs." The term is based on th e a ssumption that since all resources , mainly time and money, are limited , the successful businessman weigh s a ll ventures based on
what opportunities are to be lost in the transaction.

  Perhaps if I had seen my daughter's l onging eyes staring back at me fro m t he gold-plated scales, I would hav e r ethought my priorities. I adroitl y r ationalized my absence from hom e o n necessity and told myself that m y f amily would someday welcome th e s acrifice by feasting, with me, on th e f ruits of my labors. In retrospect, I should have tasted those fruits for bitterness a little more often.

  Chapter IV

  THE DREAM, THE ANGEL, AND THE LETTER

  I don't recall the e xact night when the dreams began.

  The angel dreams. It should be stated t hat I am a believer in angels, thoug h n ot the picture-book kind with wing s a nd harps. Such angelic accoutrements seem as nonsensical to me a s d evils sporting horns and carryin g p itchforks. To me, angel wings ar e m erely symbolic of their role as divin e m essengers. Notwithstanding m y r ather dogmatic opinions on the matter, the fact that the angel in m y d ream descended from the sky wit h o utspread wings did not bother me. I n f act, the only thing I found disturbin g a t all about the dream was its frequent recurrence and the dream's s trange conclusion. In the dream I find myself alone in a large open field.

  The air is filled with soft, beautifu l s trains of music flowing as sweet an d m elodic as a mountain brook. I loo k u p and see an angel with wings outspread descending gradually fro m h eaven. Then, when we are not a n a rm's length removed, I look into it s c herubic face, its eyes turn up towar d h eaven, and the angel turns to stone.

  Though I have vague recollections of t he dream haunting my sleep mor e t han once after we moved into the Parkin home, it seemed to have grow n c learer and more distinct with eac h p assing slumber. This night it was alive , rich in color and sound and detail , occupying my every thought with it s s urrealism. I awoke suddenly, expecting all traces of the nocturnal vision t o v anish with my consciousness, but i t d idn't. This night the music remained. A soft, silvery tune plucked sweetly as a l ullaby. A lullaby of unknown origin.

  Except tonight the music had an o rigin.

  I sat up in bed, listening intently w hile my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I found the flashlight kept in th e p ine nightstand next to our bed, pulle d o n a terry-cloth robe, and walked quietly from the room, following th e m usic. I felt my way down the hall pas t t he nursery where I stopped an d l ooked in at Jenna. She lay fast asleep , undisturbed by the tones. I followe d t he music to the end of the hall, pausing where the melody seemed to hav e o riginated, from behind the attic door. I grasped the handle and opened th e d oor slowly. The flashlight illuminate d t he room, creating long, creepin g s hadows. Apprehensively, I climbe d t he stairs toward the music. The roo m w as still and, except for the music, lifeless. As I panned the room with th e l ight, my heart quickened. The cradl e w as uncovered. The dusty, drape d s heet that had concealed it now la y c rumpled at its base on the attic floor.