Heartwood Box Page 2

  Frozen, I stare at the closed door, listening for the sound. It doesn’t come again, but it’s the quick scrape of something bumping into the furniture. The hallway suddenly feels cold, though it’s late summer, and I put my hand on the dull brass knob, cold as ice beneath my palm. Part of me wants to scramble back to my room, back to brighter lights, and crawl under the quilt.

  None of that.

  I open the door in an aggressive move, my fist upraised, like I’m going to fight a raccoon or whatever might be scurrying around, only to find I’m facing a dark, empty room. The window is open, though, and filmy curtains billow in the breeze. Despite the night air, the room smells musty, and in the moonlight, I can make out odd stacks of things, boxes and books, vinyl records so old that my parents probably haven’t heard of the singers, and furniture covered in white sheets.

  Maybe a small animal went out just before I came in. I heard something, but there’s only a lingering chill now. Cautious, I step into the room, rubbing at the goose bumps rising on my bare arms. Every instinct is telling me to get the hell out, but I have to live in this creepy specter ranch for the next nine months at least. If I’m defeated on my first night, I’ll spend that time cowering in my room, afraid to go downstairs to pee.

  Deliberately I flick on the light, which illuminates the space for two seconds, then the bulb winks out. I’m starting to feel unwanted, house. Just then, the light shifts; I’m not entirely sure why, but a moonbeam shines through the window to spotlight a box on top of the chest of drawers. It’s roughly the size of a regular notebook, rectangular, and about six inches deep. Even in this light, I can tell it’s old, and I like the tree carved into the top, all stylized; it reminds me of the tree of life I’ve seen depicted elsewhere.

  On impulse, I pick it up and carry it back to my room. I’m claiming a prize for my bravery, and Great-Aunt Ottilie did say I could use whatever I wanted from in here. In better light, the wood shines with a surprising warmth. I’ve already decided this is the perfect hiding spot for all my little mementos, treasures I didn’t discard when we moved because they were tiny and could be tucked away. Inside, the box is lined with red velvet, worn in spots, and I breathe in the faint hint of cedar.

  When I tip the box over to examine the initials etched in the bottom, the liner shifts. I tug at it, revealing a false bottom, and a yellowed letter tumbles out. The paper is incredibly old, and I’ve never seen stamps like the ones on the outside of the envelope. I can’t make out who the letter is addressed to, but it’s been opened, so someone must’ve read it at some point.

  This feels like something I shouldn’t dig into. What if the missing husband had a secret lover? No, he’s only been gone twenty years, and the postmark is much older. Since this might be the most interesting thing that happens the entire time I’m here, I shut the door behind me and carry the box over to the bed and switch on the lamp. It takes careful handling to unfold the page, and soon I’m reading someone else’s mail.

  Dear Lucy,

  I’m writing because I promised I would. You’re the only one who might care if I come back, and I’m sorry for what I said before I got on the train. You don’t have to forgive me. Don’t wait for me either. Just receive my letters and maybe reply if you get to feeling nostalgic.

  The camp is nothing like I expected, and they work us hard. None of the guys I came in with have any soldiering experience. They’re pushing us through route marches, physical drills, and I’m learning how to tie knots. Most of us are from the city, and the officers think we’re all a bunch of pinheads. They scream at us a lot, and I’m always tired or hungry or both.

  I hear the group that came in before us will be sent across soon. Can you imagine? I’ll be going next. You were right, you know. I was acting big that night, and I am sorry. Please watch over Lester for me. He’s not half as clever as he thinks.

  Still thinking of you,

  Oliver

  Whoa. Judging by the date on the faded postmark, Oliver must be writing to Lucy right before World War I. I haven’t studied that much American history, but they entered the war in April of 1917. This is dated a few months before, and the writer speaks of training and waiting to be sent across. On a whim, I pull out my phone to do a little internet sleuthing, but then I remember there’s no Wi-Fi, and I don’t have a local data plan yet. My parents will disown me if I run up the bill with international rates. This probably isn’t something most people would worry about, but I’ve moved so much that they drilled it into my head early on.

  With careful hands, I fold the letter, put it away, and replace it in the hiding spot beneath the box’s false bottom. I’m not sure why I’m being so careful when Oliver and Lucy are long gone. That makes me a little sad as I slide under the covers. After I set the alarm on my phone, I realize it will be tough to sleep in this new bed with sheets that smell faintly of old-lady potpourri, so I read until my eyelids feel heavy.

  * * *

  I’m not awake; I know that. I can’t be.

  The town looks different, and it’s daytime. The women are wearing long dresses with pinned curls, and the men have their hair slicked back, old-fashioned caps pulled down. They’re all hurrying, as if something big is about to happen. It’s strange because I’m there and not there. When I glance down, I can’t see myself. It’s like watching a show on TV.

  I follow the excitement and find an old-fashioned station like you’d see in period movies. Girls are stretching up on their tiptoes for a look at the train chugging toward the platform, and when it arrives, the car disgorges a bunch of disheveled young men of various races, all looking tired and or scared. Nearby, an older man spits.

  “These draftees will ruin our armed forces,” he says. “Just look at them. They look like they’re used to eating out of trash barrels. Half of them probably can’t read or write.”

  I’d like to call him a pendejo, but I’m not allowed a speaking role in this dream. I’ve had “unseen observer” dreams before, but never anything this detailed. The air even smells different, much cleaner, but I can also detect manure, and the people around me could all use a shower.

  A boy with dark hair, light brown skin, and riveting eyes swivels his head toward the older man, who takes a step back. His wife grabs his arm. “Stanley, be quiet. I’m president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, and this doesn’t look good.”

  At home, she’ll probably let him bad-mouth the troops as much as he wants. I’m already mad because it seems like this dream is about how poor people always get stuck fighting other people’s wars. The boy is wearing torn pants, suspenders, and a stained shirt that’s too big for him. Unlike many of the town men, he doesn’t have a cap to shield him from the wind. By the size of the leaves, I’m guessing it’s early spring, but there’s still a nip in the air. With such scared eyes, he doesn’t look old enough to go to war. Just thinking about it freaks me out, and thanks to my parents, I’ve seen some shit.

  “This way, fall in!” someone shouts.

  I’m still watching the boy, who can’t see me—of course he can’t—as he falls into ragged formation with the other conscripts. I can’t shake the worry sweeping over me, as if something terrible is going to happen. Dread creeps up on me like a fat, furry spider crawling down a wall. Suddenly he glances back, and we lock eyes, though this isn’t real, and in this weird dream, I’m not even here. Still, he raises his hand halfway and gives a sad, wry smile. It’s the look of someone who knows he’s bound for a duty that doesn’t end well, but he keeps walking.

  My chest hurts, and I can’t breathe.

  When I wake, I’m covered in sweat, and my alarm won’t go off for ten minutes. Shakily, I gather up my toiletries and make a run for the downstairs bath. I’m used to taking three-minute showers because sometimes the hot water heater in our rental wasn’t very big, or sometimes there were water rations. Ottilie has been kind so far, but I still feel weird about staying here. I can’t even remember if I’ve ever met her before. I’m conscious that water costs m
oney the whole time I scrub myself and that taking care of me might feel like a burden to an old lady on a fixed income.

  That discomfort drives in the nail of certainty so clearly—this is not my home and never will be.

  4

  Getting ready takes all of ten minutes since I wear my hair in a choppy bob. I do lips and eyes for my first day at the new school, a bright red matte paired with black negative-space eyeliner, then I scramble into leggings and a sweatshirt. It’s not cold enough for me to need a coat; I guess I’ll have to get one when winter comes. It’s been ten years since I saw snow.

  As promised, a crude map drawn on yellow paper waits for me on the table. I feel strange rummaging in Ottilie’s fridge, where I find various mysterious plastic containers. Since I don’t know how old any of this food is, I make a peanut butter sandwich and wash it down with milk one day ahead of the expiration date.

  Letting myself out quietly is depressing. The streets are silent, shadowed with trees, and I count the cracks in the sidewalk as I follow the map. After ten minutes of walking, I end up at the high school, which looks more like a hospital with its blocky build and plain yellow bricks. I’ve been educated in a tent before, and in Argentina, the secondary school I attended was more like a small university, complete with ivy-covered brick buildings.

  I wish I could message NJAW, or any of my friends, really, but I’m still disconnected, reinforcing the feeling that I’ve traveled back in time. Glancing around, I decide I must be early because I don’t see anyone else, and when I cross the parking lot, the front doors are locked. It’s 7:30, so teachers should be here by now, right? The sky is gray, different than my dream, and I’m standing there staring up when tires scrape over the pavement. A boy with laughing eyes is astride a bike, ten feet away.

  “You’re really dedicated,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Labor Day. The school’s closed. But here you are, waiting to get in.”

  Dammit.

  “You’re here too,” I point out.

  “I use the parking lot to practice bike tricks.”

  The smooth pavement must be excellent for twirling on one tire or whatever stunt he’s trying to perfect. Sighing, I spin away from the door. Why didn’t the old lady tell me? If she’s hazing me, it doesn’t bode well for our future cohabitation.

  Offering a nod, I jog down the steps. “Thanks for the tip. Apparently I don’t remember American holidays well.”

  For me, the conversation is over, but he falls in step with me, walking the bike. “You’re not from here?”

  That’s an open question with a complicated answer. I settle for saying, “I’m American, but I’ve been raised abroad, mostly.”

  “Abroad?” He tries to copy my accent, but he draws out the vowels, and I want to punch him because that’s not cool.

  Besides, with the way I’ve been raised, nobody sounds like me anyway. “If you wanted more info, that wasn’t the way to make it happen. Bye, random stranger.”

  Thankfully, he takes the hint, leaps onto the bike, and zooms away with a celerity that I admire, even if he’s kind of a dick. It occurs to me that I have the entire day free, so I could catch a train to the city. Part of me is tempted, but I only have so much money, and that’s the perfect way to burn through it.

  Instead, I wander around town for a couple of hours. There isn’t much to see, other than closed shops and rundown buildings. I find a post office near the library, along with a few open businesses, like a real estate office and a seedy bar. I’m only interested in the library.

  Sadly, it’s closed along with the school. It’s kind of funny that Labor Day is celebrated by giving everyone the day off. Dammit, I wanted to get a library card and some new books, but at least the weather has brightened from the gray morning. I do have something to read on my phone, so I decide to chill in the park until I get hungry. I enjoy people watching, and there was plenty of opportunity for it in Rio, my favorite place of everywhere I’ve lived. Here, not so much; just a few elderly folks who throw seeds at the birds and wander off.

  Around noon, my stomach starts growling, and I explore a little more. Joe’s Deli, a recreation center called Great Escapes—they seem to have laser tag, snacks, Skee-Ball, and some old arcade games, among other things—Pizza Inn, QuikMart. On a holiday like this, I expect to find more people out, enjoying the good weather, but the town reinforces my impression of isolation. I pass only a few people as I roam around. Joe’s Deli has free Wi-Fi, at least, so I get their cheapest sandwich and some water, settling in to check messages.

  I eat slowly, replying to my parents, my family in Monterrey, and all my online friends. NJAW has sent me five messages, each more impatient than the last.

  Are you here?

  I thought you were arriving last night?

  What’s up with you? You’re never quiet this long.

  Are you mad at me? Did your plane crash?

  Answer, OMG, did something happen for real?

  She can’t imagine life without internet, I guess. It’s not awesome for me either.

  I’m here! I’m fine, not mad. Sorry if I worried you. Just trying to get settled. I don’t have a local SIM yet. I’ll see you tomorrow at school.

  Whew. You seriously scared me. This … never mind. I can’t wait to see you!

  Same.

  Much as I’d like to talk more, I need to buy a SIM at the QuikMart. I wrap the other half of my sandwich and ask for a bag to go. “Be careful out there,” the dude says.

  That seems like overkill in such a small town, but I nod in thanks and head out. The QuikMart is a few blocks over, and on the way, I nearly run into an old man with abnormally red hands and ears. He’s stumbling, slurring his words, and I step back to get out of his way. Only he doesn’t pass by. He grabs my arm, and I expect him to reek of liquor, but he doesn’t. There’s another smell, something I can’t place, but sharp and chemical and strange. The whites of his eyes are yellow, dotted with blood specks, and he can’t get the breath to speak.

  Finally, he wheezes, “Out. Get. Out. It … got out.”

  I yank away from him and scramble back, torn between fear and pity. He’s clearly not okay, but before I can decide if he’s an actual threat, a squad car pulls up with a siren chirp, lights flashing, and a middle-aged man gets out. He’s tall and square-jawed with padding across his stomach, and short, buzzed hair beneath his sheriff’s hat.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he tells me curtly.

  He doesn’t ask if I’m all right. Instead, he shoves the man toward the car, and the homeless guy, if that’s what he is, struggles wildly, thrashing arms and legs, but the sheriff is just too strong. I watch as he forces the man into the car, and a creepy feeling drifts over me. It’s not like I was hurt or even threatened, per se. This seems like an overreaction, if he’s been arrested for rambling at me. Maybe drunk and disorderly? But I didn’t smell alcohol …

  That strange feeling persists as I continue to the QuikMart I passed on the way to the park. The door is framed by MISSING posters, some of the same faces I saw at the station yesterday, but others are new, and I study them for a few seconds before going inside. I’m in luck and the clerk sells me a 3-in-1 SIM, the smallest of which will fit my phone. I buy a top-up card there too so I can add some data when I call to activate the service.

  “Do you have a pay phone?” I ask.

  The clerk shakes his head, but he lets me use the store phone to call the cell company’s 800 number. Ten minutes later, I have a local number and enough data for a month, if I’m careful. I tuck my old SIM in the coin section of my wallet and dispose of the other stuff on my way out. It’s close to two o’clock now, so I figure I should head back to the weird old house where Ottilie is waiting.

  She’s watching out the front window, and I wish I could say that makes me feel more at home, but it gives me the shivers instead.

  “You’re early,” she says.

  “More like I’m late. There’s n
o school on Labor Day.”

  Her expression flickers from surprise to chagrin. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. It’s been so many years since I needed to mind the calendar.”

  “It’s fine,” I lie. “I’ll have my first day tomorrow.”

  In all honesty, I feel abandoned. My parents have only messaged me a little; maybe they’re still in transit with no data or Wi-Fi, but it’s tough not to feel like I’ve been dumped. Add that to this strange town and what happened with the homeless guy, and I’m pretty messed up emotionally. None of that is Ottilie’s fault, so I’m trying not to take it out on her, but really, I just want to go upstairs and cry. I retreat to the room I’ve been given, though it doesn’t feel remotely like home, shut the door, and curl up on the bed like a little kid. I cry silently, tears trickling into the pillow I’m clutching.

  By dinnertime, I have myself together and I go downstairs when she calls. She’s decided to pretend everything is good and that she doesn’t notice my swollen, red eyes. That’s fine by me.

  “I made beef vegetable soup. Help yourself.” She’s already gotten her bowl and is eating without me.

  I scoop some out and sit, trying not to imagine how many awkward meals we’ll eat in silence, but Ottilie surprises me. “I suppose you’re wondering about my husband,” she says, out of nowhere.

  I’m not, because she told me not to ask the night before, and I have problems of my own. So I eye her warily, wondering if this is one of those occasions where she says, “don’t ask,” but she really wants me to, and the longer I don’t, the more it will aggravate her.

  “Not really,” I finally respond.

  “Ah. Then you’re the kind of girl who does as she’s told. Docile.”

  Nobody wants that word applied to them as a descriptor, so now I’m low-key pissed, which is better than feeling sorry for myself. Two points to my great-aunt for levering me out of the pool of self-pity I’m wallowing in.