Nancy Zey~ 4,800 words
ENGL 2307
Short Story 2
Copyright(C) 2009
The Black Box
By Nancy Bradley Zey
I knew I had only seconds to finish as I heard the car approach the house. My flashlight danced across the page as I hurried to take in the words written painstakingly in delicate script. I could hear the feather pen as it scratched across the thick parchment as the author struggled to put down his final words. The last sentence I could read said, "Beware the black box."
The metallic sound of a lock disengaging found me slamming the heavy leather bound book shut with dust puffs exploding around it. I shoved the tome under my mattress, extinguished the flashlight and closed my eyes in mock slumber. Heavy footsteps sounded as they ascended the squeaky staircase. Soon the feet were silent outside my door. The door swung open and I felt eyes on me though mine were shut tight as I was turned towards the wall away from them trying to keep my breathing slow and regular. The door closed. The draft I felt a few seconds later carried the sweet perfume my mother wore. I breathed a sigh of relief and rolled onto my back pondering the words of my grandfather's journal.
"You won't believe what I found last night!" I barely sat still at the lunchroom table. My knees bobbed up and down in unison as I emptied the contents of my sack lunch. My eyes were encouraging my best friend, Ryan, to ask me the inevitable question.
Ryan with a disappointing monotone replied, "Ok, Walter, what did you find?" Ryan barely looked up from his chicken nuggets and apple sauce purchased from the school cafeteria.
Crestfallen, I mumbled, "Never mind." I examined my lunch, turkey on dry wheat with an apple – the usual. I looked longingly at another's peanut butter sandwich, but my allergies made such a delicacy a one way ticket the emergency room. I would have gladly traded my allowance for the adventurous cafeteria fare, but mom said an allergen could have snuck in so I was denied even that rite of passage. Pizza day was the worst with all those kids enjoying the cheesy gooey goodness, but my lactose intolerance stopped me in my tracks. Instead I had to make do with the icky imitation stuff my mom bought at the whole foods store. "Thank God you don't have a gluten problem," my Mom said always looking at the bright side of things. I sighed and ate my boring and predictable sandwich in silence.
"See you afterschool, Ryan," I said as I threw away my trash and we separated for the rest of the school day. My class's next rotation was physical education. I hated this class. Mom insisted that the coach let me simply walk while the other kids got to run because of my asthma despite it having been at least six months since my last hospital admission. When the last bell of the day rang, I took the private shuttle to the afterschool care center while Ryan rode the generic school bus. Mom said the shuttle with seat belts was safer.
I arrived at Playtime Childcare minutes before Ryan did. Lauren, the new caregiver, sat us down at the table along with about dozen other kids and she left to prepare our afternoon snack while Melissa looked on from the front counter.
"So, you wanna hear what I found or what!" I exclaimed in a loud whisper. I was bursting with the need to tell someone.
"Yeah, go ahead," he replied, finally, with some eagerness. Ryan looked at me while adjusting the collar of his polo shirt. It had a figure of a guy on a horse with a stick sewn on the side. Mom always dragged me passed those racks at the store in favor of those marked "clearance."
"I found a dusty old book in the attic. It was my grandfathers! It has this great story in it with a bit about buried treasure!" I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "I think it is a true story."
Ryan shook his head. "Walter, there's no buried treasure." He sounded suspiciously like my mom when he said that.
"No, really! It has all these details with dates, names and places and everything. It even has a map!"
Ryan wasn't convinced and ignored me as he reached for his snack – apples slices and carrot sticks. No wonder my mom loved this place. She gave me the same stuff on weekends for snacks. I took my allotment and started munching on a carrot stick. One of kids, Brian I think, from another middle school, had his backpack at the table. That's a no-no, but Brian wasn't one for following the rules. He was always either fighting or trying to get away with something. Brian took his hand out from his backpack and it was full of contraband. It looked like cookie crumbs, but it had some sticky stuff, too. Before I knew what was happening Brian with a malicious laugh put his hand on mine.
My eyes widened in recognition—peanut butter! I could already feel my throat close up. Whether in fear or anaphylactic reaction, it really didn't matter. Mom was going to freak. I raised my hand and croaked out a cry.
Melissa jumped up in alarm and screamed, "Lauren! The Pen!" She said the word like it was its own definition. No doubt, she was referred to my epi-pen which should save my life in instances such as these. Lauren with eyes wide froze for moment. You could see her process the information. Finally, she rushed into the kitchen, opened a white cabinet door and pulled out the red first aid kit. With hands scattering the cases' contents with no regard to neatness (I can hear my mom going 'tsk, tsk' in my head) she, at last, held up the pen with all the weight Melissa attributed to the word. Holding like it was the poison rather than the peanuts making their way to my lymph nodes she gratefully passed it onto Melissa who snatched out Lauren's hand.
Luckily for me, Melissa was planning to attend the local community college's nursing school so she handled herself like a pro as she pulled the cap off the pen with her teeth while running towards me. She roughly grasped my arm and stabbed me with the "pen" without the benefit of an alcohol rub down first (another "tsk, tsk" sound reverberates in my head). The familiar sting of the needle brought immediate relief to my closing throat. Again, whether the reaction was real or imagined, it didn't matter.
The caregivers were panting as they watched me with cautious and anxious eyes. The other kids had mixed expressions of fear and fascination. Brian simply said, "Cool!" and licked his fingers. Once Melissa was confident I wasn't going to pass out or anything she got up to make a phone call.
Dread iced my veins. Melissa was probably going to call my mom. That had to be a fate worse than anything the peanut butter would have done to me.
"I am just going to have to find another facility," Mom said to no one in particular as she stared intensely out the windshield. Her hands turned white while she gripped the wheel. I sat quietly in the back seat with seat belt firmly fastened afraid to say a word and disrupt her. All that remained of the incident was a tiny red dot on my upper right arm. I absently rubbed it. "It is obvious that they don't pay attention. Really, have I not left several notes and emails saying 'no peanuts'? They could have killed you. Incompetent snobs," Mom continued to rant. With alarm I noticed that we weren't taking the familiar road home. Mom instead turned on Elm Street. We were heading to Dr. Parker's office. I slinked down as far the restraints allowed.
We pulled into the busy parking lot of the Children's Medical Center: my home away from home. If I so much as sneeze I am ushered off to see Dr. Parker. If I didn't know better I would think he was some kind of surrogate father. My own father died when I was young killed by a criminal who couldn't flee the crime scene fast enough and my dad was in his way. My mom insists he was a hero.
"Well, at least I got a final closing date on the old Herrington property," Mom announced as she put the car in park. With a manicured hand Mom opens the door and pushed me through. I took my usual seat in the corner while Mom talked to Betty the receptionist.
In hushed animated tones Mom insisted that Dr. Parker see me immediately. Mom looked intimidating in her grey dress suit, black high-heeled shoes and a pink blouse which was the only thing soft about her. Her blond hair had the perfect ratio of black roots and ultra blond highlights and hung like blades around her face. Betty, flustered, searched frantically the schedule book in an attempt to placate my Mom. Betty had been a recipient of my Mom's diatribes before. Just when Betty bit her lip in frustration, Dr. Parker walked out of a patient's room.
"Dr. Parker!" Mom called out with a wave of her hand. Her previous disapproving frown broke into a charming smile as she switched into 'seller' mode. She proclaimed, often, that it was that charm that made her a great salesperson, closing more houses a month than any other realtor at Century 21. She could charm anyone if she put her mind to it.
"Ms. White, what brings you here today," Dr. Parker greeted with a smile just as charming. Betty with wide, thankful eyes, watched as Dr. Parker, put a patient file on the counter and walked to the glass partition beside her as his eyes never left my Mom's face.
"Well, little Walter here-" she turned to look at me with soulful eyes. I scowled seeing through the act. "-he had an incident." The word was whispered for emphasis."And I would greatly appreciate it if you could take a look at him for me, Dr. Parker?" Mom bats her eyes.
"Well, of course, Ms. White! Come on back," Dr. Parker invited totally ignoring Betty's distress as she attempted to tell him that all the exam rooms were full. "Ms. White, Exam Room 5 is available," he said. His eyes followed my Mom's figure down the short hallway. Exam Room five was Dr. Parker's private office.
Dr. Parker looked like he's on a commercial promising some new miracle drug on TV. He had flawless thick black hair and dark brown eyes. His polished black shoes poked out under his pristine and pressed white lab coat. He tore his eyes away from my mom and reluctantly turned his attention toward me.
He directed me to sit on his crowded desk. I looked at the wall covered with diplomas and certificates flanking bookcase stocked with books and boat figurines. With a concerned brow, he used his stethoscope to monitor my normal heart rate. I knew the drill so no need to say "breathe deeply". Instead Dr. Parker asked, "Tell me what happened."
Mom breathlessly gave every indignant detail not bothering her hide her outrage at the under-qualified staff of Playtime Childcare.
Dr. Parker simply nodded while he pressed on my glands in my throat, the concerned brow still present. Finally, Dr. Parker looked up. "Walter here seems to have no lingering after-effects, but I would recommend he take it easy for the rest of the day." Mom sighed. "Walter, here." Dr. Parker hands me a lollipop like I am five years old instead of ten."Why don't you wait in the waiting room? I have a few more things to discuss with your mom." Mom's expression brightens considerably. My departure was unnoticed as Dr. Parker and my mom locked eyes.
Betty gave me a small smile as I took my seat again in the crowded waiting room. A few other mothers looked at me with resentment as their children sniffled and coughed. I hid behind a magazine and mindlessly turned the pages. All I could think about was getting back home to my grandfather's journal.
Grandpa, my dad's dad, long outlived my own father. When my dad was killed (murdered, if my Mom was telling the story) we moved into Grandpa's house. Dad didn't have enough insurance, whatever that meant, but Mom had to go to work and studied hard for her realtor's license at night while Grandpa watched me during the day. My other grandparents lived in Florida so we stayed in Wisconsin.
Grandpa always told the best stories. I loved listening to his creative bed time tales taking me to imaginary worlds were the air and food didn't hurt while the air whistled through the tube in his nose, at least until, his own asthma (though they called it something else, emphysema, I think) got the best of him and he died in his sleep three years ago. We still lived in Grandpa's house though my Mom moved out most of the furniture and other stuff to make the house more "our own" as she called it. So out went the dusty, antique and swirly dark wood furniture for boring blacks, whites with straight lines that were to be kept spotless despite my regular carelessness.
After a few minutes my Mom walked into the waiting room and without stopping paraded out the door ignoring the suspicious stares of the other women. I jumped up and followed her to the car. I saw her flushed cheeks in the rearview mirror as she rearranged her hair and reapplied her lipstick. A satisfied smile flickered on her lips as she put the car in gear and we drove home.
"Isn't Dr. Parker great? He is so kind to see you on such short notice." Mom enthused as she put a dollop of mashed potatoes (using lactose-free cream) by the roast (cooked in the crockpot) on my plate. Her shoes were kicked off and the jacket hung up. The soft pink blouse combined with her dreamy expression made her look pretty.
Dr. Parker was the new doctor in town having only moved here six months ago. Before him there was Dr. Mitchell. He was nice, but old and told the same old lame jokes over and over. Dr. Parker, on the other hand, didn't bother with jokes, he actually listened. Mom really loved the individual attention—something Dr. Mitchell never did. My mom also didn't lose her patience with Dr. Parker as much either and always seemed to agree with whatever treatment he recommended behind his closed office door.
"I have to go and finish up something at the office tonight since I was called away this afternoon," Mom announced as she put the rinsed dinner dishes in the dishwasher. "So listen to Dr. Parker and rest. Watch a movie or play your Nintendo, but don't stay up too late. Tomorrow is a school day after all." Then she put her jacket and shoes back on and "Saleswoman" mom was back in action. After a quick kiss on the top of my head, she grabbed her satchel and walked out the door. The lock engaged and I was all alone.
"Yes!" I exclaimed.
I ran up the stairs two at a time ("Stop! Be careful!" Mom's voice said in my head as I gleefully ignored it) and straight into my room. With reverence, I slowly pulled out the leather book from between my bed mattress and brushed my hand across the embossed cover. Gently, I opened the book and scanned for where I left off.
Beware the black box.
Inside contains an object of great worth and must be handled by only the kindliest of souls. Anyone less worthy will be granted abilities beyond the grasp of innocence. But, if the seeker is worthy, a true and courageous lad, then the power to subdue evil will bestowed on him. Now, the chosen one must be tested and proven obedient under dire circumstances even willing to risk death to do what is right.
I could hear Grandpa's gravely, breathy deep voice as I read the words. I felt a tingle of anticipation as I turn the page and examine the map found there.
The rectangular outline encircled various shapes. Hand-drawn trees and wiggly lines symbolizing water scattered the page. A ragged dotted line snaked between the figures and ended with a large 'X'. I was pondering the symbols as I stared out my window that overlooked my backyard when I had an epiphany. I glanced down at the map in my lap and back out the window comparing the shapes with the reality in my yard. A tree was drawn on the lower left corner of the map. There was a large Maple growing in that same spot in my backyard. The wiggly lines corresponded to the pond in the northeast corner of our property where Grandpa used to take me fishing. With growing excitement I rushed out the door, down the stairs and threw open the backdoor without bothering to close it ("We don't live in a barn," Mom silently scolds) clutching the book to my chest.
With the golden light of sunset, I scanned the landscape finding more corresponding drawings and items in the yard – the tire swing still remained as well as the birdbath. I was getting more excited with each additional discovery. I walked from the majestic maple to the pond in meandering paths but haven't found anything that looks like the circle drawn in the center of the map. The light faded from the evening sky and the new moon offered no illumination. I reluctantly marched up to my room to retrieve the flashlight I could continue my search when I heard the telltale engine roar into the driveway.
"Oh, no!" I cried. I kicked off my shoes scattering the leaves that stuck to the soles, strip off my mud-streaked jeans and pull off my shirt. I dove under the covers and willed my breathing to slow.
A few minutes later Mom entered the room with a gasp as the light from the hallway shined on the mess I left on the floor. I heard a familiar "tsk" sound as she muttered "You were so supposed to rest," but there was no hardness to her voice, just worry. She leaned over, kissed my head and turned away.
"Ryan, I think I almost found the treasure!" I breathlessly said as I sat heavily down at the table the next day.
"Dude, are you okay? After what happened yesterday, I thought your mom would keep you home." Ryan looked at me incredulously as he picked at his pizza. It was Friday. I hated Fridays.
"Nevermind that! I know where the map leads to! Do you know where?"
"Where?" Ryan asked bored.
I sigh. "My backyard," I whisper. "You gotta help me dig it up!"
"What? You are kidding right. There is no treasure in your backyard." Ryan sounded out each syllable in the last sentence.
Undeterred I continued, "Come to my house tomorrow morning. My mom has to go to a closing so we can dig it up."
"Walter, I can't go. You just said your mom won't be there. My folks freak if I'm at house without parents."
"So tell them she's home. They never call. They won't come over. You only live two door downs for Christ's sake. So you'll come?" My head bobbed up and down in encouragement.
With a resigned sigh, Ryan nods.
A huge smile formed on my face and I no longer envied the kids who were stuffing their faces with lactose-laden pizza.
Mom picked me up after school and stayed home with me for the afternoon. As punishment for not following doctor's orders last night, Mom made me do laundry and mop the floor where I tracked mud inside the house. She only had 'natural' cleaners so my asthma wouldn't be triggered by the fumes. Therefore, I couldn't talk myself out of the chores. The whole time I was swishing the mop across the white tiled floors I was looking out the back windows searching for clues.
That night I risked looking at my grandfather's journal under my bedcovers with the flashlight after I heard Mom finally close her bedroom door. I memorized every detail of the map and was convinced I would find that black box tomorrow morning.
The next morning I woke with the book and a dead flashlight under the bed covers. I did a palm-slap to my forehead at my neglect. I repentantly bent the folded pages back into place and gingerly returned the book to my mattress. I heard Mom rummaging in the kitchen so I wasn't discovered.
After a breakfast of homemade waffles, blueberries (strawberries was another forbidden food) and soy milk, Mom departed for her closing appointment dressed in the same grey suit but with a peach blouse this time. Once her car cleared the driveway I called Ryan and luckily he answered. Within ten minutes Ryan was walking up the driveway. I
"Come on, I gotta show you this!" I said as I dragged the slowpoke into the house. Mom was good for at least two if not three hours at an appointment, but I didn't know how much time we needed to find the treasure.
We stood on my back porch with the creased map as I pointed between the drawings and the backyard. "Look, there's the birdbath and the swing."
Soon Ryan started to point things out. "Yeah, and there's the pond!"
I beamed, triumphant. "Now we have to find this circle and the X. First, let's get the gear from the garage." We emerged from the cluttered garage with a shovel and a rake and proceeded to bring our stuff outside.
My Grandpa's house sat on two acres and was a kid's wonderland. A small fishing pond and climbable trees kept me very busy under the stars of summer (that is, when Mom let me). A small hill was perfect for sledding in the winter. Ryan and I traveled to the center of the yard. The map showed a circle shape but we could not detect one.
"Maybe it was something that was here and isn't anymore. Anyways," Ryan said as he took the book from my hands."I don't think it matters. It's the path we need to follow, not the circle." Ryan looked out, turning in place. He was a Webelo Scout and showed me his tracking badge that he earned over the summer. Mom said Scouts was too outdoorsy for an asthmatic like me so I lived vicariously through Ryan who loved the outdoors. "This way." Ryan confidently led us to the west side of the yard close to where that grand maple rose and where the dotted line started on my map. Using his thumbnail he measured something on the map. I wasn't sure the map was drawn to scale, but Ryan worked on that assumption. "Follow me." Again, with strong strides he wound our way through the path and soon we stood above the spot marked 'X' on the map. However, we could find no 'X' on the ground.
"It must be here." Ryan took the rake and cleared away the surface debris. All that remained was thinning grass that turned tan with slumber—fall was coming. Ryan checked his calculations, grabbed the shovel and started to dig. Since we only had the one shovel I watched with impatience as the small dirt pile grew by imperceptible amounts. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on Ryan's forehead, but his thin, muscled arms kept it's rhythm of dig/lift/toss. After what seemed like hours, but was only thirty minutes in actuality, the shovel hit something hollow.
We immediately fell to our knees and scooped out mounds of dirt with our bare hands. Our eyes sparkled with conquest and we wore grins of impending victory. Soon enough dirt was cleared away to reveal a black box. We both gasped and moved our hands away looking at each other with renewed belief. Ryan searched the book and read the lines. "He who is worthy…risking death… That would be you, Walter. Brian almost killed you the other day. You must be the one," Ryan intoned with awe in his voice.
Unable to speak, I swept away more dirt from the box and lifted it out of the earth. I placed in on my lap and both Ryan and I just stared at it for a few moments.
Finally, I risked opening the lid and discovered it was only a painted cigar box revealing a white interior. The box contained various items: a 1985 DC Comic in surprisingly mint condition, a few rocks, and a silver tone ring with a green stone. Out of curiosity I put it on my right hand's middle finger. Under the comic book was a composition book. I cracked the cover and found yellow pages full of writing. A name was inscribed on the inside cover: Walter Reed, 1986. 1986? I thought. Why was Grandpa writing this stuff in 1986?
"Look at this! It's a diary," Ryan said pointing to the first page. Indeed, like a diary page the entry was dated with text below:
Jan 1, 1986. Tomorrow is my birthday and I decided it was time to keep a journal. I'll be ten years old and want to leave something for my kids to read someday. At least that Dad says I should do.
I pull back, stunned. This wasn't my grandfather's work, it was my dad's! I scramble for the leather book and open to its opening page and find the name plate with more elegant script this time, but the name Walter Reed is there. I always assumed that since Grandpa told me stories that this book of tales was composed by him. No, that wasn't the case. My father was the author. It never occurred to me that my dad was also named after my grandfather, and likewise myself. I started to laugh. Ryan glanced my way wondering if maybe the curse of the black box was real. I was elated with the knowledge that I was holding a piece of my dad's history in my hands, of when he was my age.
"What are you doing!?"
Ryan and I spun around to the face the voice. We cowered under the weight of that voice—my mom's. She looked indignant with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
"What are you doing, I asked! What? You're digging?" Mom demanded once she caught sight of the shovel, dirt pile and our dirt encrusted hands.
"Hi, Mrs. Miller. I gotta go." With that said, Ryan escaped the wrath of my mom.
"Umm…" I stalled. Mom was undeterred."I found an old book of Grandpa's, well, at least what thought was Grandpa's. Anyways, there was a map and it showed the 'X' here so we dug up the treasure and found—"
"Treasure? What are you talking about?" Mom didn't appear amused.
"-yeah, umm. So there's this box and full of stuff of my dad's-"
"Your father?' Mom's features softened and she lowered herself to sit on the ground beside me. "Show me," she whispered.
And I did.
We spent the rest of that lazy Saturday taking turns reading from the book I found in the box. It contained a compilation of short stories that my dad wrote, tales of adventures of far off places and times. Mom complimented the stories with real life accounts of my dad in the Army and as a family man for the brief time we had together. The stone in my ring changed colors. It now was a piercing blue: calm and contentment. I reckoned it was right.
Turns out I was the chosen one who was able to open the black box and defend myself against evil. My mom and I's relationship grew. She eventually married Dr. Parker and quit the real estate job. Dr. Parker never attempted to fill my dad's shoes, but his devotion to medicine helped me greatly to the point where I am working towards Eagle Scout, easing my mom's earlier concerns. Even as a High School student, I still wear that ring of my dad's on a chain around my neck. I think of him and Grandpa whenever I open my word processor and compose my own stories of new and wondrous worlds.