The Christmas Box Read online

  We smiled.

  “. . . Back in those days when people were receiving callers they would open the outer set of doors as a signal. And if the doors were closed it meant that they were not receiving callers. It seemed those doors were always open, all holiday long.” She smiled longingly. “It seems silly now. You can imagine that the foyer was absolutely chilly.” She glanced over to me. “Now I’m digressing. Tell us, Richard, which of the senses do you think are most affected by Christmas?”

  I looked over at Keri. “The taste buds,” I said flippantly. Keri rolled her eyes.

  “No. I take it back. I would say the sense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything. I remember once, in grade school, we made Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelled for the entire season. I can still smell it. And then there’s the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail or creamy cocoa on a cold day. And the pungent smell of wet leather boots after my brothers and I had gone sledding. The smells of Christmas are the smells of childhood.” My words trailed off into silence as we all seemed to be caught in the sweet glaze of Christmastime memories, and Mary nodded slowly as if I had said something wise.

  It was the sixth day of December. Christmas was only two and a half weeks away. I had already left for work and Keri had set about the rituals of the day. She stacked the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak, then descended the stairs to share in some conservation and tea with Mary. She entered the den where Mary read each morning. Mary was gone. In her chair lay the third Bible. Mary’s Bible. Though we were aware of its existence, neither Keri nor I had actually ever seen it. It lay on the cushion spread open to the Gospel of John. Keri gently slipped her hand under the book’s spine and lifted the text carefully. It was older than the other two Bibles, its script more Gothic and graceful. She examined it closely. The ink appeared marred, smeared by moisture. She ran a finger across the page. It was wet, moistened by numerous round drops. Tear drops. She delicately turned through the gold-edged pages. Many of the leaves were spoiled and stained from tears. Tears from years past, pages long dried and wrinkled. But the open pages were still moist. Keri laid the book back down on the chair and walked out into the hall. Mary’s thick wool coat was missing from the lobby’s crested hall tree. The inner foyer doors were ajar and at the base of the outer set of doors snow had melted and puddled on the cold marble floor, revealing Mary’s departure. Mary’s absence left Keri feeling uneasy. Mary rarely left the home before noon and, when she did, typically went to great lengths to inform Keri of the planned excursion days in advance. Keri went back upstairs until forty-five minutes later, when she heard the front door open. She ran down to meet Mary, who stood in the doorway, wet and shivering from the cold. “Mary! Where have you been?” Keri exclaimed. “You look frozen!” Mary looked up sadly. Her eyes were swollen and red.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, then without an explanation disappeared down the hall to her room.

  After brunch she again pulled on her coat to leave. Keri caught her in the hall on the way out. “I’ll be going out again,” she said simply. “I may return late.”

  “What time shall I prepare supper?” Keri asked.

  Mary didn’t answer. She looked directly at her, then walked out into the sharp winter air.

  It was nearly half past eight when Mary returned that evening. Keri had grown increasingly concerned over her strange behavior and had begun looking out the balcony window every few minutes for Mary’s return. I had already arrived home from work, been thoroughly briefed on the entire episode, and, like Keri, anxiously anticipated her return. If Mary had looked preoccupied before, she was now positively engrossed. She uncharacteristically asked to take supper alone, but then invited us to join her for tea.

  “I’m sure my actions must seem a little strange,” she apologized. She set her cup down on the table. “I’ve been to the doctor today, on account of these headaches and vertigo I’ve been experiencing.”

  She paused for an uncomfortably long period. I sensed she was going to say something terrible.

  “He says that I have a tumor growing in my brain. It is already quite large and, because of its location, they cannot operate.” Mary looked straight ahead now, almost through us. Yet her words were strangely calm.

  “There is nothing that they can do. I have wired my brother in London. I thought you should know.”

  Keri was the first to throw her arms around Mary. I put my arms around the two of them and we held each other in silence. No one knew what to say.

  Denial, perhaps, is a necessary human mechanisim to cope with the heartaches of life. The following weeks proceeded largely without incident and it became increasingly tempting to delude ourselves into complacency, imagining that all was well and that Mary would soon recover. As quickly as we did, however, her headaches would return and reality would slap our faces as brightly as the frigid December winds. There was one other curious change in Mary’s behavior. Mary seemed to be growing remarkably disturbed by my obsession with work and now took it upon herself to interrupt my endeavors at increasingly frequent intervals. Such was the occasion the evening that she asked the question.

  “Richard. Have you ever wondered what the first Christmas gift was?”

  Her question broke my engrossment in matters of business and weekly returns. I looked up.

  “No, I can’t say that I’ve given it much thought. Probably gold, frankincense, or myrrh. If in that order, it was gold.” I sensed that she was unsatisfied with my answer.

  “If an appeal to King James will answer your question, I’ll do so on Sunday,” I said, hoping to put the question to rest. She remained unmoved.

  “This is not a trivial question,” she said firmly. “Understanding the first gift of Christmas is important.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mary, but this is important right now.”

  “No,” she snapped, “you don’t know what is important right now.” She turned abruptly and walked from the room.

  I sat quietly alone, stunned from the exchange. I put away the ledger and climbed the stairs to our room. As I readied for bed, I posed to Keri the question Mary had asked.

  “The first gift of Christmas?” she asked sleepily. “Is this a trick question?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Mary just asked me and was quite upset that I didn’t know the answer.”

  “I hope she doesn’t ask me, then,” Keri said, rolling over to sleep.

  I continued to ponder the question of the first gift of Christmas until I gradually fell off in slumber. That night the angel haunted my dreams.

  The following morning at the breakfast table, Keri and I discussed the previous evening’s confrontation.

  “I think that the cancer is finally affecting her,” I said.

  “How is that?” Keri asked.

  “Her mind. She’s starting to lose her mind.”

  “She’s not losing her mind,” she said firmly. “She’s as sharp as you or me.”

  “Such a strong ‘no’,” I said defensively.

  “I’m with her all day. I ought to know.”

  “Then why is she acting this way? Asking weird questions?”

  “I think she’s trying to share something with you, Rick. I don’t know what it is, but there is something.” Keri walked over to the counter and brought a jar of honey to the table. “Mary is the warmest, most open individual I’ve ever met, except. . . ” She paused. “Do you ever get the feeling that she is hiding something?”

  “Something?”

  “Something tragic. Terribly tragic. Something that shapes you and changes your perspective forever.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Suddenly Keri’s eyes moistened. “I’m not so sure that I do either. But there is something. Have you ever seen the Bible that she keeps in the den?” I shook my head. “The pages are stained with tears.” She turned away to gather her thoughts. “I just thi
nk that there is a reason that we’re here. There is something she is trying to tell you, Rick. You’re just not listening.”

  Chapter V

  Y CONVERSATION with Keri had left me curious and bewildered. As I gazed outside at the snow-covered streets I saw Steve in his driveway brushing snow off his car. It occurred to me that he might have some answers. I ran upstairs to the Christmas Box, removed the first letter from it, and scrolled it carefully. Then stowing it in the inside pocket of my overcoat, I quietly slipped out of the house and crossed the street. Steve greeted me warmly.

  “Steve, you’ve known Mary a long time.”

  “Pretty much all my life.”

  “There’s something I want to ask you about.”

  He sensed the serious tone of my voice and set the brush down.

  “It’s about Mary. You know she’s like family to us.” He nodded in agreement. “There seems to be something troubling her, and we want to help her, but we don’t know how. Keri thinks that she might be hiding something. If that’s the case I think that I might have found a clue.” I looked down, embarrassed by the letter I was holding. “Anyway, I found some letters in a box in the attic. I think they’re love letters. I was hoping that you could shed some light on this.”

  “Let me see it,” he said.

  I handed the letter over. He read it, then handed it back to me.

  “They are love letters, but not to a lover.”

  I must have looked perplexed.

  “I think you should see something. I’ll be over at Mary’s Christmas Eve to visit. I’ll take you then. It’ll be around three o’clock. It will explain everything.”

  I nodded my approval. “That will be fine,” I said. I shoved the letter back into my coat, then paused. “Steve, have you ever wondered what the first gift of Christmas was?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, I guess.” I walked back to my car and drove off to work.

  As had become the norm, it was a busy day spent helping brides-to-be match colorful taffeta swatches to formal-wear accessories; choose between ascot or band ties; pleated, French-cuffed shirts with wingtip collars or plain shirts with colorful ruffled dickies. I had just finished measuring and reserving outfits for a large wedding party. Upon receiving the required cash deposit from the groom, I thanked them for their business, waved goodbye, and turned to help a young man who had stood quietly at the counter awaiting my attention.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  He looked down at the counter, swaying uneasily. “I need a suit for a small boy,” he said softly. “He’s five years old.”

  “Very good,” I said. I pulled out a rental form and began to write. “Is there anyone else in the party that will need a suit?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Is he to be a ring bearer?” I asked. “We’d want to try to match his suit to the groom’s.”

  “No. He won’t be.”

  I made a note on the form.

  “All right. What day would you like to reserve the suit for?”

  “We’d like to purchase the suit,” he said solemnly.

  I set the form aside. “That may not be in your best interest,” I explained. “These young boys grow so fast. I’d strongly suggest that you rent.”

  He just nodded.

  “I just don’t want you to be disappointed. The length of the coat cannot be extended, only the sleeves and pant length. He may grow out of it in less than a year.”

  The man looked up at me, initiating eye contact for the first time. “We’ll be burying him in it,” he said softly.

  The words fell like hammers. I looked down, avoiding the lifeless gaze of his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said demurely. “I’ll help you find something appropriate.”

  I searched through a rack of boys suits and extracted a beautiful blue jacket with satin lapels.

  “This is one of my favorites,” I said solemnly.

  “It’s a handsome coat,” he said. “It will be fine.” He handed me a paper with the boy’s measurements.

  “I’ll have the alterations made immediately. It will be ready to be picked up tomorrow afternoon.”

  He nodded his head in approval.

  “Sir, I’ll see that the jacket is discounted.”

  “I’m very grateful,” he said. He opened the door and walked out, blending in with the coursing river of humanity that filled the sidewalks at Christmas time.

  As I had spent the morning measuring out seams and checking the availabilities of jackets, Keri was busy at her own routine. She had fed, bathed, and dressed Jenna, then set to work preparing Mary’s brunch. She poached an egg, then topped a biscuit with it, dressing it with a tablespoon of Hollandaise sauce. She took the shrieking teapot from the stove and poured a cup of peppermint tea, set it all on a tray, and carried it out to the dining room.

  She called down the hall, “Mary, your brunch is ready.”

  She went back to the kitchen and filled the sink with hot, soapy water and began to wash the dishes. After a few minutes she toweled off her hands and walked back to the dining room to see if Mary needed anything. The food was untouched. Keri explored the den but the Bible lay untouched on its shelf. She checked the hall tree and found Mary’s coat hanging in its usual place. She walked down to the bedroom and rapped lightly on the door.

  “Mary, your brunch is ready.”

  There came no reply.

  Keri slowly turned the handle and opened the door. The drapes were still drawn closed and the room lay still and dark. In the bed she could see the form lying motionless beneath the covers. Fear seized her. “Mary! Mary!” She ran to her side. “Mary!” She put her hand against the woman’s cheek. Mary was warm and damp and breathing shallowly. Keri grabbed the telephone and called the hospital for an ambulance. She looked out the window. Steve’s car was still in the driveway. She ran across the street and pounded on the door.

  Steve opened it, instantly seeing the urgency on Keri’s face.

  “Keri, what’s wrong?”

  “Steve! Come quick. Something is terribly wrong with Mary!”

  Steve followed Keri back to the house and into the room where Mary lay delirious on the bed. Steve took her hand. “Mary, can you hear me?”

  Mary raised a tired eyelid, but said nothing. Keri breathed a slight sigh of relief.

  Outside, an ambulance siren wound down. Keri ran out to meet it and led the attendants down the dark hall to Mary’s room. They lifted Mary into a gurney and carried her to the back of the vehicle. Keri grabbed Jenna and followed the ambulance to the hospital in Mary’s car.

  I met Keri and the doctor outside of Mary’s hospital room. Keri had called me at work and I had rushed down as soon as I could.

  “This is to be expected,” the doctor said clinically. “She has been pretty fortunate up until today, but now the tumor has started to put pressure on vital parts of the brain. All we can do is try to keep her as comfortable as possible. I know that’s not very reassuring, but it’s reality.”

  I put my arm around Keri.

  “Is she in much pain?” Keri asked.

  “Surprisingly not. I would have expected more severe headaches. She has headaches, but not as acute as most. The headaches will continue to come and go, gradually becoming more constant. Coherency is about the same. She was talking this afternoon but there’s no way of telling how long she’ll remain coherent.”

  “How is she right now?” I asked.

  “She’s asleep. I gave her a sedative. The rush to the hospital was quite a strain on her.”

  “May I see her?” I asked.

  “No, it’s best that she sleep.”

  That night the mansion seemed a vacuum without Mary’s presence and, for the first time, we felt like strangers in somebody else’s home. We ate a simple dinner, with little conversation, and then retired early, hoping to escape the strange atmosphere that had surrounded us. But even my strange dreams, to which I had grown accustomed,
seemed to be affected. The music played for me again, but its tone had changed to a poignant new strain. Whether it had actually changed, or I, affected by the day’s events, just perceived the alteration, I don’t know, but like the siren’s song, again it drew me to the Christmas Box and the next letter.

  December 6, 1916

  My Beloved One,

  Another Christmas season has come. The time of joy and peace. Yet how great a void still remains in my heart. They say that time heals all wounds. But even as wounds heal they leave scars, token reminders of the pain. Remember me, my love. Remember my love.

  Sunday morning, Christmas Eve, the snow fell wet and heavy and had already piled up nearly four inches by afternoon when Steve met me near the mansion’s front porch.

  “How’s Mary today?” he asked.

  “About the same. She had a bad bout of nausea this morning but otherwise was in pretty good spirits. Keri and Jenna are still at the hospital with her now.”

  He nodded in genuine concern. “Well, let’s go,” he said sadly. “It will be good for you to see this.”

  We crossed the street and together climbed the steep drive to his home. Still unaware of our destination, I followed him around to his backyard. The yard was filled with large cottonwood trees and overgrown eucalyptus shrubs. It was well secluded by a high stone wall that concealed the cemetery I knew to be behind it.

  “There’s a wrought-iron gate behind those bushes over there,” Steve said, motioning to a hedge near the wall. “About forty years ago the owner here planted that hedge to conceal the access to the cemetery. He was an older man and didn’t like the idea of looking out into it each day. My family moved here when I was twelve years old. It didn’t take us boys long to discover the secret gate. We hollowed out the hedge so that we could easily slip into the cemetery from it. We were frequently warned by the sexton never to play in the cemetery, but we did, every chance we got. We’d spend hours there,” Steve confided. “It was the ideal place for hide-and-seek.”

  We reached the gate. The paint had chipped and cracked from the cold, rusted steel, but the gate remained strong and well secured. A padlock held it shut. Steve produced a key and unlocked the gate. It screeched as it swung open. We entered the cemetery.