“Oh, Hal.” Nia put her hand on my shoulder in a mock comforting way. Her voice was pseudo-assuring. “We’d never say you’re crazy.” She paused, as if considering something. “Not to your face, anyway.”
“And even if you are crazy,” Callie assured me, “that doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. We can totally visit you in the asylum.” She was smiling, which made me smile, too.
“Always good to know I’ll have company on visitor’s day.” I slapped my hands on my jeans to prepare myself. “Because what I’m about to tell you is pretty much the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I explained about the list I’d found on Thornhill’s computer, naming all the people I thought I’d seen on it. Nia looked pale when I told her about her parents, and Callie’s mouth opened into a wide O at the news that her mother’s name had been on it. “There must have been, I don’t know, a hundred names,” I finished. “Maybe two hundred.” Thinking of the difference between how many names I’d seen and how few I actually remembered made me sick.
“And you’re sure Amanda’s name wasn’t there?” Nia asked.
I shook my head and corrected her. “I’m sure I didn’t see her name on it.” I put my thumb and index finger a centimeter apart and held my hand in front of my face. “The font was this big. Plus, I’m pretty sure there were other pages I didn’t get a chance to look at. Maybe I even saw it, only I didn’t recognize it because I still thought Amanda Valentino was her real name.”
Callie and Nia looked at each other, and Nia must have asked Callie a silent question because Callie just shrugged and shook her head.
Was this how people acted right before they call the men in little white coats to come and take you away?
I opened my mouth to defend my sanity, but before I could say anything, someone else spoke.
“You kids find the box?” I turned around. Behind me, Louise was standing on a ladder fishing what looked like a thousand pieces of yarn out of a white plastic bag jammed onto a shelf. She shook the yarn out in front of her and it revealed itself to be a vest.
“Cool,” Nia observed.
“1965,” Louise said, her appreciation for Nia’s appreciation evident in her voice.
“Um, did you say something about a box?” Nia asked, and I wondered if she’d really liked the yarn-vest or if she’d been buttering up Louise.
“I might have,” Louise acknowledged. “And if I were you, I’d likely look for it over there.” She gestured just beyond the coatrack, which might have been helpful if the small area that she’d pointed to hadn’t been crammed with about a thousand items piled together.
Nia headed toward it, pausing at an old-fashioned vanity table to lift a beautiful silver mirror from it. As she did, her face took on such a strange expression that I asked if she was okay.
“What?” She shook her head, almost as if she were emerging from a dream.
“I said, are you okay?”
“I just . . .” Her voice was soft and thoughtful. Extremely un-Nia. “There’s so much sadness in this gift.” She was still staring off into the distance, the mirror pressed to her chest.
Callie came up to Nia from around the other side of the coatrack. “What’s that?” She reached for the mirror and took it from Nia, examining it closely. As soon as the mirror was out of her hand, Nia’s face lost its dreamy look and went back to its more familiar semi-scowl.
“‘To my dearest Fran on our wedding day—I will love you forever. George. October 4, 1917.’” Callie looked up, confused. “That’s not sad, it’s happy.”
Nia rolled her eyes, then turned away from us and pushed her way deeper in the direction Louise had indicated we were to go. “Whatever,” she mumbled.
“Why did you say it was sad?” I asked, following her.
I expected some acknowledgment of what I’d asked (maybe just an anti-romantic Nia crack), but even though we were only separated by a few feet, Nia seemed not to have heard me. Just as I was about to repeat my question, she gave a shout of discovery and pointed. On its side, wedged between an old phonograph and a marble-topped dresser table, was a box.
From the way Nia struggled to lift it, I could see it was heavy—I was about to offer to help when she said, without turning around, “Don’t even offer, Hal Bennett. Yes, it’s heavy. Yes, I can handle it.”
“Oh. Well, great then.” I stepped back as she gently shifted it forward and back several times, finally freeing it from where it had been trapped, getting it up on a corner and lifting it onto the vanity table.
“Wow,” Callie said, reaching out a finger to stroke the ink-black wood.
“Very wow,” Nia agreed.
“Seriously wow,” I offered, ever helpful.
At first glance, the box seemed to be fine-grained black wood decorated here and there with turquoise, sometimes set directly into the wood, sometimes set into elaborate sunbursts of silver or mother-of-pearl. To my eye it looked slightly Native American, but that might have just been the turquoise. I stepped toward the box and went to open it, and it was only as I felt around for a lid or drawer that I realized there wasn’t one.
“Um, Louise,” Callie called.
As if she’d been hovering, waiting for us to call on her for help, Louise’s reflection appeared in the mirror above the vanity. She looked at us looking at the box.
“Did you say . . . I mean, is this a box box?” Callie asked.
“You mean as opposed to what? A shoe box?” Her question wasn’t exactly friendly, but the tone was gentle, teasing. I got the sense she was relieved that we were standing together around the box.
“She means does it open?” asked Nia. Her voice was pleasant, for Nia, but just as she finished asking, her phone buzzed angrily, like it was going to express the irritation Nia was holding in check. Nia looked to see who was calling, then blanched slightly. “Hi, Mama,” she said, flipping it open. She stepped away from us quickly, but I could still hear her mom’s angry flood of Spanish if not her exact words.
“Sorry,” Nia said, her voice truly contrite. “I lost track of time.”
Uh oh. I slipped my phone out of my pocket and saw I’d missed three calls. It was late enough that I didn’t have to wonder who’d called me.
My ass was grass.
Maybe because her dad’s not exactly in the running for concerned parent of the year, Callie was the only one of the three of us who didn’t seem panicked by the fact that we weren’t home yet. Instead of clutching anxiously at her phone like it was about to ground her of its own volition, Callie had her face inches away from the box, which she was studying intently.
“Hal, look at this.”
I moved over to where she was standing and got close to the box, like she was. And suddenly I saw why she’d been so amazed.
The wood wasn’t fine-grained, as I’d thought at first. There was no grain at all. Instead, what I’d assumed was the pattern of a grain was actually a pattern cut into wood. The pattern was wild and more intricate than anything I’d ever seen. It looked like leaves and vines with creatures on them, but in the dim light of the store I couldn’t make out exactly what I was seeing.
“It’s beautiful,” Callie whispered. She stood up and put her hands on the box, looking off into the near distance as she felt around the wood. “I can’t find a way to open it, though.”
Nia came back to where we were standing, snapping her phone shut in irritation. “Okay, I’m toast. My mom just gave me three minutes to get home, meaning I have about ninety seconds to develop the ability to fly.”
“I think I’d better go, too,” I said. My eyes were still on the box. Were we really supposed to just . . . leave it?
Like she’d read my mind, Louise observed, “Seems like you all could use a little more time with that box.”
Callie was pretty much always nice, but now she turned on some serious charm. She flashed Louise her girl-next-door smile and (I am not kidding you here) actually folded her hands in front of her chest as if she were
begging. “Um, Louise, I have a huge favor to ask you.”
Like she knew exactly what Callie was doing, Louise released a burst of laughter. “Honey, save that sweet-girl show for your boyfriends.” Callie blushed, but she didn’t get pissed the way Nia might have.
“You’re going to let us have the box, aren’t you?” Nia’s question wasn’t an attack, it was a realization, and I understood that something had somehow been settled between them.
Louise didn’t answer her directly. “That box needs to stay in the right hands,” was what she said instead. “I hope you understand my meaning when I say it would be very, very dangerous for the wrong people to get ahold of it.”
“We’ll protect it,” Callie assured her.
“We’ll guard it with our lives,” I added, because what might have sounded melodramatic a couple of weeks ago seemed called-for now.
Looking from one of us to the other, Louise slowly rubbed her hands together, almost like she was washing them. Then she nodded. “I believe you will.” With that, she turned and walked even deeper into the back of the store. A minute later, we heard a door open and close.
The three of us looked at one another.
“We still don’t know if it opens or not,” Nia pointed out.
Callie took a step toward the table and picked up the box. The way it had been wedged between the furniture must have made it seem heavy because Callie didn’t have to strain to lift it at all. Holding it extended in front of her, she looked down at the surface of the wood that seemed to ripple in the soft light.
And then, with Nia and me watching, she gently shook the box.
From inside, we heard the sound of something sliding back and forth.
“Well,” said Nia into the silence of our amazement. “I guess we have our answer.”
Chapter 6
My mom was standing in the front hallway with her hands on her hips when I opened the door. One look at her face, and it wasn’t hard to imagine she’d been in that exact position for the past several hours.
“Henry Bennett!” she announced the second she saw me, and I wondered why I’d been so scared of Officer Marciano. He had nothing on my mom.
“Do you realize that a man was attacked in his own office at your school? Do you know what it feels like when I’m driving home from work and I call your cell phone three times and get no answer? And then I call your sister and she says you haven’t come home yet? Do you realize I am thinking you could be dead somewhere?” Her eyes welled up at her last question, but I knew now was definitely not the time to point out that
obviously I wasn’t dead, what with my having just walked in the front door.
“I’m really sorry, Mom,” I said.
“Oh, you better believe you’re sorry, young man. And you can sorry yourself into the kitchen and set the table for dinner and after we eat you can sorry yourself into doing the dishes right before you do all your homework. And nothing else, no games, no guitar, no internet, nothing.”
“I’m on it!” I said quickly, and I followed my mom down the hallway and into the kitchen, where Cornelia was sitting at the table doing her homework.
My mom’s a great mom, but she’s not exactly a great cook (let’s just say the burned roast wasn’t character-illogical)—last year, when we re-did our kitchen, she jokingly asked the contractor if instead of a stove we could just get a phone with all the local take-out restaurants on speed dial. I saw a menu from John’s Pizzeria open on the counter and had the feeling the doorbell would be ringing shortly.
As I set the table, my mom opened a bag of salad and tossed in some olive oil and vinegar, muttering something about “band practice” and being “too big a star to call your own mother.” I realized she thought I’d been out with these sophomores who’d approached me a couple of weeks ago about playing with them in the upcoming talent show. At the idea that I’d spent my afternoon hanging out and playing Dylan riffs on my guitar, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. If only my life were that . . . normal.
I grabbed some silverware from the drawer and put my arms around my mom, kissing her on the cheek. “Mom, I promise. No matter how big a star I become, I’ll never forget about you.” I gave her a hug and she let me do it, which meant she was almost over being mad.
“You should feel free to forget about me,” Cornelia said without looking up from her notebook.
“Who are you again?” I asked.
“Hardy har har.” Cornelia tightened her ponytail, still studying the book in front of her.
People say my mom, Cornelia, and I look alike, probably because we all have blue eyes and pale skin. If you ask me, I’m not nearly as good-looking as the two of them—you’re not supposed to say things like this about your mom, but when she was younger she was a total betty, as Amanda would have said (I’ve seen the photos). When Cornelia was a baby, people would literally stop on the street to say how pretty she was, and even though she’s too young to be a hottie or anything, all signs point to her being gorgeous when she’s older—not that I’d ever tell her that. She’s already taller than a lot of the girls in her grade and her hair is the same excellent red as my mom’s.
I’ve never really cared much about how I look, but this summer my mom’s friend from her junior year abroad in France came to visit with her husband and daughter, Charlotte, who’s sixteen. Charlotte was cool and everything, but she made a whole big deal about how I had to dress better and change my hair because (and I quote), “Hal, you are dee-licious.” It was way embarrassing, but I let her take me shopping for new clothes, and we went to this salon in town where she told the woman how to cut my hair, which, apparently, was not delicious so much as it was a “dee-sastaire!”
Sitting in the salon covered in gunky hair gel while a woman wearing spandex demonstrated how I was supposed to “shake the shape into it, just shake the shape into it,” I thought about all the great artists I admire. Picasso. Rembrandt. Giotto. The hairstylist said I should seriously consider getting something called lowlights (the opposite, apparently, of highlights).
It was hard to picture Michelangelo getting lowlights.
“I’m telling you, a lot of my customers are getting them these days.” She fussed with my hair, pulling it against my cheek. “It would really bring out this gorgeous skin tone.”
I told her I’d think about it just to get Charlotte to let me leave the salon. Then I was so pissed off I marched into a jewelry store right across the street from the salon and got my ear pierced. I don’t know why exactly—I just felt like after a day spent with other people telling me what to buy and what to wear and how to shake my head I needed to make a decision for myself. The truth is, it hurt like hell, and my mom practically had a stroke when she saw what I’d done. I’m glad I did it, though. Partly because I kind of like how the little gold hoop looks, but mostly because it reminds me of a time I decided to do something and did it.
After dinner, the phone rang, but neither Cornelia nor I went for it. Sure enough, it was for my mom—some friend who wanted to know if my mom was free for lunch Friday. Within half a second, it was clear they were going to be on the phone for the next twenty minutes, which is a short conversation for my mother.
Cornelia and I may look like our mom, but sometimes I worry that in every other way, we resemble our dad. My mom is someone who’s totally engaged in the world at all times. When I was a kid, she worked full-time and she was president of the PTA and she did all this volunteer community organizing and she found the time to help me and Cornelia do things like make dioramas for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. In between doing all of that, she had literally dozens of friends—work friends, college friends, friends who were the moms and dads of kids we went to school with, friends from her book group.
I remember my parents having all these conversations before we moved to Orion about whether my mom would be isolated if we came here, which in retrospect was nothing short of hilarious. We moved to Orion because of my dad’s work (also hilario
us—he travels so much it’s hard to see how he actually works here), but within about a week (okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea) my mom had a big job in the admissions office at the local college and before you knew it, the phone was ringing a thousand times a second with her friends inviting her and my dad to people’s houses for dinner every weekend and it was like we’d lived in Orion for years, not months.
But even though they have all these friends and they’re constantly doing things with other couples, if you ever looked around the living room at one of their dinner parties, you’d notice that everyone present was there because one person in the couple is friends with my mom, not my dad. In fact, my dad doesn’t really seem to have any friends—not even old friends from college or high school who he loves but only sees every few years. When people are over, he’s usually somewhere just on the outside of things. Not in any crazy way—he’s not, you know, standing in the corner staring at a wall. He’s just . . . on the edge. Alone, even in a crowd.
I’d always thought he was just shy, but now I found myself wondering if there was more to the story than his personality.
Why were we on the list?
x0x0callicatx0x0: This box is incredible.
When we left Play It Again, Sam, we’d had to decide who was going to take the box. I said it probably wasn’t a good idea for me to have it at my house. My mom’s not a snoop, exactly, but she’s in and out of my room, drawers, and closet with clean laundry and sheets and stuff just enough that I wouldn’t want to promise she wouldn’t find something I’d hidden and start demanding to know where I’d gotten it.
According to Nia, her mother is a snoop. So we gave the box to Callie because even though her dad’s trying to stay sober and provide for them and stuff now, he’s still a little more . . . distracted than Nia’s and my parents.
artislifeisart94: can u describe it? i cant tell much from the picture u emailed.
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