The Treasure Box (4 page)

She rolled her pointer to the center of the screen, directly over the light, and waited. But instead of turning into a hand, the cursor transformed into something else: a key. A large, ornate brass skeleton key. Before she could quite absorb the reality of this metamorphosis, a low, whispery voice emanated from her computer speakers:

“Love is the key that unlocks every portal.”

With her heart pounding and her blood pumping in her ears, Vita touched the mouse and slipped the key into the lock.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then, as if an invisible door were swinging open in the night sky, a crack appeared.

Golden light streamed out in a narrow beam. The portal grew larger. The crack widened and widened until the door stood fully open and filled the monitor in front of her. The light became brighter and more intense, so dazzling that Vita had to put her hand up to shield her eyes.

The door began to rush toward her at great speed. Vita grabbed at the edge of the desk to keep from falling. Though her rational mind knew that she was sitting perfectly still, safe in her chair in front of the computer, her body experienced all the sensations of motion, as if she were in an Imax Theater or a very fast express elevator. Her head spun, and her stomach floated for a second or two.

And then she saw inside.

“Inside” seemed to be a rudimentary kind of workshop, a small room with stone walls and exposed beams and a rough table in the center. At the table, surrounded by a scattering of tools and a bright kerosene lamp, a man in shirt sleeves sat motionless with his head bent over a box—a small metal chest painted blue. In his hand he held a paintbrush, and there were flecks of gold-colored paint in his thinning brown hair.

Vita ran her cursor in circles over the scene, pausing on the box, the lamp, the paintbrush, the table, even the man himself, to see if she could get a link that would allow her to exit the program. But nothing worked.

The voice came again, low and entreating:
“His name is Jacob Stillwater. Watch and learn.”

Then the flame of the lamp began to flicker, and the man began to move.

3
THE TINKER

J
acob Stillwater leaned over his bench and inspected his handi-work. “Ah,my little Sophie,”hemurmured tohimself, “if you ever doubted that you are the glory of your father's heart, know it now.” He stepped back, put his hands on his hips, and smiled. “A labor of love—for your birthday.”

Vita drew closer to the monitor and peered at him. He was an ordinary-looking fellow, not especially handsome or well-built. A slight middle-aged paunch showed beneath his work apron, and a bald circle at the back of his skull made him look a little like a tonsured monk. Still, he had a pleasant expression, warm brown eyes, and a genuine smile. From the rafters over his head hung the products of a tinker's trade—hammered copper pots and pans, strainers and serving spoons, bridle bits and ornamental brasses. And on the worktable in front of him sat a sea blue box, painted all around with a map of the world and adorned with brass corners and brass handles and a tiny brass keyhole.

Vita inhaled a quick breath. It was the Treasure Box.
Her
box.

Beyond the single window on the far wall of the workshop, daylight faded into dusk, and Vita watched as the man reached to turn the kerosene lamp brighter. This was an odd sensation— not like viewing a movie, exactly; more like slipping uninvited into a stranger's private spaces. Like voyeurism.

She drew back sharply as a door creaked open, and a stout gray-haired woman entered the shop. “Good evening, Bridget,” Jacob said. “Is dinner ready?”

The woman gave an awkward curtsy. “Aye, sir. Or nearly so.

Miss Sophie is setting out the table and slicing the bread.”

“I'll be right along.” She turned to go, but he called her back. “A moment, please. Take a look, Bridget. Will she like it, do you think?” The woman drew near the worktable. “Take care not to touch it,” he warned. “The paint's not dry yet.”

Bridget made a circuit around the table, looking at the box from all sides. “Ach, Mr. Jacob!” she exclaimed at last. “'Tis a work of art, it is. That child's got an imagination that won't be stopped, as well as a taste for adventure. It'll be her dearest treasure, and that's the truth.”

Jacob grinned and put a hand on Bridget's shoulder. “It's her tenth birthday, and I want it to be special.”

“As special as the child herself,” Bridget agreed. “I'll be making her favorite dinner—glazed pork roast and mashed potatoes.”

“Pork roast?” Jacob shook his head. “We can't afford—”

“Tush, now,” Bridget interrupted. “Don't you go poking your nose into my business, if you please. As it happens, the butcher's got a fondness for me shepherd's pie.”

“And for a certain Irishwoman, too, if I'm not mistaken.”

Jacob pinched at her cheek, and she slapped his hand away.

“Ach! He's an old fool, he is, but I'm not above a little honest bartering to get my girl a roast for her birthday. If he's enough of an eejit to think something else is like to come of it, it's his own fault, and none of mine.”

Jacob laughed. “Bridget, you're a wonder.”

“I am,” she declared. “And don't you be forgetting it.” She smiled at him and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I'm making her an applesauce spice cake, too, from the last of those apples I canned last fall. Sophie's little friend Rachel Woodlea will be joining us, as well as Rachel's sister Cathleen. It'll be a regular party, with streamers and hats and favors—some of those silvery crackers with the toys inside. I saved a few over from Christmas.”

“Sounds perfect. I don't know what we'd do without you, Bridget.”

“A widower with a child needs a housekeeper, sir,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Anyone else in my position would have done the same.”

“I don't think so,” he objected. “You love Sophie as if she were your own. And you take such good care of us. You're not a housekeeper, Bridget. You're a member of the family.”

She ducked her head. “Does my heart good to hear you say so, Mr. Jacob. I do love that child with all my heart, that's God's certain truth. And don't you worry yourself about her birthday.

It'll be a celebration to end all, I promise you.”

“I'm sure it will. Just keep her out of my shop until tomorrow night, will you? I want my gift to be a surprise.”

“Aye, sir. And a fine gift it is. Now, if you're ready, dinner is waiting.”

Jacob turned down the lamp wick until the flame sputtered out, and Vita's computer screen went dark.

Vita stared at the black monitor, trying in vain to sort out her feelings. By rights, she ought to feel confused or frustrated or even angry at not being able to get into her own computer. But her prevalent emotion at the moment was simply disappointment at the brevity of the scene.

She blinked and looked around her. The storm had passed on through, but night was falling, and a chilly breeze blew through the screen door, raising goose bumps on her arms. She got up and shut the door, turned on a few lights, and headed for the kitchen to find something to eat. The leftover chicken casserole would do. She heated it in the microwave, poured herself a glass of milk, and returned to her office.

The computer screen was still black, as if the system had gone to sleep. Gingerly she touched the Enter key, not in the least certain whether she hoped for more of Jacob Stillwater or a return to her familiar desktop programs.

The monitor faded back in. This time the scene was different: a larger room than Jacob's workshop, but crafted of the same rough stone. On the far wall, a small fireplace held a smoky peat fire, with a mismatched collection of threadbare furniture arranged before the hearth. In the foreground, a trestle table was set with a humble meal of boiled potatoes, beans, and a crusty loaf of homemade bread. At one end of the table, a small girl with auburn curls and dancing brown eyes stood slicing the bread, shifting impatiently first on one foot and then on the other.

Vita took a bite of the lukewarm casserole and leaned back in her swivel chair to watch.

“Papa! Papa!” Sophie dropped the knife onto the table with a loud clatter and ran into her father's outstretched arms.

“How's my girl this evening?” Jacob embraced her and gave her a kiss on her sun-freckled nose.

“I'm just fine, Papa,” she said, twining her arms around his waist. “I made the bread all by myself almost, and helped Bridget beat the rugs.”

Jacob glanced over her head toward Bridget, who moved a small vase of wildflowers to the center of the table. “Is that right, Bridget?”

“Aye, sir. A regular little helper, that one.”

Sophie wriggled out of her father's arms and picked up the long bread knife. “Like this, Papa—bam! Bam! Bam!” She brought the flat of the knife down on top of the loaf, sending bits of crust flying. “The dust went everywhere! It was fun.”

Jacob threw back his head and laughed. “I'm sure it was, love. But you'd best leave the bread intact if we're to have supper tonight.”

“Whatever you say, Papa.” Sophie seated herself primly at the table and batted her eyes at him. “You know what tomorrow is, don't you?”

“Tomorrow?” Jacob winked in Bridget's direction. “I believe tomorrow is . . . Friday.”

“And what else?”

“Laundry day,” Bridget chimed in.

“And what else?”

“Hmm.” Jacob scratched his head. “Market day in the village?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “No, no. Think hard, Papa. It's something about
me
.”

“About you? Give me a hint.”

“It's a special day.”

“Special day, special day—” Jacob pretended to wrack his brain. “Does it have something to do with a number? Maybe— two numbers?”

Sophie let out a giggle. “Yes.”

“Could it be—no, it's inconceivable. Tomorrow couldn't possibly be Sophie's
birthday!
” He bent over her and tickled her until she howled. “And you're going to be—what? Nineteen? Twenty-six? Fifty-four? I forget.”

“Silly Papa!” Sophie panted between squeals of laughter. “You know. It's 1910. The century is ten years old, and so am I. Or I will be tomorrow.”

Jacob took his place at the table and regained his composure.

“My little girl—ten years old! I can hardly believe it. I can still remember you in your mother's arms—” He stopped abruptly and swiped at his eyes.

“Let's have supper before it gets cold,” Bridget said quickly.

She sat down, and they all joined hands.

“God of the Universe,” Jacob prayed, not bowing his head but letting his gaze drift from his daughter to Bridget to the food on the table, “you give us many gifts. The bounty of the fields for our nourishment, the warmth of family, the joys of work and play. Thank you for all these blessings, for laughter, and for love.

May we ever live with a grateful heart. Amen.”

“Amen,” Sophie echoed and began heaping potatoes on her plate.

A grateful heart . . .

The words gnawed through Vita's stomach lining like a parasite. She could recall—faintly, like the echo of a childhood taunt—a time when she, too, had uttered such prayers. A time when gratitude to a benevolent Higher Power came naturally, freely.

Once upon a time, Vita Kirk had believed in God, had embraced the fairy tale with all the credulity of the green and gullible. Sunday school, children's choir, confirmation class. Prayers at home around the dinner table and at bedtime. Vita had conversed with the Almighty, and the Almighty had heard and answered. Or so she assumed.

But she had been much younger then, much less experienced in the futility of hope.

And now she looked at Jacob Stillwater and wondered:
What does this man, this tinker, have to be grateful for?
His home was little more than a hovel. He made pots for a living, and if the scant dinner upon his table was any indication, a meager living at that.

His wife was dead, her tasks taken up by a crude, beefy-faced Irish washerwoman. The only birthday gift he could afford to give his daughter was a tin box made in his pathetic little shop.

A place to keep her treasures—in the unlikely event that she had any treasures to keep.

Vita picked up the box and held it in both hands, considering the labor that went into its creation. Despite herself, a stab of pity knifed through her. Poor Jacob. He could have been an artist, could have given himself to painting or goldsmithing or jewelry making—something that would have lifted him out of his poverty, anything besides hammering out cheap cooking pots for others as wretched and miserable as himself. The man was trapped in a life of squalor and deprivation. And yet he smiled broadly, laughed warmly, and prayed his little ritual of thanksgiving with sincerity. He didn't even know enough to realize what he was missing.

She lifted the lid and considered the epigram:
Love Is the Key That Unlocks Every Portal.
If Jacob Stillwater had written those words, surely the irony had escaped him. Love hadn't unlocked his prison door. If anything, it had confined him to a constricted, dead-end existence—caring for his daughter, longing for his wife, scrabbling for a foothold to make it through each day.

For a long time Vita sat there, staring absently at the box, her mind filled with images of Jacob and his paltry, mundane life. After a while the computer gave a whirr and a whine and began to transfer itself into standby, its “sleep” mode.

She shut down the system and glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. A few blue-white tendrils from the streetlight on the corner crept into the room through the high hedge against the windows, but they did little to dispel the night. Except for a single desk lamp, the office was dark. Reflected in the glass Vita could see herself, cradling the Treasure Box in her arms—an obsolete tintype come to life in the modern world.