The Anything Box

by Зенна Гендерсон

  dazzled, that splashed brilliance into my astonished eyes until I winced them

  shut to rest their seeing and saw the dark inversions of the radiance behind

  my eyelids.

  I forced my eyes open again and looked sideways so the edge of my seeing

  was all I used until I got more accustomed to the glory.

  Between the two cartons was an opening like a window would be, but little,

  little, into a wonderland of things I could never tell. Colors that had no

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  names. Feelings that made windy moonlight a puddle of dust. I felt tears burnout of my eyes and start down my cheeks, whether from brightness or wonder, Idon't know. I blinked them away and looked again.

  Someone was in the brightness, several someones. They were leaning out ofthe squareness, beckoning and calling—silver signals and silver sounds.

  "Mrs. Klevity," I thought. "Something bright."

  I took another good look at the shining people and the tree things thatwere like music bordering a road, and grass that was the song my evening grasshummed in the wind—a last, last look, and began to back out.

  I scrambled to my feet, clutching my jamas. "Mrs. Klevity." She was stillsitting at the table, as solid as a pile of bricks, the sketched face underthe wild hair a sad, sad one.

  "Yes, child." She hardly heard herself.

  "Something bright—" I said.

  Her heavy head lifted slowly, her blind face turned to me. "What, child?"

  I felt my fingers bite into my jamas and the cords in my neck getting tightand my stomach clenching itself. "Something bright!" I thought I screamed. Shedidn't move. I grabbed her arm and dragged her off balance in her chair."Something bright!"

  "Anna." She righted herself on the chair. "Don't be mean."

  I grabbed the bedspread and yanked it up. The light sprayed out like asprinkler on a lawn.

  Then she screamed. She put both hands up her heavy face and screamed,"Leolienn! It's here! Hurry, hurry!"

  "Mr. Klevity isn't here," I said. "He hasn't got back."

  "I can't go without him! Leolienn!"

  "Leave a note!" I cried. "If you're there, you can make them come backagain and I can show him the right place!" The upsurge had passed make-believeand everything was realer than real.

  Then, quicker than I thought she ever could move, she got paper and apencil. She was scribbling away at the table as I stood there holding thespread. So I dropped to my knees and then to my stomach and crawled under thebed again. I filled my eyes with the brightness and beauty and saw, beyond it,serenity and orderliness and—and uncluttered cleanness. The miniaturelandscape was like a stage setting for a fairy tale— so small, so small—solovely.

  And then Mrs. Klevity tugged at my ankle and I slid out, reluctantly,stretching my sight of the bright square until the falling of the spread brokeit. Mrs. Klevity worked her way under the bed, her breath coming pantingly,her big, ungainly body inching along awkwardly.

  She crawled and crawled and crawled until she should have come up shortagainst the wall, and I knew she must be funnelling down into the brightness,her face, head and shoulders, so small, so lovely, like her silvery voice. Butthe rest of her, still gross and ugly, like a butterfly trying to skin out ofits cocoon.

  Finally only her feet were sticking out from under the bed and theythrashed and waved and didn't go anywhere, so I got down on the floor and putmy feet against hers and braced myself against the dresser and pushed. Andpushed and pushed. Suddenly there was a going, a finishing, and my feetdropped to the floor.

  There, almost under the bed, lay Mrs. Klevity's shabby old-lady blackshoes, toes pointing away from each other. I picked them up in my hands,wanting, somehow, to cry. Her saggy lisle stockings were still in the shoes.

  Slowly I pulled all the clothes of Mrs. Klevity out from under the bed.They were held together by a thin skin, a sloughed-off leftover of Mrs.Klevity that only showed, gray and lifeless, where her bare hands and facewould have been, and her dull gray filmed eyes.

  I let it crumple to the floor and sat there, holding one of her old shoesin my hand.

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  The door rattled, and it was gray, old, wrinkled Mr. Klevity.

  "Hello, child," he said. "Where's my wife?"

  "She's gone," I said, not looking at him. "She left you a note there on the

  table."

  "Gone—?" He left the word stranded in mid-air as he read Mrs. Klevity's

  note.

  The paper fluttered down. He yanked a dresser drawer open and snatched out

  spool-looking things, both hands full. Then he practically dived under the

  bed, his elbows thudding on the floor, to hurt hard. And there was only a

  wiggle or two, and his shoes slumped away from each other.

  I pulled his cast aside from under the bed and crawled under it myself. I

  saw the tiny picture frame— bright, bright, but so small.

  I crept close to it, knowing I couldn't go in. I saw the tiny perfection of

  the road, the landscape, the people—the laughing people who crowded around the

  two new rejoicing figures—the two silvery, lovely young creatures who cried

  out in tiny voices as they danced. The girl one threw a kiss outward before

  they all turned away and ran up the winding white road together.

  The frame began to shrink, faster, faster, until it squeezed to a single

  bright bead and then blinked out

  All at once the house was empty and cold. The upsurge was gone. Nothing was

  real any more. All at once the faint ghost of the smell of eggs was

  frightening. All at once I whimpered, "My lunch money!"

  I scrambled to my feet, tumbling Mrs. Klevity's clothes into a disconnected

  pile. I gathered up my jamas and leaned across the table to get my sweater. I

  saw my name on a piece of paper. I picked it up and read it.

  Everything that is ours in this house now belongs to Anna-across-the-court,the little girl that's been staying with me at night.Ahvlaree Klevity

  I looked from the paper around the room. All for me? All for us? All this

  richness and wonder of good things? All this and the box in the bottom drawer,

  too? And a paper that said so, so that nobody could take them away from us.

  A fluttering wonder filled my chest and I walked stiffly around the three

  rooms, visualizing everything without opening a drawer or door. I stood by the

  stove and looked at the frying pan hanging above it. I opened the cupboard

  door. The paper bag of eggs was on the shelf. I reached for it, looking back

  over my shoulder almost guiltily.

  The wonder drained out of me with a gulp. I ran back over to the bed and

  yanked up the spread. I knelt and hammered on the edge of the bed with my

  clenched fists. Then I leaned my forehead on my tight hands and felt my

  knuckles bruise me. My hands went limply to my lap, my head drooping.

  I got up slowly and took the paper from the table, bundled my jamas under

  my arm and got the eggs from the cupboard. I turned the lights out and left.

  I felt tears wash down from my eyes as I stumbled across the familiar yard

  in the dark. I don't know why I was crying—unless it was because I was

  homesick for something bright that I knew I would never have, and because I

  knew I could never tell Mom what really had happened.

  Then the pale trail of light from our door caught me and I swept in on an

  astonished Mom, calling softly, because of the sleeping kids, "Mom! Mom! Guess

  what!"

  Yes, I remember Mrs. Klevity because she had eggs for breakfast! Every day!That's one of the reasons I remember her.<
br />
  Hush!

  June sighed and brushed her hair back from her eyes automatically as she

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  marked her place in her geometry book with one finger and looked through the

  dining-room door at Dubby lying on the front-room couch.

  "Dubby, please," she pleaded. "You promised your mother that you'd be quiet

  tonight. How can you get over your cold if you bounce around making so much

  noise?"

  Dubby's fever-bright eyes peered from behind his tented knees where he was

  holding a tin truck which he hammered with a toy guitar.

  "I am quiet, June. It's the truck that made the noise. See?" And he banged

  on it again. The guitar splintered explosively and Dubby blinked in surprise.

  He was wavering between tears at the destruction and pleased laughter for the

  awful noise it made. Before he could decide, he began to cough, a deep-chested

  pounding cough that shook his small body unmercifully.

  "That's just about enough out of you, Dubby," said June firmly, clearing

  the couch of toys and twitching the covers straight with a practiced hand.

  "You have to go to your room in just fifteen minutes anyway—or right now if

  you don't settle down. Your mother will be calling at seven to see if you're

  okay. I don't want to have to tell her you're worse because you wouldn't be

  good. Now read your book and keep quiet. I've got work to do."

  There was a brief silence broken by Dubby's sniffling and June's scurrying

  pencil. Then Dubby began to chant:

  "Shrimp boatses running a dancer tonight

  Shrimp boatses running a dancer tonight

  Shrimp boatses running a dancer tonight

  SHRIMP BOATses RUNning a DANcer to-NIGHT—"

  "Dub-by!" called June, frowning over her paper at him.

  "That's not noise," protested Dubby. "It's singing. Shrimp boatses—" The

  cough caught him in mid-phrase and June busied herself providing Kleenexes and

  comfort until the spasm spent itself.

  "See?" she said. "Your cough thinks it's noise."

  "Well, what can I do then?" fretted Dubby, bored by four days in bed and

  worn out by the racking cough that still shook him. "I can't sing and I can't

  play. I want something to do."

  "Well," June searched the fertile pigeonholes of her baby sitter's

  repertoire and came up with an idea that Dubby had once originated himself and

  dearly loved.

  "Why not play-like? Play-like a zoo. I think a green giraffe with a mop for

  a tail and roller skates for feet would be nice, don't you?"

  Dubby considered the suggestion solemnly. "If he had egg beaters for ears,"

  he said, overly conscious as always of ears, because of the trouble be so

  often had with his own.

  "Of course he does," said June. "Now you play-like one."

  "Mine's a lion," said Dubby, after mock consideration. "Only he has a flag

  for a tail—a pirate flag—and he wears yellow pajamas and airplane wings

  sticking out of his back and his ears turn like propellers."

  "That's a good one," applauded June. "Now mine is an eagle with rainbow

  wings and roses growing around his neck. And the only thing he ever eats is

  the song of birds, but the birds are scared of him and so he's hungry nearly

  all the time—pore ol’ iggle!"

  Dubby giggled. "Play-like some more," he said, settling back against the

  pillows.

  "No, it's your turn. Why don't you play-like by yourself now? I've just got

  to get my geometry done."

  Dubby's face shadowed and then he grinned. "Okay."

  June went back to the table, thankful that Dubby was a nice kid and not

  like some of the brats she had met in her time. She twined both legs around

  the legs of her chair, running both hands up through her hair. She paused

  before tackling the next problem to glance in at Dubby. A worry tugged at her

  heart as she saw how pale and fine-drawn his features were. It seemed, every

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  time she came over, he was more nearly transparent

  She shivered a little as she remembered her mother saying, "Poor child.

  He'll never have to worry about old age, Have you noticed his eyes, June? He

  has wisdom in them now that no child should have. He has looked too often into

  the Valley."

  June sighed and turned to her work.

  The heating system hummed softly and the out-of-joint day settled into a

  comfortable accustomed evening.

  Mrs. Warren rarely ever left Dubby because he was ill so much of the time,

  and she practically never left him until he was settled for the night. But

  today when June got home from school, her mother had told her to call Mrs.

  Warren.

  "Oh, June," Mrs. Warren had appealed over the phone, "could you possibly

  come over right now?"

  "Now?" asked June, dismayed, thinking of her hair and nails she'd planned

  to do, and the tentative date with Larryanne to hear her new album.

  "I hate to ask it," said Mrs. Warren. "I have no patience with people who

  make last minute arrangements, but Mr. Warren's mother is very ill again and

  we just have to go over to her house. We wouldn't trust Dubby with anyone but

  you. He's got that nasty bronchitis again, so we can't take him with us. I'll

  get home as soon as I can, even if Orin has to stay. He's home from work right

  now, waiting for me. So please come, June!"

  "Well," June melted to the tears in Mrs. Warren's voice. She could let her

  hair and nails and album go and she could get her geometry done at the

  Warrens' place. "Well, okay. I'll be right over."

  "Oh, bless you, child," cried Mrs. Warren. Her voice faded away from the

  phone. "Orin, she's coming—" and the receiver clicked.

  "June!" He must have called several times before June began to swim back up

  through the gloomy haze of the new theorem.

  "Joo-un!" Dubby's plaintive voice reached down to her and she sighed in

  exasperation. She had nearly figured out how to work the problem.

  "Yes, Dubby." The exaggerated patience in her voice signaled her

  displeasure to him.

  "Well," he faltered, "I don't want to play-like anymore. I've used up all

  my thinkings. Can I make something now? Something for true?"

  "Without getting off the couch?" asked June cautiously, wise from past

  experience.

  "Yes," grinned Dubby.

  "Without my to-ing and fro-ing to bring you stuff?" she questioned, still

  wary.

  "Uh-huh," giggled Dubby.

  "What can you make for true without anything to make it with?" June asked

  skeptically.

  Dubby laughed. "I just thought it up." Then all in one breath, unable to

  restrain his delight: "It's-really-kinda-like-play-like, but-I'm

  going-to-make-something-that-isn't-like-anything-real-so it'll-be-for-true,

  cause-it-won't-be-play-like-anything-that's-real!"

  "Huh? Say that again," June challenged. "I bet you can't do it."

  Dubby was squirming with excitement. He coughed tentatively, found it

  wasn't a prelude to a full production and said: "I can't say it again, but I

  can do it, I betcha. Last time I was sick, I made up some new magic words.

  They're real good. I betcha they'll wor
k real good like anything."

  "Okay, go ahead and make something," said June. "Just so it's quiet."

  "Oh, it's real quiet," said Dubby in a hushed voice. "Exter quiet. I'm

  going to make a Noise-eater."

  "A Noise-eater?"

  "Uh-huh!" Dubby's eyes were shining. "It'll eat up all the noises. I can

  make lotsa racket then, 'cause it'll eat it all up and make it real quiet for

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  you so's you can do your jommety.""Now that's right thunkful of you, podner," drawled June. "Make it a goodone, because little boys make a lot of noise.""Okay." And Dubby finally calmed down and settled back against his pillows.

  The heating system hummed. The old refrigerator in the kitchen cleared its

  throat and added its chirking throb to the voice of the house. The mantel

  clock locked firmly to itself in the front room. June was absorbed in her

  homework when a flutter of movement at her elbow jerked her head up.

  "Dubby!" she began indignantly.

  "Shh!" Dubby pantomimed, finger to lips, his eyes wide with excitement. He

  leaned against June, his fever radiating like a small stove through his

  pajamas and robe. His breath was heavy with the odor of illness as he put his

  mouth close to her ear and barely whispered.

  "I made it. The Noise-eater. He's asleep now. Don't make a noise or he'll

  get you."

  "I'll get you, too," said June. "Play-like is play-like, but you get right

  back on that couch!"

  "I'm too scared," breathed Dubby. "What if I cough?"

  "You will cough if you—" June started in a normal tone, but Dubby threw

  himself into her lap and muffled her mouth with his small hot hand. He was

  trembling.

  "Don't! Don't!" he begged frantically. "I'm scared. How do you

  un-play-like? I didn't know it'd work so good!"

  There was a choonk and a slither in the front room. June strained her ears,

  alarm stirring in her chest.

  "Don't be silly," she whispered. "Play-like isn't for true. There's nothing

  in there to hurt you."

  A sudden succession of musical pings startled June and threw Dubby back

  into her arms until she recognized Mrs. Warren's bedroom clock striking seven

  o'clock—early as usual. There was a soft, drawn-out slither in the front room

  and then silence.