The Christmas Box (4 page)

Anxiously, I continued my examination, until I had centered the light o n t he source of the enchanted disturbance. It was the ornate heirloo m b ox that Barry and I had discovere d t he afternoon that we had moved i n o ur belongings. The Christmas Box. I hadn't known at the time it was capable of music. How odd it should star t p laying in the middle of the night. I looked around once more to be sur e t hat I was alone, then balanced th e f lashlight on one end so that its bea m i lluminated the rafters and lit the whol e a ttic. I lifted the box and inspected it fo r a lever with which to turn off the music.

The box was dusty and heavy an
d a ppeared just as we had seen it a fe w d ays previous. I inspected it mor e c losely but could find no key and n o s pring, in fact no mechanism of an y t ype. It was simply a wooden box.

I unclasped the silver buckle an
d o pened the lid slowly. The musi c s topped. I moved the flashlight clos e t o examine the box. Inside lay severa l p archment documents. I reached i n a nd lifted the top page. It was a letter.

A handwritten letter, brittle with ag e a nd slightly yellowed. I held it near th e f lashlight to read. The handwriting wa s b eautiful and disciplined.

December 6, 1914

My Beloved One.

I stopped. I have never been on
e t o revel in the intrusion of another'
s p rivacy, much less inclined to rea d s omeone else's correspondence. Wh y t hen I was unable to resist reading th e l etter is as much a mystery to me a s w as the parchment itself. So stron g w as the compulsion that I finished th e l etter without so much as a secon d t hought into the matter: How cold the Christmas snows seem this year without you. Even the warmth of the fire does little but remind me of how I wish you were again by my side. I love you. How I love you.

I did not know why the letter beckoned me or even what significance i t c arried. Who was this Beloved One?

Was this Mary's writing? It had bee
n w ritten nearly twenty years before he r h usband had passed away. I set th e l etter back in the box and shut the lid.

The music did not start up again. I lef t t he attic and returned to my bed ponBering the contents of the letter. Th e m ystery as to why the Christmas Bo x h ad started playing music, even ho w i t had played music, remained, for th e n ight, unanswered.

The next morning I explained th
e e pisode to an only slightly intereste d w ife.

"So you didn't hear anything las
t n ight?" I asked. "No music?"

"No," Keri answered, "but you know
I'm a pretty heavy sleeper."

"This is really strange," I said, shaking my head.

"So you heard a music box. What'
s s o strange about that?"

"It was more than that," I explained.

"Music boxes don't work that way.

Music boxes play when you ope
n t hem. This one stopped playing when I opened it. And the strangest part i s t hat there didn't appear to be an y m echanism to it."

"Maybe it was your angel makin
g t he music," she teased.

"Maybe it was," I said eerily. "Mayb
e t his is one of those mystical experiences."

"How do you even know the musi
c w as coming from the box?" she aske d s keptically.

"I'm sure of it," I said. I looked u
p a nd noticed the time. "Darn, I'm goin g t o be late and I'm opening up today." I threw on my overcoat and started fo r t he door.

Keri stopped me. "Aren't you goin
g t o kiss Jenna good-bye?" she aske d i ncredulously. I ran back to the nursery to give Jenna a kiss.

I found her sitting in a pile of shredded paper with a pair of round-edge d c hildren's scissors in hand.

"Dad, can you help me cut these?"

she asked.

"Not now, honey, I'm late for work."

The corners of her mouth pulle
d d ownward in disappointment.

"When I get home," I hastil
y p romised. She sat quietly as I kisse d h er on the head.

"I've got to go. I'll see you tonight." I dashed out of the room, nearly forgetting the lunch which Keri had set b y t he door, and made my way throug h t he gray, slushy streets to the formal-

wear shop.

Each day, as the first streaks of daw n s pread across the blue winter morning sky, Mary could be found in th e f ront parlor, sitting comfortably in a p osh, overstuffed Turkish chair, warming her feet in front of the fireplace. I n h er lap lay the third Bible. The one tha t s he had kept. This morning ritua l d ated decades back but Mary coul d t ell you the exact day it had begun. I t w as her "morning constitutional for th e s pirit," she had told Keri.

During the Christmas season sh
e w ould read at length the Christma s s tories of the Gospels, and it was her e t hat she welcomed the small, uninvited guest.

"Well, good morning, Jenna," Mar
y s aid.

Jenna stood at the doorway, stil
l c lothed in the red-flannel nightshirt i n w hich she almost always slept. Sh e l ooked around the room then ran to Mary. Mary hugged her tightly.

"What are you reading? A story?"

Jenna asked.

"A Christmas story," Mary said.

Jenna's eyes lit up. She crawled onto Mary's lap and looked for pictures o f r eindeer and Santa Claus.

"Where are the pictures?" sh
e a sked. "Where's Santa Claus?"

Mary smiled. "This is a differen
t k ind of Christmas story. This is th e f irst Christmas story. It's about th e b aby Jesus."

Jenna smiled. She knew about
Jesus.

"Mary?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Will Daddy be here at Christmas?"

"Why of course, dear," she assured.

She brushed the hair back from
Jenna's face and kissed her forehead. "You miss him, don't you?"

"He's gone a lot."

"Starting a new business takes
a l ot of work and a lot of time."

Jenna looked up sadly. "Is wor
k b etter than here?"

"No. No place is better than home."

"Then why does Daddy want to b
e t here instead of here?"

Mary paused thoughtfully. "I gues
s s ometimes we forget," she answere d a nd pulled the little girl close.

With the approach of the holidays
, business grew increasingly busy, an d t hough we welcomed the revenue, I found myself working long days an d r eturning home late each night. In my frequent absence, Keri had established the habit of sharing supper with Mary in the downstairs den. They ha d e ven adopted the ritual of sharing a n a fter-dinner cup of peppermint te a n ear the fire. Afterward Mary would follow Keri into the kitchen and help clea n u p the supper dishes, while I, if hom e b y this time, would remain in the de n a nd finish the day's books. Tonight th e s now fell softly outside, contrasted b y t he sputtering and hissing of the war m f ire crackling in the fireplace. Jenn a h ad been sent up to bed, and as Ker i c leared the table, I remained behind , diving into a catalog of new-fashione d c ummerbunds and matching ban d t ies. Tonight Mary also remained behind, still sitting in the antique chai r f rom which she always took her tea.

Though she usually followed Keri int
o t he kitchen, sometimes, after she ha d f inished her, tea, she would doze quietly in her chair until we woke her an d h elped her to her room.

Mary set down her tea, pushe
d h erself up, and walked over to th e c herry wood bookshelf. She pulled a b ook from a high shelf, dusted i t l ightly, and handed it to me.

"Here is a charming Christma
s t ale. Read this to your little one." I too k t he book from her outstretched ar m a nd examined the title, Christmas Every Day by William Dean Howells.

"Thank you, Mary, I will." I smiled a t h er, set the book down, and went bac k t o my catalog. Her eyes never left me.

"No, right now. Read it to her now,"

she coaxed. Her voice was fervent
, wavering only from her age. I laid m y t ext down, examined the book again , then looked back up into her cal m f ace. Her eyes shone with the importance of her request.

"All right, Mary."

I rose from the table and walked u
p i nto Jenna's room, wondering when I would catch up on my orders and wha t m agic this old book contained to command such urgency. Upstairs Jenn a l ay quietly in the dark.

"Still awake, honey?" I asked.

"Daddy, you forgot to tuck me i
n t onight."

I switched on the light. "I did, didn't I .
How about a bedtime story?"

She jumped up in her bed with
a s mile that filled the tiny room. "Wha t s tory are you going to tell?" she asked.

"Mary gave me this book to read t
o y ou."

"Mary has good stories, Dad."

"Then it should be a good one," I
said. "Does Mary tell you storie s o ften?"

"Every day."

I sat on the edge of the bed an
d o pened the old book. The spine wa s b rittle and cracked a little as i t o pened. I cleared my throat an d s tarted reading aloud.

The little girl came into her papa's study, as she always did Saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him . . .

"That's like you, Dad. You're rea
l b usy too," Jenna observed.

I grinned at her. "Yeah, I guess so."

I continued reading.

"Well, once there was a little pig--" The little girl put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word. She said she had heard the pig stories till she was perfectly sick of them.

"Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?"

"About Christmas. It's getting to be the season, it's past Thanksgiving already."

"It seems to me," argued her papa, "that I've told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs."

"No difference! Christmas is more interesting."

Unlike her story's counterpart
, Jenna was long asleep before I finfished the tale. Her delicate lips wer e d rawn in a gentle smile, and I pulle d t he covers up tightly under her chin.

Peace radiated from the tiny face. I lingered a moment, knelt down near he r b ed and kissed her on the cheek, the n w alked back down to finish my work.

I returned to the den to find the lavish drapes drawn tight, and the tw o w omen sitting together in the dim , flickering light of the fireplace talkin g p eacefully. The soothing tones of Mary's voice resonated calmly throug h t he room. She looked up to acknowledge my entrance.

"Richard, your wife just asked th
e m ost intriguing question. She aske d w hich of the senses I thought wa s m ost affected by Christmas."

I sat down at the table.

"I love everything about this season," she continued. "But I think what I love most about Christmas are it s s ounds. The bells of street-corner Santa Clauses, the familiar Christmas records on the phonograph, th e s weet, untuned voices of Christma s c arolers. And the bustling downtow n n oises. The crisp crinkle of wrappin g p aper and department store sack s a nd the cheerful Christmas greeting s o f strangers. And then there are the Christmas stories. The wisdom of Dickens and all Christmas story
-
tellers." She seemed to pause fo r e mphasis. "I love the sounds of thi s s eason. Even the sounds of this ol d h ouse take on a different character at Christmas. These Victorian ladie s s eem to have a spirit all their own."

I heartily agreed but said nothing.

She reflected on the old home.

"They don't build homes like this anymore.
You've noticed the double set o f d oors in the front entryway?"

We both nodded in confirmation.

"In the old days before the adven
t o f the telephone . ." She winked. "I'
m a n old lady," she confided, "I remember those days."

We smiled.

... Back in those days when peopl
e w ere receiving callers they woul d o pen the outer set of doors as a signal.

And if the doors were closed it mean
t t hat they were not receiving callers. I t s eemed those doors were alway s o pen, all holiday long." She smile d l ongingly. "It seems silly now. You ca n i magine that the foyer was absolutel y c hilly." She glanced over to me. "Now I'm digressing. Tell us, Richard, whic h o f the senses do you think are mos t a ffected by Christmas?"

I looked over at Keri. "The tast
e b uds," I said flippantly. Keri rolled he r e yes.

"No. I take it back. I would say th
e s ense of smell. The smells of Christmas. Not just the food, but everything.

I remember once, in grade school, w
e m ade Christmas ornaments by poking whole cloves into an orange. I remember how wonderful it smelle d f or the entire season. I can still smel l i t. And then there's the smell of perfumed candles, and hot wassail o r c reamy cocoa on a cold day. And th e p ungent smell of wet leather boot s a fter my brothers and I had gon e s ledding. The smells of Christmas ar e t he smells of childhood." My word s t railed off into silence as we al l s eemed to be caught in the swee t g laze of Christmastime memories , and Mary nodded slowly as if I ha d s aid something wise.