The Tin Box (5 page)

His footsteps seemed oddly muffled inside the small room. Up close, he saw that the gray clothing was very thin and appeared to have been crudely mended more than once. He carefully avoided stepping on the fabric.

He crouched to inspect the strip of wood more carefully. Yes, it was definitely sticking out at one end, but he didn’t see any sign of insects or rodents. He curled his fingers around the top edge and gave an experimental tug—and then nearly fell on his ass when the long piece of wood came free.

The walls in the building were plaster and lath. Someone had scraped a good bit of the plaster away and broken some of the laths, leaving a little cave at the bottom of the wall. The hole was less than a foot long and maybe six inches high, and it would have been obscured completely by the molding if the wood had been properly in place.

Despite the dirty floor, William laid his cheek on the linoleum and looked into the space. Shoved inside as deeply as possible was a metal box.

After a moment’s hesitation, he carefully stuck his hand into the cavity, grasped the box, and pulled it out. As he lifted it, something shifted softly inside. The outside was a dull rust color and had several small dents. There were no markings, but the lid sported thin hinges, a flimsy clasp, and a wire handle.

Whoever had hidden the tin box in the wall was long gone, probably even long dead. But still William felt as if he were intruding into something private as he eased open the clasp and tried to push back the lid. It stuck for a moment but then gave way with a little squeak.

The box was filled with yellowed papers, each folded precisely in half. He lifted the topmost one and unbent it to reveal rows of neat, slightly faded handwriting. He squinted at the topmost lines. Up against the left-hand margin were the words
Mar. 18. 1938
. Below that, a salutation:
My dearest Johnny
.

I
N
HIS
little apartment, with his half-eaten dinner in front of him and the TV tuned to a news station purely for the company of its noise, William contemplated the box he’d found. He hadn’t read the letter beyond the first line. Instead, he’d refolded it, replaced the tin lid, and carried the box back with him. Now it sat on his small dining table. The box had clearly never been anything special, and it hadn’t weathered the decades well. But there was something enticing about it, like a treasure chest or a surprise parcel that had arrived in the mail. He wanted very much to open it and read the contents. But he was forcing himself to wait.

“Finish dinner first,” he said out loud. “And do some work.
Then
you can snoop.”

Okay, maybe it was time to give up on the no-talking-to-himself rule. Lots of people thought out loud. In fact, in one of his classes they’d read a couple of studies that suggested talking to oneself could actually help improve cognitive process under some circumstances. Besides, he hadn’t seen another human being all day and his throat felt rusty.

He finished his meal—grilled ham and cheese with a sliced apple and some chips—and washed the few dirty dishes. Then he turned off the TV and switched on a Bach violin concerto. He sat in front of his laptop and entered data until the lines of numbers grew wavery and he became afraid of making mistakes. He shut down the computer, settled into one of the comfortable armchairs, and opened the tin.

Mar. 18. 1938

My dearest Johnny,

I don’t know how I will get this letter to you or when, but I will write it anyway. Because my thoughts are always with you, my love, even though our bodies are separated by so many long miles.

I have been quite a scoundrel. It’s only lately I’ve earned the privileges of pen and paper, and only after weeks of struggling very hard to be good. I’m supposed to be writing to Mother and Father, telling them how delightful my stay is and how caring the staff, and how I’m certain I’ll be cured in no time at all. But I’ve stolen some of my writing supplies and a lunch tin belonging to one of the orderlies, and I’m writing to you instead.

And oh Johnny, I will not be cured.

I want to be free of this oppressive place, of course. The food is terrible, the sounds and the stench even worse. There are bars on every window and all human dignity has been taken from me. They treat me worse than a child or an invalid—here I am something foul and diseased.

If I were cured I would be free.

But if I were cured I would not love you any longer, would not long for your voice and your touch. And that is a loss I can bear much less than the loss of my freedom.

Yrs always,

Bill

William realized his hands were shaking. He set the fragile paper on the table and for a long time simply sat with his eyes unfocused and his stomach churning.

The name was a small coincidence. William was a common enough name now, and a hundred years earlier, it had probably been used even more often. He told himself that the shared name meant nothing at all. But he could almost hear someone whispering it, the sound skittering along the aged floorboards like a dust bunny blown by a breeze:
Bill… William
.

He got up so abruptly that his chair nearly toppled, and he hastily folded the letter before shoving it back into the tin and jamming on the top. He was half tempted to replace the damn box in the hole where it had lain hidden for so many years. But instead he took it across his room and placed it on a shelf so high he had to stand on his toes and stretch his arm. And then he sat down with the television turned very loud, drowning out the voices from his past.

H
E
HADN
’
T
slept well. Maybe there had been more dreams, although he couldn’t remember any in the morning. He’d awakened at least a half-dozen times with sweat forming a thin sheen on his chest and with the sheets, like ropes, pinning him in place. When the bird chorus sang him out of bed for good, there was still no coffee.

“I’m going shopping today,” he proclaimed aloud. And he heartily agreed with that decision, so at least he wasn’t arguing with himself. Because
that
would be crazy.

He managed to shower, shave, dress, eat, wash dishes, and check his e-mail without looking at the aged tin box. He was beginning to wish he’d stowed it elsewhere; it loomed over him like a gargoyle. He had thousands of square feet of building to keep it in. When he returned from the store he’d find a new place for it, somewhere he could forget its existence.

The sky was a pale gray, the temperature markedly cooler than during the previous days. He didn’t think rain was likely, but he was glad for a bit of a break. Summer would arrive soon enough, and that would mean endless weeks of heat. His poor little Corolla looked forlorn in the parking lot, all by itself. The blue paint job had dulled in recent years and the car had picked up a collection of scratches and dings. It ran well, however, and he’d recently bought new tires. A new car was a concept so far in the future as to feel like science fiction. By the time he had the cash for a new vehicle, everyone would likely be zooming around with personal jetpacks.

After William started the engine, he realized he was low on gas. He always felt uneasy when the tank got too low, and uncertain of the distance to Mariposa, he decided to fill up in Jelley’s Valley.

The service station was not a well-known chain, and William was a little worried about the quality of the gas. He came to a stop next to the row of pumps and cut the engine. There was no credit card option, so after a bit of indecision he entered the small building, which proved to house a small mechanic’s garage as well as a counter and cash register. A large man in his late fifties was seated on a vinyl-upholstered kitchen chair next to the cash register, watching something on a tiny TV. He didn’t look up when William entered.

“Um, I need some gas.”

The man grunted at him. “Pay after you’re done.”

William headed back to his car just in time to see a man jogging over from the general store. Colby. Today he wore a pair of cutoffs, a tight T-shirt with sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, and flip-flops. “Hey!” he said a little breathlessly when he arrived at the Toyota.

William nodded and shoved the nozzle into his car, expecting Colby to continue into the garage.

But Colby came to a halt next to the pump. “You don’t have any mail yet.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Are you all settled in?”

“I guess so.” The pump whirred and hummed as the gas began to flow, but the numbers turned very slowly.

“What do you do all day out there by yourself?”

“I’m working on my dissertation.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but wasn’t quite a lie.

“Yeah, I figured that. They usually get grad students to stay there. Mostly not by themselves, though. The last girl had a boyfriend, another student, and the one before that was a guy with a wife and a baby.”

William sighed. “It’s just me.”

“Well, I’d go crazy with nobody to talk to all day. Some days are really slow over at the store. You know, hours between customers. I hate that.”

William glanced at the empty parking lot across the street. “Is today one of those days?”

“Yeah. But I don’t care because today’s my day off. Grandpa still comes in to work Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

“Ah.”

A silence fell, but Colby was smiling and didn’t seem inclined to move on anytime soon. His shirt was really tight, and when he moved even a little, William could see his chest muscles flex. Colby must spend a lot of his free time working out, William concluded. Which wasn’t a line of thought he felt comfortable with, so he cleared his throat. “Maybe…. Do you know the closest place where I can get a wider range of groceries?”

“Our selection’s not good enough for you?”

“No, it’s just that—”

“I’m joking with you.” Colby grinned crookedly. “What we have is pretty limited. I’ve been trying to talk Grandpa into carrying something a little more exotic, like maybe some frozen Thai food—God, I love Thai—or maybe some free-range meats. He’s not convinced.”

“There’s probably not a big demand for that kind of thing here.”

This time, Colby laughed. “Just me. And maybe you?” He tilted his head and gave a considering look that made William really uncomfortable.

“So, is there someplace else I can go? I need some non-food items too. Housewares.”

“Mariposa, then. Take me with you, and I’ll direct you right where you need to go.”

William imagined being confined in the car with Colby and found himself shaking his head. “I’m sure I can find it on my own.” After all, how big and confusing could Mariposa be?

“Yeah, I bet you could. But I need some stuff too, actually, and I’m sort of carless at the moment. I’d appreciate the ride. We could even have lunch. There’s a place that has great burgers, really cheap.”

Unable to think of a way to refuse without being rude, William said, “Um, okay.”

“Great!” Moving quickly—maybe out of fear that William would change his mind—Colby zoomed around the car, opened the passenger door, and plopped himself inside. He twisted around to face William and waved.

When the tank was finally filled, William replaced the nozzle and went inside to pay. The cashier managed to complete the entire transaction without once looking at William or saying anything intelligible. Apparently some sporting event needed all his attention.

“Is he a relative too?” William asked as he started the engine.

“Who, Donald Hall? Nope, no relation. Actually, he and my dad got in some big fight long before I was born—I think maybe over a girl—and even though my dad’s been dead almost twenty years, none of us Andersons speak to the Halls. He still buys his groceries from us and we still deliver his mail, and we still get gas there. Not a lot of other choices for any of us. We draw the line at car repair, though, which is why my poor old Bunny is still good and dead.”

They were on the highway, but William spared a glance at his passenger. “Bunny?”

“My Rabbit. I know, not a very creative name. What’s your car called?”

“My car doesn’t have a name. It’s an inanimate object.”

Colby made a dismissive
pffft
noise. “Now you’re gonna hurt her feelings.”

“It doesn’t have feelings. It’s a car.”

“You
assume
she doesn’t have feelings. But maybe she does, just in an automotive sort of way. Like my printer. That thing has an evil sense of humor. It’ll work just fine when I print something stupid, like a recipe or something, but when it’s important—invoices from the store, maybe—the damn thing jams or pretends it’s not speaking to my computer. And when I finally do get it to work, it spits a half-dozen copies all over the floor.” He shook his finger. “It’s mocking me. And then there’s my iPod….”

William couldn’t tell whether Colby was joking since his smile seemed pretty permanently affixed. Maybe Colby liked to show off his nice teeth or showcase his dimples.