AN: Hello readers: Sorry it’s been a while. The theme of the last three pieces–moving, is the tipoff. This is my last “moving” story for a while. I should be back to my regular writing schedule as of this week.
*****
“Sam!”
Toby eyed the box. Nondescript. Unlabeled, unmarred by packing tape or Sharpie. It wasn’t his. He was pretty certain it wasn’t his husband’s either.
“What?” Sam’s shout came from downstairs. He had been ensconced in the kitchen, unpacking ‘the most vital room in any house, according to Hart family ancestral tradition, thank you very much.’ That ancestral tradition Sam so espoused also meant that socks were folded, not knotted or rolled into an elastic-destroying ball, the windows were washed as part of the weekly cleaning, hyacinths were planted by the front door, and the Christmas tree went up on November twenty-sixth and came down on January seventh, hell or high water.
All this amused Toby, who left the socks in a pile on the bed, killed flowers by looking at them, and hadn’t celebrated his birthday since he was a kid. Christmas? What was Christmas? Well, it hadn’t been much before Sam.
His husband appeared in the doorway.
“Toby, love, we can’t have hot cocoa and snuggle by the fire until I find the hot cocoa. And I can’t find the hot cocoa if I’m standing up here worried because you called for me once then ignored all three of my replies.”
“Is that box yours?” Toby pointed.
“No. I don’t remember packing anything like that at all.” He picked it up. It was neither large nor heavy, about the size of a liquor box, but wasn’t exactly light either. It felt solid, more like a block than a container. He lifted the flap to see its contents.
“Wait!” Toby grabbed Sam’s arm.
“For what?”
“I just…” Toby took the box from him and set it on the bed. “I don’t think we should open it.”
“It’s hardly closed, honey.” Sam moved the flap as if it were a mouth and spoke in a high-pitched voice. “Open me, Toby! Open me!”
“What if it’s something dangerous?”
Sam laughed. “The sellers probably left it. You think Old Lady Anderson left her portable meth lab behind?”
“Stop.”
Sam pulled Toby in close.
“Crack cocaine?” He said in that same playful tone.
“You’re mean,” Toby chuckled.
“Collection of severed fingers?” Sam whispered. “The murder weapon?” Now he sounded like a bad English butler. “She killed her husband in the bedroom with the mysterious cardboard box? Very good, sir. I’ll notify the guests.”
Still laughing, Toby pulled away. “Fine!” He flipped the flaps open and peered inside.
Sam looked over his shoulder.
“What the…”
“I know,” Toby whispered. Golden light emanated from within. He flipped it shut. The two exchanged glances. Toby leaned in and kissed his husband.
“Hide it,” Sam’s voice had gone hoarse. “We’ve got to protect it. We can’t let it be found.“
“Hide it… hide…” Toby glanced around the room. “Got it.”
The box ended up in the back of the closet, under a stack of spare pillows and comforters. Later that evening, as they watched the fire crackle, the couple discussed what to do with the sunroom, whether or not a sectional would work in the old house, and the success of a clean and organized kitchen. The box never entered the conversation; in truth, both men had forgotten about it completely.
*****
Sam found the box as he cleaned out the guest room closet.
“Toby?” He called out, then stopped. Sat on the bed. Cried again. Toby was everywhere in their house. Sam found it both comforting and stifling. Toby hadn’t believed in much, but after the diagnosis, warned Sam that if he didn’t move on, there would be a haunting until he did.
The box was unmarked, vaguely familiar. Sam flipped the lid up, peered inside, and smiled.
“Oh,” he said as a gust of wind blew snow into his face. He smelled peppermint. “There you are.” The light inside twinkled. A familiar face beamed up at him. A rainbow scarf flapped as he pulled his hat lower. The figure motioned for Sam to join him.
Sam considered it.
The figure waved him in.
“I’d love to, honey. Really. But you also told me to live.”
The Toby-in-the-box encouraged him to enter.
“I wish I could. But it’s not time, is it?”
Toby-in-the-box offered a familiar look of frustration, then shrugged and turned. Beyond him, seated on a bench, was Old Lady Anderson, clutching her husband’s hand. Sam cut off the jingle of sleigh bells when he closed the flaps.
“Keep it hidden,” Sam whispered. He put the box back in the closet, then pulled out everything else to pack or sell.
*****
”Mom!” Kendra called. “Is this yours?”
She opened the flaps on the box that sat in the middle of her room. Inside, the silver and golden glitter and the twinkle of new fallen snow gave her a much needed sense of peace. There was an ice rink full of skaters, laughing racing and yelling and twirling and spinning. A couple held hands, one in a rainbow scarf. As she watched, he held tightly to the arm of his husband. Carolers sang on the bridge, and she smelled the pine.
Of course they are, she thought. How could they not be husbands.
“Is what mine?” her mother appeared in the doorway. Kendra closed the flaps quickly.
“Nothing,” Kendra said. “I didn’t recognize a box at first, but now I do. Sorry.”
Candace surveyed the room. The headboard and desk were scratched and chipped, a precious gift from their congregation. Kendra’s personal belongings filled three boxes taken from the shabby wine and spirits shop down from the charred ruin that had been home.
Whatever was in the box, Kendra would tell her in time. She hugged her daughter.
“You okay?”
Kendra nodded.
“We’ll replace what we can in time. It’s just gonna be tight for a while.”
Candace felt the wetness of tears against her chest.
“I need to show you,” Kendra said, pulling away and picking the box off the desk.
“You sure?”
She nodded, and showed her mother the secret.
“You gotta keep it safe,” Candace said, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look. Not if it gives you peace.”
So Kendra put the box in her closet, and added it to her calendar as a Tuesday night weekly event, so she would always remember to look. The old couple, the husbands, and a thousand other people lived in that box, and when she finally left home, she took it with her.
Nicanor Abbott 